The Shared Mirror

                                                   (in the wake of Ambedkar)

The sound that I make

ears do not hear –

it breaks out

like hidden music.

Knocking, it doesn't strike

chords on the heart –

like a volcano

it streams flame,

kindling forest fires.

The sound that I make

does not ferment

like milk

and become butter –

as if smashing rocks

it beats,

cracked walls

tumble down harshly.

The sound that I make

does not deceive politely

or bury itself in the mouth –

it's a dazzling sword

brandished and

swung at earth.

The sound that I make

doesn't cool the eyes like sheet lightning –

like thunderbolts

it flashes

striking

all inhuman

systems

and conditions.

By Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy, translated by Prof Rowena Hill. 

He says:

 I had my own grammar, but experience was the main ingredient. That was why my poetry evaded imitation

In someone's shed

in someone else's arms

the boy has slept;

he gets up at dawn, kicks the laggard beside him,

hangs a bag over his shoulder,

and out he goes into lanes and filthy alleys.

He comes to a corporation dump,

stands with clasped hands as if discovering a treasure,

turns on himself and wades in;

his hands sift

as if removing a tiny piece of severed intestine

with a doctor's eye.

Among the broken glass there,

the plastic bottles,

the torn rubber condoms,

the old papers he lifts

where some housewife has wrapped a sickening red tampon –

below all that, something brings a smile:

a torn and patched two-rupee note.

Here and there, once pretty broken dolls

may kindle a light in his mind,

finding marbles can push him

into playfulness.

Like this broken eggshells may cut his feet,

he may thrust his hand into the pocket of old shorts

and touch a blunt blade

and the gush of spurting blood

will further squeeze his sapless frame.

Without parents, he has company,

though an orphan he is well satisfied!

What remains in cans emptied by rich men's children

or bottles thrown away by their fathers becomes holy water.

Leftovers sticking to leaf plates become prasad.

Opening his mouth for a bidi stub,

he leaves for the next lane.

Standing where he should not stand,

sitting where he should not sit,

scratching his sores

when flies and insects swarm round him,

shuffling and searching his precious collection

piece by piece again and again,

surrendering it for a few coins to the broker,

at last he throws himself down in someone else's shed,

someone else's child.

This week, The Shared Mirror is featuring poems by the Kannada Poet Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy. 'To a rag-and-bone boy' is one of the 41 poems translated by the British born Spanish poet, Rowena Hill. The Spanish versions have been published by the Venezuelan Govt. In her foreword she describes the poet's sensibilities thus:

A poet such as Chinnaswamy, whose mind is a constant source of images of all kinds and who has an unusual facility for playing with the sounds of his resonant language, will never allow himself to become a poet of pure lyricism and personal feeling. So that the subjects of his poems, which may sometimes seem even too crude, are the poverty of the untouchable peasants and the discriminations practiced against them in the villages, or their exploitation, often literally criminal, by “caste” people, or the suffering of mothers watching their children go hungry. Shit, rags, filth, are often centre stage in the poems.

If I was a tree

The bird wouldn’t ask me

Before it built its nest

What caste I am.

When sunlight embraced me

My shadow wouldn’t feel defiled.

My friendship with the cool breeze and the leaves

Would be sweet.

Raindrops wouldn’t turn back

Take me for a dog-eater.

When I branch out further from my roots

Mother Earth wouldn’t flee shouting for a bath.

The sacred cow would scrape her body on my bark,

Scratching wherever it itched

And the three thousand Gods sheltering inside her

Would touch me.

Who knows,

At the end,

Hacked into pieces of dry wood,

Burning in the holy fire,

I might be made pure, or becoming the bier for a sinless body

Be borne on the shoulders of four good men.

If  I was a tree  is a poem by Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy. He is a Kannada poet, writer and playwright. His first poetry book “Kondigalu mattu mullubeligalu” (Links and Barbed wire) published in 1989 was attributed with reviving Kannada Dalitha-Bandaya poetry. His writings forces caste into the literary landscape, infusing it with the often-missing truth about Indian society. 

M. Chinnaswamy’s day job is that of Chief Accounts Officer cum Financial Advisor at Bengalaru Metropolitan Transport Corporation. He has published several books, writes and directs plays, and conducts workshops on poetry. His past poetry reading venues include; Los Angles, Granada, Merida, Caracus, Tel Aviv etc. His translated poetry has appeared in English and Spanish journals, including the literary journal Arquitrave and a selection of his poems has been published by the Cultural dept of Venezuela Govt in ‘World Poetry Series’. His poetry has been translated into several Indian languages, including Bengali, Marathi, Telugu, Malayalam and Urdu. Several of his poems are prescribed reading in high school, colleges as well as in University courses by Govt of Karnataka.

Starting today, The Shared Mirror will feature a selection of his poems; their translation has been rendered by Prof Rowena Hill.