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Archive for February, 2011

‘Our kids are competing’

Tuesday, February 8th, 2011

I, swearing by labour,

shape wood with my adze

You, with nothing to do,

are scratching my face

with pitiless malice

I, swearing by labour,

bring a sparkling shine

to your soiled and dirty

white clothes

You, with nothing to do,

are infecting my child's child

with untouchability

I, swearing by labour,

fold fine clothes on the loom

into a matchbox

You, with nothing to do,

are turning me, through deceit,

into a loincloth clad beggar

I, swearing by labour,

seeing you eat raw leaves, roots

give you pots

to cook

You, with nothing to do,

are making a hole in my pot,

tying a lid over my mouth

I, swearing by labour,

skin myself

to make shoes for you

You, with nothing to do,

are tying a palmyra leaf to my waist

erasing my traces

I, swearing by labour,

use my body's strength

and my mind's wisdom

as bricks to build mansions

You, with nothing to do,

are uprooting foundations

to make me a servant

in my own home

That's why I tell you bluntly

whether you wish to stitch your own chappals

or bang your head against the ground, it's your choice

Whether you wish to wash your own clothes

or run around naked like babas, it's your choice

You grandchildren of the manu dharma

which arranged a step ladder for caste

and supported it with religion,

our kids are competing

to play marbles with your heads.

My translation of the Telugu poem 'maa pillOllu pOTii paDutunnaaru' by G.V.Ratnakar (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina paaTa').

Tags: G.V.Ratnakar
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Seeds

Monday, February 7th, 2011

We all waited for the seeds

for long

then the rumour spread that they're available

and everyone became anxious, a bustle started.

The babus called the police

and the police arrived– would they stay quiet..?

They chased and hit everyone who ran,

even Yellaiah who scampered to the bus stand wasn't spared,

someone was pulled from the phone booth,

stripped down and beaten with a lathi.

Oh God!.. God, what have we done to you?

Didn't the frog mother dance for the rains?

Didn't we offer pots of festive rice to the goddess?

With the first rains, we started ploughing:

don't know about the seeds, but our backs split and the lathis broke.

Don't know whose fault it was but we had to pay the penalties;

we who believe in land– if police lathis are our lot–

we can't till the fields, sow seeds or go on with this life.

A bullet hit Yellaiah and the blood formed a pool

they took him to the hospital in the town

the minister said Yellaiah had nothing to fear

the chief minister said he'd appoint a judge to enquire

The day before yesterday– there was firing in Kaldari,

yesterday– it was the turn of the salt farmers in Chinna Ganjampeta,

today– guns seem to have chosen death as the Chevella farmers' fate

When a small farmer dies a hundred more won't be born

but a rebellion will.

My translation of the Telugu poem 'yittunaalu' by Siddenki Yadagiri (from his collection of poetry 'maa tovva' ). This poem is the poet's response to an incident of police firing (and other similar acts of repression) a few years ago on a group of small farmers who had lined up at a distribution centre for subsidised seeds in Chevella, a small town in Ranga Reddy district of Andhra Pradesh.

Tags: Siddenki Yadagiri
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Untouchable rape

Wednesday, February 2nd, 2011

This is untouchable Sunitha,

the once-upon-a-time girl

you all forgot, speaking:

I address myself as untouchable because

in this land

just as there are untouchable hunger,

untouchable loot

there are untouchable (atma)hatyas*

and untouchable rapes too

You might be surprised

but I swear by my love for Yogishwar Reddy

that I am an untouchable suicide..!

Otherwise, I too

would have sizzled like something spicy from a tandoor

on the dining tables of parliament

instead of being buried behind the newspapers …!

Here, because education,

love and marriage too

smell and taste of caste

our Nirmala's death a few days ago

was also attributed to 'natural causes'

Talking about the recent issue of our Chanti:

as soon as she learnt a few letters,

the pantulamma**, afraid that her caste-less eyes

might shine forth with new knowledge,

demanded her tantalizing eyes

as gurudakshina

Do we need

to talk about the lowborn nurses in the hospitals?

She, with sleepless eyes lit with love

tends to tumours, day and night,

but instead of commending her

for being as self-less as Florence Nightingale

they creep into her 'sisterly' heart

as cancerous cells

Here, for loss of honour and life

we are, once in a while,

compensated in cash

But the surprising part is,

even after (murder) death

we don't get a fistful of honour;

moreover, we're subjected to

lance-like comments–

'who asked her to sleep around' or 'who asked her to die'–

that pierce our souls

and kill us again

Now tell me

in this land

are even murders and rapes

free of untouchability…?

(In memory of Sunitha)

My translation of the Telugu poem 'anTaraani atyaachaaram' by Challapalli Swarooparani (from the collection of poetry 'daLita kavitvam – 2'). Sunitha, in whose memory this poem was written, was a student of the University of Hyderabad (in the nineties) who had committed suicide. Nirmala and Chanti (not the victim's real name; 'chanTi' – or 'little one' in Telugu- is a term of affection used to address a child) refer to other Dalit victims of violence. Chanti, as far as I can remember, was a schoolgirl who was so badly beaten by her teacher that she lost an eye.

* (atma)hatya: hatya means murder in Telugu, while aatmahatya stands for suicide.

** pantulamma: female teacher (colloquial).

Tags: Challapalli Swaroopa Rani
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on Untouchable rape

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