The Shared Mirror

Gongadi

February 14th, 2011 by naren bedide

Suddenly

if the sky sends a heavy downpour

you will gape in surprise, get drenched

I will spread my rug over my head

and beam like a lotus leaf on the ocean;

If you need fire in that storm

you'll stand on your head and do penance

to find a matchstick

I will produce my piece of flint

and a little cotton

and start a fire in an instant;

In winter, when you get the shivers

you'll roll on the ground begging God to save you

I use the the scissors from my Kammari* brother,

shear wool from my sheep

and weave a rug to wrap myself!

You grew into landlords from the crops

grown with my flock's shit

I offered you my sheep, raised like a child, for your feast

but you called me a crazy golla**;

You bania rascals!

Now I've come into the street,

my gongadi+ on my shoulder and holding my stick,

Now I shall watch over men not sheep

Now I shall fertilize the nation not fields

I''ll wrap my gongadi around this nation

shivering from your atrocities!

I can not only watch over sheep,

I also know how to cut down useless ones!

My translation of Kancha Ilaiah's Telugu poem 'gongaDi' (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina paaTa' )

* Kammari: blacksmith.

** Golla: here, it means 'shepherd'. 'Crazy golla' refers to a popular stereotype, a negative trait (stubbornness etc) attributed to people from the communities raising livestock.

+ Gongadi: or gongali (pronounced gongaDi and gongaLi respectively)., rug or blanket made of coarse material (like sheep's wool).

Tags: Kancha Ilaiah
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on Gongadi

The parrot and the jungle

February 12th, 2011 by naren bedide

This parrot

hadn't even seen eighteen springs.

Leaving the world, the cage of swords,

and its paper springs

it flew away to the faraway jungle,

eating guns and bayonets

as tender leaves.

It played ball with bombs.

While other children of its age

played with toy donkeys

it played with axes.

It hadn't even completed

practising on leaf slates

the alphabet of its experiences

to read and rule the world

when hunters, spotting its red beak,

shot it down.

The parrot died

but the jungle is still spreading.

My translation of the Telugu poem 'cilakaa-aDivii' by Sikhamani (from his collection of poetry 'muvvala cEtikarra' ).

Tags: Sikhamani
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on The parrot and the jungle

Away from me…

February 10th, 2011 by naren bedide

The pregnant full moon

giving birth to moonlight

weaves a garland of jasmines

around my dark Malapalli*

Soft light

through the Rellu+ grass

flashes honed smiles

that pound my heart

The wild flowers by the stream,

dewdrops, like little bells around ankles,

touch my feet and beam

The sweat that silently drops

from the furrows of my forehead

becomes ears of rice

that bow and salaam me with humility

But!

He, still adjusting his janeu, is edging,

towards the borders of the hill,

away from me…

My translation of the Telugu poem 'naaku duurangaa..' by J.Gautam ( from his collection of poetry 'nalu dikkulanunchii ranDi' ).

* Malapalli : the Mala quarter of a village.

+ Rellu: kind of reed, saccharum spontaneum, used for thatching and as fodder ( J.P.L.Gwynn's Telugu-English dictionary).

Tags: J.Gautam
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on Away from me…

‘Our kids are competing’

February 8th, 2011 by naren bedide

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
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on ‘Our kids are competing’

Seeds

February 7th, 2011 by naren bedide

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
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on Seeds

Untouchable rape

February 2nd, 2011 by naren bedide

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

कवि और कविता

January 28th, 2011 by admin

दया प्रसाद गोलिया

ड्राइंग रूम में बैठकर
अट्टालिकाओं पर कविता लिखना
कितना प्रगतिवादी है
तालियों की गडगडाहट
कितनी बड़ी शाबाशी है

मत लिख
सत्ता शिखर स्थायी का यशगान

मत लिख
हवा से हवा में मारक कवितायेँ

मत लिख
प्रेयसी के चाँद की कवितायेँ
अब वह रहस्य नहीं है

मत लिख
लौट आया है मानव चाँद से

लिखना हो तो अब धरती की कविता लिख
क्या भुखमरी शोषण नहीं तेरी पृथ्वी पर
लिखना हो तो समानता की कविता लिख

विश्वगुरु कहलाने वाले
कितनी अज्ञानता है तेरे देश में
लिखना है तो विज्ञानं की बात लिख

क्या खड़ा है निठल्ला सा इस मोड़ पर
मूकदर्शक बना हुआ
इक्कीसवी सदी के कवी
सरेआम नचाई जा रही है
नंगी कर अबलायें इस देश में
लिखना हो तो अत्याचार पर लिख

नेताओं की बात मत लिख
नर मारा या हठी
वाह रे धर्मराज
इक्कीसवी सदी के कवी
कवितायेँ मत लिख

Tags: Daya Prasad Goliya
Posted in Hindi, Poetry | Comments Off on कवि और कविता

Gawaah

January 25th, 2011 by naren bedide

As a child, when I bid adaab to him

saying 'Salaam-alei-kum mamu'

he blessed me wishing my words should come true,

Now when I expressed my wish to marry Haseena

this Muslim society,

which rejected my wish

like a flock of cotton

deriding me as a Dudekula

not understanding love..and affection,

drives me away

calling me a Kaafir;

In God's name,

Haseena pleaded,

as she stepped away

choosing to travel on a path of thorns

drawing away from me, forget me lover;

When God's witness itself

proved useless against the curse

of my Dudekula caste, unable to curse it,

I nurse memories soft as cotton,

which prick like thorns,

while I wander around in this desert

searching for an oasis.

My translation of the Telugu poem 'gawaah' written by Mohammed Akbar (from the collection of poetry 'alaava: muslim sanskrti kavitvam').

Tags: Mohammed Akbar
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on Gawaah

Come as a herald!

January 20th, 2011 by naren bedide

Today, when new lives shall be planted

by digging up roots

from the time that doesn't return,

ascend these moonlit steps

and walk into my poem

Now, defying the dwija's role

'Chandala'!

Walk into my poem as a herald!

Come, to pour boiling lead

into the ears of the history that boycotted you!

Come so that you can

pee into the current Manu's mouth!

Come!

My translation of Pagadala Nagender's Telugu poem 'vaitALikuDavai raa! padyamlOki' (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'daLita kavitvam- 2' edited by Dr.K.Lakshminarayana).

Tags: Pagadala Nagender
Posted in Poetry, Telugu, Translations | Comments Off on Come as a herald!