The Shared Mirror

I put the whole village to sleep

While spending sleepless nights,

I keep guard over the roads leading to the village

While Brahma Jemudus grow in the path of my life.

Who am I? I am human too

I am Yanadi Yenkanna

I swear on my father that I believe in the sun

I have been withering in the sun for ages

I have no shade to turn to;

Hitching the sun to the sky directly on top of my head

to keep watch,  and swearing by the crowbar

I tied a thaali around Lachchi's neck.

I don't know

Whether it is athiesm or animism

But I am the Adi Dalit

Who first excommunicated Brahmanvad.

With Lachchi by my side

I cross streams and ponds

to catch a few fish;

Following the flow of water

I throw baits and catch fish.

But now

I am aiming my spear

at the hearts of those 

whales which swallow the fish,

the rich landlords who swallow our lives.

Hey! I am fumigating your homes

to collect

my dried

drops of sweat. 

 

My translation of G.V. Ratnakar's Telugu poem 'yAnAdOnni' from the anthology of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pATa'. 

 

*Yanadi: pronounced 'yAnAdi'; the Yanadis are an extremely marginalised, pre-dravidian, tribal community who live in Nellore and Chittoor districts of Andhra Pradesh, mostly. Traditionally, their chief occupations have been hunting, gathering, fishing etc. Though many of them are now engaged in jobs involving manual labour, a section of them still lead a semi-nomadic existence.

* Brahma Jemudu: a kind of cactus.

* Thaali: pronounced 'taali';  the mangalsutra.

The man

who sulked with land

stuck his head

into the sky

 

The pesticide that couldn't kill

the pest

swallowed the man

 

A lifeless

form

is putting the furrow

to sleep

 

The hut

with the broken supporting pole

Mother, children

like palmyra leaves in a storm

 

Like hunger

has many

causes

Deaths

have many, many

needs

 

Those (aatma)hatyas

touch thirty

tens

The hand that fed

is searching for the morsel

 

The sweat

that flowed in the field

is drying on the grave

 

A headless body

attached to its neck

a tree that had shed

its leaves

 

The overflowing tears

became questions

that walked

 

The kind-hearted

leaders say

it is

the cotton farmer's

fault

 

Unable

to offer a gulp of water

they offer advice:

wet your throat

with pesticide

or

liquor.

 

My translation of G.V.Ratnakar's Telugu poem 'tella bangAram' (from his collection of poetry 'maTTi palaka'). Written in 1998, the poet was responding to the suicides of cotton farmers.

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').