George, K. M. (ed);
Modern Indian Literature, an Anthology: v1: Surveys and poems
Sahitya Akademi, 1992, 1148 pages
ISBN 8172013248, 9788172013240
topics: | poetry | india | anthology
This politically constrained volume is a very poor reflection of poetry in India. If you come to this book unfamiliar with Indian literature - you'll end up with a thoroughly negative impression of the modern literatures of India!!
Sadly, the intention of the book was precisely the opposite. But this volume is the product of that accountability-less indian government body called sAhitya Akademi, and the selections are banal, bland, and constrained to reflect the literatures in the many official languages of india, whatever be the quality of the translations.
However, if you don't speak all 20 languages of India :) -- 18 in the Eighth Schedule, plus Hindi and English - and are really keen to get a flavour of the literatures of India and are not going to be stopped by having to step through some execrable translations along the way, and if you're ok with a definition of "modern" that stretches to the mid-1800s --
so long as at least some voices are post 1950 - well, then this book may still do something to reveal the flavour of some Indian language literatures. Surely no other book comes anywhere close in terms of range.
For me personally, I was able to wade through about half of the poetry pages, since I came with low expectations, and soon reduced them dramatically lower. For example, the Gujarati and Malayalam sections I found to be quite a revelation, though every poem was marred by the sudden dissonance of a phrase or so... Nonetheless, if it wasn't for this book, names like Suresh Dalal (Gujarati) or B.B. Agarwal (Hindi), would have remained completely outside my sphere.
To begin with, the poetry is far from "modern". compiled in the 1990s, I see little need to include poets from the 1870s. Secondly, the Surveys part of the book is completely useless. I read the Assamese, Bengali and English sections, and found little of interest. Go straight to where the meat is, though it may be a bit rancid. So, the the poetry section disappoints completely, both in terms of selection and translation. The translations chosen (or executed for this project) are uniformly poor and unpoetic. Instead of showcasing Indian literature for the world, these translations serve the neo-colonialist position, that the best Indian literature is getting written in English, which is definitely the best section (though I wish it had omitted all those cobwebbed pre-independence authors). The English section has the merit that here we can hear the poets voice directly, without interlocutors... Recently, the position that Indian regional writing is inferior to Indian writing in English was controversially made by Salman Rushdie in his introduction to Rushdie and West's Mirrorwork: 50 Years of Indian Writing which includes only one piece in translation (a story by Minto). In the introduction, Rushdie justifies the title "Indian writing" despite this exclusion: Prose writing — both fiction and non-fiction — created in this period by Indian writers working in English, is proving to be a stronger and more important body of work than most of what has been produced in the '16 official languages' of India, the so-called 'vernacular languages', during the same time; and, indeed, this new, and still burgeoning 'Indo-Anglian' literature represents perhaps the most valuable contribution India has yet made to the world of books. Indeed, the naive reader, reading this selection from Sahitya Akademi, India's official literature-promotion agency, could surely reach the same conclusion. In fact, it seems that the book bends over backwards to render such a claim believable. However, approaching the poems with a forgiving eye towards the workmanship in the translations, one may well get a sense of a poetic spirit lurking somewhere far below the words, and a murky poetic intentionality can be sensed. Another point is that unlike in some other translations, at least the original titles of the poems are always included. The headnotes for each poem, introducing the poet, and finally the poem, are actually quite good, and would have been served very well by better translations. The editing on the whole is solid, especially given Sahitya Akademi standards. Also, the very attempt to bring such a diverse set of poets under the same cover is quite laudable. But it remains a fact that the main content disappoints, and disappoints badly.
To study the quality of translations, let's look at a poem from a literature that i have no knowledge of - Gujarati. consider the poem, chhello kaToro by Zaverchand Meghani (1897-1947). The translation by Shirin Kudchekar opens: Drink up this last goblet of poison, father! Consumer of the ocean! Do not spill any as a libation! reading this I immediately felt that the poem would have been served better if the word goblet was simply cup, (or even omitted). the reference to the ocean, and "spill as a libation" is unclear. in fact, i am not very happy with the word "libation" - there is something anachronistic about it, as in an orientalist translating a vedic verse. despite all its weaknesses of English expression, one can still sense some power behind this poem. In fact, I found this translation elsewhere: Even as you know the futility of your mission O Bapu Drink this last cup of poison You, who have drank oceans of poison served by the British, Do not throw away this spoonful (comment on news by hemen parekh) by translating Bapu as "father", what a disservice is being done to the poem!! though the headnote records that this poem was written at the time of Gandhi's departure to attend the Round Table at London in 1931, poetry thrives on images, and the generic "father" decimates the power of Bapu, the affectionate name for Gandhi, which literally means "father", but is clearly much more than merely father here. the rest of the translation is quite unreadable. but as noted, one can sense some of the original's power, e.g. in the last lines (I have replaced father with Bapu, and put some excesses of the original in square brackets): Go Bapu, tame the maddened bull Go, sprinkle water-drops on a world bent on slaughter, [the] Go, build a bridge over the seven seas. Lighting a path through the pitch-dark forest, Stroking the mane of the fierce lion, Go ahead, it is God who is your guide, Bapu, drink up this last poison. [goblet of]
In addition to the poor translations, the selections themselves are rather mediocre. in other cases, even strong voices are emasculated by inept translations. The poor quality arises at least in part because the Akademi operates under severe political constraints - it has to produce translations from all the official languages of India, the 22 languages listed in the eighth schedule. Some languages such as Bodo and Santhali were added to the Schedule after this book, and are not listed here. All the major languages of India - say languages with more than 30 million speakers - have flourishing literary histories. Also, several smaller languages - e.g. Manipuri (1.5mn), Kashmiri (5.5) or Maithili (12mn), have had a long literary tradition, especially in poetry, though some of these traditions, e.g. Maithili, is more in the past than in the present. Today, these smaller languages are increasingly challenged. For example, in Kashmiri, the main cultural group that carried the literary tradition were the Kashmiri Pandits - a Brahmin cultural elite in a largely Muslim valley. Since the violent expulsion of the Pandits from the valley in the 1970s, the new generation of Pandits does not learn Kashmiri in school, and literary output has weakened. Similarly, Maithili, spoken in Eastern Bihar, was a major literary language many centuries back, and though widely spoken, it is today increasingly under the sway of Standard Hindi which is what is taught in schools. Languages such as Manipuri are increasingly fragile with the elite population using more and more English, while other cultures such as Dogri (2.5mn) is increasingly under the sway of Hindi. However, stable literary traditions continue in the major languages: Hindi (400mn), Bengali (83mn), Telugu (74mn), Marathi (72), Tamil (61), Urdu (52) Gujarati (46), Kannada (38), Malayalam (33), Oriya (33mn*), Punjabi (29mn*). Assamese (13m) is also a strong literary tradition. [* = these populations are those within India, not including others who speak these languages in Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, etc. ] This volume, with its charter of devoting an equal number of pages to every language, has to deal with this inequality of output. However, even within these constraints, the best of any particular literature could have been highlighted through proper translations, but this has not happened. It is also quite plausible that local bosses of the various state literary organizations - who are often identified based on political patronage - were the ones whose work is disproportionately represented. Another point I observed is the lack of women poets, they constitute perhaps 5% of the poets listed.
As a case in point, we may consider the assamese section; the only poet with two poems is Devakanta Barooah, who was the president of the Indian National Congress during the emergency, and his largest claim to fame (?notoriety) is his resolute sycophancy - he is the one who said "India is Indira, Indira is India". Not that he is a bad poet; he produced a single book of 35 poems, sAgar dekhisa, which is quite well regarded. But perhaps others like Nilmani Phukan have a far stronger reputation. see Dev Kant Barua bio at facebook I laboured through the assamese sections - assamese has a strong poetry tradition. the only poet i had heard of though, nilamani phukan, was poorly translated by D.N. Bezboruah, who seems to have done most of the assamese section. For another poem by Navakanta Barua I found a somewhat more readable translation by Pradip Acharya on the web , see below) which is tighter and in places clearer than that of Bezboruah - but neither manages to convey any power. As a random test, I tried searching for poems by most of the names that have more than one poem. Two poets have four poems each - Tagore and the completely unheard Madhav Borcar. Either there are too few Konkani readers, or Borcar is simply not in that class. Or is this someone who had political connections, in the late 80s Goa? Someone like faiz has only one poem. Indeed, the Urdu section deserves better treatment. The editors (presumably those who wrote the surveys) are generally academics and not noted poets themselves. Flipping through the Telugu section, I ran into this translation in rhyme: If men be weak all along How can the country be prosperous? Learning fast all the arts, Produce goods indigenous. This poem, deshabhakti, by Gurajada Apparao, may have stirred its readers in 1910, but the sentiments are surely no longer "modern" in 1992? And as for the English rendering it seems more like a schoolboy effort. It is sad when you think of political connections while reading an anthology of poetry. Sahitya Akademi - do something!!
[assamese manoramA 1945, tr. Pradip Acharya ] In your eyes the haze of dreams The immaculate shade of the moon in your face In your breath the whiff Of a tender blade of grass Who is it that put The dark moonless nightsand In your flowing black hair? In your voice the dove coos Haunting and distant The breath of early summer In your smile Makes the river surge over [?Kolong] And the hyacinths bloom. Your fingers like champak buds Your arms two lotus stems Thrilling to the loom-batten Heaving, restive like the shuttle. Bonny breasts, ruby lips Teeth like pomegranate seeds In the desert of my life, love, You are the lone stream of poesy. This otherwise competent translation is marred by the cliched "bonny breasts, ruby lips"; a web version at http://www.bipuljyoti.in/poetry/devakanta.html has "soft, supple breasts"
[assamese palas 1954, tr. Ajit Barua] The fire of the palAsh is now out In the forests of sAl and satiyAn How many dreams of past storm and invasion have fallen -- Of them who keeps count? The bones of my grandfather lie On the banks of the Kolong, Kopili, Diju [no "the"] The wild lily grows out of my grandmother's heart. What has the cloud said? Give, give a little more Give till all is given Plant a sapling by the road, start a school, My beloved is a wayfarer forever on the road, Heave a sigh for him. Let water speeding from the roof Wash away the shells of dead spiders Let our silt make fertile the banks of the Kolong. In the furrows Of our grandsons' new settlements We shall wake, In our fossils they will read The comic tales of those Who remember their past births. In the gutters of dream-blind alleys where we live is their future. [ Translated by Ajit Barua ] link: seven poems translated by Pradip Acharya at http://www.bipuljyoti.in/poetry/navakanta.html
[bAnglA uTpAkhI (camel-bird), 1937, tr. poet] You hear me well : and yet you try To hide within the desert's fold. Here shadows shrink until they die, While dead horizons cannot hold, The quick mirage, and never near, The cruel sky is mute and blue. The hunter stalks no phantom deer; He loses all by losing you. The sands are heedless. Why run on, When tell-tale footprints point the way? Your pre-historic friends are gone, And, all alone, you stand at bay. By brooding on a broken egg You cannot hatch or make it whole: The self-consuming hunger's peg, You play in void a dual role. Become, instead, my wilful ark Upon the chartless seas of sand; For danger you may refuse to mark, Although you know the lie of land. Come let us seek a new retreat, Enclosed in thorn and scorched all through, Where water trickles, though not sweet; The earth brings forth a date or two. No wishful creeper shall I grow To keep your iron cage concealed, Nor call hucksters who would know What price your useless wings should yield. With moulted feathers I shall make A fan to suit the anchorite, But out of fibrils never rake The dust once raised by stars in flight. My apprehensions shall prevail: Your runic cry will not suborn: For you are not the nightingale Who lulls to feed on mortgaged corn. This ruin is our inheritance: A line of spendthrifts went before; They picked the pounds, and left no pence: Now both of us must pay their score. And so your self-absorption seems Inept: can blindness cheat a curse? The present is no time for dreams: By shunning me you make bad worse. Let each of us then seal a bond To serve the other's interest: You speed me to the world beyond, While I propose the human test. Sudhindranath Datta was born to an elite family (raja subodh basu mallik was his mAmA). though he did not finish his MA in English, he was for some time professor of comparative literature at Jadavpur University. His language is somewhat obscure because of the use of uncommon and obsolete words. the line from the last stanza is often quoted: অন্ধ হলে কি প্রলয় বন্ধ থাকে? "can blindness cheat a curse?" more literally, "will apocalypse wait because of blindness?" Sudhindranath Datta and Rajeshwari Datta archive at Jadavpur U http://www.jaduniv.edu.in/view_department.php?deptid=135 All manuscripts and papers of the poet Sudhindranath Datta and the singer and musicologist Rajeshwari Datta were bequeathed to Jadavpur University, and are now in the custody of the School. This treasure-house of unpublished, and often unknown, material has been sorted, identified, conserved and digitised, and a handlist prepared. Two volumes of material have been published, of Sudhindranath’s Bengali short stories, and his English writings.
[bAnglA swarga hote bidAy 1937, tr. Subhas Sarkar] Even now in the desert of the sky Night appears like a companionless beast, When the tramtracks end, also ends the city. The fragrance of Evening-in-Paris Faded out on the handkerchief -- O my city, my grey city Do you ever hear on the Kalighat Bridge The sound of the libertine's footsteps Do you hear the sound of time on the move? O my city, my grey city When you dance in the crowd of leering people O Urvashi for a couple of hours, purchased at ten rupees [rupees ten] then in the tumult of sarees and country wine In the heart of the son of Amrita, the soul-bewildered, Dances the bloodstream And on the horizon rises the burning moon O my city, my grey city
(bAnglA, ekTi kobitAr janya, 1967, tr. Subhas Sarkar) A poem will be written. For that The sky like the blue flame of fire Rages in anger. The wild tempest Flaps its wings in the sea, the cloud's smoky mane Loosens itself; to the call of thunder The forest stirs, the fear of a fall, To the spread of roots, endlessly propitiates, As the lightning looks back In that light, throughout the region Bhasmalochan Sees his own face on the red mirror of blood. A poem is being written. For him. A poem will be written. For that Who are those who fasten on the walls The manifesto of an unborn day? Leaving the fear of death on the hangman's nose, He marches forward, The air and the sky resound In his booming voice, On his fingertips is drawn The face of the new earth, its endless happiness and love A poem is being written for him.
Of what does the burning mouth Of sun, burning in today's Sky remind me... oh, yes, his Mouth, and... his limbs like pale and Carnivorous plants reaching Out for me, and the sad lie Of my unending lust. Where Is room, excuse or even Need for love, for, isn't each Embrace a complete thing, a Finished jigsaw, when mouth on Mouth, I lie, ignoring my poor Moody mind, while pleasure With deliberate gaiety Trumpets harshly into the Silence of the room... At noon I watch the sleek crows flying Like poison on wings -- and at Night, from behind the Burdwan Road, the corpse-bearer's cry '_Bol Hari Bol_', a strange lacing For moonless nights, while I walk The verandah sleepless, a Million questions awake in Me, and all about him, and This skin-communicated Thing that I dare not yet in His presence call our love.
Gujarati chhinnabhinna chum 1956, tr. Umashankar Joshi] I am fragmented -- falling apart -- Like rhythm striving to throb in a poem without metre, Like a pattern trying to emerge upon a man's life-canvas. Like bread crumbs in several homes, not yet placed in a beggar's bowl. Who spoke? The cuckoo? This babbling of the nightingales in the groves, Nature's cultural program on the radio -- What have I to do with it? I feel like switching it off. The first days of spring came, then went. I never even knew. [...] Amid the burning scorch of May A bus rushes on the bridge. My eyes, behind dark glasses, were closed, as if in meditation. And yet the slender Sabarmati -- an innocent deer chasing the mirage of eternity -- Sends up from below its cold sharp blade Which, piercing the solid bridge, Renews me for a second with coolness Before the bus, reaching the bridge-end Falls a fresh prey to the flames of summer heat. If only this frail pulse, my heart, Could do so much. Perhaps it can; Maybe it cannot -- Day and night I am torn with pain; Struggling to reach and hold the centre, I am worn out. Wasting every breath, fragmented; I am fragmented.
[Gujarati, tyare paNa 1975, tr. Suresh Dalal) In my soul There is an age-old mountain Even I have not seen it. But it is there . . . and there for centuries. In my eyes There is an age-old river Even I have not seen it. But it is there . . . and there for centuries. In my feet There is an age-old tree Even I have not seen it. But it is there . . . and there for centuries. One day the mountain will collapse One night the river will be on fire In one season the tree will blossom ... Even then I may not be there to see it.
tr. Saleep Peeradina, Jayanta Parekh, Rasik Shah and Gulam Mohammed Sheikh ... And yet -- What is thirst? As if dragged from the throat at night, it lay crumpled, a late-morning bedsheet, on dust-coated brows; thirst pushed itself into nostrils; raw thirst sat on parched lips, passed through, forcing itself deep into the gullet, then gushed from the navel... [...] A million ants from the foundations of this house will cover rooms and yawning terraces like tongues... dukAla, 1974
Hindi; tr. R.O. Swan and C.S. Jossan This evening when I got home a very strange thing happened nobody payed the slightest attention to me. My wife did not come and ask if I wanted tea, the children, too, stayed in the other room; the servant, with great impudence, went on sweeping the floor as if I wasn't there. Well, am I here or am I not? And then, all of a sudden, awareness mixed with astonishment. Where is my body today? I started to turn on the radio -- my hands were gone. I began to speak -- no mouth! As I tried to look -- O God! I had no eyes! I was thinking - but it seemed that my head was missing. Well then ... How did I get home? Little by little I began to understand: By mistake I had left my head in the office when I started home. My hands are still hanging from the bus-strap. My eyes -- of course, they are back in the office peering into files; my mouth is stuck to the telephone. And my feet ... there is no doubt . . . they are still standing in a queue. So that is how I got home today, without a body. The concept of a bodiless life, after all, is the essence of Indian tradition. But is the weariness which weighs down this limbless me also a part of it?
Source: Journal of South Asian Literature, Vol. 15, No. 2, MALAYALAM ANTHOLOGY: (Summer, Fall 1980), pp. 83-86 Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40861163 . Malayalam; tr. Kainkkara M. Kumara Pillai I. 'Go, my son, Sunassepha, and find out the time when I could see my venerable guru and offer my obeisance; I will wait in the shade of this ashoka tree,' said he in words sweet and sonorous as the boom of the big battle drums, which rose once upon a time, breaking the afternoon stillness of the sylvan hermitage of Kashyapa on the slope of Mount Hemakoota. Hardly had the visiting rishi sought the shade of the ashoka, having dispatched his dutiful disciple, when a little boy ran up to him lisping in honey-sweet words, 'I will take you to my grandpa!' Who is this winsome child that could refer to Lord Kashyapa as his grandfather? Could it be Jayanta? But Indra 's son should be older; besides, it is human majesty that is manifest in this boy. The great sage was more inclined to fold him instantly to his chest than to inquire as to who he was! Lo! The impetuous child has in a moment dragged that liberated soul down to the earth again! The hallowed sage bent down and gathered the child in his powerful arms and held him close to his heart; On his chest with its deer-skin cross-belt, the child beamed like a bright star in a black sky! Softly drawing aside with one hand the thick curly hair rippling down on his shoulders, and still moist with the sweat of playful exertion, the holy one pressed his long-bearded face against the flower-soft cheek of the child! The tender shoot of martial glory and the hard core of spiritual glory blended augmenting each other to make a fascinating sight! The boy unhesitatingly rested his head on the stranger's shoulder, as if moved by some mysterious kinship! Did the happy child feel as if he were being fondled by another grandfather? Or, maybe little children know not the difference between grandfathers; any gentle hand can fondle these blossoms. May I ask in all humility, 0 great rishi which did you find more delectable: the heavenly bliss inherent in meditation, or the bliss you experienced in fondling the flower-soft body of this tender child? The ascetic closed his eyes in the happiness of holding the child close to his heart. As for the boy, his eyes scoring the distance, he suddenly started laughing and shouted, 'Mother, here I am!' And hearing that voice sweet as a bell, a young woman suddenly appeared there; soiled clothes, a wealth of plaited hair, body emaciated but graceful, with no ornaments except its own native grace, she looked the very embodiment of sorrow! The moment the sage set his eyes on her, they started moistening fast; Perhaps his lips were shaping to say, 'What change has come over you, Menaka?' But it was thus that he presently spoke: 'Who are you, my daughter, who is the mother of this child with the distinct birthmarks of an emperor?' Meanwhile, that son, shouting, 'Ah! There in the hands of Markandeya [a playmate, friend] is a painted clay peacock,' leaped down from the chest of the rishi, wriggled out of his mother's attempted hold, and ran away in a desperate hurry! Watching the sprint of her son, she heaved a deep sigh and repressed her tears with great effort, with folded hands, full of veneration even surpassing it with love, the good lady told the rishi her own story: '0 liberated soul, I was abandoned in the forest by my mother and father on the yery day I was born, picked up and fostered by sage Kanva, married in secrecy by King Dushyanta; as for my father, he is the far-famed Viswamitra!' 'Me!' The maharishi was astounded! 0 rishi's daughter, it is your father that is now speaking to you! 'Ah, yes! I remember; Menaka is your mother! 'Why do your eyes well with tears, you who have crossed all worldly sufferings?' 'I am blessed by the sight of my father!' The sage instantly raised his daughter from the ground, as overwhelmed with happiness, she prostrated at his feet: he fervently kissed her forehead a hundred times, brushed away her tears with his right hand, while gently patting her back with the other; and also inquired about the welfare of his son-in-law. Ah, parental affection, even the ascetic who has conquered all emotions is swayed by you! 'Darling, what is your name? Tell me, and the name of your son? Wherefore did you, consort of a great king come into this forest?' A voice sweet as the note of the vina quivered out of the handsome woman: 'Father Kanva named me Shakuntala, and thy grandson bears the name Sarvadamanan; by my mother's blessing, this holy hermitage became my lying-in chamber in the hour of my great sorrow! When I was with child, I was sent from the ashram by father Kanva, with his love and blessings; and when I reached the palace--' Unable to bear her grief, she wept. bitterly for a while: 'I was disowned by my gentle husband!' The aspect of that incarnate power of destruction suddenly changed; sparks of burning fire shot out of his eyes; his eyebrows arched, the brow wrinkled; even the leaves stood still; the wind ceased to stir anywhere! 'Who is this Dushyanta who dares to remain alive after having flung my daughter into unbearable shame? This one hand is enough to raise men to the heavens in the fraction of a second and fling them into hell! Hasn't the king ever heard of the dire experiences of Trisanku and Harischandra, brought about by Kausika's prowess? Lo! Let the world unmistakably behold once again the dread spiritual might of Vishwamitra achieved by dint of fierce penance: Wicked soul, who, having espoused an innocent woman on his own initiative, has now heartlessly, causelessly abandoned her--' The mighty Vishwamitra had started uttering these words, placing his right arm clenched in anger, on his breast-- that arm with which, after having forced Brahma by the might of his penance to appear before him in person, he had extorted from him the highest honor--the order of Brahmarishi- if only he were to fling it forward, it would spell the end! It will become the thunderbolt that would annihilate her husband with his entire race! Fully aware of that dread consequence, she instantly clutched that dread missile of destruction with both her hands and cried: 'Father, for my sake, forbear! Let not your daughter become the destroyer of her husband! Let her not be consumed by the fire of dire widowhood! Abandoned earlier by her parents once, she has now been abandoned freely by her husband too; that is all! Let my life be completely destitute- but let not my son too become an outcast on account of my sin.' The fire of his anger having been quenched by the tears of his daughter, the father, now feeling extremely happy, commanded her: 'Fare thee well! Your goodness has pulled me out of moral ruin; May you, along with your son, soon join your lord!' --Edappally Raghavan Pillai : The Bell Tolls, p. 789 Malayalam; tr. K. Ayyappa Paniker The tolling bell! It is the sweet knell Of the day of death! I am coming! Let me say my farewell words To friends who come to see me off. 0 comrades who beat drums In their minds, hiding themselves in oblivion! 0 world that has no sympathy! 0 autumnal sky that joins me in everything! 0 golden quill, 0 sylvan scenes! Close partners of mine in the game of verse, 0 cluster of trees thrilled to ecstasy At my silent song, never so sweet. 1 take my leave now, one lowborn, A lover born to lament. Let this earthen lamp, love-bereft, Lie down lifeless, cast in the sand! The graceful garden ground of life, The camp of repose on the way, The scaffold that keeps this body for the hawk- Ah, I was drawn into it for a while! In this mansion whose beauty is enhanced By plastering grief with a touch of joy. If you raise your foot a bit, You are sure to slip and fall. Drenched in the song of simple joy That comes from a myriad pleasant dreams, Drunk with the honey of love That fills and spills over every moment, Drawn to the flower-soft smile Put forth by those in friendship's garb: So long like a raincloud That keeps creeping up the hill Have I soared high, swept off the ground To fathom the depths of the billowy sea! I have grown callous seeing bars of iron Whenever I opened my eyes! I am one who became a prisoner Struck by the dearth of unbroken love! The tenement rises to become a palace; -113- The sea rages to reach the canal ; If you try to unite the lovers, Darkness will come to create a split! The bell tolls! It is the sweet knell Of the day of death- I am comingl From this scene where in every laugh There scatter the sparks from the pyre, Good-bye, it is enough; let us leave, Me, my dance and my mute song. Difficult it is for me to sing In myriad ways in one moment. It has to reflect the nine moods, It has to please each and all! No, no; this is quite impossible for me; Even if my life has to remain incomplete, After the make-up was completed, for a while I stayed in the green room in privacy; I tried ever-new styles on many days, But it was all to no purpose. My mind crumbling to pieces for grief Has to smile and dance in glee there! My master smacked me on the head Many a time to make me smile. How surprising, alas, 0 world, These lessons in dance are yery strange! I shall now take the course in a different school; I shall change the performing stage. The drama of love cannot but end Without leading to this splash of blood. The bell tolls! It is the sweet knell Of the day of death! I am coming! If there is a dawn again, It will come to perform my obsequies. Why should I, never separated, go on crying For grief in this capricious world? When thoughts of joy have disappeared, It is death to go on living now. How long can I go on crying at night From my broken heart with none to care. 0 world without a heart, why should you Keep asking for a reason for it? A hundred thousand secrets have I To sob like this from behind me, To come flying every day as memories, To deck my deathbed with tender mango leaves. It is time for me, the lengthening shadows Measuring patience, watch all along. -114- Over the endless horizon circled by a coral line All around, in the fullness of love, Is the golden constellation of the Pleiades Twinkling in glory to witness what I do. Immaculate she is and so far away, Yet is she always close by for company. May the hard times to come never bring Even a little pain to the glow of her cheeks. Will every drop of blood Dripping from my heart's broken walls, Exhausted by the repeated batterings Of the rough and rude rubble of insults, Inspire the pen that writes love songs? And if it does, will it bear fruit?
marathi: Palat 1996; p. 869 all trace of trees removed the road goes terribly straight no sign of green anywhere 2 i love both of us love. the bed has now become strictly white. we love in a sort of void. a hushed silence in our bones. the blood flows freer this way and we don't measure its temperature. the body is born austere, and its only excess is the soul. you love. i love. both of us love. in a light that is neither kind nor austere. we love just barely moving in a difficult bare awareness. 3 let the light have the blandness of a teenage mother's milk. let the room be lean as at the touch of a lover grown old. ... two loners embraced in the loneliest conjugation. 4 not touching the other we keep each to ourselves. what do i know what you feelo walking barefoot on the cold floor out of my arms. but surely there are stars in the sky? i don't know, and i don't care now. out of fear we built a ceiling of gestures and symbols which now one by one i remove. [tr. Dilip Chitre]
telugu: desha charitrAlu 1938 [some lines tightened in this excerpt] What is there to be proud of in any nation's history? the history of the human race is exploitation of man by man the history of human race is an attempt at collective gobbling up: the history of human race is soaked in the bloody streams of battlefields fraught with gruesome events a weird dance of sprites: the history of human race is persecution of paupers. the mighty mesmerised the meek: homicides hailed in history as monarchs. there is no corner of the world today that isn't a battlefield: all our past is drenched in blood or in tears. families extinct multitudes of dead, cries of the helpless groan on the pages of history hatred, selfishness, crokedness, jealousy, rivalries, assuming deceptive forms and names define history's drift. Chenghiz, Tamerlane Nadir Shah, Ghazni, Ghori, Sikander, whoever he be, each one's a champion killer, ... a bridge of swords across time. [...] crumbled like a house of cards with a new history born of forces converging collectively. the trickery of the great the violence of the mighty the wiles of the rich how long can they rule the roost? exploitation of man by man race by race, this social milieu how long can it last? the rickshawallah in China, the miner in Czechoslovakia, the rating in Ireland, Hottentot, Zulu, Negro so many races in every continent proclaim in one voice historical forces at work the queen's legends of love the expenditire of that siege of goals, accounts, these aren't the essence of history. the irrepressible truth secreted in the dark womb of history now defines its nature which labourers shouldered the stones of Taj mahal? in histories dawns and dusks which men bear the royal palanquin? who created what sculpture? what literature? what science? which harmony? what splendour in this great journey? for what glorious dream? for what victory? (tr. Sri M.V.Chalapati Rao)
ghazal 3, urdu; p. 1126 ग़म खाने में बोदा दिल-ए ना-काम बहुत है यह रनज कि कम है मै-ए गुलफ़ाम बहुत है gham khane men boda dil-e-nakaam bahut hai ye ranj ki kam hai mai-e-gulfam bahut hai [this first stanza is skipped in the version here, roughly] this ineffective heart is too feeble to endure the sorrow; for that overflowing grief this red wine is also too little ] कहते हुए साक़ी से हया आती है वरनह है यूं कि मुझे दुरद-ए तह-ए जाम बहुत है kahte hue saqi se haya aati hai warna hai yun ki mujhe durd-e-tah-e-jam bahut hai i'm ashamed to beg the cupbearer -- but even the dregs would be enough for me. ने तीर कमां में है न सैयाद कमीं में गोशे में क़फ़स के मुझे आराम बहुत है nai tir kaman men hai, na sayyaad kamin men goshe men qafas ke mujhe aaram bahut hai no arrows aimed at me no hunters lurking -- in the corner of my cage i'm at peace कया ज़ुहद को मानूं कि न हो गरचिह रियाई पादाश-ए `अमल की तम`-ए ख़ाम बहुत है kya zohd ko manun ki na ho garche riyai padash-e-amal ki tama-e-KHam bahut hai i can't respect piety, even if it's not false the half-baked desire to win rewards goes so deep. ; हैं अहल-ए ख़िरद किस रविश-ए ख़ास पह नाज़ां पा-बसतगी-ए रसम-ओ-रह-ए `आम बहुत है hain ahl-e-KHirad kis rawish-e-KHas pe nazan pabastagi-e-rasm-o-rah-e-am bahut hai why are the learned proud -- and of what? all they do is follow well established paths. ज़मज़म ही पह छोड़ो मुझे कया तौफ़-ए हरम से आलूदह ब मै जामह-ए अहराम बहुत है zamzam hi pe chhoDo mujhe kya tauf-e-haram se aaluda-ba-mai jama-e-ehram bahut hai leave me here by zamzam why should i take the trouble to walk around the kabah? my pilgrimage robe is too deeply stained with wine. है क़हर गर अब भी न बने बात कि उन को इनकार नहीं और मुझे इबराम बहुत है hai qahr gar ab bhi na bane baat ki un ko inkar nahin aur mujhe ibram bahut hai [translation of this verse is skipped] ख़ूं हो के जिगर आंख से टपका नहीं अय मरग रहने दे मुझे यां कि अभी काम बहुत है khun ho ke jigar aankh se Tapka nahin ai marg rahne de mujhe yan ki abhi kaam bahut hai my heart hasn't turned to blood or dripped away in tears, oh death. leave me here -- i have a lot to do yet होगा कोई ऐसा भी कि ग़ालिब को न जाने शा`इर तो वह अचछा है पह बद-नाम बहुत है hoga koi aisa bhi ki ghaalib ko na jaane shaer to wo achchha hai pe badnam bahut hai can there possibly be anyone who doesn't know ghalib? he's a good poet no doubt but he has a bad reputation. [tr. Frances W. Pritchett] also see: * FWP's amazingly detailed website * beautifully rendered word by word translation rekhta.org
Urdu kAgaz ki nAo, 1959; p.1143 Sleepy in bed, my little son asked Difficult questtions About the moon and the distant stars His two balloons and the black cat Prescribed a glass of water for his ailing elephant. I wove a tale for his rambling mind In the middle of it he fell asleep. At midnight Some feeble words Like raindrops from floating clouds Descended on a scrap of paper In front of me And formed the elusive impression of a poem I thought I might create; Towards morning, the light drizzle Turned into a heavy downpour The patter of rain Like a weird lullaby Soothed me to sleep. In the morning bright flowers Of gay laughter and shouts of boisterous children Blossomed everywhere -- The overnight rain had formed a lake: Small paper boats floated across its rippling waves; The scrap of paper, the familiar words, the elusive lines, I knew them at a glance -- The little one shouted: "He who doesn't clap his hands today Is a fool." [tr. Balraj Komal]
http://www.oocities.org/kavitayan/balraj.html Last night, drifting off to sleep, My little son asked me : Why is the moon so far away ? Why do the stars shine ? Two balloons ... What happened to the black cat ? Give my elephant some warm water. Tell me that story. I'm so sleepy ... Through midnight's floating clouds, Some frail words fell in the shape of drops On the piece of paper in front of me, The tale of my eyes and heart, Stretching over countless years, Slept in the lap of night, Perhaps to the lullaby of the pouring rain In the morning, Bright flowers of children's cheerful shouts and laughter Blossomed everywhere Floating in the lake of last night's rain, Among the fleet of tiny, wobbly ships I saw my son's dear little boat. The elusive form of the poem, Familiar piece of paper, Familiar words. My little boy was calling out : Anyone who doesn't clap his hands today Is nothing but a fool. Carlo Coppola: Echoes and Exuberances: Baidar Bakht’s Recent Translations of Urdu Poetry describes this poem: Here the small son of the speaker, also a poet, asks his father the same litany of answerless questions with which every parent is inflicted by a child wishing to avoid going to bed: “Why is the moon so far away?,” etc. Finally, the child falls asleep and the speaker writes a poem. The next morning children are happily shouting, sailing “the fleet of tiny, wobbly ships” “in the lake of last night’s rain.” His son’s boat is made of “The elusive form of the poem, / Familiar piece of paper, / Familiar words.” If that isn’t enough, the child calls out, perhaps to add insult to injury, perhaps to put everything, including the ruined poem, into proper perspective: “Anyone who doesn’t clap his hands today / Is nothing but a fool.” links * critique by Shamsur Rahman Faruqui : pdf * poems at kavitayan
Foreword : B.K. BHATTACHARYYA v Publishers Note : INDRA NATH CHOUDHURI vii Selection Committee ix Preface : K.M. GEORGE xi Guide to users: pronunciation and transliteration : xxvii General Introduction : K.M. GEORGE 1
Assamese : SAILEN BHARALI 55 Bengali : AJIT KUMAR GHOSH 71 Dogri : SHIVANATH 95 English : L.S. SESHAGIRI RAO 107 Gujarati : DEEPAK B. MEHTA 120 Hindi : R.C. PRASAD 144 Kannada : K. NARASIMHA MURTHY 167 Kashmiri : P.N. PUSHP 191 Konkani : MANOHARRAI SARDESSAI 205 Maithili : JAYAKANTA MISHRA 219 Malayalam : AWAPPA PANIKER 231 Manipuri : IROM BABU SINGH 256 Marathi : SUDHEER RASAL 264 Nepali : KUMAR PRADHAN 285 Oriya : JATINDRA MOHAN MOHANTY 297 Punjabi : S.S. KOHLI 320 Rajasthani : RAWAT SARASWAT 342 Sanskrit : K. KRISHNAMOORTHY 355 Sindhi : MOTILAL JOTWANI 364 Tamil : NEELA PADMANABHAN 378 Telugu : C.R. SARMA 401 Urdu : SHAMSUR RAHMAN FARUQI 420
Assamese A Letter from My Sweetheart : HEMACHANDRA GOSWAMI 445 The Unconquerable : CHANDRA KUMAR AGARWALA 446 The Supreme Thirst : NALINIBALA DEVI 447 Two Poems: : DEVAKANTA BAROOAH [Barua] Manoroma 449 And We Open the Gates 450 The Boatman Rows Downstream : JATINDRA NATH DUWARA 451 Silt : NAVAKANT BARUA 453 The Sea Scare : HAREKRISHNA DEKA 454 Jengrai 1963 : AJIT BARUA 456 The Setting Horizon : HIRENDRANATH DUTTA 457 The Laments of Darkness : AMULYA BARUA 459 Poignant : NIRMAL PRABHA BARDOLOI 462 Sound of the Flute : HIREN BHATTACHARYA 463 Lily's Afternoon : BIRESWAR BARUA 463 She Pursued Me. . . : NILAMANI PHOOKAN 464 (see bio at poetryinternational.org) The Transparent Voice : BHABEN BARUA 465 Bengali The Slaying of Meghanada : MICHAEL MADHUSUDAN DUTT 466 Hymn of the Auspicious Sarda : BIHARILAL CHAKRAVARTI 475 Four Poems: : RABINDRANATH TAGORE The Golden Boat 480 Urvashi 481 Holy India 484 A Flight of Swans 486 The Rebel : NAZRUL ISLAM 487 I am ever-uncontrollable, rude and ruthless, I am the dancing deity causing the world's doom I am a cyclone, I am destruction I am the Great Terror, I am the curse of the world I am irresistible, I crush everything into pieces... The Pessimist : JATINDRANATH SENGUPTA 493 A Prisoner's Adoration : BUDDHADEVA BASU 495 The Wayfarer : MOHITLAL MAJUMDAR 498 Camel-Bird : SUDHINDRANATH DATTA 503 Farewell From Heaven : SAMAR SEN 504 Invocation : SUKANTA BHATTACHARYA 506 (bodhan, tr. Subhas Sarkar) Banalata Sen : JIBANANANDA DAS 509 On This Shore : AMIYA CHAKRAVARTI 510 For a Poem : SUBHAS MUKHOPADHYAY 511 Dogri Milkmaid : DINU BHAl PANT 513 This Little Life : SUDARSHAN KAUSHAL 'NOORPURI' 516 Daybreak : R.N. SHASTRI 517 The Oil-Press : K.S. MADHUKAR 519 A Song : YASH SHARMA 521 The Raja's Palaces : PADMA SACHDEV 522 An Evening in Akhnoor : DHIAN SINGH 524 Two Peaks : CHARAN SINGH 525 The Black Man : VED PAL DEEP 527 Kindling the Latent Love : MOHAN LAL SAPOLIA 529 A Playing Card : NARSINGH DEV JAMWAL 531 I Too Am Not Apart : SARATHI O.P. SHARMA 532 English Our Casuarina Tree : TORU DUTT (1856-77)529 Indian Weavers : SAROJINI NAIDU (1879-1949) 531 Savitri Challenges Death : SRI AUROBINDO (1872-1950) 532 Autobiography : DOM MORAES (b.1938) 543 The Exile: Poem No. 1 : R. PARTHASARATHY (b.1934) 544 Night of the Scorpion : NISSIM EZEKIEL (b.1924) 546 In Love : KAMALA DAS (b.1934) 547 The Old Man : P. LAL (b.1929) 548 Small-scale Reflections on a Great House : A.K. RAMANUJAN (b.1929) 549 Indian Women : SHIV K. KUMAR 552 Hunger : JAYANTA MAHAPATRA 553 An Old Woman : ARUN KOLATKAR 554 Gujarati The Message at Death : NARMAD 556 Remembrance : KALAPI 557 Throw Open Your Temple of Bliss : NARSINGHRAO BHOLANATH DEVATIA 558 Taj Mahal : NHANALAL (Nanalal Dalpatram Kavi) 559 Conquest of Spring : KANT 561 The Last Goblet : ZAVERCHAND MEGHANI 566 As a Flower I Come : SUNDARAM 568 Humming : BALWANTRAI THAKORE 569 Jungle Solitude : RAJENDRA SHAH 570 This Leaning Sky Is Krishna : PRIYAKANT MANIYAR 572 Fragmented : UMASHANKAR JOSHI 572 Bombay City : NIRANJAN BHAGAT 575 An Age-old Mountain : SURESH DALAL 576 Sound Can't Be Dug : LABHSHANKAR THAKER 577 Mira Would Leave Your Mevar : RAMESH PAREKH 578 The Saffron Suns : RAVJI PATEL 579 Drought : SITANSHU YASHASOHANDRA 579 And I Remembered You : HARINDRA DAVE 582 Hindi A Flower's Wishes : MAKHANLAL CHATURVEDI 583 Silent Solicitations : SUMITRANANDAN PANT 583 Saket : MAITHIU SHARAN GUPTA 585 Kamayani : JAISHANKAR PRASAD 597 Saroj: An Elegy : SURYAKANT TRIPATHI 'NIRALA' 601 Himalaya : RAMDHARI SINGH 'DINKAR' 610 This Is the Lamp of the Temple : MAHADEVI VERMA 612 Building of Nests Again and Again : HARIVANSH RAI BACHCHAN 613 The Facts Will Speak : SHAMSHER BAHADUR SINGH 614 The Night of Ravenous Hair : G.K. MATHUR 616 Freedom of the Writer : KEDAR NATH AGARWAL 617 Pets : PRABHAKAR MACHWE 619 Hiroshima : SACHCHIDANAND HIRANAND VATSYAYAN 'AGYEYA' 619 Brahmarakshasa : MUKTIBODH 621 Without a Body : B.B. AGARWAL 627 Aquarium : VIJAY DEV NARAIN SAHI 628 Expression : BHAVANI PRASAD MISHRA 629 The Last Testament : SHRIKANT VERMA 630 The Soldier's Letter : SHIV MANGAL SINGH 'SUMAN' 630 Kannada Madalinga's Valley : MASTI VENKATESHA IYENGAR 635 Gods No More : V. SITARAMAIAH 640 Rangavalli : P.T. NARASIMHACHAR 642 Fog Over Madikeri : G.P. RAJARATHNAM 645 Golgotha : M. GOVINDA PAI 647 Reflections : D.V. GUNDAPPA 650 Dasanana's Vision Fulfilled : K.V. PUTTAPPA 651 The Jogi : D.R. BENDRE 656 The Festival of Dance : PEJAVAR SADASHIVA RAO 659 The Seven-Walled Fort : RAMACHANDRA SHARMA 661 Seat Me Not on Your Throne : K.S. NARASIMHASWAMY 665 Earth Song : GOPALAKRISHNA ADIGA 667 A Leafless Tree : V.K. GOKAK 672 The Transmigration of an Inchworm : A.K. RAMANUJAN 674 A Horoscope of Bombay : G.S. SinYARUDRAPPA 677 The Snake-Charmer Boy : S.R. EKKUNDI 678 The Two Banks : CHENNAVIRA KANAVI 680 Mother : GANGADHAR CHITTALA 681 The Three Faces of Mother : SHANKAR MOKASHI PUNEKAR 683 Kashmiri The River : ABDUL AHAD AZAD 685 Freedom : GHULAM AHMED MAHJOOR 687 Six Rubaiyaats : MIRZA ARIF 689 To the Bulbul : GHULAM NABI FIRAQ 690 Helplessness : ZINDA KAUL 692 Six Quatrains : G.R. NAZKI 694 Naked Thoughts : AMIN KAMIL 695 Creation : RAHMAN RAHI 696 Night Watchman : VASUDEV REH 698 Daybreak : MOTI IAL SAQI 699 Candy and Artemesia : DINA NATH NADIM 700 Craving : G.R. SANTOSH 702 Dreams : MUZZAFFAR AAZIM 703