Indian Poems in Translation
COLD-BLOODED MURDER
-Priyanka Kalpit
A tumultous war with caste and
Self wages within me.
So many arteries are
severed in the massacre,
fountains of blood ensue.
The face is smashed
and distorted.
On an island of blood I sit
and watch, steadily,
murders done in cold blood.
Turbulence fills me
and suddenly
I hear myself mutter
“Enough, that is enough.”
- Translated from Gujarati by Rupalee Burke
HARVEST HOME
- Priyanka Kalpit
Our ancestors sowed their sweat.
We gleaned drudgery in return.
The harder we laboured
the more the bruises
on our backs grew.
At times the dark agony
flashes like a glow-worm
and the mind’s horizon
turns a fiery red.
- Translated from Gujarati by Rupalee Burke
Harbinger
- Madhukant Kalpit
Brothers,
I have come here as a harbinger.
Like the head of a match stick
I stand beside you
With a half-open wordbox.
Looking you in the eye
Shall I question you
After having vigorously undertaken
The long, tedious journey of life?
When birds of breath, exhausted,
Pause barely for a moment’s rest,
Doesn’t the heel of the foot twitch?
Your back, humped, bent like a bow
From bearing burden,
Is it not waiting for the match stick
To be struck?
Come,
I am here
Right beside you
With a wordbox
Half open…….
-Translated from Gujarati by Dr. Rupalee Burke
Kargil-Returned
By Sitakanta Mahapatra
When he went he carried with him
many things:
in the breast pocket
a small framed photo of Jagannath
along with few grains of His nirmalya
tied neatly in a piece of cloth,
eight half-ripe mangoes
from their garden in a hand bag
and ten pieces of cheese-molasses rice cake
his mother made late at night.
In the breast pocket too
he treasured two photos:
one, Sumitra’s before marriage
with long coiffure and deep swirling eyes
another, Sonali on his lap.
Also he carried Sumitra’s quick kiss
planted on his cheek stealthily
like lightning and Sonali’s
unaccustomed shy kiss
after much persuasion and kitkat bribe;
they were warm till
he reached Kargil.
He carried countless sobs
carefully hidden away in his chest
and tear drops lurking in the eyes
till their faces got lost in the distance
like stars in the sky.
He returned fast asleep
covered with tricolour
inside the womb of a box
eyes closed, cheeks cold as ice
face a wilted flower.
This time he had brought nothing
neither toys, frock and chocolate for Sonali
nor for Sumitra a saree
nor a light shawl or eye-glasses
for his mother.
He returned empty-handed.
A sinless bird struck by a lethal arrow
he circled and descended
to the ground in an aircraft,
to his mother, Sonali and Sumitra
nearly lost in the crowd
and that too on his own birthday.
AFRICA
By Saratchand Thiyam
Dry cracks in the earth
Wide open cracks
Where many feet had been trapped
And many had been broken.
Children who’ve come running,
Flying kites,
Fell into the cracks.
Hearing their wails
Vultures and crows fly off.
Barely-grown girls,
After tearing up their dresses,
Gun
Saratchand Thiyam
Till today we haven’t heard any hypnotic voice rising
When a gun is thrummed calmly and gently by index fingers.
Like one demented, smitten by a melody,
No one has ever been transfixed
Except lifeless bodies lying around unconcerned.
The tens of thousands of bullets appearing
From the strumming of one index finger
Heap layer upon layer on Charon’s boat of the dead.
If these guns were entrusted to Orpheus’s hand
Will the innocent ones journey to Hade’s side?
(translated from the Manipuri by Robin S Ngangom) |
