Poetry of Gujarati - Part 2 - Ποιειν Και Πραττειν

Poetry of Gujarati - Part 2

BREATH OF THE JUNGLE

Jayant Pathak

Breath of the jungle in my breathing
Bones of the hills in my frame
On my breast is the nest of the bulbul
Water from streams in my veins.
Keen Adivasi * arrows on my fingers
Body trembling in the grass
Breath of the jungle in my breathing.

My leaves the sun’s colour are drinking
Roots suck in the smell of the earth
Yellow butterflies half of my body
Half the crickets on the hearth

Part in the light, Park darkness
Part in the sky and part earth
O breath of the jungle in my breathing.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

* Aboriginal

CONFESSION

Adil Mansuri

Yes I confess I am a spy.
Changing my name
to learn the dark secrets of silence
I wander here
in disguise.

Sit I sometimes
as an ascetic
amongst the ruins of meter
pretending starvation
I wander in rhythm’s eatery-lanes.

Leave clues
among haiku’s seventeen letters,
and given a chance
I whisper
in the ears of gazal.

I crawl into the hollow
of each flat word for perusal;
and soon as anyone gets suspicious
chew up and swallow whole
the maps of meaning.

Yes, I admit I am
an undercover agent.

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

DELHI

Gulammohammed Sheikh

Over the fort like a broken loaf

sunshine sharp like radishes.

Grass and stones nestling in the ruins

of Tughlaqabad.

Shadows within arches: arches shadowed: Khirki Masjid.

Steps in rows fleeting through the eyes like a needle

at Jama Masjid.

The Qutb erect, stretching from root to throat.

Smells all around,

of food, flesh, blood, prisons and palaces,

yesterday’s, centuries’.

Breath caught and fixed to this moment,

the eye alive, wheeling through the past

enters the cracks in Ghalib’s tomb,

seeking Khankhanan’s fossilsed bones,

wanders from tomb to tomb

with the restless fate of Jahan Ara.

Still, dust and mist

still, nothing separates flesh and stone.

A sunbeam

slipping through the vagina of a dove

asleep upon the western arches of the Red Fort

pierces my eye.

Still, dawn.

Dreams mate with reality

what will be the face of morning ?

Translated from Gujarati by Mala Marwah and the author from Gujarati

DYING

Udayan Thakker

It is said:
Man's matrimony to death
Is determined even before his birth
Now, whoever said this
Was he emphasising
The beauty of death
Or terror of marriage?
With dying comes
The stench of a caterpillar cased in a match box
Putrefying wood
Poultry droppings
Of relationships
Like a windowless airless desolated dwelling
Shut up for years,
'Put four leaves in the pot, sir,
Tie the thread around the rim
Now offer the coconut
Smear vermillion on the four sides
Paste the rice grains
Hold it in the palms
Lift it and touch the forehead three times
In the pot I invoke the ocean, offer it'
A smell like this
Comes from dying
Coal from a leaf bud
Oil from a whale –
How many guises does this dying have?
The French set it to fire, tied up at a tender age
A hunter shot an arrow in the toe
The Greeks offered a drinking bowl
The Jews hammered nails.
Still, yelling 'heh! heh! heh!' it stands immortal,
This 'dying'
When you want it desperately
It is never around
It gets misplaced
In the fulminating light of a kerosene – lamp,
Rail tracks.
Splash Tik-20 'On the rocks'

Climb twenty one stories twenty two times
And come down
But it vanishes.
You convince yourself
Saying, ‘OK, let God's wish be done'
And
Laughingly bursting out
It would emerge
Like a Beatle-nut
In your armpit
And ask
'Hi there!
Looking for me?’

Translated from Gujarati by Dileep Jhaveri

HAIKU

Snehrashmi

Sudden showers
cease; the moon scattered
in wet grass.

Music of the ektara
comes in waves:
words melt.

Night is dark:
a bright raft,
the small town floats.

Secret conversation
of two flowers: darkness
like velvet.

On a dry branch
sits a parrot: green
leaves around.

In the sky a song:
from a bird’s wings
dawn breaks.

Spring in the dark
go singing: bright
starlight swims.

A butterfly
vanished there: painting
the void.

The golden moon
rises: the sun
turns silvery-red.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

HOSPITAL WARD

Jaya Mehta

Night wakes here in fits and starts,
a patient groaning in a bed.
Breaths, irregular, come and go,
Like autumn’s evening winds you’d say.
Each held within pain’s cell
waiting for an opening door.
Tap-tapping at the shell, the life within
Strains toward the world and light.
As if marching to battle the weary sick
Are made safe in elaborate ways.
And consciousness, like a sulking child,
Lies curled in sleep. Night wakes.
Here in wispy fits and starts.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

I, MY FATHER

Ushnas

An amazing and strange new experience,
Entering for the first time a fatherless house,
An emptiness so musty and so vast.
Familiar objects spoke of earlier lives,
Yet curiously, seemed unfamiliar too.
Discarding traveling clothes, I wore an old
Loincloth of father’s, left hanging out to dry.
And freshly bathed and dressed, sat down at prayer.

Reflected in the mirror was father’s face,
Marked with sandalwood and ashes. I arose
From mid-day sleep-father’s habit-athirst for mail.
Slept in father’s cot that night, his very mattress.
And clearly saw my bier, my blazing pyre.
I saw my body burn; I my father!

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

IN A DEWDROP

Labhashanker Thakar

Inside a dewdrop is a spacious chamber
my ears are engrossed in that chamber.
A flute is playing an air!

Darkness shimmers green in the ears
in this green begin tangy songs.
A flute is playing an air!

The tangy air conjures feet’s shadows
in the distance the wilderness gently sways.
A flute is playing an air!

A moment-drop dangles in the wilderness
beneath it every instant my breath pines.
A flute is playing an air!

Inside a dewdrop is a chamber spacious
in it I seek my senses.
A flute is playing an air!

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

IN THE WORDLESS NIGHT

Priyakant Maniyar

Not even letting the pot know
I woke its slumbering waters.
With trepidation
drank a little;
the remainder I poured
down the drain
from the third floor
into the wordless mid-night.
It dripped all the way to the ground
slowly rousing the tranquil notes
of the cool silence of Hemant*
holed up in the pipe
and in moments
dozed off to sleep.

* A winter month

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

JAISALMER

Gulammohammed Sheikh

In a desert land this pearl-studded city.

Peacocks perch on brackets and elephants

ramble over walls.

Every balcony lace-embroidered in stone,

every window festooned with gashes of blunt swords.

In the twilight walls flare like orange orhdnis *.

Eight generations of hands have smoothened

the door’s iron ring.

Black goats loiter in the courtyard and beyond

the yard door the dutiful camel bleats.

Red garments dry over the middle wall.

A limp flame flickers

In a room’s moldy darkness.

In the hearth’s red flush, in the

Chundadi * glow, a golden girl

kneads a loaf-shaped city.

Translated from Gujarati by Saleem Peeradina and the author from Gujarati

* Kind of Scarf

MEETING A NEWSPAPERBOY

Harish Meenashru

He meets nobody and nobody meets him
as if with an intention to meet nobody He comes everyday to meet
Hastily on his bicycle
Always in such a haste that we can never meet him
and inquire about his well-being and he in turn
can inquire about the news.

Could this newspaper boy be in the last year of the college
or could have left studies ?
Could his father be a drunkard
Or somebody would have finished him ?
Its possible, he must be staying with his widowed ant in this harshtime.
Its possible, the family of his chachajan must have settled in Karanchi.
Seems to be from a good family, a Dehai of Valhaad, Moti Hatyavi,
Shiya or Sunni : these all are gray areas of newspaperly indifference.
And in such areas of human-ness, no-one can meet no-one.

Many a times, he falls from his bicycle.
Why this newspaper is so dirty and soiled today: everybody ask.
His elbow is bruised, pedaling with his right leg’s shabby chappal
He replies casually : Entire lot of papers had fallen in the mud.
But how come there are red stains instead of muddy ones?
And why there are mentions of RDX on every page?
He evades answering : How can such people be relied upon ?How terrible people we happen to meet in life ?

Many a times for months together there is no news about him
as if unwittingly he is placed in the attic of our own house-
awaiting a scrap-dealer.
All of a sudden, then , he reappears ,-worn out, dusty and yellowed -
If asked, ‘what’s the matter ?’, he would say : I was down with jaundice, sir.
His master is a complete rogue.
Who would employ someone suffering from contagious disease ?
Lastly somebody resembling him was seen at the Pasti-wala, the scrapdealer’s .
But how can such ‘seeing’ be called ‘meeting’ someone ?

Even today throwing a newspaper, either brand new or ruddi-worn out, he has just left.
As ambiguous as a pronoun. His face is featureless.
I glance at the first page : the same headline even today ?
Now I shall have to complain to his master :
How can we tolerate him throwing dated newspaper everyday on a running bicycle?
And when we call, he doesn’t even stop to meet .

I see in the direction of his return
North or East or West or South.
Suddenly a blast : Sure, his tyre must have burst
Or whatever it may be, one can not meet him.

Translated from Gujarati by Dr. Piyush Joshi

MILES UPON MILES

Umashankar Joshi

Miles and miles and miles pass through me
Unmoving and still as the train rushes on.
Those distant hills cut their way in, sinking
In joy. Rivers flow in my veins, and behind
My wide eyes entire lakes dip and drown.
Fields flutter; their tremor brushes my limbs.
Houses spread out through my hands, and huts,
Their yards rippling with the imprint of palms.
A creeper strays roofward… and
On the girl’s blouse, design-like, sits a butterfly.
Thus much only strung out on memory’s line
As miles upon miles pass me through.

Worlds upon worlds pass right through me
bound to turning earth in chain of clay.
The Milky Way, herds of stars and planets,
Jostling and wheeling, keep coming . In
Leaps the antelope, the hunter behind , the scorpion.
Thirsty, I drink all of space. Storm’s dance,
lightning’s jabs, and the roar of the clouds,
summer’s scorching winds and flowers of spring:
someone in there gulps it all down.
A tear from boundless compassion? – some shooting star.
Earth aspires to light? – a flashing firefly.
Thus much hope only in memory’s store as
Worlds upon worlds pierce me through.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

MOTHER

Madhav Ramanuj

The wind is teasing
the ripening wheat,
and, mother, I think of you…
Still believing that
the sun’s first rays
melt into tender grain
so when it grows
it turns gold,
I hold the wheat
and feel the sunlight warm upon my palm
and remember you, mother.

Walking to the field’s edge
in the cold dawn,
Your gaze upon my cracked heels
was a peacock’s feather
grazing my check.
The evening light
glinted in your eyes
and shadows gathered there
before darkness fell.

I never saw you weep
and yet, see,
when the rain pours down
I think of you.

Mysteriously,
as evening comes on,
our village glows, who knows how,
like a lit lamp in my mind.
I seem to hear your voice calling from the kitchen,
and, mother, I think of you.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

MOVEMENT

Ravji Patel

No stir of tree-shadows,
Here, peace-drenched
submerged in silence,
even sun-rays slumber.
Flowers drown in sleep.
Scents move thus
this way as
the breeze, drowsy,
slow…ly flie…s.

A butterfly
brushing lightly
past
me
alights
on a flower.

Coloured wings move gently
and then
the sky
half-asleep on a petal
now
rocks and
Sways

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

MOVING HOUSE

Balmukund Dave

Rummaging through the house again we found
Scraps of Lux soap, a toothbrush, an old broom,
a leaking bucket, tin box, and lidless bottles,
thread and needle, specs (broken), clips and pins!
Taking down the name-plate on the door,
we placed it face down in the departing lorry.
We looked around again one last time at where
those first ten years of married life went by:
our son, a boon so long desired, was born;
from where we took him to the fire’s last embrace.
Suddenly from some corner came a voice:
‘Ba-Bapu, you’ve left nothing here but me-‘
Our eyes were full of pricking grains of grass;
our leaden feet tired down with iron weights.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

MUMBAI

Niranjan Bhagat

Let us travel to Mumbai
a tailless alligator to see.

There people are all sketches
like friends unacquainted;
let us take no bag no bedding
this pilgrimage is really quite easy!

Cement, concrete, stone, and glass
wire, bolt, rivet, screw, nails;
make you forget Indra’s* magic
these means are truly heavenly!

Before grass on roads grows wild
or corals construct their reefs
should you wish to see the city
then come, time is beseeching!

*King of gods, who lives in heaven with his retinue.

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

O CARAVAN VENDOR

Vinod Joshi

Your comb has pulled out my golden hair
Give me a nosegay in its stead
I offer you quills and corals
Melting down the full moon I will give you lustre
O caravan vendor
Your slipper has dented my pearly fringe
Give me an ocean in its stead
I offer you empires and heart beats
I will give you ripples from the petals of the eyelids
O caravan vendor
At the tips of your fingers are tautened the turns of my chemise
Give me peacock calls in their stead

Translated from Gujarati by Dileep Jhaveri

ON MY FATHER’S FIRST DEATH ANNIVERSARY

Chinu Modi

Why are you going away farther and farther from me?
Time pushes you slowly.

In the morning as soon as I get up
First pushes your memory.
And a helpless heart weeps bitterly
with no reason.

The tie of relationship is not in the least loosened.
At home, the same topic in our daily chat,
The kins on the road
Indeed talk much about their memories of yours.

The time has lapsed and now
I do not remember you as I did formerly
Sometimes if I take two cups of tea
the way you did

Your memory lingers in my mind.
Slowly and slowly
The whole house-hold acquires the condition
Similar to mine.

I am going away farther and farther from you.
slowly, the time pushes me too.

Translated from Gujarati by Chandrakant Topiwala

PHOTOGRAPHING MOTHER

Sundaram

The two of us, my brother and I, took Mother to be
photographed.
Having settled the cost, we entered the studio,
And in that showy place they put Mother in
An embroidered chair, readying all for the picture.
‘Stretch that foot a little: hold your head high, Ba.'
Thus the sweet-tongued photographer, fussing about.
Near the sari border drawn over her head
He arranged prettily flowers and books.
Letting light and shadow play upon her face,
He pulled this way and that the curtain from the roof.
Stealing behind the camera draped in black,
He adjusted the focus and fixed the plate.
Not yet uncovering the lens, he said to her,
This silver-tongued photographer we hardly knew,
‘Now look here Ba, sit still and smile straight here,
Forgetting care and grief; think you are at home;
Remember joyful things. Smile a little, Ba.
And please don’t blink. You will
Appear exactly as you are.’
And I, turning around to see how Mother smiled
Went sliding from an unreal present straight into the past.
Weigh smiles and tears, which one will go down?
She lived her life, that’s all; no one cared.
Widowed young, dependent on her in-law’s home,
Mother lived with her brood of four,
Thankless drudgery claiming all her days;
Nothing outside that cramped and squalid house;
Her children’s future alone appeased desire.
No one heard her; she listened to them all.
At last her flattened body breeding disease,
Nurtured by neglect, grew pas cure.
We rained compassion down on her and love
Then, to please her any, every way.
Half love, half-duty led us on. We took
Mother to the doctors in the town;
Showed her the city: palaces, houses, parks;
Cinemas, theatres, rides in horse-drawn buggies,
She had them all. Sensing impending doom,
And as a memorial to our love (or selfishness),
We took her for one final photograph.

Unheeded by husband, sons, and in-laws,
Are, all the world, poor neglected Mother
Sat waiting for the picture as that sugary
Stranger asked her just to smile.
I, turning to remark how Mother smiled,
Saw two ripe tears there frozen in her eyes.
Angrily he shouted: ‘My plate is ruined!’
Plate ? what Plate? Her life lay round in ruins, Hari, Hari!

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

POET, HOW CAN YOU RELISH THIS!

Zaverchand Meghani

Across the land at every step
children die for want of grains,
from the ungodly sky fire rains:
day and night the lives of the myriad poor are at the rich’s mercy -
then, oh woe! Poet, how can you songs of earth and water relish!

Staggering along
women in millions roam the streets
labour all night hungry:
‘My children will wake at dawn and ask for food’ so thinking torment flesh –
then, oh woe! Poet, how can you songs of stars and sunset relish!

Mind! Stop gazing at the stars,
see the bars of dark jails –
haven’t you heard their sobbing?
Behind them mute and lonely thousands die tortured deaths –
then, oh woe! Poet, how can you the songs of the seashore relish!

In the ocean of epidemic and death
amidst million screams and sighs,
on the earth burning from oppression:
all this romantic poetry is but a golden snare for the famished;
then, oh woe! Poet, how can you weaving clever word-plays relish!

Night and day in their veins
pours the cacophony of dire machinery
inhale they deadly fumes while breathing,
what to them the poet or poetry! Can they frisk among flowers and stars ?
Then, oh woe! Poet, how can you the flute of Krishna relish!

When the world’s hunger will be quenched,
when hungry children will have their fill,
every adult will have a square meal:
poet, that day the beauty of blue sky and stars will earn sense;
burn your warbling, soul! How can you singing cant relish!

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

PRAM

Pavankumar Jain

Wearing the best clothes
of their marriage days
my parents
are out for a stroll.
There is also a pram
with them.
Sitting in that pram
with tiny
thirty-five years old eyes
I peer at the world
through thick glasses.
Passers-by laugh
and gossip
or turn away their faces.
I ask my parents:
‘Can’t we discard
this pram?
May be I am not able
to walk properly.
And I will never be able
to run so fast
that I can participate
in the Olympics!
But I can certainly walk
though with unsteady steps.’
Clenching their lips even harder
they mutter:
‘You are not able
to walk properly.
You will never run
and at your age
nobody toddles.
We are extremely tired,
yet we put you in a pram
and take you for an outing.
Please have pity on us.
Give us no further trouble!’

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

QUEST

Umashankar Joshi

Little time now left to me
to look at flowers,
those isles of light that upward turn
earth’s desires to heaven;
those carries of human dreams,
a poem’s first fresh syllables.

Does poetry shine through my life
as, from the womb, a child’s shut eyes
irradiate a mother’s face?

Poetry, soul’s native tongue,
bodies silence out, freezes dreams,
flees enclosing space.
And, scattered through a million words
is rarely found.
Saraswati disappearing, the poem
Smells unhappy, cowers
In the smoke of smouldering thought.

That plant beside my house is now a tree
heavy with purple jamuns.
I stare at it often and long but bear no fruit;
eat, drink and play, jump freely up and down
on earth-mother.
Where is this mélange do I find
the poem?

God caught me once
that time he was painting
the trees with evening sunlight;
another time, me alone at dusk
in a train, a pair just-married entered
and He made
a garden of their faces bright with blooms.
I went off with those hazy, blushing flowers.
Are you pleased, God, with these?
You must be; why else would
you draw me on again, again,
pointing there and there,
without this life will stop.

Unasked, a bird traveling
a thousand miles

stops by me near a banyan tree.
A lakh light years away, a star,
unasked, winks down at unromantic me.
A child’s laughter bursts,
unfurling hope. I have no time to hear.
Rhythms and words abound;
but the poem : where I ask.

Hands raised skyward, great men stand
on mountain tops; their voices,
rolling over minds and hearts,
travel from age to age
resounding through the valleys.
A country of echoes this, not words.
Deafened by their sound, our ears
hear nothing else.
What then? And how?
To flow, a river,
offering its song’s murmur to passers-by.

Does the ego wince? Does it seem
parasitic, perhaps, this singing
of other’s lives and loves,
spewing out scraps, verbal left-over?
For a life lived by proxy must I give thanks?
Not quite that either. Surerly,
no small thing, thus to be drawn
into other’s fullness? What these eyes see,
is that all they see? Eyes, after all,
are not for blind seeing, but drinking in.
Those tree there, bending in the wind,
how beautiful they are.
O scattered green and swaying trees
you leave your fields
And entering through my eyes you trace
Intricate designs within;
Write tree-ness there.

Eyes, did you see that?
What leapt out from behind my eyes
and turned me into a tree-d and leafy thing?
And so with all the world:
I watch beauty’s self emerge through word and rhyme
from flowers and children’s laughter.
O possibility, now here, now gone,
are you there or no?

A bend in the road
and headlights make a pool
for girls returning, festive, home,
n the dark of a rainy evening.
An old man’s eyes, wondering and mad,
see hope ribbon out their future’s path:
their hope the precious life-blood of my poem.
Little time indeed for me
to versify their innocent joy.
I still look on, look for…

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

SEA FARING

Ramesh Parekh

Then
I weighed the vessel and thrust it
and it floated on …………
Reaching midway
the ocean asked : ‘Tired ?’
‘So what? I ought to go ahead’ I replied
‘with so much load?’ the ocean laughed
In reply, I threw away the oars.

An inch ahead
the ocean loudly laughed
I broke the legs and threw them away
Laughed the ocean loudly
I threw away arms up to elbows
An inch ahead
Loudly, the ocean laughed.

At the moment I threw away the torso
Winds pulled apart
colors of the sky, dropped off dry
and directions split upright

the ocean was speechless
Trembling it looked at the residual head
that was installed in the vessel
the head, which sent forth the flashes of dark lightening

Translated from Gujarati by Chandrakant Topiwala

SEARCH

Panna Naik

This is my house.
There were lots of comings and goings,
running about.
Slowly all
vanished.
I was all alone
in the house.

This home.

I had never seen it
in detail.
Now I saw
its height, width, length.
Was the wall’s paint
so soiled earlier?
And the small cracks
now visible
were they there then?
Did this room
have doors and windows?

Where is the door
through which
I had entered?

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

SELLING THE SKY

Chandrakant Sheth

I set out to sell the sky
in Sankadi Sheri*!
The people there thought I was mad.
They booed and manhandled me
threw stones
tore my clothes
tried to pry my fist open.
But can the sky be contained in a fist?

The poor folk of Sankadi Sheri!
They do not know
that the sky cannot be kept
in a pocket, bundle, chest, or fist!
I was going to lift
their drooped eyelids
and show them the sky.
They were to get the sky free!
Selling the sky was but an excuse.

But the people of Sankadi Sheri!
They pushed me out of the street
shut the doors and windows
and with their heads tucked under quilts
fell asleep.
Dragged myself away again.
Took deep, resolute breaths.
Hoped that if not that day then the next
the sky would be sold.

These after all are the denizens
of Sankadi Sheri
and its all about
the sale of the sky!
Can this be settled
that easily?

*Literally, Narrow Street

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

SHEETS OF PAPER

Kamal Vora

Nothing is more delicate
Transparent
Sacred
Truthful
Beautiful
Than the blank sheet of paper

O my dearest….
I enclose this blank sheet of paper
in a blank envelope
because chattering spills away the essential
words take us into a cyclone
meanings segregate according to identifying marks
O my dearest come, therefore, come
to this path of blankness
and let us meet each other
utterly blank

Time, the destroyer
effaces knowledge, effaces ignorance, ambition, esteem and word-inflection
effaces names
effaces bone, flesh and skin
effaces desire, anger, greed, infatuation, pride, and envy
effaces stone, brick and building
effaces colonies,
effaces city and its first citizen
effaces mustard-seeds, dust specks, mountains and valleys
Time releases them in slow progression
Transcending time
I keep the sheet of paper blank

Words
noisy chaotic and wild
have grown on the paper
like an amorphous mass of vegetation
during the rainy days
I
fiercely uproot them
Hoping to find, alas, an inch of
blank space !

Just as
skies glide in and out of
clean and tranquil waters of a lake
mists pour down incessantly
to engulf the entire universe into an unified entity
Sand grains swish to rise
in a column of whirlwind
in the desert
sea-waves rise in high-tide
and keep heaving and turbulating in the ocean
Exactly like this
just like this goes on happening
in the blank sheet of paper

The sheet of paper rubs out
… … … ….
everything I write
and despite preparedness of the pen and the ink
the paper pulls each and every letter deep down within itself
and then once again it turns on its back
nonchalantly
only
for a few moments I happen to be in ecstatic delight
savouring the fleeting contours of the curvaceous letters

At times
to amuse myself by seeking
appearances in reality
and realty in appearances
I descend on the paper
in the form of letters
and sport about in graceful curves

To intercept the onslaught of
Snowstorms of the white
Megalomanias of the ink
and epileptic fits of the fingers
is daunting
and to keep the paper as blank as in its pristine purity
is hard indeed !

If I do write
it would scatter in the wind
like an echo fading out
if I do not write
it would vanish into the thin air
like a mist
I had better gently pull out the paper
sandwiched between that which is before the eyes
and that which is reposed at the core of the being

At the moment
I am totally absorbed
In my attempts to raise the paper high
against the pull of the letters
What could be there
beneath this frigid icy whiteness ?

emphatically writing
over and over and over again
I am doing away with
the voice yet to be articulated
the language yet to be structured
Casting them in the deep current of whirlpool
I render the paper
more and more blank

Give up
the ware-house of words
and the vanity of rhetoric
Take off
the apparels of nouns, pronouns and the masks of adjectives
Stop the movements of verbs
for attempting versification
and dare
dare to confront the Prime Mover
regardless of its being
active, passive or otherwise.

It is extremely difficult
to scribble a single letter
to erase the written word
is tough … impossibly tough
O radiant whiteness … !
be vibrant and flow down
flow down
Undo the dichotomy
between the perishable and the perennial !

Translated from Gujarati by Karamshi Pir

THE GRASS AND I

Prahlad Parekh

As far off as the gaze can reach
the expanse is replete only with lush green grass;
and beyond lies the stripe of the azure sky
spread wide along the horizon.

Like the thrills of the earth’s delight
the blades of grass stir again and again;
I know not how and why
my love relates to them all.

They sway with oncoming flow of the gentle wind,
something akin to it occurs within my psyche, too.

I look at them in the morning,
and the fragrance overpowers me with pleasure.
Seeing them sparkle, adorned with dew-drops,
my eyes are filled with tears of joy!

My gaze transforms as if into a deer,
and goes gamboling all over the grass;
not for a moment do my feet feel it.
I do not touch the grass,
and yet I experience its delicacy in my mind!

And at the noon a rendezvous is kept
of the gold of sunlight with the green of grass :
it looks as if the predilection of them both,
of the sky, and of the earth, have mingled;
viewing this union my heart from somewhere
has savoured the honey of happiness.

In the even-tide the light, the shadow and the grass,
all gather together to play:
calling out to my psyche, taking it along with them!
at the sight of them playing like this, I am all thrilled with joy!
dwelling upon the thrills I wonder
whether the grass, disguising its colour,
has assumed a micro-form
to settle down all over my body!

Oh, what a disciplined absorption it is!
(or should I name it a labour of love?)

whatever I perceive outside of me
I experience it over my body and in my inner being!

O! in my dreaming too I go on seeing
the pleasant dance of the grass all around.

Translated from Gujarati by Karamshi Pir

THE LINE

Hemant Dhorda

All that he wished
was to draw a line befitting itself

He didn’t want to draw an equator
or no way even latitudes and longitudes
or a line in the soil, encircling a hut, as an inviolable dictate
to abide by for the ages and beyond
or a line along the rim of a disk-like-weapon
which displayed its auspicious and ominous aspects
or a line of a bow which lets out a high-pitched twang
or a slippery smile of a lady named Mona
or a waist-band around a waist of a slim lovely maiden
or the vertical and horizontal strokes in a day-to-day
account book of a Bania, the grocer
All that he wished

So many people counseled him on lot many matters
asked him to draw
a volatile line, to be carried away, on the running waters of a stream
or a fragrant line from flower to flower in woods and gardens
or a sweetly noisy line beneath a tree at a day-break
or a flash of lightening in the midst of the heaps of dark clouds
carded like cotton
or a saffron-coloured line joining the tips of the leaping flames of fire
In fact, he had drawn innumerable lines as such
of this kind
of that kind
of whichever kind
of whatever kind
of any kind
But could not there be a line, a mere glance at it
should soothe the eyes right away?
should pacify the tormented self to the peak?
should light up all the areas of visceral feelings?
should enable the artist to give a belch of contentment
for having drawn the immaculate line?
should fulfill the wish of a life-time within the time-span
from the start of a point to its ultimate point?

All that he wishes
is to draw a line befitting itself

Translated from Gujarati by Karamshi Pir

THE SONG OF OUR SHIRT

Neerav Patel

We are a fashionable caste

Or tribe you may call :

Our forefather Mayo Dhed

Had a shirt of 3 sleeves,

His father had a shroud as his shirt

And his father wore a shirt of his own skin.

I am no less fashionable –

Just got a pocketless, sleeveless, buttonless

Peter England, the second

From the pavements I sweep.

Every passerby is tempted to pay his respects

To the label of the lords

But without touching my collar-bone.

Our shirt has a song to sing.

Of bizarre fashions.

Translated from Gujarati by the Poet

Note :

In medieval Gujarat, untouchables were forced to wear 3 – sleeved shirt so that caste –Hindus can identify them and keep away from them. The dalit folklore has a hero called Mayo Dhed who sacrificed his life for doing away with such humiliating practice.

THE VERSES ON POETRY

Dileep Jhaveri

I am amused:
Nobody has even the haziest memory
Of my father's Grandpa.
And yet his sword is still preserved.
Blunt.
And even now on its hilt
A delicate pattern of leaves and flowers
Is faintly visible.
There are stains
Hidden behind the tattered loyalty
Of the scabbard's silk and leather.
Are they marks of rust or blood?
Who Knows?
Anybody would be embarrassed of the rusty sword.
And who would not be ashamed of a bloody one!
I am abashed by the sword itself
That too still retained!
Those who will address my son as Grandpa
Perhaps will discover
A pen belonging to his father preserved still
When forest or ponds or squirrels or migratory birds
Must have become dried stains
On the rusted surface of barren paper.
Nobody would have even dimmest memory
That
Poems were written with that pen.
Nobody would ask what poetry is.
And yet, picking that pen
Someone would draw a petal of Peony flower
And write P for the first time
And proclaim perhaps
I am ashamed of my ancestors ?

Translated from Gujarati by the Poet

TO THE WIFE

Sitanshu Yashaschandra

Pick up thread and needle, my shirt needs mending,
Sit in the cane chair by the window
So that sunlight falls on your shampooed hair.
Sit in such a way that I can see you, with eyes closed.
Take the blue spool, pass the thread between your lips,
Change its colour.
Putting the shirt fabric on your knee straighten it,
Look properly,
Open the small cane box and choose a button,
Then look at me.
Thread, knee, shirt, chair, button, window, sunlight and I would appear matching perfectly.
To me, at present, nothing is more important than that.
Thread the needle, Mend my shirt.

My glasses are lost, find them.
Don't question, I can't remember.
Earlier I was not reading anything.
Lately I was watching you,
Ascending the steps you were going
Then after the turn you left.
Without glasses I cannot manage for so long.
You have a thousand chores that I know well, understood?
But without glasses how will I even search for them,
Will you tell me?
Talk no more
Leave your thousand chores and come.
They must be on those steps
Or just beyond the turn.
Delay not, come.
If you find the glasses on the way, then bring them.
Do not question. Find them and adjust them on me.
Then attend to your chores, a thousand, but here in this room.
So that you are visible.

Light the kitchen fire, knead the dough, start frying
Taking a handful of water sprinkle over
My gradually kindled fire.
It is lit by mistake.
You are in the adjoining room.
You are folding my yesterday's laundered clothes.
Your palm straightens the creases on my shirt.
Its warm weight occasions my bosom to breathe deep.
Open the window of the next room.
Arrange the footwear neatly in the passage.
Peep out to see if the milk booth opposite our compound is open.
Today they will discharge me from the ICU.
At the end of the tedious and tiring journey
We have returned home after a long time.
You are exhausted and your menstrual flow has started
And you have no napkins.
Don't worry
Take out my old shirt from the closet, it is clean.
Cut it
From whichever convenient part, take a piece
And adjust on yourself. Take rest.
I will get provision and grocery from the market.
Today we shall not have packed meal.
Later I shall pat you to sleep on my chest.
Now you only light the kitchen fire, knead the dough, start frying,
Taking a handful of water souse my smouldering pyre.

Translated from Gujarati by the Poet

TO VAN GOGH

Suresh Dalal

Van Gogh, I admire you
You have, endured
the hearts’ many winters;
finding, true, from time to time
some little warmth
But how much, how long
this warmth
in the bitter cold?

I see your face now,
its colours and lines
Between those sculpted lips
is stuck a pipe:
smoke rises there
as from a freshly burning
body on a funeral pyre;
your torn ear re-assemble.

For you
One thought alone.
In your eyes not death,
not life’s defeat, but
a tired human face.
You paint no
rivers flowing through
the shameless light of day.

Rather, you make
nights’ black stream
go glittering by.
If roses bloom in the air
you turn them to scented paper stars.

A peasant family
gathers to eat
by lamplight
at day’s end
Through you we taste their food.
On canvas fields
Your brush, unwearied,
brings to life
a harvest of human faces;
and blesses
a pubescent girl’s
beauty.

You release on paper
little coloured boats
All quite empty …
Like yourself.

Your face is like a torn sweater.
Bending by night
Over an empty glass
On an old table in a lonely café,
Songs of experience
Come streaming in lines
as you cross times’ jungle
like some mad cyclone.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

TREE

Dalpat Padhiyar

One day

everyone in the housing society
got together
and chopped off
the neem tree hindering
the power cables!

That night
all the trees of the wilderness
came to my bed.
Not finding even one of my roots red
the poor things turned back!

Often I wake up
from sleep.
I hear a tree’s footfalls
in the doorway.
This tree has begun to take root in me.
I have begun to fear that
I will sprout again!

Today
another tree has been chopped
in the locality.
At night
should someone knock on the door
please say:
‘He does not sleep here at all…!’

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

Vipasha

A dense black darkness

Was wandering around

In the sky

Wandering, It spotted a well.

Where

It saw a dense black darkness.

It got really scared.

And collapsed near the well.

I, with my nails dug in

have pulled life out of my veins

and in them I filled

Ice

Now

I set out freezing the sun…

Nibbling darkness behind me…

Alone sat the mind,

Besides the upset body,

To give birth to faceless demons.

Sits carding faces of people,

to appease,

the displeased

body .

My head is broken

From its remains, rise other heads,

I can’t quite see, what all the heads are doing

Because my head is broken.

Banging repeatedly,

the head

became blood,

now it colors

places

with warm and dull

colors.

Various

pieces of mind

Live

filled inside

corners

of the

Stubborn Body

Translated from Gujarati by Deepika

WINDOW TO INFINITY

Krushnalal Shridharani

On Kanchanjangha’s thigh
there is in a village
a hovel.
In the hut is a room
with a window.
In the narrow window is framed
the sight of the vast.
That narrow opening is a look out
on all of
infinity and creation.

Every human has aspiration,
intellect and heart.
Like a room of the same size.
True, there is the same sized window
to mind to intellect to heart, to all else.
But disposition’s dimensions vary -
lower here, higher there;
depends on where the window is opened –
upon a grill at well’s bottom?
On a mirror?
- Or upon the Kanchanjangha range?

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

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Poetry of Gujarati - Part 2