Saturday, February 5, 2011

KALYANJI'S POEMS IN TRANSLATION


1.                ABOUT THE RAIN


Has the rain ever
made any complaints
to you, so far?

that the green worm
is missing for many days,
that a little girl
has taken away a pebble,
that a rain bow
has withered away
like the feather of a king fisher,
that you have prevented
the little boy of your house
from getting drenched,
that you stay put
in front of the idiot box
without stepping out to see any thing.
It has not, right?

Then why do you,
sitting at home and sipping your tea
keep making so many complaints
to every one about the rain?
  
2. THE SCENT OF DARKNESS

It was not an unexpected one,
the power cut on the seventh moon night.

Fearing the suburban killings
the leaves stay still.
I know where the match box and the wick are.
Glowworms of the past
flutter inside my closed eyes.
Stopping its chat with the darkness
solitude whispers a song,
reclining on the chair opposite.
The next line of the verse,
which invites God for a debate,
aligns itself and wanders
outside the paper.
The pen narrates the story
of winged horses
to the fingers,
which held and guarded it
from getting lost.

I like the scent of darkness
as it plants a kiss of gratitude
on my lips
for not chasing it away,
but letting it stay.

 3. ANY SCAR COULD BE

You could have even forgotten
your earliest pain.
The face of the person,
who bruised you
would have become distant.
You would have kept
in your unforgettable list
the smile of the nurse,
who applied the first medicine.
It is important that
you were able to wipe away
the pus infected stench
with your blood stained dress
of that day.

You,
who keenly watch
the healing wound
like a baby
sleeping in the cradle,
can kiss any scar, hereafter
including those of your enemies.

 4. ON THE COMPOUND WALL

Never expected, at all
that the compound wall
of the new house
of that poet
would be studded with  glass pieces
making it impossible
for any bird
or kitten
to sit on.

 5. A FEW MORE THINGS

I could not believe
how this was possible.

The book
my co-passenger had for reading
was the one
I had signed and given
Late Yamuna.
She had ticked
the titles of some of the poems.
Some were marked X.
Here and there
to the left of two or three lines,
Yamuna herself
stood like a pencil wall.
Some of the words were
underlined, specifically.
There were corrections
for some print errors too.
She has even rewritten
the last lines of a poem,
differently.
While turning the pages
I found that
there were no markings of any kind
after the 53rd.
Did the pencil tip break away?
Didn’t Yamuna read the rest of the pages?
Or
was it between
this and the 80th page
that Yamuna
started swallowing
the sleeping pills?

In a book of verses
thus lies hidden
an unwritten suicidal note
and a few more. 

6. THAT YOU SHOULD NOT 

Do pray
that you should not
come upon
your long lost childhood school friend
when
either your friend or you
wait at the corridor of a bank
to repay a jewel loan,
when
either your friend or you
for a post-operative review
get down from an auto
with the support of some one,
when
either your friend or you
on a day of torrents
in between two long journeys
in an unknown liquor shop
drink wildly nibbling nuts
with the lips harrowed by loneliness,
when
either your friend or you
wait at the mortuary
of a general hospital
to collect the body
of a woman dear,
when
your friend or you
turn insane
and walk under the gazing sun
as if all the world
were your home town.


7.  THIS THURSDAY

You come today
by the path
through which you usually go by your vehicle.

You like
the clouds on the west
brimming in the brilliance of the sun,
that wraps up the showers.

Your sense of smell
crawls along with the desire
for the stench of
some dead creature of water.
Your eyes expect
a water snake, at least.

Know not
from whence came
this tawny calf.
It is at the middle of the road ,
as if today it’s business is
to lick you up.
You think of
caressing it too.
An excitement overwhelms
as you move
closer and closer towards it.
At one point
the calf and you decide
that neither of you
would lick or caress the other.
Letting you go past,
the calf with ears erect
stands watching,
the East sans you.

On this Thursday evening
nobody,
including you,
saw an earthworm
getting crushed
under the tip of your umbrella stick.


8. EVEN NOW

A dense darkness
imposed by the power cut.
I was seated like Sidhartha,
who in his final moment
was musing over
the Budha in his initial second.
Between
the eternal tranquility
and noiselessness
was
the distant Bodhi tree
with it’s magical stillness.

·         

The Budha appreciates
your genius in moving him
like a chess coin.
You throw your dice
making him a pawn
in the sixty four black and white squares.

·         

I stood like the Budha.
It was not possible.
I sat like the Budha.
I was not able to.
Thinking that it  would be easy,
I smiled like the Budha.
It is the Budha
who keeps smiling
at me,
even now. 

9. WHEN IT BROKE

With the tongs
I picked
two ice cubes
and dropped them
in to the glass.
They began
sinking into
the golden hued uneasiness
that comes
while drinking alone.
Lungs were getting filled
with the puff of guilt
caused by the cubes,
which neither floated
nor sank,
but just disappeared,
irretrievably.

When the glistening liquid
rose by the displaced cubes
and
the last bubble of the soda broke,
it occurred
that it was impossible
to take
even a gulp of this. 

10. ANOTHER CARICATURE 

Time
has finished drawing
a caricature
of me.
 
I thought
Time
would certainly take into account
my height
and the gap between my front teeth.
It has not.

It has not
taken into consideration
my blunt nose too.

Even without
my heavy spectacles,
the semblance of my face
has been captured.

The entire body language
of mine
was interned within its lines.

Though
I could appreciate
the caricature of mine
more than my portrait,
I could not unravel
the mystery
as to which identity of mine
has it kept hidden.

By then,
on the next day
Time
has finished drawing
another caricature









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