Pavada

Two more by Siva Reddy: A Dream & Burrow

by Crazyfinger

My excuse for the long gap in posting is the usual lamo one: too much work.  But honestly I did try my hand at one or two poems but it is depressing when they don't come out right.  At last I managed two Siva Reddy poems.  Both are from his collection of poems "Anthology of poems on woman" that I got recently.  I am not entirely sure if I got the "munagada deesukuni" in the 3rd line of Dream right.    

 

A Dream

She
Slept just like that
Snuggled in front like a puppy -
Over her
Summer seasons may pass
Rainy seasons may pass
Cold winds of winter pay pass
But
The spring that arrived late
Just sat at her feet,

She slept just like that
As though someone bundled up
A long drawn dream and 
Forgot to take it while leaving 

Burrow

I have a way
I will crawl away into it
But, what does she have
Darkness without trails
All around iron walls dug in,
Nowhere she can go
Wherever she goes, 
It is back again to within -
In it is way too dark
Brooding, agonizing
Into the emptiness
Head split in 
Thousand empty pieces -
No choice
Each and everyone
Must search for himself
The burrow that leads
Out of life

The scanned copies of Telugu versions are below: Dream is "Oka Swapnam" (12 Dec 2007) and Burrow is "Sorangam" (3 Sept 2002).

 
 

Nesara: English Version

by Anu

An old favorite kannada song from the movie Kakana Kote.  Below is the transliteration and an attempt to translate into English.

nE saa ra nODu nEsara nODu

nEsaa ra nODu nEsara nODu  
mooDANa byliNda mElakke haari

doorada maleyA taleyaanE Eri
nE saa ra nODu nEsara nODu

nEsaa ra nODu nEsara nODu  
horaLitu iruLu beLakina gooDu

tereyitu noDu beLagitu nADu
nE saa ra nODu nEsara nODu

nEsaa ra nODu nEsara nODu  

**

Look at the sun, look at the sun

Look at the sun, look at the sun
Flying high across the eastern plains

Climbing atop the faraway mountain peak
Look at the sun, look at the sun

Look at the sun, look at the sun
Night’s darkness has moved on,

See, the luminous cave has opened
The land has brightened.

Look at the sun, look at the sun.

Poem by Siva Reddy (and remembering Bhargavi P. Rao)

by Crazyfinger

Two discoveries this week brought me back into the folds of re-collecting.  First I found out on the internet that Bhargavi P Rao had passed away a while ago.  I still remember talking to her about "The Gift of Magi," the O. Henry story.  Wasn't it only in 2007 that I ran into her at the airport...?  What happened?   

The second discovery was K. Siva Reddy, the Telugu poet for this post.  I could only find this to link to online, this Introduction to the collection of translations of a few of his poems.  Fascinating to read he taught English at V.V. Degree college between 1967 and 1999.  So in my school days at V.V. High School, I would have run into him.  More poignant, a cousin of mine who was a student at the degree college - were he alive today - would surely have recalled him.  

Here is my English version of his Telugu poem "Oka Nelavanka." (One crescent moon).  The scan of Telugu version from his collection, below.

Crescent Moon

Arms and legs
Thrown this way and that way
As though not hers
She sat

Like a concrete heap
Driven in way back when
On the road side 
Is she in this world, don't know
As though she was swimming inwardly
As though unable to know which shore to reach
As though like an ocean parching
Somewhere beyond the sunset
Unaware of anything

Wind rustling in the hair
Drawing crazy lines on her forehead

The cheap ring on the finger
Bringing back some memory

With a gentle palm on its head
Caressing the dog that 
Wagging its tail
Sat next to her 
A faint smile in the corner of lips
Appearing playfully, like a 
Crescent moon not quite yet

"Talupu," "Padya Samadhi" by Ismail: English Versions

by Crazyfinger

Some week days it just is near impossible to do anything other than your day job.  So tired and jaded I aimlessly began reading Ismail's poems again last night.  These two stayed in my head until this morning.  Short ones (short, not simple) are easier to write them out in English because of the compactness of the presentation...Here are two of Ismail's poems.  They both can be found in Telugu original here.  First poem below, Door, is the poem "Talupu" and the second, A Grave for a Poem, is the poem "Padya Samadhi." 

Door
Upset with me
Suddenly opening the door
You left

For bursting open
The door I closed
For your sake long ago
Letting in sunshine and air
Many thanks

A Grave for a Poem
Digging deep the poem, is the poet
Beneath tons of dirt
Beneath tons of heart
Lies covered the poem

Who buried it this deep, don't know
Got to get out the coffin
Digging days and nights
May be it'll come alive
At the touch of a breath

Digging the poem deep
When the casket lid was opened
Everytime from within
The cadaver that comes alive
Is the poet himself

Poem by Afsar: English Version

by Crazyfinger

Among other discoveries I made recently is Afsar's poetry.  I think this is Afsar but if it is not this Afsar, please correct me.  My main reference continues to be this article by Ismail and this is where I found Afsar's name and began digging for more.  Before soon I am drawn to his this Telugu poem, with a somewhat hesitant title: Kondaru Snehitulu...Nanna...Oka Artharaatri (English: A Few Friends...Father...One Midnight). 

Here is my English version.  I was not quite sure if I wanted to retain the title of the original Telugu poem so I picked something else, not thinking too much about it. 

Crossings

Not afraid
No matter how dark it turned
Even when
This path in the wilderness
This bridge through darkness
Is still not familiar
I heaved my body
To pass through it nevertheless

Do you remember?
In some dark evening farm field
Caught in the thicket of trees
How we crossed the night
Singing loud crazy song?

On the face, that was
Forced to turn back
From time to time
On this ever-changing journey,
Lines of so many fears
Shadows of doubts
The fear
When only death in that instant
Seems like a relief
Do you remember?

When,
Right in the middle
Waving a red flag to life
A friend was seen
On that frightening morning
Broken in pieces
On the locomotive tracks
What words did I write to myself?
Not a word came out at that sight

As such
Journeys stopped halfway
Is not new for this life!

On an emaciated night
He, what matters who it was?
Quietly over the beam
Swinging his healthy, ruddy body
Left us, tossing a beam of a final smile
At our faces
Even then whatever did we do?
Other than a weary lifeless speech?

A smile
Cut in the middle
Was still new then!
Even so...
There isn't much to do then!

How small darknesses
Turn into enormous deaths
Can never be understood
How some deaths surround us
Like enormous darkness
Is being realized everyday

Dad,
That deathly moment, when
Telling me to wash for the last time
They all shoved me
In front of your lifeless body,
Showed up in last night's dream
Severed from my sleep I fell
Into a deep darkness

Crying,
I was there just
Till morning
The bridge through darkness
The fearsome farm fields
Empty skies
Everything is you

May I be able to say…
Standing in the unfamiliar darkness
No, I am not afraid?

Jani: 13th-century Shudra Poet

by Anu

The 13th century poet Janabai belongs to the varkari sect in Maharashtra. One of her poems sung by Kishori Amonkar is translated here.  Her abhangs or poems reflect her luminous personality with keen perceptions and ability to articulate complex problems that have only grown bigger in present times, particularly for working women. 

That her poems are available and are still sung is a miracle of sorts.  Born Shudra, as a motherless child she was offered as a bonded laborer and was soon orphaned. This all too familiar background leads to what scholars call a ‘silence’ !

Becoming familiar with silences is a strange experience: it disquiets, elevates, guides and very often leaves one feeling lost. Quietly lost, we search to dispel it, like sitting in a hot, still, shade-less afternoon, with our eyes scanning treetops for movement of wind, the slightest leaf rustle a welcome sound. How many explanations run through our minds to account for nature’s erratic reticence, for that single afternoon? Was it really silent? Or only the usual noises unheard? 

The written worlds, filled with the workings of the world with their own silences, the distinct cadence of female voices, are now gradually texturing the leaves of books, where once they appeared soundless. The understanding, that the unlettered Indian woman’s thoughts can never grace a book as words to be read, enjoyed and contemplated upon, supports lots of research claiming that she is ‘silent’.  Since she does not use this medium, she rarely questions this notion of the lettered. This supports the blatantly wrong assumption that she is also an unthinking individual. Her thoughts and wisdom remain inaccessible to us, because we choose not to listen.

Janabai shares dais with her contemporaries Sant Dynaeshwar and Sant Namdev - poet saints of Maharastra.  Her 300 odd abhangs have become part of Namdev’s repertoire of devotional songs to Lord Vittal.  Here is one where the Lord Vittal works alongside her. These are not household chores as is usually described for a housemaid.  This is work, labor that provides her food and shelter.

While Jani fetches water
Lord Rishikesh follows her 
*
He assists her always
By filling water pots
When Jani draws water
He carries heavy pots
Yard’s swept, cowdung smeared,
He then washes the dirty clothes.  
Says Naama’s maid Jani.
*missing line
 
Why talk about some of her thoughts now? Well, just reading her verses reminds me of modern workplace dilemmas of gender equity, prescriptive and descriptive roles in labor distribution and fixed notions of status. The insights into her times are pertinent for our times also, since the social fabric remains largely unchanged for large sections of the Indian society.  There is a universality to her observations that binds women and minorities all over the contemporary world. 

In many of her poems as in this one, she takes on the normative and inverses the logic with casual ease. The lord becomes her partner at work and sometimes her assistant. She elegantly tackles dignity of labor in a society which functions precisely on the opposite of this. The lord shares all her jobs; in the process he becomes a low caste sweeper and a dhobi (washerman).

In other verses she conveys complete disregard to gender fixity and gender stereotypes. The male god Vittal becomes vittabai a woman. She demands that vittabai now comb and braid her hair, now rub her back and the lord gladly obliges.  With ‘I am he’ or So Ham, she transforms female to male, human to god, dissolving all dualities. 

She messes with family hierarchies; the lord is sometimes her mother, a child or an adult co-worker.  The adored Namadev, whom she cared for as a child and throughout his life, was also not spared from her incisive examination.  She points out that despite the egalitarian principles he espoused, he did not escape practicing inequality in his everyday interactions: 

“Your wife and mother at your feet
And sons are placed proudly in front
This woman is kept at the doorstep ---
No room for the lowly inside”

Jani is an eternal role model; her immortal thoughts are completely relevant to modern day negotiations. Her words and approach to work reminds me of my present boss; a smart, progressive, liberal human, who would rather work alongside us than delegate, who listens to how we want to do things rather than prescribing or describing our roles - someone who knows that labor and its benefits have to be shared:  

“You leave your greatness behind you
To grind and pound with me.”

She is not one who does not know her own power or how others derive from it:

“What will you gain by getting angry with me?
We the devotees are the source of your strength
You have no power of your own.
Hari, haven’t I understood your secret?”
 
Her attitude to gender reminds me of my organization’s presidents, past and present tirelessly working to make it a gender sensitive and inclusive place. But what amuses me most is that she manages to say in 6 word couplets what is now being documented with tedious research involving entire departments with sumptuous resources and personnel to expose and correct the unequal power relations and exploitative nature of labor.

The ultimate weapon she deploys - God himself to be the scribe of this unlettered woman:

“I wrote down Jani’s words
as she uttered them,
Jnanadeva!
Let it beknown to you
This has not made me
Any less divine……
The absolute truth
is the paper
and ink of eternity
Vittal writes on it
Incessantly with Jani….”

And marks her place in the world through the voice of God, no less:

“Jani’s victory
Was proclaimed
In the entire world!”

While enjoying the few translated versions of Jani’s poems and reading through the sparse material about her it is a powerful reassurance for me that the worlds Jani’s are indeed not silent. Searching through the dense noise to hear the clear music and wisdom in these ‘silences’ is deeply rewarding. To gain from their insights we need to listen to the silences, better yet, we need to include not exclude.

Sources:

The previously translated English versions in this post are referenced from:
Images of Women in Maharashtrian Literature and Religion, Anne Feldhaus.
And here

"Bhetala Savam" by Varavara Rao: English Version

by Crazyfinger

Two sources of introduction to Varavara Rao are here and here (poet's website).  A founding member of VIRASAM (abbr. from Telugu words, translated into English they mean Revolutionary Writers' Association) his poetry is bound to charge even an old damp oak with a live fire desperate for illumination.  Among many poets whose works I am familiar with, Varavara Rao is one man whose poems make me feel he is "our man," due primarily to his common man's language.   

The Telugu original is at the poet Varavara Rao's site here.

Demon Ghost

Hauling the carcass from the lockup
Over my shoulder, I was walking

I'll let you in on the story of my death
Said the corpse
Tell me if it was a natural death 
Or was it a murder

Carcass, and on top of it
Speaks while in the lockup
Could only mean a murder, I said

Pleased though at the truth's utterance
For the living, to speak is a crime
So the corpse disappeared
Showed up in some other lockup   

---

"Rahasya Vaana" by Kalpana Rentala: English Version

by Crazyfinger

One more Telugu poet discovery I made last week: Kalpana Rentala.  She blogs too, though infrequently.  Below is the English version of her Telugu poem, "Rahasya Vaana," which means "secret (rahasya) rain (vaana)."  I don't think "Secret Rain," makes sense for the title in English.  

Telugu original at Kalpana Rentala blog here.  

The last four lines are very tricky, and I don't quite see yet how I could write them in English in any other way.  Something is lost, not seen in the English words below, a sort of a feeling of a heart that just began to race its beat at the onrush of a desire, that feeling is lost, I think.  The "let us seize a little, come here," actually appears as the last line in the original Telugu.  More important, the last two-word pair in the Telugu original, "itu randi," is addressing the someone in plural "you" form - which gives a sense that this calling is by a wife to a husband.  It doesn't have to be.  My point is that, that particular detail is missing in English.  For a man reading this poem, reading the last two words in Telugu will most certainly elevate the soft feeling; these final two words will at once surprise him pleasantly, perhaps even a feeling of subdued strangeness will come over him.  Nothing stirs a man with an inexplicable wonderment more than a feeling of love directed at him from a woman.  That feeling which visits him from outside is, for him, not exactly the same as the one he feels for his woman.  In feeling for a woman, a man is in his natural solipsistic self, in other words he is full of himself.  But such a visitation almost always takes him out of his skin - or threatens to such a possibility - and I think that just might be at the root of a gentle discomfort he feels, and prepares him for the love.  Jeez...did I write that...:- )      

Furtive Torrent

The eyes can still hear 
Those footstep sounds
Of the raindrops

The ears can still see
That windswept beat
Of the window pane

The unrest within
Is still caressing the cheek

The wet mark
Is still knocking the ocean's door

There no one mingles with anyone now

The furtive torrent that spares nothing for anyone 
Is emanating the youth
Agitating the desires

Let us seize a little, come here
That, so hard to let out-of-hand, seclusion
That, unable to be near-at-hand, body
That, moistening it like a fire, rain

--

On author background, I haven't had time to dig up enough about the poets to write an introduction but here is an overview by Ismail (the poet): "Sixty Years of Telugu Poetry: A telugu retrospective," that is quite good.  I may have to hit the Creative Commons for the visuals since all my pictures are in black-and-white and I haven't found anything appropriate in them yet.  

Ayya, Señor, Adonai !

by Anu

Ayya, nee kelidade kelu;

Keledidhare maanu-

This 12th century vacana by the mystic seer Akkamahadevi, is a lovely verse that is beautiful when read, recited or sung. 

The simplicity and musical flow of words tempted us to have its transliteration done into a few non-Indian languages. Chaitanya’s English translation below is followed by a Spanish and Hebrew version.

Lord, if you will listen, listen;


If you won’t, don’t—

I can’t bear to live without singing of you.


If you will look, look;


If you won’t, don’t—


I can’t bear life unless I look at you and be happy.


If you will agree, agree;


If you won’t, don’t—

I can’t bear life unless I embrace you.


If you will be pleased, be pleased,


If you won’t, don’t—

I can’t bear life unless I worship you.
 (Chaitanya Vacana 39) 

------------

Spanish Version

Señor, si estás escuchando, escucha

Si no, no

No puedo soportar vivir sin cantarte

Si estás mirando, mira

Si no, no

No puedo soportar vivir a menos que te mire y sea feliz

Si estás de acuerdo, acuerda

Si no, no

No puedo soportar vivir a menos que te abrace

Si estás complacido, complace

Si no, no

No puedo soportar vivir a menos que te adore.

-----

Hebrew version

Adonai, im tishma, tishma;

Im lo, az lo –

Ani lo yechola lichyot bli shiratcha,

Im tistakel, histakel,

Im lo, lo

Lo oochal linso et hachaim im lo estakel allecha ve’eheye me’vsheret

Im taskim, taskim,

im lo,lo

Lo oochal linso et hachaim im lo e’ametzcha

Im titratte, hitratte

Im lo, lo

Lo oochal linso et hacha’im esgod’cha


Kannada is one of the Dravidian languages of South India. It is very interesting to note how well the words and the meaning retain their beauty in Spanish and Hebrew, just as it does in English. The speakers and origin of these four languages; Kannada, English, Spanish and Hebrew are separated by large geographical distances but there is linguistic proximity among them. Contrast this with Kannada and Mandarin speakers, who live comparatively closer, yet are separated by greater linguistic distance.

Cavalli-Sforza’s study of human populations, genes and language evolution has some interesting insights into this:

 “Most patterns found in the analysis of human living populations are likely to be consequences of demographic expansions, determined by technological developments affecting food availability, transportation, or military power. During such expansions, both genes and languages are spread to potentially vast areas. In principle, this tends to create a correlation between the respective evolutionary trees (genes and languages). The correlation is usually positive and often remarkably high. It can be decreased or hidden by phenomena of language replacement and also of gene replacement, usually partial, due to gene flow.”

Hebrew, the modern version used here has an Afro-Asiatic origin, English and Spanish (as spoken in Spain) belong to the Indo-European group and Kannada is a Dravidian one. They cluster close together as seen in this evolutionary tree of genes and languages:

We are grateful to Aureliano Gomez and Naama for enthusiastically doing the translation of the above 12th century Kannada vacana into Spanish and Hebrew respectively.

Aure is a biologist-programmer and a writer of Spanish stories. Naama is a biologist-programmer, cyclist and mom of two. Both translators are atheists.

Sources: Vacanas of Akkamahadevi, By Armando Menzes and S. M. Angadi.

PNAS, Vol 94, pg 7719, 1997.

Songs of Shiva. Translated by Vinaya Chaitanya.

Two Poems by Ismail: English Versions

by Crazyfinger
 
Thanks to Purnima's introduction to this marvellous blog Pustakam.net, I am able to discover Telugu poets and Telugu literature all over again.  I confess I've never heard of the poet Ismail before, now I can't seem to get enough of him.  This article by Bolloju Baba got me going (Thanks Baba!).  The Telugu magazine Eemata was a terrific discovery (jeez...where was I all these years!).  

I was told I should really introduce the writers first while posting these pedantic English translations.  True.  But I don't like writing biographical background of the poet, it does a disservice to the poet and his/her influence.  I am still thinking how to introduce the poet to a new audience.  Anyone has ideas please express...:- )  For now, here is my English version of Ismail's Telugu poems: First - Maa Aavida: Telugu version here (4th poem from top).

My Wife

With one hand holds up the sky
With one hand caresses the earth
With a bird hand pecks the seeds of tears
With a cascade hand, comforting, smoothens the rocks
With one hand serves the meal
With one hand lulls the children
With a blazing hand drives away the darkness
With a starry hand welcomes the sun
With one hand stands against the fate
With one hand beckons the smiles

With hands every way as
Spokes of the wheel
Drives the carriage of life with verve

Second is - Nootilo Tabelu (Telugu version: very first poem in the above same link)

Turtle in the Well

Hearing that the turtle
Was found in the well
We ran like a monkey's herd
All the children
When we peered into
Only saw our own heads
The sky and the blue horizon
Picking stones and shards
We stirred all the water
Not only the turtle didn't float up
But even our heads disappeared

The sky's dark blaze 
Lighting up the well's rim
Turning into the pit
I stared still
At the water
Perturbed when 
Our heads have gone in
There...! Behind my eyes
Burrowed inside the skull
Sitting still, is the turtle