Seventeen years

seventeen years ago
your mom sits in a bus
holding you in her arms…
lying on her shoulder
you speak an unknown sweet tongue...
a man stressed for money
for his wife with a heart condition
sits lost in contemplation in the seat behind…
his wife sits looking out…
a farmer returning unsuccessfully
after seeking government aid
after floods had robbed him
of his home and crops too sits beside...
and your sweet mumbling gently fills the bus
that is already full
of close kins of sufferings of all sorts…
your tiny fingers
grab the flying locks
of a mom sitting nearby;
and she sits smiling at you
forgetful of her troubles,
her eyes and ears wide open
so as not to miss any sound
that would fall from your lips…
to one who had lost her heart
to the apprehensions of death,
you offered a smile.
She was a tree struck by long draught
stripped of leaves and buds…
in your smile, flowering all over
as a mother
she shows you to her man,
and he too sits gazing at you...
enchanting the bus
with your joyous innocence
right from Delhi
to your village
you leave
lying on your mom’s shoulder...
after seventeen years
in a similar bus
along with your friends
you molest a girl,
you strip her ignoring her appeal,
you thrust an iron rod
piercing her private part;
when she writhes and wriggles
in death throes
you squeeze the last drop too from her
till, at last,
you hurl her naked body out on the road
leaving her to the inevitable fate…
oh, juvenile delinquent!
the lady with the heart condition,
her husband,
the man who lost everything to flood,
all of them from that old bus
ask your innocent face in one voice,
what these seventeen years
have actually done to you...
can the honeyed mumbling
that drips from your lips
ever give an answer?

TRANSLATION : VENUGOPALAN K.B

Phallic Hunger

Bugging me still
Is the regret in
not asking her for a fuck.

Why just her?
Had died to ask many women.
What if I had?

Had taught them
In my mind
The postures in the Kamasutra
Standing, sitting, lying down.

Yet,
Never asked them.
Though
There was nothing as intense
As my phallic hunger.

Scared to be exiled
To the Hell of Humiliation
If I revealed my desire,
I withdraw my phallus
And its primeval yearning
And put up a bill board
Like everyone else
That such a creature
Doesn’t inhabit this place.

Yes, I am that criminal
Who may rape
In a split second sway of the mind.

Friend,
Our under garments
Which are soaked to shreds
By spurting semen
Do not lie.

(Translated  by Ra Sh)

THE SOUND OF SOMEONE CARVING A SCULPUTRE

In every rock resides
A forest of humans;
Those who run away
from history
rests in the rocks -
Rubbing eyes
against the inner walls
Keen ears
tuned towards
the new world’s sounds.

The sculptors
with sharp chisels
mallets and axes
scream like savage hunters -
carve in to stones…
The searching eyes
The seeking ears
The legs which ran
and ran
and got expelled
from the records
The hearts
Still burning
Like flames –
Humans Humans Humans

Sculptors say
real humans
are inside rocks
When their friends,wives and children moan
When they say what a good soul
Was the parted one
What a great loss … at once
We here the sound of someone
Carving a sculpture
in the surroungings
and it goes on…
In invisibility
In quietness
Emerges a statue…
Everybody needs
Evidences
Nowadays
It is hard to make
some people
even believe
that you used
to be here ;
Lived here.

The artist
Who went
Into his rock art
Was shocked
Seeing the jungle
Of humans
And wanted
To find someone
To show this wonder
But got lost -
He ran frantically
In every way
To get out
Of that great forest
Of humans
Inside rocks.
But a what can be done
By a meister
Trapped in own sculpture ?

Tune your ears
To a stone please
And hear the sound
Of that sculptor
Searching the way out…

(Translation by S.Stalina Bhai)

Album

You would feel like smiling at this picture.

It is Sakina’s nine months pregnant tummy.

Do you see Anvar’s foot bulging out?

Sun plants a kiss on it.

He was in a hurry

To come to this world.

He was so naughty

Even after getting out of the womb.

This is his picture in his birth suit.

He smiles shyly, covering his tiny prick

With both the hands.

This is me, Sakina and him together.

My brother took this photograph.

He is in his mom’s hands and tries to snatch the camera.

This is him crying adamantly.

Gosh! He doesn’t let us sleep some nights.

I used think that one shouldn’t have marriage and children.

This picture shows him eating porridge.

With the porridge spread on his face,

This could make anyone laugh.

Nothing, not even dirt, can make

a child’s face less cute.

We took this picture when he was four.

Sakina made him look stylish

With goggles and a hat.

This shows me and Sakina

kissing on his cheeks

On his birthday.

He is a small flower between two leaves,

That gazes at the dawn.

See how happy he is.

This picture is of him

with his classmates.

He is the third one from right,

in the upper row.

This is him with his friends.

It was taken when his friends paid a visit here

On a holyday.

This picture was taken

When we went for a trip.

He kisses me for keeping my word.

This closeup picture is of my

Six year old son lying there

Shot dead.

Do you see those lips?

..As if he wanted to say something.

This is corpses of small children

scattered on the ground.

His is fourth from the left..

This is his mom screaming,

hugging his body.

This picture is me weeping

as I walk to the cemetery,

with him in my hands.

You can close the album now.

There was a smile

between me and Sakina.

Now we are just two leaves

leaning on each other

In the memory of the fallen flower.

Every house here

has an album of a dead child.

A garden, of a helpless smile.

(A rough translation of my recent poem by my friend Hari Krishnan ).