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 ).

When Big Sister was Home….

TRANSLATION 1


When big sister was home
The house was like a birdhouse
Every room was lit by noise.
Even from outside, the
Surging joy of living was evident.

Every morning, behind the kitchen,
Unwashed vessels would bicker,
Crows would come demanding their share
The noise of the broom sweeping courtyard
Would mark the entire courtyard with semi-circles.
The squeaking pulley
Could be heard as big sister stands by the well
Noise of the pail running into the well,
Splashing spillage voicing water’s reluctance to come up.
Lice picking begins as sun sets
Even sunlight shows its head to big sister

Always when big sister’s home
A ball of hair in the washroom
Would remain, defiant
Big sister’s eye shadow and vermilion stained
Finger marks on the wall with mirror
Appear like the picture of a garden.

After big sister’s departure,
Darkness gathered in every room,
A silence grew and grew and
Ate up even the songs of birds.
The breeze forgot branches.
Squirrels do not flit from branch to branch.
The rose garden in the courtyard is wild and overgrown
Without offering a flower, it shows a lot of thorns….

Seems like the sound of a flapping wet petticoat
Drying on the clothesline
Like people lurking, perhaps noise too might be hiding.
There might be nothing on the clothes line.
The fragrance of Cuticura powder or Chandrika soap
Will not go seeking an argument
With the jasmine flowers
Blooming on the fence.

Still, taking permission from brother in law
Big sister will one day come like a guest.
That day the breeze will return, holding to the pleats
Of her fluttering saree.
Birds will re-possess their songs
From the jingle of bangles
Squirrels will return
Just for a day.
The mirror and washroom
Will become friends like Anasooya and Priamvada (1)
And ask for news.
The cooking fire would burn brighter
Recognizing the breath
When she leaves in the evening
All our eyes would be wet…..

(1) Anasooya and Priamvada are two companions of Shakunthala,
heroine in Mahakavi Kalidasa’s famous play “Abhijnana Shakunthalam”


Translation : Variath Madhavan Kutty


 TRANSLATION  2


Each day that sister was here,
our home was
such a happy little sparrow-nest.

The gay bedlam lit up each room,
and you could see
from outside, the joy that lapped within.

Each morning that she was here,
you would hear
the clamor of soiled plates from the kitchen,
the hungry crows demanding their share,
and the old broom, as it whispered half-arcs on the courtyard.

As she stood near the well,
you would hear
the sad squeak of the pulley,
the downward rush of the pail,
and the water, hesitant to leave,
brimming over rebelliously back into the well.

Each day that she was here,
you would see
that thick knot of hair in the bathroom sink,
defiantly refusing to give way.

Her dainty fingerprints ,
would leave a collage on the mirror-wall.
black from the kohl, red from the Sindoor.

And ever since she has gone,
a darkness slowly sets in into each room
and a silence,
growing larger with each passing day,
looms over the house.

The birds chirp no more,
The branches have been forgotten by the wind,
The squirrels no longer scurry from branch to branch,
and in the garden, now all unkempt and overgrown,
thorns have shown up and there are no flowers anymore.

Occasionally, in the wind,
you would hear the rustle of a skirt,
hung to dry on the clothesline.

Maybe, like people, voices do lurk somewhere, unnoticed-
for, if you looked again,
there would be nothing on the clothesline.

There are no tiffs anymore
between the fragrances
of jasmines on the fence
and
of the talc and of the beauty soap.

**

Nevertheless,
on some days,
she'd be back,
taking a day's leave from brother-in-law.

Then:
The wind would be back,
tugging at her fluttering tip of her saree.

From the jingle of her bangles,
the sparrows would borrow their tune.

The merry squirrels:
they would return for a day, too.

The mirror and the bathroom wall,
exchaning pleasantries,
would be her playful companions once again .

Sensing her breath as she blew,
the old stove would suddenly burn brighter.

By evening,
when it was time for her to go,
there wouldn't be even a single pair of eyes at home,
which wasn't moist.

Translation :  Rahul Kochuparambil

I SCATTER

Dangling from the earth,

their hairs let loose
into the blue waters of the sky:
trees.

Clutching hard at the earth,
hanging, upside down:
houses.

Earth – the sky of the skies.
Walking across it, upside down:
men.

In the forest
running, upside down:
a herd of deer.

Sticking to the highways,
hanging upside down:
automobiles.

I was propelled by the clouds-
to scatter as flowers atop the earth.

Here, I come: fast, faster, downwards.
The sea reaches out, its waves held high.
Rocks stand ready, sheathed in armors.

And
I shatter.

As
red
red
flowers
all
over
this
morning.
I  s-h-a-t-t-e-r…
.

.

Translation : Rahul Kochuparambil

THE ASTHMA VINE

Just a whiff of

indifference or blame,
and she turns into
a vine gasping for breath

Making its leaves quiver
Stretching and tautening,
Her body invokes
every sympathetic eye.

It is not her I fear and respect,
but this fire-vine that she nurtures.
Its scorching leaves had
burnt me black, my home too.

Following the rhythm of her breathing
Everything in her field of vision
Bobbing in, and then out, of the circle
Pleads with her
Until she drops, exhausted.

When she wakes up,
the walls and the roof of this house
blown away by the storm she had raised
will join together
to make it a home once again.
Then, she will smile, saying
It was nothing….

Always I forget to ask:
Why plant and nurture
this vine within you?

Translation: SUSIE PAZHAVARICAL