No one will know
Ganga has been taken to wife.
So get me a set of red bangles.
I love a set of red bangles;
get me one of real ivory;
and get me a skirt from Agra,
and a shawl from Sanganer.
If you stay tonight I’ll cook
an excellent jaggery porridge for you;
if you go, I’ll pack some choorma
for the journey.
If you stay tonight
I’ll don a robe of deccan silk;
if you go, a dark shawl will do.
But stay, my beloved,
do stay the night;
and let this be our night of pleasure;
at day-break tomorrow you may go.
Worth lakhs is your beautiful moustache, O Phatmal;
but worth crores,
a night spent with me!
Translated from the Rajasthani by Kesri Singh
Janna (12 CE-13 CE)
From The Tale of the Glory-Bearer
Young Yasodhara was happy in
the company of Queen Amrtamati,
whose looks were the very glass wherein
he dressed himself, and touched his features.
But things soon began to take
a new turn in the young prince’s life.
Once, as it happened,
the king discharged his court duties
before time, and by the end
of day, went up the staircase
to the bed-chamber
to meet his beloved queen.
From the casements
rose a tiny column of
incense smoke like the grey-
winged dove that flew out, as if
at the behest of the love-god Mara,
to carry his message to
the minds of people.
Bees came hovering
round for the scent, and
the brush of their wings raised
the musk and camphor dust.
The blue sapphires
adorning the chamber
burned and glowed.
The bed breathed passion. It was
a swing-bed and at either
end were images of swans
inlaid with nine varieties of gems.
There they lay,
the young king and the lovely queen,
in bed in each other’s arms.
Their eyes, cast, bit
into each other, their bodies
melted in the clasp, like those
fabled moon-stones
when the moon’s rays fell on them.
........
In the small hours
of the morning, when the noise
of the last change of guards
at the palace gate died out,
the queen heard
a faint voice, and
was awakened. Enclosed
and lost
in the prison of her love’s arms,
she heard:
the voice grew into song,
sweet and alluring in the dark silence.
It came to her
like falling seeds
trouble the resting waters.
A tiny ripple
stirred
and grew. Soon it touched
her, tapped her gently, and
woke her out of her drowsy
slumber. Eyes wide open,
she stared in the dark,
and toward the direction of the song.
The voice came from the nearby
elephant stables. The song
went home to her, shook
her to the roots. Tired though
she was, her body rose again
tingling and all alive to the song.
She lost her heart to it,
to the possessor of that
divine voice. She paid him
in her mind
the tribute
of her entire body.
Translated from the Kannada by T.R.S. Sharma
Cempulappeyanirar (c. 1 CE-3 CE)
What He Said
What could my mother be
to yours? What kin is my father
to yours anyway? And how
did you and I meet ever?
But in love our hearts are as red
earth and pouring rain:
mingled
beyond parting.
Translated from the Tamil by A.K. Ramanujan
Allur Nanmullai (c. 1 CE-2 CE)
What She Said
Will he remember, friend?
Where the curve of the parrot’s beak
holds a bright-lit neem
like the sharp glory
of a goldsmith’s nail
threading a coin of gold
for a new jewel,
he went across the black soil
and the cactus desert.
Will he remember?
Translated from the Tamil by A.K. Ramanujan
Anon
Song
Dew on the bamboos,
Cooler than dew on the bamboos
Is putting my cheek against your breasts.
The pit of green and black snakes,
I would rather be in the pit of green and black snakes
Than be in love with you.
Translated from the Sanskrit by E. Powys Mathers
Annamayya (1408-1503)
A Woman Talking to Herself
Better keep one’s distance
Than love and part—
especially if one can’t manage
seizures of passion.
Make love, get close, ask for more—
but it’s hard to separate and burn.
Gaze and open your eyes to desire,
then you can’t bear to shut it out.
Better keep one’s distance
The first tight embrace is easy,
but later you can never let go.
Begin your love talk—
once hooked, you can never forget.
Better keep one’s distance
Twining and joining, you can laugh;
soon you can’t hide the love in your heart.
Once the lord of the Lady on the Flower
has made love to you
you can no longer say
it was this much and that much.
Better keep one’s distance
Translated from the Telugu by A.K. Ramanujan, Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Shulman
Shah Abdul Latif (1689-1752)
The Wayward Heart
O camel, cease thy lingering
And lengthen out thy pace.
This once my loved one bring me nigh.
Then in thine ears there cannot ring
The semblance of a yearning sigh.
O camel, cease to lag behind
And lengthen out thy pace.
This night I have it in my mind
To see my loved one’s face.
For thee I bring the sandalwood.
Let others salt-bush eat.
This very night be thine the mood
To take me where my loved one stood
That there we twain may meet.
The camel, mother, for my needs
I brought and tied beside the tree.
Where he on wealth of buds might feast,
He, sneaking, on the salt-bush feeds,
The mean and miserable beast,
Undoing all my work for me.
The stupid brute I tell and tell
That in the milkbush there’s no zest;
Yon poison bush is many’s knell
But hath his silly head obsessed.
Around in plenty for his need
Is ripened scrub of sandalwood.
The sulky grumbler pays no heed
And makes me weep my tears in blood.
And wilt thou thus, O camel, pass
The sandalwood, nor drink thy fill?
Thou seekest not the
fragrant grass
But spurnest it as something ill.
It must be thy distorted mood
That made thee find the salt-bush good.
Arise and bind him. Let him free
And he will lose himself and roam.
I feed him and he sulkier gets.
Put on the saddle when he frets.
With shackled feet still growl will he
But will not wander far from home.
To keep him fast I tied him up:
The shackles bound with tug and strain.
The beast has gone with hobbles on
To eat the salt-bush once again!
O Lord, into this camel’s head
Put something that in sense doth share.
O save him, Lord of Mercy, save:
Such is Latif the poet’s prayer.
Translated from the Sindhi by H.T. Sorley
Anon (c. 9 CE)
From The Muttollayiram
His Infatuates Complain
Look at the doors in this street!
All have worn-out hinges.
For mothers keep shutting them
and daughters keep throwing them open.
This happens
whenever the prince Kothai,
wearing fresh flower garlands
and riding a sturdy horse,
passes along the street
and love-mad girls
rush to have a glimpse of him.
Translated from the Tamil by M.L. Thangappa
Mir Taqi Mir
The Miracle of Wine
Last night she emerged, a little drunk
It was as if the sun was out.
My life I’d gladly give the wineglass
That drowned your modesty and brought you out.
Translated from the Urdu by Khushwant Singh and Kamna Prasad
‘THE BROOM’S THE LIMIT’
Amrita Pritam (1919-2005)
Daily Wages
In a corner of blue sky
The mill of night whistles,
A white thick smoke
Pours from the moon-chimney?
In dream’s many furnaces
Labourer love
Is stoking all the fires
I earn our meeting
Holding you for a while,
My day’s wages.
I buy my soul’s food
Cook and eat it
And set the empty pot in the corner.
I warm my hands at the dying fire
And lying down to rest
Give God thanks.
The mill of night whistles
And from the moon-chimney
Smoke rises, sign of hope.
I eat what I earn,
Not yesterday’s leftovers,
And leave no grain for tomorrow.
Translated from Punjabi by Charles Brasch with Amrita Pritam
Balraj Komal (b. 1928)
Saba’s Hands Wear a Bridal Henna Tint Now
Saba wears now
A bridal henna tint
On her delicate palms—
I offer her my blessings, good wishes—
Saba is grateful.
But does not say a word.
Saba’s home
Is her apparel now.
She covers her head
With its roof
She bedecks her feet
With the soft touch
Of the marble floor;
She no longer sings
Of mountains, valleys,
Waterfalls, azure skies,
She is seldom drawn
To colourful verdant sights.
Saba, delicate as dew,
Her feet bound
Hangs, like a portrait
In the window frame;
Frail, she flows not
On sun-lit shores
She opens her lips, she smiles,
But says not a word
In whispers
To any one now.
Translated from the Urdu by the poet
Bhanudatta (c. 15 CE)
From Bouquet of Rasa
Mother-in-law can rant, and friends
condemn, and sisters-in-law reprove.
How am I possibly to sleep
another night in that house?
That cat of theirs is forever
springing out of the corner niche
to catch a mouse, and you see what all
she’s done to me with her sharp claws!
Translated from the Sanskrit by Sheldon I. Pollock
Balaram Das (c. 15 CE)
From Lakshmi Purana
I am your first married wife, always remember this.
Don’t allege, Lakshmi lived in my house;
She made away with ornaments
worth thousands of golden rupees.
Don’t let loose on me, Lord, such infamy;
take back the ornaments you once presented me.
Lakshmi untied the pearl tassel from her hair;
She took off the royal veil of fine silk
embroidered with gold and gemstones.
The Mother unfastened her netted waistband
of gemstones and jewels;
She took out the pearl nose rings.
From both her ears, she took off
the large diamond danglers;
she took out her jade and gold necklace.
The goddess took out her anklets of fine silver;
she hastened to dislodge the rings off her toes.
Now how to describe her other jewellery sets?
When piled together
the gemstones and jewels and the ornaments radiated.
Lakshmi heaped the ornaments at one corner;
‘Keep these,’ she said, ‘O Friend of the Poor.’
Lord Jagannath replies: ‘What shall we do with these? We have no
need for the ornaments. When a householder has to sadly separate
from his wife, he has to provide for her food and clothing for six
months. Carry along this jewellery; so that you can sell or exchange
the ornaments to feed and clothe yourself.’
Goddess Lakshmi speaks:
‘Listen to me, carefully, O you God of the Universe!
When you bring home another wife like me,
present her these ornaments. I am leaving fallen and unsheltered;
but bear my curse, Jagannath, the omniscient—
if the sun and the moon really move in the universe,
let you, Jagannath, the master of the universe,
be denied a morsel of rice.
For twelve years pitiable you shall remain,
dispossessed of food, clothing and water;
You, the vanquisher of Kaliya, the underwater serpent,
will get somthing to eat
only when it is served by me,
a defiled chandaal woman.’
Translated from the Oriya by Lipipuspa Nayak
Sutapa Bhattacharya (b. 1942)
Draupadi
Love was the single fault
therefore I fell first of all!
I spend five nights in five rooms
all of them demand my labour, service, body
not my love.
Even he has his own Subhadra, Ulupi, Chitrangada—
each flower bloomed in a different Spring.
I am of no Spring, I am fire’s daughter.
My unbound hair, become a thousand serpents, fills the air with
poison;
In my eyes’ desolate heat forest fires burn, a hundred saplings fall
to ashes;
Yet there is no fault in that, such is the ruling!
Still, well and good, may your heaven remain yours;
with the one grave sin—which is my greatest virtue—
I will go with a smiling face towards hell.
Translated from the Bangla by Marian Maddern
Kamala Das (1934-2009)
The Stone Age
Fond
husband, ancient settler in the mind,
Old fat spider, weaving webs of bewilderment,
Be kind. You turn me into a bird of stone, a granite
Dove, you build round me a shabby room,
And stroke my pitted face absent-mindedly while
You read. With loud talk you bruise my pre-morning sleep,
You stick a finger into my dreaming eye. And
Yet, on daydreams, strong men cast their shadows, they sink
Like white suns in the swell of my Dravidian blood,
Secretly flow the drains beneath sacred cities.
When you leave, I drive my blue battered car
Along the bluer sea. I run up the forty
Noisy steps to knock at another’s door.
Through peep-holes, the neighbours watch,
they watch me come
And go like rain. Ask me, everybody, ask me
What he sees in me, ask me why he is called a lion,
A libertine, ask me why his hand sways like a hooded snake
Before it clasps my pubis. Ask me why like
A great tree, felled, he slumps against my breasts,
And sleeps. Ask me why life is short and love is
Shorter still, ask me what is bliss and what its price . . . .
English
Cantirakanti (b. 1961)
Wanted: A Broom
when he said Darling
he didn’t ask for a paisa for anything
but when he said Marry Me
he asked for gold
money
stuff
plates and pots
everything
aiyo he even asked for a broom
to sweep the floor
I said
the broom’s the limit
he got up and asked why
I said
so I can sweep you from my heart
and toss you in the trash
paying a life-subscription
just to get a male hooker
what am I
half-crazy
or a total fool
Translated from the Tamil by Martha Ann Selby and K. Paramasivan
Trilochan (1917-2007)
Champa Doesn’t Know Her Alphabet
Champa doesn’t know her alphabet
Whenever I sit down to study, she comes flying in
Quietly she listens to me
She’s amazed
How do these black marks send out sounds?
Champa is Sunder’s daughter
Sunder is a milkman:
He keeps cows and buffalo.
Champa takes the cattle out to graze in the pasture.
These My Words Page 15
