Champa is good
Fidgety and impish too
Sometimes she makes a mess
Sometimes she hides my pen
Somehow when I find it somewhere
And get it back—
All the paper’s gone!
Given a hard time again!
Champa says: all day you keep on poking at the paper
is this work really good?
This reduces me to lauaghter
and Champa falls silent again.
That day Champa came
I said to her: Champa, you too come and read ...
This will come to your rescue in troubled times
Gandhi baba says that all must read and write.
Champa said straight out: I won’t! What is this?
You always told me that Gandhi baba is nice,
how can he then, ask us to read and write?
No reading and writing for me, no way!
I said to Champa: It’s good to write
Someday you’ll get married.
For a while, your husband will stay with you
And then he’ll set off for Calcutta.
Calcutta is very far away—
how will you read his letters?
Champa, it’s good to read and write.
Champa said: Look, what a liar you are!
See for yourself, what studying has done to you!
So much learning and such lies!
Me, I’ll never get married
and even if I do, I wouldn’t ever let my husband go to Calcutta.
So, to hell with Calcutta!
Translated from the Hindi by Anamika and Arlene Zide
Arundhathi Subramaniam (b. 1967)
Tree
It takes a certain cussedness
to be a tree in this city,
a certain inflexible woodenness
to dig in your heels
and hold your own
amid lamp-posts sleek as mannequins
and buildings that hold sun and glass together
with more will-power than cement,
To continue that dated ritual,
re-issuing a tireless maze
of phalange and webbing,
perpetuating that third world profusion
of outstretched hand,
each with its blaze of finger
and more finger—
so many ways of tasting neon
so many ways of latticing a wind
so many ways of being ancillary to the self
without resenting it.
English
Sumangala’s Mother (4 BCE)
‘Tis Well with Me
O woman well set free! how free am I,
How thoroughly free from kitchen drudgery!
Me stained and squalid ‘mong my cooking pots
My brutal husband ranked as even less
Than the sunshades he sits and weaves always.
Purged now of all my former lust and hate, I dwell, musing at ease beneath the shade
of spreading boughs—O, but ‘tis well with me!
Translated from the Pali by Margaret Macnicol
Anon, Gujarati Folk Song
My Husband’s Home
In my husband’s home my mother-in-law is a serpent;
Sneering she asks me to grind the mill all day long.
In my husband’s home my sister-in-law is a dragon,
Snarling she asks me to spin the ‘charkha’ all night.
In my husband’s home my elder sister-in-law is an angel of death,
Scolding me she eats away my soul all day and night.
Translated from the Gujarati by Madhubhai Patel
Soma (c. 4 BCE)
The Sceptic Says
The sceptic says—
That vantage ground the sages may attain
Is hard to reach with her two-finger wit
That is no woman competent to gain.
She replies—
What should the woman-nature do (to me)
With mind well set and knowledge faring on,
To me who rightly Dhamma can discern?
To him for whom the question may arise:
Am I a woman in these matters, or
Am I a man, or what not am I then—
To such a one is Mara fit to talk.
Translated from the Pali by C.A.F. Rhys-Davids
Rukmini Bhaya Nair (b. 1952)
Paranomasia
At Cambridge I learnt to lie with elegance
to turn to advantage a narrow bed,
a narrower scholarship, sail close
to the edge of the fens but be careful
not to sink, fence myself with books
but be careful not to think.
I thrust behind the lowered guards
of several visored dons, merry maid
though every night and blackmailed
in the mornings, a soupcon of malice
saw me to success, I learnt to trade
more and more for ever less and less.
and now I am a don myself, whose duty
is to see each shuffling undergraduate
develop deviously, sharp their skill
at feinting, secure a neat pass or two
but above all forget those clumsy truths
that send them far, far beyond the edge.
a queen anne bed, a unique dresser
I teach my acolytes finessed in pleasure
for the untutored minute comes
the cold fens circling wait, styxward slip
our familiar quarters, point encompasses point
and there’s an end to all our hauteur.
English
Harindra Dave (1930-95)
The Speck
A speck, dreaming itself the sun,
rising, flying eastward, sinks in the west.
With heated gaze desiring
to dry the water into cloud,
and live, some day, a sun-disc in the sea,
it spins in a whirlpool’s dark whorl.
Hearing the lamp,
scorched by the flame,
it asks the hurricane’s speed, and beauty of the sky.
All watch, astonished,
the speck rise, struggling, to its feet.
Translated from the Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari
Kadammanitta Ramakrishnan (b. 1935)
Tar and Broom
With a bucketful of tar and a broomstump
with a mouthful of filth and smut
with scabies on the head and ulcers on the feet
and sores all over the skin
I stand here at the porch of the world.
Villains, do you dare abuse me?
Why shut the door in my face
as though the holy place were your family plot?
Why such pretences, why such pretensions,
You, thorns of the vineyard!
Here I am with a bucketful of tar
to blacken the walls of the world.
Come on, then: I tell you if you dare obstruct me,
I will blacken your blanched faces too.
You are all carrion birds that scramble for funeral offerings
on the new moon day in the month of Cancer.
Didn’t you crush with your fists
the jasmine buds that opened out amidst the pain of the night?
Didn’t you in a herd slake your bestial lust
under the shade of the roadside tree?
I lay with my eyes open
pressing my finger to the ulcer on my foot,
The stone-pillow and the bed of sand and mud
were drenched in tears
when the pus oozed out from the gaping sore
and pain stuck to my very soul.
Didn’t you then hold your noses and drive me out like a pest
with your palm-leaf broom, O my good people?
I then snatched away your broom
and its stump is my pen today.
With a bucketful of tar and a broom stump
and a song of hatred just aroused
I’ll blacken your mansions
with the dirt from the gutter:
I’ll paint you naked and black and provoke your gentility;
I’ll smash your antiques in their coloured glass cases;
I’ll plant thorns in the paths
of your beautiful gardens;
I’ll draw graffiti that’ll pain your eyes;
I’ll throw filth upon you
and take off your dress of virtue.
My breath, reeking with camphor, will coat your perfume
bottle with slime,
will dirty the water in your orchard lotus pond,
will draw a mandala with dark cloud ink on the white sky
and will dance on those squares a dance of fury.
Translated from the Malayalam by K. Ayyappa Paniker and Ray King
Mamta Kalia (b. 1940)
Compulsions
I want to pick my nose
in a public place
I want to sit in my office chair
with my feet up
I want to slap the boy
who makes love in a cafe
while I wait alone for the waiter
to bring me coffee and sandwiches
I want to pay Sunday visits
totally undressed
I want to throw away
all my cosmetics
I want to reveal
my real age
English
Tukaram (b. 1608-50)
Where Did It Go Wrong?
Where did it
Go wrong?
I was
Doing well.
What made me grab
This noose
That’s around
My neck?
Now I’m tied
In too many
Knots.
I cannot
Move
Back
Or forth.
I have nothing
Left.
I am too deep
In debt.
My harvest
Has been
Looted.
My wife
And my children
Have to beg.
I borrow
Left and right.
Nothing
Seems enough.
Says Tuka,
It’s best
I give up
All hope
And leave
All this
Where is
As is.
Translated from the Marathi by Dilip Chitre
Anon, Rajputana Folk Song
There Is No Limit to Desire
I would go to fetch water only when
I have a water-pot of gold,
Then I would bring water.
The golden pot would be fit to carry
When I have a head-ring of pearls,
Then I would bring water.
The head-ring would be fit to wear
When I have a priceless veil,
Then I would bring water.
The veil would be fit to wear
When I have a necklace around my neck,
Then I would bring water.
The necklace would be fit to wear
When my father is a king,
Then I would bring water.
Translated from the Rajasthani by Winifred Bryce
Shakunt Mathur (b. 1920)
Waiting
Scolded
the old servant
for his usual slowness
Gave a good slap
to my darling son
for his mischief
To my daughter who’d been playing
gave a dozen hankies to hem
Ordered
the oldest one
to drink more milk
Washed
all the dirty clothes
Flipped through a few magazines
Darned some torn clothes
Put on some new buttons
Cleaned the machine and oiled it
Put the cover back on with care
Took out the half-finished sewing
and repacked it in a different way
Wiped the cupboards in the kitchen
Cleaned the spice jars.
And still
he
hasn’t come home from the office.
Translated from the Hindi by Aruna Sitesh and Arlene Zide
Shobha Bhagwat (b. 1947)
Husbands
This woman has a job
so her husband is unhappy
this one sits at home
so her husband is upset
this one is very thin
so her husband is angry
this one is very plump
so her husband snaps at her
though this one has a lovely figure
her husband is grouchy
he is troubled by doubts
and simmers all the time
this one is very talkative
so her husband dislikes her
this one is very quiet
so her husband cannot stand her
this one has a messy home
so her husband complains
this one has a spic-and-span home
so her husband is morose
this one is always well-dressed
so her husband wonders, ‘For whom?’
this one is always plainly dressed
so her husband says, ‘She’s dumb.’
Does this tight-rope balancing act
ever come to an end?
Where can one find a husband
who likes his wife?
Translated from the Marathi by Vinay Dharwadker
Bilqees Zafirul Hasan (b. 1938)
Dignity
‘Bibi Sahib, my husband
would come home every night, dead drunk. Then he would batter me.
He wouldn’t let me spend even a cent of his earnings.
How could I live with such a man? I left him,
left the village and came to the city.
Now I work in rich people’s homes, such as yours,
I earn for myself and live by my labour.
What good is the vermilion in the hair part that adorns, but like
a wound?
Now how could the Bibi Sahib explain to Dhaniya
that her story wasn’t one of a kind
that she too endures something similar,
day after day, night after night.
But unluckily, she isn’t Dhaniya. She is Bibi Sahib.
And this status has been given to her in reward (bakhshish) by her
husband.
(One who has no status of one’s own must live on charity alone.)
The dignity she attains by living with her husband:
Can a woman hope to find it elsewhere? Anywhere?
Feeling the gash on her forehead as she speaks,
‘Dhaniya, you shouldn’t have left your husband and walked away.’
Self-respect is something; but how should Dhaniya make Bibi Sahib
understand this?
Translated from the Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi
Anon
From The Gathasaptasati
Let Faithful Wives
Let faithful wives
Say what they like,
I don’t sleep with my husband
Even when I do.
Translated from the Prakrit by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Anon, Gujarati Folk Song
Room Zoom
I went to the pasture to cut grass,
I got my wages,
I went to the bazaar,
A pan in my mouth,
A sheaf on my head;
I went to the goldsmith,
I saw the wristlet,
Bought the anklet;
Room zoom, room zoom
Ring the anklet bells.
Translated from th
e Gujarati by Madhubhai Patel
Bihari (c. 16 CE)
What One of Her Companions Said to Another
Friend, she’s on top
I reckon,
resolute in love’s combat,
for the bells of her girdle
jingle away,
while those of her anklets
are now mute.
Translated from the Hindi by Krishna P. Bahadur
‘THE SKY BETWEEN US’
Manohar Shetty (b. 1953)
Personal Effects
A few things he’ll leave behind
To no one in particular:
A gold necklace from his mother
Melted into a wedding ring;
Two first editions with broken
Spines that may fetch
A small fortune, but too late
To pay the bills; a box
Of expired pills; a gold-nibbed
Fountain pen he refused
To write with; an Olivetti,
Its keys the seats
Of an empty stadium;
And clothes worn thin—he
Loved the comfort of old
Things: old letters, stopped clocks,
The patina in sideboards,
Fading photographs and paintings;
And, last, musty notebooks
And diaries empty of
Mythical poems and important
Jottings.
English
Anuradha Mahapatra (b. 1957)
Cow and Grandmother
Once she swam over the field like a heron, now the old woman
wearing plain white cloth thinks she is like a cow; a bee comes
flying
to settle on the surface of the scalded pitcher; just at noon on the
path
through the acacia grove darkness descends; sometimes she lifts
on to her head
sheaves of rice; she looks for water at the neck of the dry pitcher,
she gives
rice-water to the sick dog and the barren cow; she kneels and hides
her face
in the straw; in the distance the cracks in the feet of the village
wives
meet the field’s cracks; at twilight jackals call; a girl reads the
Gita
and, as drum and ektara tune up, goes swimming like the heron
over the white fields of Ranipur village; a patchwork of ripe
berries
is spread over the empty courtyard; and in the turmeric grove
the young girl of long ago has become a blind grandmother; she
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