Gained in translation

About a month ago, my teacher mentioned a Marathi poem that I might want to look up if I could understand the language. I do follow the script and can get by in conversation but not so much in terms of literature. Nonetheless, I decided to give it a go and looked up the poem. I read it aloud and while some of the words made sense, a large part of it was lost in unfamiliar words. So, I attempted a translation, reminding me of school days when that would be one of the questions in the Hindi and Marathi examination papers.

It took me a while to complete it and I’m not too sure if it captures what the poet was trying to say but in some of the reflections, there is a lot of quietness, a quality that is timeless. Attempting the translation, I may not have got it right but I did gain a renewed appreciation for the way language can provide the very soil for reflection with all the gravity of its geography, history and culture. It is a new experience, this immersion into another language, a familiar one and yet so different. Entering into this exercise began as a way to make sense for myself but it does feel like there is probably a new way to study language.

I’ve mostly glided on sounds and let the meaning seep from it even as someone would translate it for me. Kannada was almost exclusively absorbed in this manner and there is complete comprehension of the colloquial version. Sanskrit too has been an endeavour by soaking in sounds while Tamil has been a piggybacking on Malayalam and translations in English but then my exposure to it has been limited. Hindi and Marathi are tongues that are around me and also used in everyday transactions. So, the poorly learnt two that I use almost daily have not quite got the attention the others did. Part of it was also a mental block from school days when the general expectation of the teachers was that one had to replicate answers verbatim. Decades later, the freedom to dabble in language for pleasure has been an interesting journey.

Here’s the poem and a first attempt of a translation. I’d be happy to hear from anyone who might be able to help with editing or correcting it.

आधार

जोवर फुलांच्या बागा फुलताहेत,
पहाडामागे वारा अडत नाही.
शब्दांपोटी सूर्योदयासारखा अर्थआहे,
फळे नित्यनेमाने पिकत आहेत,
माणसाला उपकार आणि आणि त्याची
निर्व्याज परतफेड करता येत आहे,
एखाद्याची महायात्रा पाहून एखादा
सहजच नमस्कार करतो आहे
तोवर आम्हाला एकमेकांबरोबर
अबोला धरण्याचा अधिकार नाही.
आम्ही आमच्या पडजिभेइतकेच
सर्वार्थांनी एकमेकांचे आहोत.
कालच प्रत्येक क्षण उष्टावतो
तरी काल ताजा टवटवीत आहे.

ईश्वराने दिलेले हे अंग प्रत्येकजण
बारा दिवसाच्या अर्भकाइतक्याच
हळुवारपणे सर्व तर्‍हांनी धूत राहतो,
आपापल्या मापाचे पापपुण्य बेतून
सगळे आयुष्य कारणी लावतो.
म्हणून कधीतरीची प्रसन्नताही
मनाची उन्हे करते आणि सारा ताप
उन्हातला पाऊस होऊन टपटपतो.
धरेच्या पोटात पाणी आहे,
घशाखाली त्याची तहान आहे,
माणसाच्या पोटात आनंद आहे
म्हणूनच नेहमी भूक लागते,
इंद्रियांची वेल पसरत पसरत
झोपेचा गारेगार मोगरा फुलतो.

शेतकरी पिकाला जपत असतो
पहिलटकरणीसारखा, रात्रंदिवस
कायावाचामनाचा पावसाळा करुन
मातीच्या कणाकणातून झिरपतो,
अशा वेळी आकाशाच्या कोनन कोनाचा
स्पर्श त्याला झुळकाझुळकातून होतो,
हवेचेही कोनेकोपरे प्रत्यक्ष चाचपतो.
दाण्यादाण्यातील धारोष्ण दुधाची जाग
पाखरांच्या पिसापिसातून जाते,
थव्याथव्यांनी आनंद उतरतो,
शेतमळा डुलतो, वारा डुलतो,
शेताचा पिका पिका दरवळ
झुळझुळत्या झर्‍यासारखा
शेतकर्‍याच्या मनातून वाहतो,
सुईणीच्या मुखावरील कष्टासारखी
रसरसून लखाखते कोयतीची धार.

जीवनावर प्रेम करणारे सगळे जण
एकमेकांना नमस्कार करीत करीत
सुखदुःख वाटतात जिवाभावाने.
सर्वांना पोटाशी धरुन सर्वांवर
स्वत:च्या आयुष्याची सावली धरतात,
एखादा अनवाणी चालणारा विरक्‍त पाहून
सांगतात : सर्वांच्या पायतळी जमीन आहे.
एखाद्या मेलेल्या मित्राच्या स्मृतीवर
हलकेच कधीतरी अमोल क्षणांचा
एखादा ताटवा वाहून रात्रभर जागतात,
आणि मग कधीतरी झोपेतून उठून
स्वत:वरच आनंदाश्रू ढाळतात,
स्वत:लाच नमस्कार करतात.

सखीने सजणाल्या दिलेल्या गुलाबाच्या
गेंदाप्रमाणे, वचनाप्रमाणे प्रत्येकानेच
कधीतरी मन दिले – घेतलेले असतो;
सखी-सजणाच्या संकेतस्थलासारखेच
हे आयुष्यही एकमेकांचेच आहे.

या जगण्यात खोल बुडी मारुन आलेला
एखादा कोणी सर्वांना पोटाशी धरणारा
आणि ते पोटाशी धरले गेलेले सगळे –
दोघांनाही एकमेकांचाच आधार आहेआरती प्रभू

– आरती प्रभू

Support

As long as gardens blossom
the wind behind the hills does not get entangled
The essence of words illumines like the sunrise
fruits ripen in the rhythm of their cycle
They bestow a benediction on man
They give back without interest
Seeing someone’s great journey(inwards?)
One naturally acknowledges
that which is but one’s own
Until then we have no right
to be separate from another
In every sense we are like the uvula to ourselves,
in relation to one another
even though each moment of yesterday is tasted yet it is still fresh

This God given embodiment of each one of us
is bathed completely by the grace
of a gentle wind (existence) as much as that of a 12 day old infant.
We each grow into our lives as dictated
by the measure of our acts- auspicious and inauspicious. We are planted. Our lives are realized
basis the measure of all our karma – good and bad
That’s why some peaceful joys fire up/ enliven the mind
and all the feverishness comes down as summer showers
The belly of the earth has water, its thirst lies below the crust
The belly of man has joy, therefore the hunger, always
As the vines of the senses spread and spread, so also the pleasant jasmine fragrance of sleep

The farmer tends to his ripening crop
as though a first time mother.
Raining body and thought into the earth,
day and night, that it seeps through each pore.
At such times the touch of the corners of space
makes him blink with each graze of air
Streams of grain like milk froth,
madden the birds, delighting them.
The fields dance, the wind dances,
The crops yield the farm’s bounty
like a gushing stream flows from a farmer’s mind
The sharp edge of the scythe draws the rasa
like the pain on a midwife’s face

All those who love life greet each other
as they experience the joys and sorrows of this life
Holding everyone dear,
the shadows of one’s own life blankets each.
Seeing a barefooted man without a care,
it is said the ground exists under every sole
Sometimes the memory of a dear departed friend lightly touches
in a precious moment- a length of a long night of wakefulness.
And then waking from sleep,
weep tears of joy on their existence, they greet themselves.

Like roses gathered into a ball given by a friend to adorn,
like promises, everyone gives or takes the mind (thoughts)
Just like the friend’s nudge to adorn, this life too is one another’s

Immersed in this world, someone is holding every stomach
and all that is contained in it. Both have the other’s support.

– Arati Prabhu

Note:
Chintamani Tryambak Khanolkar wrote his poetry under the name of Arati Prabhu.

words

I want to gather all the words from all the beautiful sentences and read them, with their curves and slashes, printed or handwritten. I want to let my eyes wander over their structure and form, balance and asymmetry, reach out and trace their shapes as though they are alive. I want to do all this before the light dims and my eyes go silent.

But then there are too many to gather, my heart and head can hold only so much. So, I watch them go by, some on a blinking screen, others in the smells of pages I will never turn. Some linger and yet others grow into words that will escape from my fingers. They hold memories of words tasted and shared, hidden and abandoned.

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Some of them roam in moonlit dawns and alight on blank pages

the moon on my floor_
reluctant lover of mine
denying always…

Others will fall into time

time yawns, swallowing
days, words, thoughts, dreams, silences
unending chasm…

Most | restrained |

The girl in the red plaid dress

Another morning out. I should give up the pretense of shopping for supplies and see it for what it is, the need to walk. In the absence of ambles in the woods or jaunts around the neighbourhood, I found myself picking threads from little vignettes that played out on the street or the voices and noises from households, some of it, violent. Some threads were ripped from an unruly heart, some from cold waters of reason and much unravelled in letters that remain piled on my desk. But, this is about today and a walk under a summer sun with my beautiful bald pate, a half masked face and skin that drank sunshine.

It’s been a couple of days since the hair came off and with it, everything that weighed this old head down. I suddenly feel ageless and in a manner of speaking, outside of the limitations of gender. It’s liberating in such a primal way as though the rules of convention don’t apply anymore. Perhaps, this is what monks and nuns feel? Them of the beatific smiles and melodious voices.

I’m out in a running singlet and find that my feet want to let go and break into a jog. It’s that kind of a day when the body feels its sinewy strength and there is pleasure to be taken in being alive and strong. I feel the ripple of energy in my back and legs as I move. It reminds me of long walks on the beach with the sun on my face and water lapping against my feet and I wander into memories of the sea and it’s incredible silence. The next face I see reminds me that we’re in the middle of a pandemic and all those images of sunkissed shores are a long way off.

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So I walk, soaking in sights of a changed world. I walk past a school with one hundred windows- all shut, cross a much dead cat with dried skin and ashen ribs that have no takers, watch winding lines outside liquor shops and cops who have given up trying to tame the crowds. The trees are in bloom and I hug one of the Indian Cork ones. They’ll sway in monsoon winds in a few months and their lovely blossoms will make beautiful scents. Again memories, of night time walks in my invisibility cloak. There are people out and about as though it is time to shop for Diwali, most in masks but else in thick groups. Mostly men, some women and no children except the little masked girl in a red plaid dress, walking with her father.

It was a stark reminder of the missing children of a pandemic. And I wanted to mourn for the ones with loving families and those with hateful ones, the ones with food aplenty and those who go hungry, the ones with lovely homes and those who hustle on streets, the ones with friends and those friendless, the ones who dream in colour and those who live nightmares, the ones with pretty smiles and those with haunted eyes, the ones with grand plans and those without, the ones who get cuddles and those who get beaten. I wanted to grieve for all the little children and the unborn who’ve inherited a blighted planet.

Sometimes, the need for a mourning as such is to mourn the fragility of human lives and a poem springs-

I feel the urge to keen

lament in beautiful tongues

that I don’t understand

I want to partake

the bewilderment

Of a species as it mourns

I want to

share their grief and

walk to distanced funerals

And along with all this

I want to keen

for losses of another kind

That of little children

and a lost summer of

urchins and the home schooled

The little masked girl haunts my today. She was the only child I have seen outside in all these days of lockdown. Perhaps it is also a feeble hope after 40 days of suspension that a little girl appears in a red plaid dress.

The debris of a day

another day comes to a close
another awakening of insomnia
the day’s debris is a small pile
spent pens, a coffee mug, tired screens
remaining pieces of the day
came out to play and went back
these have stayed to give company
as I put an unruly day to bedelsewhere music wafts, pleasing…
the youngling has a good ear
her day rises as mine pretends to end
making us a household of constant churn
of art and poetry, movement and silences
inhabiting isolation fully, deeply alone

Unrush

A couple of days ago, someone left a nice comment on one of my IG posts and the word ‘unrushed’ stayed and grew into a few lines…

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Come my friend
Sit by me
Sit in silence
Sit a while

We’ll hear the
scents of woods
and taste
sights of sunsets
let them touch
the stillness
of our hearts
where
time and space

unrush

in
one
full
moment
and know that
all is as it should be

The temple elephant died

Somewhere hidden among the vitriol on twitter, I read about the end of Padmanabhan, the Guruvayoor temple elephant. It resulted in this musing…

The temple elephant died
after a life in golden captivity

It is an event
so they prepare a farewell
and write eulogies
pictures and reports
articles and accounts
a balance sheet of his life
earnings and expenses,
they forget to mention
anything about him though

The occasion demands
so they drape him in fulvid silks
circumambulate his corpse
chant names of a God he served
accompanied by cameras
in readiness to bury his tonnage

In the jungle
he would have died
an anonymous death
mourned by his herd
relished by scavengers
one with the land
a life well served
no press, no television
no mention anywhere

Tell me if his elephant self
would prefer to die silently
under open skies
lying near clear waters
or within compound walls
containing elaborate rituals
with strangers and their chatter?

Kaleidoscope

Sarees are incredibly sensuous in themselves for their texture, colours and fluidity. Today was all about light and colour and the many moods of shimmering, colour shifting and spilled memories from long ago. A kaleidoscopic day so here goes…

Kaleidoscope
the mind is

shifting pieces
of wounds
and scars
to make
hymns
and dirges
sung
long after
the years
have closed

There’s
only one
lens
to enter
the enchantment
of illusions
and art
of an artist
doomed
to
create
recreate
arrange
rearrange

Inevitable
the slash
of pain
but
craft
demands
its price

Experience

Kindling

and so she sways and sashays
kindling on her head

Behind her a sister shouts
“wait for me”
but she walks on
a song on her lips and
dance on her mind
thinking of Raju
who helped her split wood

Oh how she wished
to have him all alone
but that would never be

So she sways and sashays
thinking thoughts of Raju
and his mesmerizing musk

Bleed

I submitted some samples of work to get feedback and was surprised to receive a few lines. It did sound very algorithm generated in a manner of speaking but none the less, it was a revert. I’ve always hesitated to put any of my work for scrutiny because how can any art really be evaluated? It’s such a fluid experience involving the creator, the creation, the receptor and the spaces of memories in between them.

Sharing one of the pieces here. Bleed is a disassociated observation of menstruation and its meander through the lives of women, young and old, fertile and barren.

Bleed

I watch as the blood runs thin

Metallic smells

ricochet off bathroom walls

as the stained cloth

washes a life that might have been

Is there loss?

No, just relief

But what is it my sister feels?

She of the barren womb

and silent home

I’m soon approaching

the drying of my eggs

The signs are there

The dropping sag

The beginnings of fatigue

A heaviness that doesn’t lighten

with menstrual blood

40 odd years is a long time…

The blood flows for days

Stays silent for months

Like all my sisters and mothers

I’ll deny

the whiskers on my chin

the thickening waist

I’ll never know when

the blood will finally depart

A year may pass

and then one day

Pause

Menopause

For now I bleed

like my daughter bleeds