Excerpt : Teresa’s Man And Other Stories

Sleep has fled Peter’s eyes long ago but the lethargy in his body does not permit him to even turn on his side. The early morning cold makes him shiver but he is too lazy to pull up the sheet. The sound of splashing water tells him that Teresa must be in the bathroom. Peter is irritated. My job is to fill up that big copper bhann—and it is her privilege to drain it! He dare not voice his thoughts, though, because it would draw this retort from Teresa: ‘Yes! Just as it is my job to earn the money and your privilege is to spend it!’

Teresa enters the bedroom. Peter looks at her through sleepy eyes. Teresa is in a camisole which sticks to the wet parts of her body. Taking a long wooden rod, she reaches for a towel from the clothesline, strung up high. As she stretches her arms, the petticoat armholes open to reveal…! Peter shuts his eyes. He looks again. With the upward movement of her arms, her slip has ridden up her legs, exposing a generous portion of her thighs. Like the tender white inner trunks of banana suckers, Peter thinks, gaping. He is aroused and wide awake now.

Teresa wipes her face and neck. The uneven texture of the towel leaves her fair skin slightly flushed.

Her mother-in-law is in the kitchen making tea, noisily banging the pans. She believes that since even a finger can dent aluminium, there was no point in being careful. Teresa has stopped wincing at the noise, philosophizing that she can’t afford to buy stainless steel utensils—not in this life at least. Peter, of course, keeps quiet, reasoning that since he does not contribute to the kitty, he has no right to comment.

‘P-e-d-r-u!’ yells Teresa.

Other wives fondly anglicize their husbands’ names—Antonio, for example, is called Tony; and Vitorino becomes Victor. But this woman insists on calling poor Peter ‘Pedru’. Peter resents it acutely! But is she bothered?

‘It’s nearly eight, Pedru!’

Peter is irritated. Can’t she wake up earlier? This is becoming a habit with her.

‘Get up! Get up, Pedru! It is time for the train. Drop me to the station. Quick!’ Striding towards him, she stamps her feet and pulls him by the hand. ‘Get up you lazy man!

If I miss the train, you won’t take the boss’s firing!’

Peter reluctantly gets out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his eyes to cool his rising temper. Finishing, he comes inside, angrily pulls on his trousers, shrugs himself into a shirt and grumbles, ‘I can’t even sleep in peace. Why can’t she get up earlier and walk to the station?’

But Teresa must have heard him grumbling. She walks up to Peter and berates him. ‘Admirable courage you have to grumble! You shameless idler! All you do is sit at home and eat. Is it too much to just drop me by cycle to the station once in a while when I’m late? Does it strain your back? I work all day to feed you, only to take crap from you people! I tell you, I’m fed up of you all. I’ve ended up in hell after marrying you!’

‘You wanted a love marriage, didn’t you?’ A voice from the kitchen calmly adds fuel to the fire.

Her mother-in-law’s gibe is more than she can take. Teresa breaks into a sob and her eyes well up with tears.

In a better mood now, Peter slips on his sandals, gulps down his tea, and is ready to leave. The tip of Teresa’s nose now competes with her cherry-red blouse. Even her ear lobes are scarlet. She’s wearing a tight skirt that fits snugly round her hips. Peter’s frown deepens in disapproval of her figure-hugging skirt and sleeveless blouse. He wheels his cycle out. Mounting it, he puts one foot on the pedal, the other on the threshold and waits for Teresa. This was how he used to wait for her at the station two years ago. He was in love with her then…

‘What’s the problem now? Hurry up!’ Peter bellows.

High-heeled shoes clicking smartly on the cement floor, Teresa comes out of the house and sits on the cross-bar of the bicycle. As they move, Teresa’s memory goes back to those days…

Peter would patiently wait for me with his cycle early in the morning outside my house to give me a lift to the station. Without fail. Every day. Over my protests. A funny thing had happened one day. He had arrived early in the morning, as usual, and had started taking his customary laps on the bike round my house. Having come at seven-thirty and, on seeing no sign of me till eight-thirty, he had begun to get anxious. Just then, I returned from Mass. On seeing me he’d hurried to my side and asked, ‘You haven’t yet gone to office today, Teresa!’ Barely stifling a laugh, I’d said, ‘Today is Sunday, isn’t it?’ How comic he’d looked then!

The memory makes Teresa laugh. Her laugh annoys Peter. Wasn’t this the same Teresa who was sobbing just a while ago? And now she’s giggling. What could have made her laugh? She’s probably thinking about someone in office! So was the weeping at home just play-acting?

As they neared the station, they see that the train is already at the platform. Peter instinctively pedals desperately and screeches to a halt at the end of the platform.

‘P-h-i-r-r!’ A shrill whistle sounds as the guard flags off the train. Leaping off the cycle, Teresa bounds away, clutching her bag tight. Running along the platform, she grabs hold of the hand-rail at the entrance of a carriage as the engine starts with a long toot. The train pulls away with Teresa hanging on. She makes a feeble attempt to climb in but her tight skirt hampers her. Alarmed, she hangs on to the bar for dear life as the train gathers speed. An alert man standing near the door sees her predicament and, putting his arm round her, he pulls her in. She doesn’t even glance in Peter’s direction. But Peter sees her smiling and thanking her young saviour.

‘Quick-witted fellow to pull her in like that! Fast reactions!’

‘Lucky guy! He enjoyed that!’

‘And so did the girl! Why else do they go to work?’

‘That’s a fact. Once you have a job, you can have all the fun you want and nobody will question you!’

Peter is seething with rage at the comments made by the onlookers on the platform. He wants to slap them, but there are four of them. Forget it!

He sets off on his bicycle, furious. Why can’t she leave a little earlier? Must she wear those ridiculously tight skirts? It’s fine for her, but have to face the snide remarks from those louts. And that gigolo who pulled her in with his arm round her waist… He must have enjoyed it… Didn’t those chaps call him a lucky man. And Teresa? ‘The girls enjoy it. Why else do they go to work?’ is what they said. Enough is enough! I’m going to tell Teresa—no more work and no more tight skirts!

In fact, soon after their marriage, Peter had made it clear to Teresa that he did not approve of her wearing those tight-fitting skirts, but Teresa said that, as a receptionist, she was expected to be smartly turned out. One thing, though, is that she never wears such clothes in the house. Secretly, Peter wants her to wear body-hugging minis with daring sleeveless tops for him at home, but not to office. But Teresa doesn’t, assuming that Peter would disapprove. Poor Peter doesn’t have the courage to tell her what he really wants.

‘Peter!’ Guilherme calls out. Peter would have cycled on but he’s heard that Guilherme’s father has come down for good from East Africa only yesterday. He is curious to see what stuff he’s brought, so he turns his cycle around. Guilherme’s dad, in a colourful kitenge shirt favoured by Africa-returned Goans, is relaxing in an easy chair in the hall.

‘It’s Peter, isn’t it? How are you?’ He gets up and shakes hands with Peter. ‘So how are things? What are you doing now?’ he asks with a foreign accent.

‘Business.’ The reply springs to Peter’s lips, but he swallows it.

Usually, Peter puffs out his chest and says, ‘Business.’ And if anybody probes further with, ‘What business?’ he has a stock reply too, ‘All sorts of business—when the price of coconuts goes up, I trade in coconuts; during the watermelon season, I deal in watermelons; and, when nothing else is available, I even buy and sell fish.’

In actual fact, Peter has never done any business in his life. Ever since he scraped through the High School SSC exam, he’s worked just twice. The first was as a counter salesman in a pharmacy. It involved getting up early and cycling to Margao town. Soon after lunch, he had to rush back to work without his customary siesta. He would reach home well after eight in the night. The routine did not quite appeal to his indolent nature and, one day, after a dressing down from his boss for reporting late, he never went back. He didn’t even bother to claim his wages for the thirteen days that he had worked there. He decided that he would tell his mother, and whoever asked him, that he was going into business. He slipped Teresa the same line before getting married and, being deeply in love with him, she not only believed him, but was infinitely proud of him!

He had taken his second job for the sake of Teresa, once they were married. Teresa had cajoled her boss into giving Peter a job. Peter started work in a different department of the same company against his wishes. It meant getting up early, catching the train, rushing to office and writing with a pen the whole day long without a siesta of even five minutes after lunch. Wrestling with strange words like ‘freight’, ‘demurrage’, ‘filing’ ‘checking slip’, ‘statement’, ‘consignment’ gave him fever one day. The fever was a good enough excuse and he never went back.

‘You’re doing nothing at all?’ Guilherme’s father has seen through him. ‘You should work! At least join the ship!’ His words are like bitter medicine in his throat.

‘How do you manage without a job?’

‘His wife works,’ Guilherme pipes up helpfully, rubbing it in.

‘What? You remain idle and send your wife to work? Very bad! What sort of a man are you?’ he exclaims. ‘Never do that, my boy,’ he adds paternally, ‘or she’ll get too big for her boots. Women should be shown their place. A man should…’ He stops as Guilherme’s mother comes in.

Peter decides it’s time to leave. The truck with the luggage is expected any time. Lest he be asked to help unload it, Peter hurriedly takes their leave, picks up some fish at the village market, and goes home.

‘You’ve arrived just in time. I was hoping that you’d come.’ Peter’s mother greets him.

Silently picking up a pitcher, he goes to the well and begins to fill up the empty utensils. From past experience he knows that were he to baulk, it would only draw a sharp retort from his mother: ‘Why can’t you help? You’re doing nothing as it is!’ To which he would have no reply.

He lies down on the cot to take a nap, but he cannot sleep. Venomous little suspicions crowd his mind. What is Teresa doing at that moment? Giggling in the office? With the boss perhaps? Or the character who lifted her into the train? Who was the guy? She must know him. How well? Teresa’s sleeveless top, her tight skirt, the way he lifted her in with his arm around her, the snide remarks of the bystanders: ‘Lucky man! Women should not be let loose!’ These thoughts buzz around him like a swarm of angry bees.

‘Will you be eating today?’ His mother’s sarcastic voice breaks into his troubling thoughts.

His appetite isn’t affected, though. He eats well and has a royal nap.

When he wakes up at five in the evening, he is ushered into the real world by his mother. ‘Oh! So you’ve woken up at last. Where are you off to now? A man who can’t work or do business. And he’s gone and got married. He can neither take care of his wife, nor can he control her! Stylish lady! Look at her clothes and her hair—worse than a whore! She twirls her husband round her little finger and makes him dance to her tune. Watch her in action when she comes home in the evening! For her, the husband is an empty coconut and I, her sasumai, I am not her mother-in-law, I am cow dung!’

‘Shut up!’ Peter screams.

‘You can only tell me to shut up. Do you dare to say it to her, you coward? A real man would have slapped her and put her in her place. But you… I pray to the Lord to have pity on me and take me away soon, to free me from all this!’

Peter does not wait to hear any more of the usual litany. Rolling out his bike, he pedals hard in the direction of Caetan’s taverna. An animated round of tablam-khell is going on in the verandah. Accompanied by, ‘Ee-ree-reeree!’ the long bamboo dice are flung to the ground. The atmosphere is spirited and lively. Ordering a four-anna tot of feni, Peter takes his glass and joins the spectators.

‘Eight!’

‘Twelve!’

Tabl… That’s it!’

‘Congratulations! That was good!’

The players move away, as do the spectators. Everybody talks at the same time.

Peter has begun to unwind a little in the relaxed, noisy atmosphere of the pub. Just then, Agnel claps his hands and, when he has everybody’s attention, he announces,

‘Listen, who was there at the station this morning as the Vasco train was pulling out?’

‘I was there!’ Martin exclaims.

‘Good! Anyone else?’ Agnel continues. Peter is wary. Agnel’s malicious tongue could be targeting him.

‘Listen! Our dear Bab-Peter’s beloved wife Bai-Teresa would have fallen under the train today!’

‘W-h-a-t?’ the crowd exclaims.

‘But she was very fortunate. Bai-Teresa’s gallant friend was travelling in the same compartment, just waiting for her, perhaps! Like a Hindi-movie hero, he bravely clamped his hand under her arm and pulled her into the train. Like this!’ Agnel enacted the scene for the audience with a flourish that infuriated Peter.

‘Mind your tongue, Agnel!’ warns Peter.

‘Am I exaggerating? Okay then, you tell it!’ Agnel sniggers.

‘You won’t get away with this!’ Peter shouts.

‘So! What will you do? Come out in front if you must yap!’ taunts Agnel as he pulls him forward.

Unable to back his empty bluster, Peter stays put.

‘What a tough guy! Flaunt those muscles to your wife, if you have the guts!’ Agnel rubs more salt into his wounds to the accompaniment of guffawing laughter.

I have to take all this because of that Teresa! Everyone disrespects me because of her! In the morning at the station; all those taunts! Guilherme’s father’s lecture! Mother’s jeers! And now this! I’m not going to remain quiet!

Peter downs another tot—an eight-anna one this time.

The evening train announces its arrival with a piercing toot just as Peter cycles his usual way to the station. As Teresa gets down, Peter glances up sharply towards the compartment. He spots the hero of the morning sitting at the window. As she sits on the cross-bar of the cycle, Peter feels that Teresa is positively glowing this evening. He senses his bile rising.

‘Pedru, you know, I was so scared this morning! If he hadn’t pulled me in, God knows what would have happened!’ Teresa relates, blissfully unaware of Peter’s darkening countenance. Or the artery that is pulsing wildly on his forehead. Or that his eyes have become bloodshot.

The cycle comes to a stop at their house. Both get down.

‘Pedru, tomorrow we’ll leave earlier! I don’t want to go through this…’

Before she can even comprehend what’s happening, both of Teresa’s cheeks turn crimson as Peter’s slaps fall on them. She shrieks in pain while her mother-in-law calmly takes in the scene from inside. Encouraged, Peter goes berserk, and pummels her cheeks, her nose, her back, her stomach, her hands, her face…

_______________

Courtesy:  Live mint April 9 2015

The Last Poem

– Saratchandra Shenoi

(English translation from the Konkani original by poet himself)

As like a flash of lightening upon a dark sky,
When the last poem comes forth, bright and blinding,
I shall not take up the pen,
Nor ask for a piece of paper –

As like the scene of a dream reappearing
Before my waking eyes,
When the last poem appears a-shimmering,
It would not reach my lips,
I would not recite its lines –

As like the morning breeze playing in the garden,
As like the rainbow appearing and vanishing,
As like nature at dusk, lost in her own beauty,
When the last poem shines forth,
I shall not attempt to touch it,
I shall not pluck words from it –

As like soothing raindrops in mid-summer
When the last poem condenses within,
Wings will grow upon my back,
I shall fly, and I shall float,
Weightless, I shall swim
Upon the waves of the Wind –

As like the slow smile blossoming through
Ebbing tears upon the face of a weeping child,
When the last poem dawns within,
I shall forget myself
And stand entranced,
Wingtips a-touching,
Lo, I shall become the poem!

saratchandrashenoi@gmail.com

अन्तिम कविता

मूल कोंकणी : शरतचंद्र शेणै
हिन्दी परिभाषा : अमृतलाल मदान

अन्तिम कविता कौंधती है औचक यूं मस्तिष्क में
ज्यों धनेरे बादलों में दिपती चकाचौंध है
इसके लिखने हेतु मुझे लेखनी ना चाहिए
ना ही मुझको चाहिए पृष्ठ कागज का कभी !

जागते नयनों के आगे स्वप्न आ आ नाचते
किंतु अन्तिम कविता जब प्रकटेगी इनके सामने
मेरे अधरों तक नहीं पहुँचेगी इसकी रश्मियाँ
गुनगुना पाऊँगा उसकी पंक्तियाँ भी मैं कहां !

जिस तरह करती हवाएँ सुबह की अठखेलियाँ
मत्त और उन्मत्त आकर के किसी उपवन में जब
जिस तरह किसी इन्द्रधनु के सप्त सुंदर मोर रंग
डूब जातें हैं कभी तो तैर आतें है कभी |

जिस तरह जब साँझ की वेला बिखरती है छटा
दूर क्षितिजों पर सिंदूरी सात्विक सौंदर्य की
अन्तिम कविता ऐसे आ चमकेगी मेरे रूबरू
छू नहीं पाऊँगा उसको, शब्द तोडूँगा नहीं |

जिस तरह बरखा की बूंदें तृप्त करती हैं धरा
जेठ की तपती दुपहरी में कभी जब रिमझिमा
पंख बन उग आएगी कविता तो मेरी पीठ पर
तैरता लहरें हवा की मैं उडूंगा रूई-घन सा !

रो रहे ज्यों बाल मुख पर मंद हंसी सी फूटती है
आंसुओं के बीच फूटेगी वो कविता भी मेरी
भूल जाऊँगा समय को यूँ खडा मैं मुग्ध सा
खुद ही बन जाऊँगा कविता, पंख धरती को छुवा !

saratchandrashenoi@gmail.com

THE DOVES OF MY EYES

Poem in Odia: Guruprasad Mohanty

English Translation: Jayanta Mahapatra

Guruprasad Mohanty

The doves of my eyes strike against

the steel of the sky,

and repulsed, return to earth,

where, each day you wait alone

to discover the many meanings of life and death.

 

When the words, with their little palms,

touch the body of the motionless sands,

running through the grey heat of noons

I seek ancestral memories in your flesh.

 

You whisper the secrets of leaf and grass,

of cliffs and woods, moss and shell,

in forlorn nights through the tatter of clouds

the myths of the moon sailing to its death.

 

As you retrieve the ruined body of April

drifting helplessly in the whirlpools of sand,

it seems you love me and want me to come,

but where is your soul? and where my body?

 

And when the doves of my eyes return,

ripping the sky’s wrongs, it is time’s river

that flows through the weariness of your flesh

and carries my dreams along.

 

Leaves fall, unheard, in the quiet noon,

and the sun respires in silence.

The pine forest pales like smoke in the sky.

And I don’t remember when, the doves of my eyes

flew into Ujjain or Cuttack, pursuing you

LANDSCAPE

Original Odia Poem by : Guruprasad Mohanty

English Translation by : Ramakanta Rath

Guruprasad Mohanty

(1924-2004)

Guruprasad Mohanty is regarded as the founder of modernism in Odia Poetry. His poems occupy a unique place in Odia literature. He was awarded Sahitya Akademi award in 1973. He has written only 68 poems in his lifetime

 

How could the gulmohur

preserve its redness

in the unceasing traffic

of automobiles?

 

At some nondescript moment

of some forever-lost century

this redness began its journey

from some first stirring of blood

to the April sunlight of today.

 

This summer day

heaps red dust on the road

meandering across the treeless hill.

Tyres of cars, buses, trucks and jeeps

and the chimneys of the steel plant

belch red dust all the time.

How then can the gulmohur

preserve its own redness?

 

I look out of the window

of the superfast bus

through my sunglasses

and try to comprehend

actual problems of the red colour

and its present-day motives and conduct.

 

Are my looks as stupid

as the look of

the superannuated old chairman

of the Enquiry-Commission

set up after the crowd

took out processions, burnt buses, and

was lathi-charged and fired upon?

 

From its origin in ether

the gulmohur’s redness

has descended on the road.

How could redness continue to be red

amidst all this automobile traffic?

 

Where does this redness go

after the annihilation of its being?

Does it travel to a sad, disarrayed,

unsure and ravaged sunset

in some horizon?

The Elections

Ayyappa Paniker

Ayyappa Panicker

(1930-2006)

Dr.K.Ayyappa Panicker a pioneer of modernism in Malayalam poetry is decorated with many literary awards that stand in the name of great Indian poets, namely  Kabir Samman, Assan Prize, Mahakavi Ullor award,  Vallathol award, Gangadhar Meher National award. He made a very impressive contribution to  Indian literature through his work Indian Narratology which is a study of the art of narration from Vedas to contemporary literature, including oral tradition. He was the Chief Editor of Encyclopedia of Indian Literature published by Sahitya Akademi

White on black is dirt
The whitewash leaves a patch
Washing linen is nuisance
Don’t be upset, O leader!

Is there gold in the hiding place
Is there a place for playing kids
Do you remember waiting for
The autumnal moon and sandal paste

Is it trout that’s caught in the net
Is it salmon outside the net
Don’t you need anything in hand
To wager when you cast the net

It is election time, election time
O come, do come, dear voters
The power that once upon a time
You appropriated among yourselves
We want you to transfer to us
So we ask for your votes
If you give us your votes
Democracy will triumph here!

நமக்கல்லவோ அவமானம்?

 மலையாளத்தில்: அய்யப்ப பணிக்கர் 

ஆங்கிலம் வழித் தமிழில்: மாலன் 

நவீன மலையாளக் கவிதைகளின் முன்னோடி முனைவர் அய்யப்ப பணிக்கர். கபீர் விருது, ஆசான் பரிசு, மகாகவி உல்லூர் விருது,  வள்ளத்தோள் விருது, கங்காதர் மெகர் தேசிய விருது எனப் புகழ் வாய்ந்த இந்தியக் கவிகளின் பெயரால் அமைந்த பல விருதுகளை வென்றவர். வேதம் காலம் தொடங்கி  சமகாலம் வரை, வாய்மொழி மரபு உள்பட, விரியும் இந்தியக் கதையாடல் குறித்து மிகச் சிறப்பானதொரு நூலை எழுதியவர்.  சாகித்ய அகாதெமி வெளியிட்ட,இந்திய இலக்கியக் கலைக்களஞ்சியத்தின் தலைமைப் பதிப்பாசிரியராகப் பங்களித்தவர்

அடுக்களையில்

ஒவ்வொரு இரவிலும்

உணவைக் கொஞ்சம்

விட்டு வைக்க வேண்டும்

ஒருவேளை

திருடன் வந்தால்

அவன் பசித்திருந்தால்

உணவில்லை என்றால்

அவன் சினமடையக் கூடும்.

வெறுத்துப் போய்

திருடாமலேயே திரும்பி விடுவான்

அது நமக்கல்லவோ அவமானம்?

***

To read the poem n English:

http://www.akshra.org/isnt-that-shameful-for-us/

BULL IN THE CITY

On the main thoroughfare of the city

The bull casually

Perhaps with the memories from the earlier birth

Chewing the cud with half shut eyes

Without moving or shifting

The bull in the heart of the city.

As if it is the right holder of the road

Leaving the responsibility to the times

Heckling the scampering of the civilisation

Stood there that it is the King!

 

Who dares to ask the bull to move

Look how it glances around

Aye! Aye! Motor car!

What is the hurry with you?

Oh! Brother Cyclist!

Careful! The bull wouldn’t budge!

Anti-machinery, proponent of non-violence and a vegetarian

Expert in anti alcoholism

On the main road of the city

Obstructing the passage of the civility

However long like this

This bull can stand!

 

If the bull has no sense

Shouldn’t the man have it?

***

To read the poem in Telugu:

To read the poem in Tamil:

http://www.akshra.org/%e0%ae%a8%e0%ae%95%e0%ae%b0%e0%ae%a4%e0%af%8d%e0%ae%a4%e0%af%81%e0%ae%95%e0%af%8d-%e0%ae%95%e0%ae%be%e0%ae%b3%e0%af%88/

 

நகரத்துக் காளை

தெலுங்கில் :ஸ்ரீ ஸ்ரீ

ஆங்கிலம்வழித் தமிழில்: மாலன்

ஸ்ரீ ஸ்ரீ

புராண, இதிகாச, தொன்மங்கள் தெலுங்குக் கவிதையில் மண்டிக் கிடந்த போது சமகாலப் பிரச்சினைகள் குறித்து தெலுங்கில் கவிதைகள் எழுதி, அதை முன்னெடுத்துச் சென்றவர் ஸ்ரீஸ்ரீ என்றறியப்படும் ஸ்ரீரங்கம் ஸ்ரீநிவாசராவ். தெலுங்கு மரபுக் கவிதைகளில் காணப்படாத சந்தங்களைத் தன் கவிதைகளில் பயன்படுத்தியவர். எதிர் கவிதைகளின் முன்னோடி. அவரது கவிதைகள் குரலற்றவர்களின் குரல்

 

 

நகரின் முக்கிய வீதியில்

அரைக் கண்ணை மூடி

அசை போட்டுக் கொண்டிருக்கிறது

நிதானமாக அந்தக் காளை

கடந்த பிறவியின் நினைவுகளோ?

சாலைக்கே சொந்தக்காரர் போல்

தாவிக் குதித்தாடும் நாகரீகத்தை

கேலி செய்யும் பொறுப்பைக்

காலத்தின் கையில் கொடுத்து விட்டு

நகரின் நடுவே

நகராமல்,அசையாமல்

அரசன் போல் நிற்கிறது காளை

அதை நகரச் சொல்லிக் கேட்க

யாருக்குத் துணிவுண்டு

ஓரக் கண்ணால் உருட்டிச்

சுற்றும் முற்றும்

பார்ப்பதைப் பாருங்கள்

ஏய்! ஏய்! கார்க்காரா

என்ன அவசரம் உனக்கு?

சைக்கிள் தம்பி! பார்த்துப் போ!

அது சற்றும் அசையாது

எந்திரங்களின் எதிரி

மரக்கறியின், அஹிம்சையின் போதகர்

மது எதிர்ப்பு வல்லுநர்

நகரின் மையச் சாலை நடுவே

பொதுமக்களின் பாதையை மறித்துக் கொண்டு

இதைப் போல எத்தனை காலம்தான் நிற்கும் காளை?

 

காளைக்குத்தான் அறிவில்லை என்றால்

மனிதருக்கு இருக்கக் கூடாதா?

இந்தக் கவிதையின் தெலுங்கு மூலத்தை வாசிக்க:

 

இந்தக் கவிதையின் ஆங்கில மூலத்தை வாசிக்க:

http://www.akshra.org/bull-in-the-city/

துக்கங்கள் நிறைந்த மழை மேகம் நான்

 

இந்தியில்: மகா தேவி வர்மா

தமிழில் : அனுராதா கிருஷ்ணஸ்வாமி

மஹாதேவி வர்மா (1907-1987) ஹிந்தி இலக்கியத்தில் “சாயா வாத்/ரஹஸ்ய வாத்” என்கிற பிரிவைச் சேர்ந்த கவிஞர். இப்பிரிவின் முக்கிய தூண்களுள் ஒருவராகக் கருதப்படுகிறார். இவரது கவிதைகளில் கருணை, புரிதல்,துயரம் போன்ற சுவைகள் அதிகம் காணக்கிடைக்கின்றன. இவரை “நவீன மீரா பாய்” என்றழைக்கிறார்கள். ஏழு தலைமுறைகளுக்குப் பிறந்த பெண்னானதால் இவருக்கு மஹாதேவி என்று பெயரிடப்பட்டது. ஒன்பது வயதில் திருமணம். இவர் ஞானபீட விருது,பத்ம விபூஷண் விருது போன்றவைகளால் கௌரவிக்கப்பட்டவர்.

இவரது கவிதைகளில் “நான் துக்கங்கள் நிறைந்த மழைமேகம்” மிகவும் பிரபலமானது.சிறு வார்த்தைகளில் மஹாதேவி வர்மா, தன்னைப்பற்றி இந்த கவிதையில் கூறியுள்ளார்.

இந்தக் கவிதையில் தன் வாழ்க்கையை சூல் கொண்ட மேகத்துடன் ஒப்பிட்டு, ஆழ்மனதின் தாபங்களை வெளிப்படுத்தியுள்ளார். இந்தக்கவிதையை மேகத்தின் குரலாகவும்,பெண்ணின் ஆழ்மனத் தாபங்களாகவும் அதே நேரம்சமூகத்தில் பெண்களின் நிலையைக் குறிப்பதாகவும் புரிந்துகொள்ள முடிவது இக்கவிதையின் சிறப்பு

 

துக்கங்கள் நிறைந்த மழை மேகம் நான்.

அசைவுகளின் ஊடே

எப்போதும் அசைவற்று நிற்பவள்.

புலம்பல்களினூடும் கர்ஜனைகளினூடும்

எப்போதும் சிரித்து மகிழ்பவள்.

கண்களில் விளக்குகளின் ஒளியும்
இமைகளில் விரியத் தயாராய் நதியும்

எப்போதும் என்னுடன்.

இசையால் நிரம்பியவை என் ஒவ்வொரு அடியும்.

கனவுகளின் மகரந்தம் ஒவ்வொரு மூச்சிலும்.

ஒன்பது வண்ணங்கள் கொண்ட மேலாடையை

நெய்து உடுத்தியிருக்கிறது வானம்.

மலய மாருதம் என் நிழலில்இளைப்பாறுகிறது.

தொடுவானை நிறைத்த கரும்புகை போல்

என் புருவங்களின் மத்தியில் கவலைச்சுமை.

மண் மீது நான் மழையாய் பொழிந்தேன்.

புதையுண்ட விதைகளை சிறு பச்சை முளைகளாய்

நாற்புறமும் உயிர்க்க வைத்தேன்.

என் வருகையினால் எந்தப் பாதையும் அசுத்தமுறவில்லை.
நான் போகும்போதும் எந்தச் சின்னங்களையும் விட்டுச்செல்லவில்லை.
எஞ்சிநிற்பவை

அகமும் புறமும் சிலிர்க்கச் செய்யும்

நினைவுகள் மட்டுமே.

நேற்று முழங்கி

இன்று பொழிந்து

வந்த வழியே திரும்பச் செல்வேன்.

உலகம் சிலிர்த்தது என் வருகையில் மகிழ்ந்து.

விரிந்து பரந்த விசும்பின் நீள அகலங்களை நான் தழுவியபோதும்
அதன் சிறு மூலை கூட எனக்கானதில்லை.

இதுவே என் அடையாளம்.

இதுவே என் சரித்திரம்.

பொங்கிப் பொழிந்து மறைவேன்

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இந்தக் கவிதையின் இந்தி மூலத்தை வாசிக்க:

http://www.akshra.org/%e0%a4%ae%e0%a5%88%e0%a4%82-%e0%a4%a8%e0%a5%80%e0%a4%b0-%e0%a4%ad%e0%a4%b0%e0%a5%80-%e0%a4%a6%e0%a5%81%e0%a4%83%e0%a4%96-%e0%a4%95%e0%a5%80-%e0%a4%ac%e0%a4%a6%e0%a4%b2%e0%a5%80/

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