No
Entry for the New Sun
Dalit poetry in India
No Entry for
the New Sun
By Vilas
Rashinkar
With
determination they set
the stamp of
approval
on their own
garrulous tongue
so it becomes
easy
to collect a
hundred tongues
and spit on the
sun.
They prop up
crumbled bastions
in ten places
with the twigs
of history.
They unwrap the
scriptures
from their
protective covers
and insist –
‘These are
commandments
engraved on
stone.’
From pitch-back
tunnels
they gather
ashes
floating on
jet-black water
and reconstruct
the skeletons
of their
ancestors,
singing hymns
of their
thoughts
worn to shreds.
There is no
entry here
for the new
sun.
This is the
empire
of
ancestor-worship,
of blackened
castoffs,
of darkness.
(Translated by Priya Adarkar)
----------------------------------------------------------
Exhalation
By Narendra
Patil
‘Merely an
exhalation’
Circumstances
have slapped
down a suit
on the burning
thoughts
in my mind!
They’ve put all
burning minds
In custody.
Incarcerated
all gardens of
dreams.
But how long
can this bird
remain in this
dungeon
whose very
walls tremble
with his every
exhalation?
(Translated by
Shanta Gokhale)
----------------------------------------------------------
To Dear Aana
By Suresh Kadam
The sunset does
not bury our sorrows,
nor does
sunrise bring new hopes.
Everything
continues, relentlessly.
Society, bound
by her rituals of ages,
chews up chunks
of human flesh
in blind fury:
the horse she
rides
bleeds and
foams at the mouth:
she holds the
reins
of an ancient
system;
her predator’s
ears
listen for the
twittering of birds;
in the
orthodoxy of her world
passion and
intensity are ridiculed.
Therefore, dear
Aana,
you ought not
to have cherished expectations
of a lingering
kiss in the long night.
(Translated by
Vilas Sarang)
----------------------------------------------------------
Habit
By FM Shinde
Once you’re
used to it
you never
afterwards
feel anything;
your blood
nevermore
congeals
nor flows
for wet mud has
been slapped
over all your
bones.
Once you’re
used to it
even the sorrow
that visits you
sometimes, in
dreams,
melts away,
embarrassed.
Habit isn’t
used to breaking out
in feelings.
(Translated by
Priya Adarkar)
----------------------------------------------------------
This Country is
Broken
By Bapurao
Jagtap
This country is
broken into a thousand pieces;
its cities, its
religion, its castes,
its people, and
even the minds of the people
– all are
broken, fragmented.
In this
country, each day burns
scorching each
moment of our lives.
We bear it all,
and stand solid as hills
in this our
life
that we do not
accept.
Brother, our
screams are only an attempt
to write the
chronicle of this country
– this naked
country
with its
heartless religion.
The people here
rejoice in their black laws
and deny that
we were ever born.
Let us go to
some country, brother,
Where, while
you live, you will have
a roof above
your head,
and where, when
you die, there will at least be
a cemetery to
receive you.
(Translated by
Vilas Sarang)
----------------------------------------------------------
Light Melted in
Darkness
By Meena
Gajabhiye
Day slants,
narrows down
And then I melt
in the empty
space of darkness.
Though I am
severed in two
no one cares.
Their leafless
bough
never blossoms!
Although they
strike root
seeped in my
blood
I am entangled
in python-coils
for ages.
Their venomous
hiss
turns my day
into night.
And when I
reach out for a sunray
it recedes far
away
like the end of
a dream
when the eyelid
is opened.
(Translated by
Charudatta Bhagwat)
----------------------------------------------------------
How?
By Bhau
Panchbhai
How do we taste
milk in this town
where trees are
planted of venom?
Enemies invite
nothing but enmity
How can we
share a drink of friendship?
How can I know
this town as my own
where workmen
are slaughtered daily?
How do I burn
to light the path
at this turn
where hutments
are set on fire?
They all
partake of fruits of faithlessness
How am I to
join such company?
Change your
cradle if you would
How do I twist
the shape of a newborn babe?
I see the clash
of prisoners
Trained in
schools of warfare
They die, how
am I to survive here?
(Translated by
Charudatta Bhagwat)
----------------------------------------------------------
White Paper
By Sharankumar
Limbale
I do not ask
for the sun and
moon your sky
your farm, your
land,
your high
houses or your mansions
I do not ask
for gods or rituals,
castes or sects
Or even for
your mother, sisters, daughters
I ask for
my rights as a
man.
Each breath
from my lungs
sets off a
violent trembling
in your texts
and traditions
your hells and
heavens
fearing
pollution.
Your arms leapt
together
To bring to
ruin our dwelling places.
You’ll beat me,
break me,
loot and burn
my habitation
But my friends!
How will you
tear down my words
planted like a
sun in the east?
My rights:
contagious caste riots
festering city
by city, village by village,
man by man
For that’s what
my rights are –
Sealed off,
outcast, road-blocked, exiled.
I want my
rights, give me my rights.
Will you deny
this incendiary state of things?
I’ll uproot the
scriptures like railway tracks.
Burn like a
city bus your lawless laws
My friends!
My rights are
rising like the sun.
Will you deny
this sunrise?
(Translated by
Priya Adarkar)
( Poisoned
Bread: Translations from Modern Marathi Dalit Literature, Arjun Dangle
(Ed.), Orient Longman Limited, 1992.)
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