Another rendezvous with Death

this time, when i went

to meet Death at his place,

he showed signs of weakness.

he was watching a cricket match

relaxing in his arm chair, legs stretched.

yawns kept rolling

in slow progression

towards the boundary.

`are you well?’ i ventured.

`nothing wrong,’ said he.

stammering, i quizzed him:

which one do you fear most?

allopathy, ayurveda, or

homeopathy?

dear wilson,

have you observed sachin

facing the balls of shane warne?

brian lara, wasim akram?

chris gail, brett lee?

i was thrown into confusion.

death admitted, unwillingly,

that like vivian richards

confronted narendra hirwani,

he was laid low by the

secret herb

of an old tribal man!

aaha! the panacea

became then

a spin ball!

(aaha…Nothing official about it!)

i forgot to ask

how our people

smuggled away by him

were faring now.

he forgot to comment

“you will see for yourself

when you face it.”

By Kuzhur Wilson

Trans by Ra Sh

photo - jude hill

Varghese has no home

Varghese has no home.

Stays in his workplace.

Jesus’s very own man.

Big rosary around his neck.

And a matching wooden cross.

He gardens around the yard

On days of no work.

Holds a deep grudge

Against the trees around.

Doomed are they the moment

His eyes settle on them.

Asked him once whether

His rancor was because

Jesus was crucified on wood.

Or, was it the wheezing that

the Acacia trees caused?

Or, was it the itchy worms

from the soft wood trees?

He said time and again

‘Brother, I love the trees

More than you love them.’

Have seen many times

The birds from the trees

Chopped down by Varghese

Looking for their nests.

Clearing the bushes along

The road to the office was

Varghese’s job for the day.

When I went out for a smoke

Glowing was he about

How the place gleamed.

Midnight, after work,

Was driving along the path

Shorn clean by Varghese.

In the blaze of the headlight

A hare dashed frantically

Looking for its bush.

(trans from Malayalam by  Ra Sh)

12 year old sky sea woods

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its congested patio,  

Beheld the sky

That sky spilled over the sky

Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately

We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school

Even after the last bell

The wind may blow any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Descried the sea

Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen

That sea overflowed the sea

The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”

We were

Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel

Though it is noon and he is hungry

The sea fish do not know

The grooves of tears and the little waterway

Rainclouds can arrive anytime

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window

Those woods got darker than woods 

Trees pretending to cavil for my being late

Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs

Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks

There are wounds that are hidden

A lightning can strike any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise

We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger

Argued

Prayed

Perused the holy book

Often, while no one watched,

We fed the dolls

Sung them lullabies

On these occasions,

I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke

Thereupon, between us

Sky sea  woods.

Translation : Anitha Varma

.

Not because I didn’t insist

Sorrow comes,

Goes

Happiness comes,

Goes

Love comes

Goes

Lust comes,

Goes

Wonder

Surprise

Hatred,

Love

Comes

Goes

It is not because

I do not press it

To stay awhile

Comes

Goes

Translation : Anitha Varma

The crossing

Was crossing the road

It is not like crossing anything else

A Trailer

Might partition into pieces

Or a Hummer,

In a second, make one a nonentity

Or a tin can of a vehicle

Take away your hand or leg.

Even if your last wish,

In case you have to die in an automobile crash,

Is that it should be the red lancer car you are very fond of,

Which court will listen?

On the other side of the road, there is a neem tree

Its dark green leaves are visible.

No, cannot see the bitterness,

But it is possible it is.

I have to cross the road.

Then

I have to stand a bit under the green on the other side

Those birds have to run away (no, not fly!)

And come back just the way they went.

What then? It is, after all, the road that was crossed,

Which is something!


While crossing the road, came a Trailer

Whose driver was a Tamilian

A Hummer came,

In which there was a father, his friend,

Mother and two kids

The kid was singing loudly

The friend was thinking about his girl friend

A rickety old tin can of a vehicle  too came

It was full of wine bottles

For the next century

What then?

Trailer was divided into many pieces

Hummer made one a nonentity in a second

The old vehicle took away two hands, one leg, and two ears.

Now the one who looks this way from the other side:

Is it the one who reached the other side,

Or the one who was standing here,

Or the one who crossed the road,

Or the one who has to return?

Translation : Anitha Varma

The day you came

The first day
God came face to face

Spring, in front of the tree
That had forgotten roots and leaves

The slender note of complaint
Made to its friends
By the cloud that got lost

The goddess’ voice
Unheard by any but water

The flower garden
In front of which
Grass grows with abandon

The darkened house
With cow dung – smeared floor

A cluster of moments
Of butterflies cavorting in the rain

The playhouse
Made of the wings of fireflies and moths

The seaside
Where camels enjoy the breeze

The forgotten oyster
The fry left
Under the sand

The praying hands
Of date palms
Which look upon earth from above

The wedding night
Inside the elephant shelter

Where ants frolic

A pinch of beaten rice,
Cooked, using only the twigs the pigeons bring

The anthology of words 
Read and re-read
In a hand-written letter

The translation of the moment
God couldn’t quite get

what could it have been?

Covered daughter with kisses..
She wept, alarmed

I heard the voice of God telling daughter,
” I didn’t understand anything either!”

Translation : Anitha Varma

2007 February 28

We met
In a deserted street
In Kabul, capital of Afghanistan, In the next incarnation.

Thereon,
A tee shirt , with the legend
“The lovers in this incarnation
Belonged to two populations
That were at war in the last one”
Walked by.

I realized that day
That your gaze
Was a bullet
Of hatred and vengeance
Left over from unabated fury
Even after firing six times that day

And you told me
That my words
Were like
The satisfaction of chopping repeatedly,
A body long dead

Still,
When you saw popcorn on the wayside,
Why did you offer to get it?
Why did you coo, ‘what’s wrong, dear’ when I sighed?
I am clueless!

you asked
How we separated
The first time it was because the flame flared up
When lighting a taper
Once it was because the phone rang while kissing.
There was some stain on my shirt when we met in a dream
.....
.......
For asking
For not asking
For calling, not calling,
For sighing,
For laughing, for whimpering,
For crying, for eating, for not eating,
For sending, for not wishing to send,
For going to the toilet
Without asking permission
For saying a prayer for mother and children

Must have died together on that day.
The anxiety was not
About who would look after you
If I died first,
But who all will look at you!

Must have killed
If not that, God would have interfered
Whatever the rock on which it is built,
God would upset it with an earthquake if nothing else.

God and His strange ways!


In the Afghan capital city of Kabul,
It is the same us who killed with love in this fashion


When you exclaimed
“How lovely this city is”,
I lighted another cigarette

This time, another tee shirt
With the legend “I am not even born”
Passes by


I remembered
The two lines you told me
in the last incarnation,
Four days before Christmas,
A Thursday evening,
At 5:41.
I laughed without telling you that.
You gave me a kiss.



Translation Anitha Varma

Dance

In the garden in Corniche

In the playground bound by a metal fence,

While the Arab teenage kicks the ball,

The feet of the Sudanese, sitting on the stone bench nearby

Start prickling;

Cries out that

For one who knows how to score goals,

The hunger to kick a ball

Is the ultimate one!

Me? I shall remain nameless!

The fisherman 

Whose whole body tingles

As he espies a shiver of gigantic sharks

Even while swimming for life, 

Having lost his boat and fishing net in the deluge,

The nun, whose breasts start secreting

As she watches a bawling baby,

Standing amidst toddlers of the nursery

The swimmer,

Who crawls through the desert

On camel-back

I do not ask for anything else

Just the ball and the opposition

Let a thousand, or, tens of thousands, come

Let the goal-mouth

Be miles distant,

I do not ask for anything else

Once, while carrying a load of cement

On the tenth floor,

For a moment,

A moment,

The sun tempted, as a huge ball.

The scar of the beating received

While dribbling the sun on the sky meadow

Remains on the back..

There are balls anyone can play with.

No, all surges ahead

Do not end in goals.

There are no games that do not have ‘foul’ -

Even in dreams.

There are no Arab children

In the playground now.

Jut the ball, ball, ball alone.

It scurries hither and thither

By itself,

Races outside,

Speeds towards the goal-mouth,

Sometimes ducks out of sight.

Very privately,

And even more secretly,

Ball smiled at me.

A shudder of incarnations

In my toes.

As soon as the ball and feet

Left the playground,

Two legs

Started dancing,

Betwixt twilight and night.

Translation / Anitha Varma