A MALAYALAM QUARTET
[The
Indian Institute of World Culture,
One
bunch of poems in Kannada read at that Meet was published in Triveni in
the July issue, 1956.
Here
are 4 items of poets read on that occasion from Malayalam, prepared by Mahakavi G. Sankara Kurup and presenting 3 poets, Chamgampuzha,
N. V. Krishna Wariyar and Kurup
himself.
Poetry
must be read and heard in the original language in which it is composed to make
full communication. But since all cannot learn all the languages of our
country, one has to be content with translations. It is lucky that very
competent translators have rendered these poems so as to help us get the very
pulsations of the originals. I hope they will commend themselves to the readers
of Triveni, which in its career has specialised
in fostering friendly contacts between the many linguistic and cultural groups
in
V.
Sitaramiah.]
(Translated
by Balakrishnan, B. A. (Hons.))
When
I am dead
And
my body is dissolved into its elements,
One
moon-flooded night
A
pair of nightingales would nestle close on a flower-laden branch,
And
gazing at my tomb
Would sing a-sobbing.
“Stars,
do you see this,
The Tomb below?
You,
who hail from afar,
Alas!
what do you know of its inner secrets?
When
night’s flowers bloom
And
waft their scents all over,
When
snow-clad moonlight dances enchanted,
Slowly,
slowly from the tomb arises
The
throbbing of a broken heart!
And,
when, like white doves,
You
close your wngs and gaze silent,
Out
of these throbs would arise
A
painful melody:
‘Tho’ I lie turned to dust,
Each
particle of mine
Dances
in a trance
Singing in praise of you.’
Tell
us, O Stars, tell us!
Are
there in your far-off land
A revelry so grand?
That
day too, at sundown,
God
Almighty went for his evening walk by the seashore,
Loose
shirt dangling,
Silk
dhoti, walking-stick and all–
They
took him for a pensioned Tahsildar.
Shrinking
from the rushing cars, he walked
Muffling his nose with kerchief to keep off dust.
He
stops. The sky darkens to the mounting clouds
There
in the east, not the gay banner,
But
gayer still the many-coloured rainbow,
One
end stuck to the ramshackle roof of the bazaar
The other vanishing beyond the coconut grove.
The
Lord was reminded
Of His promise to Noah at the end of the first great flood.
The
eternal promise
To the earth, to man and to all things living and
non-living.
Remembered
He,
His planting the rainbow in the cloud,
Monument to his promise.
To
men, their progeny and their livestock,
To
the birds of the air and the beasts of the wild,
To
all creatures that crossed the flood in the great
Was
this promise made.
Was
the contract redeemed?
The
Lord stood thinking,
Should
He fulfil His promise eternal.
He
gazed around to see
If
there be any one earth
Of that old race of men.
Whither
had gone that fire in the eye, that stalwart stature,
That
loftiness of mind, that abounding piety!
These
scampering weaklings, these little men,
Are
they the inheritors of the Brave Old Noah?
Where
the sweet-throated beds of golden plumage,
Where
the wild revels of the quadrupeds,
Where
those green meadows, the deep forests?
This
dry inconsequent globe,–
Is
this the same?
God
withdrew the rainbow from the cloud,
Silently, unhesitatingly.
While
he walked on
Did
anybody observe
The wondrous beauty of the new stick in the old Tahsildar’s hand?
Man,
as he picked up the discarded cane on the beach,
Missed not the rainbow, in his high glee.
(Translated
by V. Sreedhara Menon)
“O
little breeze
Whom
dost thou seek
Impatient and love-lorn?”
Asked the poet.
“No
respite
No
other thought;
You
run wild and crazy
I
Day and night;
The
frail flowers of the field
Stand
bewildered
At your mad career.
Is
it not your love’s name
That
you murmur fitfully
Indistinctly?
Is
it not love’s intoxicant
That
makes you
Unsteady?
None
other is blessed
With
such ecstatic madness,
Truly
I
do envy you.
Seek
my friend, seek,
Heed
not the laughter
Of
the bamboo groove,
Hollow and silly.”
Fondly
caressing me
In
faltering tones,
The
breeze replied,
Sighing,
“Friend,
you have not guessed
Wrongly.
Vainly
do I wander
For a glimpse of my beloved.
It
is long since we parted,
But
ever-wakeful memory
Goads me on.
In
the primal morn,
When
I woke,
The
earth and the sky
Stood
eye to eye,
Dumb
with grief.
Alas!
My beloved had flown
From
my arms,
Perchance
to test
The
faith and force
Of my love.
A
starry flower or two
Had
fallen from her tresses
As
hurriedly she left.
The
tinkling of her anklets
I
heard.
Methought it was the
early birds.
Her
crimson foot-prints
I
took for the blush of dawn.
The
shining ring,
Slipt from her hand,
Cheated
me as the crescent moon,
Fool
that I was!
Her
silken Kerchief
I
did not cherish,
Thinking
it was
A wisp of cloud.
Nor
did I kiss
The
hem of the ruffled garment,
Mistaking
it for
The ruddy rolling sea.
From
then on,
Regardless
of me,
I
have been wandering
In quest of my soul’s effulgent joy.
Is
none that has seen.
Those
that claim to have seen
Have seen not. To see
I
myself should strive.
Some
there be
That deny the very existence
Of the fair one whom I seek.
Believe
them I cannot.
The
fragrance
Of
her sweet face
I
breathe in the
Fresh
jasmine blooms.
When
I put my thirsty lips
To
the pool
I
am reminded
Of the cool touch of her cheeks.
How
can the mind be drunk
With
remembrance,
If
the dear one I seek
Is
a lie?
Not
in the arms of the tender-leaved vines,
Nor
on the spotless beds of snow
Do
I find peace.
Sometime
I may meet
My darling. Hope sustains.
Weary
and faint, at dead of night,
Oft
do I fall in the solitude of the wild.
Softly
my beloved steals
To
my side,
Fondles me with balmy hands.
I
start in sudden joy,
To weep, to weep alone.
Rousing
the slumbrous sea I pray,
‘O
friend tell me where my beloved is
Grinning
with foamy teeth
He
dissolves in laughter
Taking
poor me perhaps for mad.
How
often have I not asked in anguish
The ancient trees.
Shaking
their shaggy heads
Trembling
from root to top
They
repeat,
‘We’ve
not seen, not we.’
The
eternal hills,
Wrapt in meditation,
Pointed
at the skies,
While I lay wailing in their laps.
The
skies spelt ignorance
By their silence. Is it to be endless,
The torture of my longing?
I
wonder!”
By
G. SANKARA KURUP
(Translated
by T. K. Balakrishnan)
Ephemeral
Moment!
Thief,
Who
sucks the honey off The life-flower
And
gently floats away!
How
my fancy, elegant and simple,
Longs
to trap your tissue-wings in her tremulous finger-tips!
Do
not deceive her who yearns
To
crush you with kisses to her heart!
Let
her with words–silk-soft threads–
Painlessly
bind your feet fragile.
Let
her in all innocent impatience
Scrutinize
your tender wings.
Was
not
This
infinte variety of colours
on your tear-wet wings mixed
From
the numerous passions,
Pigments of mortal minds?
On
your rainbow-wings are projected
The
transient moods of the human mind,
The
sweet yearnings of the soul,
Vibrant with desires.
These
tiny moments!
Before
me they come
And
vanish behind
With lightning-surpassing speed.
These
tiny moments!
Each
unique, varied!
Whence
do they come and whither go so quickly,
Whilst
my fancy gazes, dumbfounded, deceived,
Now
thro’ smiles, now thro’ fears,
At
the scale-dust of remembrance off your wings, sticking soft on her finger-tips
Ephemeral
Moment!
Unless
you fly, flapping your tiny wings,
Would
there be,
On
Earth or in the Heavens,
These innumerable pulsations of life?
Actions!
Would they search
For
their own reactions, like a cow her calf,
To embrace them?
Let
the fear in the sinner’s heart, fanned by your tiny wings,
Spout
like a giant flame!
Ephemeral
Moment!
When
you flap your tiny wings,
The
infinite, the universe, moves forth with immense speed.
Each
flap echoes differently
In different hearts.
And,
like some distant drums rolling,
Provides
Incidental
music to the March of life,
Trudging
along Karma’s path,
Trampling births and deaths.
Fluttering
Moments!
You
come so swiftly,
Each in the wake of the other, almost touching.
Is
not this wondrous firmament
But
the shadow cast by your wings?
What
we see as True, Real, Stationary–
Ah!
It is but a bewitching illusion.
The
stars, like frost, tremble
When you flap your tiny wings.
And
the hoodlum empire of pride, built by human might,
Shudders
and sways in the wind like some ragged cobweb,
When you flap your tiny wings.
What
If
the withering flowers of life fall, when you flap your wings?
For
a hundred thousand beauties are evolved
And
put forth their buds!
What
If the Sun, who brightens the Sky, burns out?
The
creative Cosmic Force would
Strike
fire out of cinders burnt black!
And
in this light and warmth
Life
would spark anew!
Ephemeral
Moment!
Adieu!
Speed
you now ere my tears, long suppressed,
Wet
your wings numb.
But
before you go, let me scribble on your wings
A
message for Beauty
Whose
embrace I painfully yearn for:
“How
long, how long,
Must
I wait in dreamy imagination
To realize thee!”