TWO POEMS
By SUBRAMANYA BHARATI
(Translated
from Tamil by P. S. Sundaram)
KANNAN,
MY BELOVED
“Sleep
and Vigil”
So
late, beside yourselves, and wide awake,
The
racket you make!
At
dead of night, when even thieves would snore,
What
an uproar!
You
have roused the town shouting to each other...
Forgot
I’ve a mother...
With
your sapient chatter over odds and ends,
You
disgust me, friends.
I
have endured all this for long...but the curse
Is
daily worse:
“Nani’s plait a crook back-pulled,
and pell mell
Her
flowers fell;
“An
elephant ran amok, red the town painted...
And
Anji fainted;”
“Rohini ate up all the butter in the pot...
A
bell, ache got;”
“Ten
urchins found Patni on a field, and kissed her...
Not
one missed her;”
“An
astrologer promised Natthi’s daughter various things,
Including forty kings!”
“A
maimed Malayalee at Kovini
gloated and glared,
Got
her quite scared;”
“Back
home is good-for-nothing Vidya, pretentious wench,
With her German and French!”
The
tales you tell! The lies! Stale pkes and cheap!
They’ve
spoilt my sleep.
For
God’s sake, tie up all the flutes,
Drums and lutes.
Put
out the lights, except that one, very small,
Which
turn to the wall.
And
leave me alone, to get such rest as I might.
Go
home. Good night!
(After
they have departed)
But
what sleep can I get until I see my lord,
Kannan, my God?
The
girls have left. My beloved must be waiting and awake,
For my sake.
“Near
that hedge, at the corner of
We
shall meet,”
He
said. What odds these eyes will never close in rest
Till
I’ve clapped him to my breast?
KANNAMMA,
MY BELOVED
“Off
with that Veil”
The
Muslims of Delhi, dear, it’s them you must thank
For
this outlandish fashion of veiling the face;
Wasp
waist and a figure that is full and alluring,
They
sure must be clothed and confined in their place;
Wasp
waist and a figure that is full and alluring,
No
clothing or cincture can spoil their grace:
But
who can make love when only words are allowed,
And
the face is a splendour cut off by a cloud?
You
talk of old ways and Aryan excellence.
Which
Aryan girl ever was a walking screen?
We
have met and have spoken, the ice is now broken;
This
silly convention still, what does it mean?
No
longer uncertain, if I pull off this curtain,
No
sensible creature will obstruct me, I ween:
Parsnips
are not buttered with fine words and feeling–
With
an orange in hand, should I fight shy of peeling?
[Note: Bharati the poet of patriotism is well-known, also Bharati the poet .of love. Not many people who know him only in translations are likely to know about his sense of humour and his jolly unconventionality. That is the special interest of these two poems. –Translator]