Suman Keshri (15 July 1958), is an
essential name of contemporary Hindi poetry. Her collection of poetry
(YAGYAVALKYA SE BAHAS) is published by Rajkamal Prakashan, New Delhi ( 2008).
E mail : sumankeshari@gmail.com
Translator's Note :
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| Aparna Bhagwat |
Draupadi
How do I introduce myself?
Have you ever realized-
Dropadi, Panchali, Krishna and Yagyaseny
are all adjectives or conjunctions and not one of these is
a proper noun!
Father had rather wished for a warrior to avenge
Dronacharya
Astonishing/ surprising everyone I followed
Drishtdunm
all at once from the Yagya-agni
The one's who were not thought worthy of land measuring a
niddle -point,
blame me for the death of millions
they have spun several stories around me
only because never did I cry
nor ever lamented
not even before Kunti –Ma
who distributed me amongst her five sons
nor in the Kurusabha
where I was left alone
inspite of my five husbands
History is witness
That I only raised some questions and
You deprived me even of my name!
Tomorrow
Have you ever seen tomorrow ?
I asked Tathagat
What else have I known?
answered He with a faint smile.
Woman
(By) Spreading her Chunri on the hot burning sand in the
desert
placing a pot-full water with roties over it
shadowing eyes with her palm
woman has built
a home
Just beneath the Sun.
A woman lives by excuses
A woman lives by excuses.
When she’s tired, sewing or weaving is the excuse,
sorting grain, shelling peas is the excuse.
To close her eyes for a few minutes,
counting prayer-beads is the excuse,
listening to Ramayana or Bhagavata the excuse.
[or “listening to the holy scriptures”]
To get out of the house, visiting the temple is her excuse,
buying vegetables, bangles or okra her excuse,
bringing the children to school her excuse,
taking the baby for a ride in the pram her excuse.
To sleep, putting the child to bed is her excuse.
To sing, offering a lullaby is her excuse.
To cry, chopping onions is her excuse .
To adorn herself, husband and relatives are her excuse.
To live, the needs of others are her excuse.
A woman has to search
for her own existence.
Thus she lives her life.
a woman lives by excuses.
(Translated from Hindi by Linda Hess)
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| Linda Hess |
Dr.Linda Hess is a scholar, writer,and a lover of Kabir. She began her travels to India in the 1960s and has been studying and translating the poetry of Kabir since the 1970s. She is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Religious Studies at Stanford University.
KRISHNAA-
Call myself – Krishnaa,
from the roof top!
I can never forget my woeful cries in the Kurusabha,
And your yearning
To cover me up…
Ah! Those moments changed me!
Oh Krishna, I have always loved you and only you,
And you are my sole friend!
You said -
“Arjun is my friend, my image, my devotee,
You be his."
And I became his.
You told me -
"The mother has divided you between her five sons,
You get divided"
I splitted myself amidst them all.
You stated -
"Subhadra is dear to Arjun,
Accept her.”
And I embraced her into our lives.
Dear, all this was done ….because,
You are my soul mate.
And to do so…
Is what love is all about!
Everybody talks of my love for Arjun
Which gave me the frost bite,
But I know for sure,
That you made me stay behind .
I still lie there, O Beloved!
Listening to your flute - the anhad naad* …
O my eternal love…
(* Anhad naad - It is an internal sound within the body, signifying the spiritual growth at that level(Anahata),there are ten types of sound a spiritual practitioner hears within him/herself known as Dashavida nada,such as the sound of a blowing of conch cell(shankha nada),of flute(venu nada),of bell(ghantha nada),of drums,of strings instrument(veena),of trumpet(shehanai),of thunder,of water flow and so on.Hearing such sounds are a sign of spiritual growth)
AT A DEFINITE TIME.
She wakes up at a definite time,
Shirking
the longing to turn over and wrap herself in a quilt,
She
sits up, popping her knuckles.
Her
feet feel for her slippers and find them,
and
by the time she is up,
her
accustomed fingers,
have
already rolled her tresses into a neat bun.
Life
runs like clockwork for her,
ceaselessly,
to
heat the water for tea,
to
cook the dal,
to
toast a bread or a parantha,
everything
is clearly defined,
and
to be carried out punctually.
Having
bathed at the fixed time
with
flowers decked in her hair
bindi
on her forehead
she
flits about her door
like
a restless bird
At
a fixed time!
In
this life of precise routine
the
only uncertain thing is
talking
with and listening to herself.
she
does not even remember
the
sound of her voice…
would
she recognise
who
this is
if
confronted
with
herself ?
IN AN UNKNOWN ANTICIPATION
It was a strange incident!
While passing by a hillock yesterday,
A droplet on a leaf,
Called out and accompanied me.
I wonder if it was a dewdrop,
Or a tear drop from someone’s eye?
Has it ceased existing or does it still survive?
Present in this constitution,
In an unknown form,
And in some un-apprehended hope……
It was a strange incident!
While passing by a hillock yesterday,
A droplet on a leaf,
Called out and accompanied me.
I wonder if it was a dewdrop,
Or a tear drop from someone’s eye?
Has it ceased existing or does it still survive?
Present in this constitution,
In an unknown form,
And in some un-apprehended hope……
IT WASN’T….
No! Not the piping!
How come the cuckoo,
Warbles so early in the morning!
Hidden among the mango leaves and
blossoms,
It was neither an echoing,
Nor an alluring, lusty call.
It was infact, an edgy, uncomfortable
cry,
Waiting,
Calling out,
To the unknown?
The serene skies,
And the quietude,
No birds twittering,
No wails of some distressed child.
Maybe it was a cuckoo obscured,
Concealed by the leaves and the
blossoms,
Of a lonely tree,
And the way it screeched –
Neither was it piping…nor a tweeting!
LISTEN… MY DAUGHTER
Listen !,My daughter
I fly across the window,
Like a bird…
You watch me –
Giggling and clapping
The lights, in which,
The bird’s feathers would turn,
Into a rainbow
Just like it happens in the world of
tales..
Listening to the tales, my daughter,
Just watch this bird
Flying in the sky.
Learn - to spread your arms wide apart,
And also to hop on your toes.
See how a bird is created .
Listen !,My daughter
I fly across the window
You come…
(Translated from Hindi by Aparna Bhagwat)
Aparna Bhagwat is an ex-lecturer of Cytology. Deeply spiritual by nature, she is an avid reader and indulges in her passion of writing and translating literature of both Marathi and Hindi languages.
Paintings : Ramkumar
