H.S.Venkatesha Murthy (b.1945) is a Kannada poet, playwright, and critic. He was Professor of Kannada in a college in Bangalore.
1. ELECTRIC LIGHTS COMES TO PUTTALLI
Children wake up run a rope round the pulley
Of the jasmine well and water laughs
Birds preen their wings, something flashes
In the field and urchins play chinni dandu
Near the river
Carts silently descend in the distance
Cart behind cart behind cart behind cart
As the sun climbs the sky shadows lean
Water warms in the river the rays pour
All over bald heads and down down down
Come people in carts magical people
wearing blue
Bringing poles the whole length of the carts
Stretching before and behind
Weird calculations at the edge of the brain
Scratching at wonder a few of deep things
At the fingertips
Climbing them with eyes-speaking silent meanings
The people wearing blue bring down the poles
Balance them from street to street multiplying
Numbers and leaving boot prints without toe
Snake-hood patterns in the dirt
Uncoiling a coil of copper digging pits
Planting poles pouring salt pouring water
Burying a meaning in a language no one knows there
Leaving not a street alley corner or turning
They spread a net of wire
Grow long shadow as the day declines
Becoming night with anxiety`s nets of wire below
Crowds gather as at a fair mouths gaping
Standing rooted like the rows
Of electric poles
Even as they look on the blue ones suddenly
Laugh climb up and up on the poles the blue people
Become specks and melt away in the blue
(Translated by A. K. Ramanujan)
2. THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT
When you see a lonely fruit on a lonely tree,
Do not pluck it. Eating it is totally
Fobidden. Long ago there was a strange
Ascetic. Kanva was his name. From birth
He lived on just one kind of fruit, a rare
Variety of the Nerile tree that bore a single
Fruit in a whole year. He lay beneath the tree
Hibernating, eating nothing. Once a year he
woke up, ate the single ripe fruit and lost
Himself in unbroken meditation. Unknowingly,
Bhima plucked the fruit from the tree and caused
Untold suffering to his family. Once the chain
Of life was broken, it was the end for every
One, the Ascetic, the Nerile tree, and the Pandavas
Themselves. That is why Krishna said, never pluck
The single fruit on the single tree. Eat it
And you will commit an unforgivable sin like the
Killing of Kanva. So, before you eat a fruit, read
With all the care at your command, the name
Of the rightful owner inscribed on the fruit
In secret and unfamiliar script.
(English version by G. S. Amur)
3. ONE PLUS ONE IS
You would surely have heard the name
Of Vaikom, the Muslim writer from Kerala.
A great story-teller like our own Masti.
And you would have read his stories--
Patuma`s Goat, Childhood Friend,
Chambers of Memory and others. Devoted
Follower of Gandhiji throughout his life,
Worked for Hindu-Muslim unity. From his
Childhood he loved places where branches
Of river merged. His teacher asks him
Once: "O Basheera, how much will it be
If one is added to one?" "Two", others
Answer. But Vaikom says, "Sir, if one joins
One , the result will be a big one."
(English version by G. S. Amur)
4. IT IS SO EVEN NOW
I cannot believe she has gone away.
Forget M. G. Road, she never went
Even to Gandhi Bazar alone. Picnic
Or clinic we went together along
With our little quarrels. Films, plays,
Ramanavami concerts in Bangalore, I
had to be by her side. So, how could
She have gone alone to an unknown
Place, swinging her left arm as usual?
Who could help her if she lost her balance
While walking? She loves to be on
Crowded roads. My preference is for dusky
Tree-lined streets. Talk of temples,
She would step out of the house with her
Chappals on. I would still be searching
For car-keys inside. I think evn now
She would be waiting for me at the bend
Of the street, muttering to herself
That once I have a book in my hands
I would forget the rest of the world.
(Translated by G. S. Amur)
5. THE CRY OF A NO NAME BIRD
I heard this ghastly cry
when I was wandering alone
in a lush and thick rainforest.
In the darkness rendered by the green
my aimless wandering is an
exploration of myself.
I am no different. Believer of the winner takes all.
This forest and everything inside of it
is for me, to enjoy it full.
This sad pitch, the pain melting cry is
not a match to my delight. Is not a
rhythm to my happiness....
This cry and its echo is
not a peasant one to hear, is not enjoyable for sure,
but, can touch your heart and make it sour.
How can I be without tracing it?
I followed the cry to its mystic world
a small black bird in a thorny bush.
I do not know its name; probably it does not have one.
But, its cry is communicating the pain it had
for centuries with unending memories.
It is angry.
It is desperate.
It is outside this world.
The tear drops are still warm;
even after centuries
they glint like diamonds;
shine like stars in the cloudless open sky.
They look harmless; but
may explode at any time on my face.
(Translated by M. R. Dattatri)
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