Vedanti helidanu (Sage and the poet)

An accomplice sent in lyrics of a song from a Puttanna Kanagal movie Maanasa Sarovara and asked me if I could try translating it into English. The song showcases some disapproving views of a sage on materialistic life, women and luxuries juxtaposed with romantic, optimistic views of a poet on the same.

Vedanti helidanu, honnella maNNu maNNu,
kaviyobba haadidanu, maNNella honnu honnu.

Vedanti helidanu, ee heNNu maaye maaye,
kaviyobba kanavarisidanu, hoon ivale cheluve cheluve,
ivaLa joteyalli naa swargavane gelluve,
naa swargavane gelluve.

Vedanti helidanu, ee baduku shunya shunya,
kavi nintu saaridanu, ooo idu alla shunya,
janma janmadi savide naaneshtu dhanya dhanya,
naaneshtu dhanya dhanya.

I tried using the same pattern as in the original, which appeared to follow a sort of dismissive, direct one liners for the vedanti and a slightly more detailed, happy counter arguments from the kavi. Regretting any injustice to the original, here's an attempt at translation:

Said the wise one, gold just is mud, worthless muck;
Sang, the poet, soil is gold, precious, priceless gold;

Said the wise one, woman, an enigma is she, a mystery;
In romantic trance, soliloquized the poet,
yes, she’s the moon, the radiant moon;
with her, win the world over, will I,
reign supreme, will I.

Denounced the wise one, this existence is void of essence, shorn of substance;
The poet, he announced,
Oh, hollow, this is not,
for, I have relished, transcending all births;
fortunate, am I, so privileged am I.

Contentment

More often than not,
a work of art,
just is.

Expecting of it,
to deliver explicit,
meaning or message,
consolation or solution,
is just not,
justice.

Miscommunication

Between us and a romantic confluence,
stood like a dam,
our personas,
child-like hers and uncle-like mine.

I try to give in,
render songs of love;
my intentions, timid but clear.
I get told "nice to hear".

Most of me tends to agree,
that appreciation in place of reciprocation,
isn’t after all,
an inhumane bargain.

The weeping womb

Passionate days, passionate nights,

week long, month long intercourses

and thus I was born.

Joyous, he welcomed me,

nourishing and nurturing me

dutifully in his womb.

But times, they changed.

Infidel, he began sinning with a vamp,

falling prey to her trap.

Now, impregnated into the same womb

is their offspring.

Feasting on his unlimited supplies,

the new one grins at me as I starve.

Choking me, he whispers into my ears,

'to thwart you and abort you am I here,

farewell you silly dream... my name's fear'.

The beginning of...

Scene: UVCE college, front foyer - an open space cordoned off by the library and rows of classrooms and offices.

It generally stays empty, thanks to the rule prohibiting students sitting or forming groups in the place. And since its a govt college, it retires quite early almost everyday. It would be tough finding a person or 2 by 4PM.

Its a weekday, around 8 in the night and the foyer is almost full, bursting with students.

'Perot Systems' have just conducted their written round of tests for campus selection. I'm seated in a corner of a corridor with a bunch of friends. I know very clearly the outcome of my test for I've confidently messed it up. We are sitting there, discussing random topics - formula1, rock music, Applied Thermodynamics, adult movies, C++... and what not! While some in the gang are their usual self, a few others look almost lost. They do blurt out a word every now and then, but they primarily appear pre-occupied.

I found the scene very interesting. An attempt to give a poetic account of it...

Shedding its usual nakedness,

the place appeared draped in a polka dotted gown.

People, people and more people,

sat there in a state of conscious coma,

fixed and settled like the dyed dots on the gown.

The night was dimly lit,

by the prayers,

those said silently inside,

and the others said aloud outside.

Hopes hung everywhere,

like bats and spiralling cobwebs,

cautiously balancing between imagination and practicality.

Eager souls awaited,

what could be called, a predictable twist of fate.

The chanting mouths longed,

for success' sweet taste.

The judgement,

the announcement arrives,

like a sudden downpour,

bringing soothing bliss to some

and flooding sorrows to the others.

The ambience transforms into little muddy pools;

in them sadness sediments slowly.

We are all hitch-hikers on this road,

this road called life.

If accompanied by the fortune fairy,

one gets a ride to destination.

But what if not... dont bother to worry.

we will walk our way...

haiku

Monsoon:
Orphaned old lady in dire poverty
is dressed in a rich bright green velvet gown;
An abandoned well.

Kalai:
Asayaamal, amiedhiyaay amarndhirundhu, ivvoviyan
en nenjai thodum oviyangal theetugiraan;
Sattai pyeyill viethirindha yen ink pena.

loosely translated into:

Art:
Unmoved, sits this artist in silence,
and does paintings that touch my heart;
The ink pen in my shirt pocket.

Sudd-Suddenly #2

9:30AM. Turned on computer at work and put on earphones.

Awake.
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.

A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us…

The doors opened… I was transcended.

Red she now stands tainted in

Red she now stands tainted in.

Brutally scathed by two groups,
She appears ragged,
Smeared all over with red stains,
Stains of dirty red,
Stains of ugly red.


Group 1 -
Armed with heavy artillery,
bombs and sophisticated guns,
And fuelled by a brain-washed mind,
Shooting almost at ranges point blank,
They left her belly wounded and bleeding,
A horrific red,
An inhumane red.


Group 2 -
They shot, too.
Wielding weapons of a varied kind,
Driven by a brain-washed-off-all-sensitivities mind.
Earlier, a quick-fire conference had been summoned,
“the prime motive, I want us all to comprehend,
is that in the issue’s vigorous and relentless coverage
our ‘Terrorism Roko Pracharan’ we will aim to boost and leverage.
Cash-in Now News-brigade, Infiltrate Bombay’s Nerves.
Times Now Right-here, to present the never-before-seen
Nauseating-levels of Dramatized Terror Viewing.
infuse fear in the mind of the common man... to the TV sets, may he be stuck.
to step out, scared stiff should he be, like he has never been Aaj Tak.
and do remember the rule of the day… only flash news and breaking Headlines Today.
happy hunting!!!” they hi-five’d and dispersed.
Operating well beyond the point of cerebral-space-gone-blank.
sucking in anything seen around,
it, they cut, chopped, grated and ground,
chewed, chewed and chewed
and then on her, spat and spewed,
leaving her doused in red scum,
A cheap red.
A filthy red.


And then the great Indian circus trick,
Performed by a bunch of powerful political pricks.
One party cries foul over the other being ‘soft on terror’,
The accused scramble for a scapegoat to sacrifice,
in a desperate effort to cover up a costly error.
The spotlight falls on one… ageing but not ill,
The man known by many as ‘the one who’s always dressed to kill’.
“we know its difficult for you wise guy,
but looks like its become impossible for them to stand your banter
and this time they are all over us you see.. left, right and centre.”
“This doesn’t suit you well anymore” they go on to say,
“But if you aren’t sent home now… we just don’t stand a chance to stay”.

Yes… we have all shamelessly grown thick-skinned,
Sick of continuously getting ripped and skinned.
For we all know… those with power,
Blame games they will continue to play,
Bloody lame games that they always play.

Bright and vibrant colours,
well known for these has she always been,
But with colours having become filthy, fake and deceptive,
The need has now risen for her to come clean.
Let us all go colourless for a while,
no saffron… no green… no white…
And bring to a halt the grinding wheel of supremacy fight.

PS: inspirations to this post - RS's, KA’s and GS's

An SMS epitaph

My new mobile had a fall,

simple and clean,

landing flat on its screen.

Streaks of bright yellow and green,

are all that is left to be seen.

beep, beep,

weep, weep...

Rest in peace.

Desire

The eyes met.
A few moments passed, gazes still glued.
Within, emotions swelled... joy and desire, guilt and fear,
an intoxicating concoction of pleasure,
high on which, did the eyes dilate and shimmer.

The lips, they remained still... a shy stillness.

Then...
like the tiny glow, from behind a veil, of a lass' eyes,
born was a ray of light, her lips when they gently moved,
and there, tenderly sprouted, a little smile.

(This is a translation of ‘Eerpu’ posted earlier)

A spore of fire

Well… I’m back to what I do the best… brood.

Not that I haven’t been doing this at all. Actually I do keep brooding most of the time, at every opportunity my mind feels a bit untied and temporarily disconnected from everything happening around. But, using a technical term (and since I have also been attempting some ‘subject-surface-scratching’ - trying to understand some very basics of the subject matter I have been handling for more than 2 years now) this can be called ‘implicit brooding’! Here you brood, but only within. Yes, I acknowledge that brooding is by itself an ‘internal phenomenon’, pretty much concealed from the external appearance. But the implicit variety is like going another shell or another layer inside. Call it ‘inner-internal-phenomenon’ if that makes things simpler or sounds acceptable. You are so bogged down by activities/tasks/things/duties that you are left with very little time to devote to anything else. And so you brood in gaps/intervals/breaks/pauses, only for a few moments before you are rewound and catapulted back to reality.

And then there is the other, the grand, independent, carefree, unperturbed sort – ‘explicit brooding’! The state of mind where the foremost slot of application of the mind is allocated to brooding, second to none. It drives the machine and everything else rides pillion. Lets call it ‘outer-internal-phenomenon’ to stay inline with the other variety’s description.

If you consider yourself a seasoned brooder, you will at once recognize this to be an activity which aids in attaining supreme mental satisfaction. To me, this is the satisfaction arising from a session of analyzing and streamlining emotions. Happiness, sorrow, confusion, complacency, inspiration…everything appears to distill down to a solitary feeling of anger, which in turn fuels a craving for creativity, fuels a drive to do only things I want to do and not need to do and fuels the urge to attempt that big-leap, from what appears like the bottom of the pit currently.

Agni kunjodru kanden,

Adhei angoru kaattilo pondhidie veithen,

Vendhu thanindhadhu kaadu,

Thazhal veeraththil kunjendrum moopendrum undo?

A spore of fire did I sight,

It, in the dense of a forest did I hide,

Burn down to ashes, did the forest.

In their blistering rage, can one say a spore of fire from a blaze?

Eerppu

Vizhigal saendhana,

sila vinaadigal inaindhu ondraga nindrana,

ullangal irendilum perugi ezhundha aanandhatthil

kangal virindhana... jolitthana.

Udhadugalo… vetkathil asayamal nindrana.

Piragu,

mugavalaikkupin maraindhirindhu

siru oliyaai thondrum oru azhagiyin kangalaipol,

aval udhudugal sattre vilagiyadhu,

oliyin oru bimbam angu uyir kondadhu,

siru punnagai ondru angu mottu vittadhu.

The Clockfools

He pulls the blanket
past his eyes, and over his head.
he recalls the nights
when he slept cozily, curled up in his bed.
he seeks that silence,
he searches for that stillness,
he closes his eyes,
those blood-shot in the battle against sleeplessness.

Into a deep slumber, his mind he tries to thrust,
futile, he twitches and turns,
unable to overcome its state of unrest.
desperate, he sings himself a silent lullaby,
as louder grows the day's bustle,
he hears a school kid shouting "mummy...bye bye".

He is just one of them,
among the many thousands,
the ever growing group of the clockfools.
those who live by the clocks of far off lands,
their own, ticking, not clockwise,
but in what seemed, a clock-fool way.
fooling the sun and the moon,
fooling their own days and nights,
they fool themselves
of the hours dark and bright.

As he lies, still in the quest,
he sees sleep coming, still a little distant,
he thinks about his life, the way
his career seems to have begun, hitting rock bottom.
he hears his father waking up the gods,
busily chanting the venkatesa suprabaatham.