The moon came over the mountain he climbed the mountain and left
Here, right here, he stood he was there silently he looked like he was running he moved like he was coming down
The moon left over the mountain he climbed the mountain and came
He was playing in a silence, washing his face-of-light a moon-dot was on his forehead – it was a summer’s night
The moon came over the mountain he climbed the mountain and left
He rose from the clouds’s thisside he slept between the clouds waking, suddenly, he turned into a child that laughed
The moon left over the mountain he climbed the mountain and came
the moon came over the mountain he saw a rabbit kid
Quietly – slowly – he said come, he gently picked it up (the wind swung in the sky) rock, my darling, rock – isn’t the world a sight!
The traveller came over the mountain he climbed the mountain and left in the terrace of the sky above is the rabbit with the moon
Afterword:
Not too long ago, I published a translation of Vaidehi’s well-known poem, ‘ತಿಳಿದವರೇ … ಹೇಳಿ (You who clearly know … tell me)“, in which she professes to knowing much more about ತಿಳಿಸಾರು (tiḷisaaru: ~ clear saaru) than poetry. While that poem is obviously satirically self-deprecating and the poem’s conceit is clearly feminist, I am actually inclined to agree with Vaidehi’s assessment – speaking strictly in terms of “lyric poetry”. What I mean is: very few of Vaidehi’s poems would qualify as lyric poems, which are the kind of poems I like best (but which are, especially in today’s modernist or post-modernist or whatever times, perhaps the hardest kind of poems to write). From what I can tell, most of Vaidehi’s poems are “free verse” poems – almost prose-like actually. (This isn’t to say that Vaidehi is capable of writing lyric poetry – the sensitive nature of her prose is proof that she has the necessary sensibility.)
In any case, this particular poem is one of Vaidehi’s few lyrical poems (in that it moves to a rhythm). Perhaps the poem allows for a deeper reading, but from what I can tell, it seems to be a poem for children – which, then, explains its rhythmic nature. It’s also why I chose to sing rather than recite it.
This is a translation of a poem by K. S. Narasimhaswamy (ಕೆ. ಎಸ್. ನರಸಿಂಹಸ್ವಾಮಿ), one of the greatest poets of 20th-century Kannada literature. I remember reading somewhere – but I can’t find where now – that a well-known and respected Kannada literary and cultural critic called Bendre, Narasimhaswamy, Adiga, and one other poet (Kambar?) the four major poets of 20th-century Kannada literature.
While it goes without saying that Bendre‘s name must show up in any such list, it is my opinion that KSNa (kay-es-naah) – as Narasimhaswamy was popularly known – was the “best of the rest”. Beginning his poetic career with the publication of the tremendously-popular “ಮೈಸೂರು ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆ (Mysuru Mallige: ~ The Mysore Jasmine)” poetry collection in 1942, KSNa would remain a ‘searching poet’ over the next fifty years. Not half as prolific as Bendre (but, then, which world-class poet in any language has been?), he was nonetheless a ‘born poet’; with a deep-rooted affection for both the language of his people and the people themselves. Starting out, like almost every poet does, as a “romantic poet”, KSNa used the ಆಡುಭಾಷೆ (spoken language) of the Old Mysore region like no other contemporary poet did. (Bendre’s astonishing use of the Dharwad “vulgate” completely transformed the idea of what was and wasn’t possible within poetry.)
The poem below is one of those poems I “loved at first sight”. Attempting to translate it was simply natural. The poem itself could be called (within the tradition of English poetics) a “blank verse narrative”. The idea, during the translation, was to find a corresponding “blank verse rhythm” in English. I like to think that I have managed that.
You will notice that the poem is rather long. I thought I could try reciting it (expressively), but several attempts made it clear that this poem was not amenable to a recitation. In the meanwhile, my father had suggested “singing” the poem in the ಲಾವಣಿ (lāvaṇi) style, a style similar to the balladic – and usually reserved for narrative poems like this one. Consequently, I have, not for the first time, taken him up on the suggestion and tried to “sing” the song in the balladic style.
The only reason you get to listen to my recording rather than my father’s is because he’s a little under the weather and isn’t up to singing such a long poem himself. (My father’s voice and sense for music is significantly better than mine and I hope to share his sung version as soon as he feels ready to record it. Until then, I hope I haven’t done too bad a job and that you will be able to bear listening to the recording. Here is a recording of my father singing a Bendre poem to a tune of his own.)
Nota bene: Like I said, I’m not particularly musical but if you’re reading this and you are (or you know someone who is), I’d love to hear a balladic rendering of the English translation I’ve made. I hope some of you will be able to oblige me and I look forward to hearing from you! Thanks.
“Singing” of the Kannada poem:
An Evening Raga (ಸಂಧ್ಯಾರಾಗ)
He, who for thirty years, rode proudly on his horse; who, in three precincts, was better known as ‘King’; when, now retired, has come home with a smile, what makes you stand like this outside the door?
The sarkāri stuff we had was taken yesterday; there’s no need now to guard the room, come in; the chair of your wedding-day is here; sit down, set down the post you came to give to me.
This garland’s yesterday’s; the poor thing’s faded now; these fruits won’t last, they must be quickly shared. I am not worthy of this gift, this walking stick; take it; use it for your work with sēvige*.
No need to blush; just talk; sing too, if you will; it’s only now I see how beautiful you are. If love found others when they were young, I offer thanks for its finding us upon this second cusp.
Let those who said, “horses are this king’s craze, he does not care about his home” come here and look; I’ll show them how this family really lives; what, after all, did thàt horse ever do?
It only ever bridled once; I fell on to the fence. I must have only told you of my wins; you do not know about my falls; move closer now and listen; the next day at the courthouse’s front I saw
a newly-married pair, a prideful pair (he’d drowned himself in her embrace) come cycling down the road all crookedly; my anger stoked, I’d gone to the police.
I now regret that day’s impulsiveness; forgive me. What thought is on your mind? My pension’s going to fill our coffers soon; that should suffice, for us two and our son.
That golden-boy who lives across the seas; let him return, kaṇay, with his medallions! Your brother’s daughter waits; we’ll marry them; let them, like royalty, leave for an Ooty* trip
in their new car; I will not make them wait; and if I do, my mouth will only drop a kiss; Ooty that glitters in the Nilgiris*! Such process- ions are not new – a time ago, they ended here
and not in Ooty-land; we two can testify to that! Then came the job; you too returned, the horse too came, then went; then came the car; why, until we’d sold the car at half its price,
did we not think to make an Ooty trip? Free now, the idea of this trip struck me just yesterday; and picking up the phone, I called the travel-man and asked him secretly;
he said he’d write to let me know, then cut the phone; something made me rush upon this second cusp; what you’ve now brought may be his letter after all! I should have seen it right away; here, let’s read it now.
“It’s horse-race-gambling season in Ooty now, everyone must attend! There are no private vehicles. Instead, we’ve buses whose headlights split the night; take one and come.” Hear that? ‘I, with my better half,
I, who for thirty years, rode proudly on his horse, who, in three precincts, was better known as ‘King’ cannot go to Ooty in that thing’ is what I’ll write and say to him. Let us go later on –
when, with our son’s bride, a new car comes; when, opening its door, the car calls us to come – but, before all that, our boy must first come back; let’s wait for him – that golden-boy across the seas.
(Translated by Madhav K. Ajjampur)
Glossary:
1 . sevige (say-we-gay): the Kannada word for (something akin to) vermicelli
2. ooty (ooh-tea): a popular hill station in Southern India; part of the state of Tamilnadu
3. nilgiri (neel-ghir-e): literally, blue mountain; the longest mountain range in Southern India
In front of every house but ours was an early-morning rangavalli* – like brightly shining teeth, like the entire gully was merry with a mirth. Leaving to get the milk at dawn, my mind would be fully captured by the pictures that had been drawn; unlocking room on room in my empty mind – oh, what a surge of feeling they’d fill me with!
This one’s design is not like that; among these drawings can be found a greater meaning to geometric laws that seem so complicated and hard: the touch of a finger that is soft. Now, through her rangoli, this sumangali* (who didn’t go at all to college) gives, every day, a shape and form to geometry’s laws of knowledge.
What edges and what lines! What circles and what squares! A swastika*, a mandala*, a star; to some ancient mantra’s chant, this artistry has spread its wings – see how it is nòw flying.
2
The rangavalli – it stole my heart when I was young – and still forming fully. Unable to tell where were its start and end (and feeling bad I couldn’t understand) I’d worried my head from time to time: having entered, with my eyes, the thicket of its white patterns.
Astonished to see the neighour woman bending to draw, in a second, an unusual rangoli, I’d, taking the powder of a piece of chalk, looked to draw it in our verandah – only to fail each time I tried; I’d been labelled a kafir* by my mother for this deed.
Once, the neighbouring lady, Vedavalli, had drawn a thick-knotted rangavalli. Smiling widely – her teeth all showing – at the deep-gazed curiosity I was displaying, “Why don’t saabru* draw such rangoli?” she’d asked. My god, if only I’d had an answer! I’d stood ashamed, not looking at her.
When ajji* chastised the outhouse-folk for using their threshold to draw a rangoli – abba! that incident had hurt me deeply. Once, when in some worry of my own, I’d veered from my path and stepped upon a house’s rangoli, I’d yanked my foot away as if what I’d stamped was a fiery coal. ‘Did those people see me?’ was my other worry.
3
The day before, my six-year boy set out with me to buy some milk. My eyes took in the rangoli as we walked; noticing this, my boy had asked – ‘Why is it that every day they draw these circle-figures in this way?’ I’d already cut and cleared and pared the knotty details of what I had to say: I offered the clean-shaven branch of my reply; “Doing this is not our people’s way”. As the churn of his mind began to mask his clear face and the question ‘why’ looked set to flash, I voiced, to quiet him, that old refrain: “This is not spoken of in the koran*.” Flying out of its half-second’s-silence nest it pounced – another garuda*-winged question: ‘Must we do as it says there?’ Yes, I said – the drizzle of his questions had left me in despair. The year our house was built, your name – you had that written outside our house; is that too something the koran says?
Can he be called a child, this one who’s come to squeeze my conscience’s throat? Spreading its tentacles, his artless question has brought me to despair; smashing pot upon filled pot that holds my beliefs, my customs, my ways.
“Hurry up, the queue’ll get long”, I said, returning to the real world. The rangoli was resting – like every other day: like a little bird spreads its two wings, my son spread his questions-of-wondering: in doing so, he lit within my mind a fire of questioning.
(Translated by Madhav K. Ajjampur)
Note: What I’ve given above is the audio of Nisar reading the poem. To watch Nisar reading it, go here.
Glossary:
1. rangavalli (or rangoli): an art form that involves creating (often intricate) decorative patterns using chalk, rice powder, flowers, etc.
2. sumangali: a married (Hindu) woman
3. swastika: an ancient symbol in the form of an equal-armed cross with each arm continued at a right angle; a symbol of auspiciousness in Indic religions; the Nazis’s use of the (inverted) swastika as their emblem has contributed to its extremely negative image
4. mandala: literally, a circular figure, a disk; it has philosophical implications in Hinduism and Buddhism
5. kafir: an infidel, an unbeliever, a non-Muslim (per orthodox Islamic theology)
6. saabru: a Kannada word often used to refer to people who are Muslim; it derives from the urdu word ‘saab‘ (the equivalent of the English ‘mister’) and is more neutral than derogatory
7. ajji : the Kannada word for grandmother
8. koran: Islam’s holy book; considered the ‘word of god’ by orthodox believers
9. garuda: a fabulous bird of Hindu mythology, said to be the god Vishṇu‘s mount; often called the ‘king of the birds’ and understood to be, per traditional texts, the mortal enemy of snakes and the snake-people (nāgas)
Afterword:
Here’s an English distillation of what I wrote (in Kannada) upon learning of Nisar’s death on May 3, 2020. Those of you who’d like to read the original write-up can find it here.
When he lived, Prof. Nisar Ahmed’s immensely popular ಭಾವಗೀತೆ (bhavageethe: ~ lyric poems; song-poems) – including favourites like ‘In the Jog Falls’ Beautiful Light…” and “Our Krishna Stole the Butter…” – made him a household name in Karnataka. His writing, however, was not restricted to the production of such song-poetry. He was, in fact, a “modern” poet; whose sensibility allowed him to remain a “romantic”. In his best-selling “ನಿತ್ಯೋತ್ಸವ (nityōtsava: ~ Every day’s a Festival)” collection of poems, Nisar deliberately returned to this “romantic” poetry – with the explicit intent to make poetry accessible again.
As a Muslim writing in Kannada, Nisar’s (poetic) perspective added a new dimension to Kannada literature. His use of Urdu words in his Kannada poetry is particularly worthy of remark. (A majority of Muslims in Karnataka consider Urdu their ‘mother tongue’. However, the Urdu they speak is almost pidgin and looked down upon by the Dakkani speakers of the Hyderabad region – whose speech, in turn, is looked down upon by speakers of Laknavi, considered the most refined and courtly version of Urdu. That being said, almost every school-educated Muslim in Karnataka speaks Kannada, the language of the state of Karnataka.)
In my opinion – which is based on a limited reading of Nisar’s poetry and prose – Nisar’s use of Urdu in his Kannada poetry was extremely deliberate and his way of asserting his dual identity — as a Muslim’ and a ‘Kannadiga (Kannada speaker)’. I also think it served as a way for him to express his views on the give-and-take that happens at the intersection of society, religion, and language, even as he used it as a tool of introspection and self-reflection.
This poem you’ve just read is considered one of his “important” poems. The reason I translated it, though, was because it was a poem I enjoyed – not least for the singular point of view it offered. As far as I am concerned, the poem is a poem of “searching” and “reflection”.
Recitation of the poem by the poet, Soujanya, herself:
My Ajji’s Passed
My ajji‘s passed –
in my eyes
she’s turned to tears that will not cease;
suddenly appearing everywhere,
slowly staying in me – here
she’s become a river of memories;
she’s become a rain
of all exquisite
feeling and pain;
she’s turned –
into the wave
that comes and comes again;
into the tree leaves
that bring the shade;
entering me,
stepping happily,
she’s become an art
that will never die
My ajji‘s passed —
in my eyes
she’s turned to tears that will not cease…
(Translated by Madhav K. Ajjampur)
Recitation of the English translation:
Afterword:
Soujanya, the creator of this poem, is my second cousin. She lost her ಅಜ್ಜಿ (ajji: grandmother) in early April. Some two or three days later, her father – Sudhakar uncle, who has been a great supporter of my translations of Bendre’s poetry – sent me this poem with a photo of his mother (Soujanya’s grandmother) attached. I read the poem and was immediately taken with it. I found it a particularly exquisite “reaction” to her ajji‘s death, sensitive without being sentimental. I also found the images “quietly powerful”; not especially new perhaps, but genuine – with just the right balance of the personal and the general. You will notice that Soujanya does not describe her ajji with the slightest particularity – and yet, you get the sense of the woman who has passed and the influence she had on her granddaughter.
Dr. Siddalingaiah is known for having recited this poem countless times, but I was never fortunate enough to get to listen to him doing so live. However, I have been able to find a video recording of one such recitation. You can find it here.
Also, for those who’d like to listen to it sung, here’s another recording. The problem with singing a poem like this one though is that the lightness of the music can mean a “sterilization” of the poem’s passionate anguish.
My People (ನನ್ನ ಜನಗಳು)
They are my people — who die from hunger – who haul large stones who getting kicked drop on their backs; who beg for mercy – whose hands are slaves, who’re so devout such devotees
They are my people — who till and later sow the soil – who cut the crop and sweat, then burn up in the sun’s hot heat; who come back empty-handed – who draw a sigh and sit empty-stomached in their ragged clothes
They are my people — who raise the roofs – who build the towers only to then be caught beneath; who haunt the streets – who make no noise before they cry themselves to sleep
They are my people — who pay the leech – who fired by a speech catch flame and burn and turn to ash; who stitch the boots – who fix the shoes of those who take god’s name and eat
My people — they mine the gold – they get no food they stitch the cloth – their body’s nude; my people – they do as they are told to do, they simply live upon the wind.
(Translated by Madhav Ajjampur)
Afterword:
Holageri Siddalingaiah (1954 – present), better known to the public as Dr. Siddalingaiah, shot to fame in the early 1970s, right after the publication of his poetry collection “ಹೊಲೆಮಾದಿಗರ ಹಾಡು (holemādigara hāḍu: ~ the song of the subjugated men)”. His was a new, previously-unheard voice; full of anger and fire and truth as it protested the ill-treatment of “his people”; the trodden-upon, the underprivileged, the exploited, the dalits (by birth, social status, and treatment). In his 60s now, Dr. Siddalingaiah has mellowed, naturally. He is no longer the fierce poet-activist he was in his youth – his first poetry collection was published when he was just 21 years old and comprised poems he’d written beginning when he was 14 or 15! – who drew society’s attention to the plight of the downtrodden via a poetry that flamed with a light and heat that were its own. (One prominent Kannada cultural critic called Siddalingaiah ‘the king of the exaggerated conceit’.) In the last twenty years, in fact, Dr. Siddalingaiah has become better known for his much-praised autobiography “ಊರು ಕೇರಿ (ūru kēri: ~ the town and the outskirts)”, a narrative of his early and middle years. The book’s first volume was released in 2003, the second volume in 2006, and the third volume in 2018. Coming to Kannada literature when I did, I too first learnt about Dr. Siddalingaiah through his autobiography (whose first volume I have). I do not remember too much of it, but one portion remains vivid. It is an account of Siddalingaiah watching his father in the fields beyond the ಕೇರಿ (kēri) where they lived. Siddalingaiah talks about seeing his father and another man (who was also a dalit) being yoked, like oxen, to the cart and then being driven through the field. It is an image indelibly etched in Siddalingaiah’s mind – and becomes, through his narrative, an image that both startles and transfixes any (non-dalit) reader of his work.
Note: The rights to this poem belong with Dr. Siddaliangaiah and his publishers. No copyright infringement is intended. The lyrics to the poem have been provided only to give the curious rasika a chance to read the original.
Here are the ಮೂಲ ಕನ್ನಡ ಪಾಠ and the English transliteration. Go here for a guide on how to read the transliteration.
ಹಸಿವಿನಿಂದ ಸತ್ತೋರು ಸೈಜುಗಲ್ಲು ಹೊತ್ತೋರು ವದೆಸಿಕೊಂಡು ವರಗಿದೋರು ನನ್ನ ಜನಗಳು ಕಾಲುಕಯ್ಯಿ ಹಿಡಿಯೋರು ಕೈ ಮಡಗಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳೋರು ಭಕ್ತರಪ್ಪ ಭಕ್ತರೋ ನನ್ನ ಜನಗಳು
Smt. Vaidehi is one of Kannada’s best-known writers of modern fiction. Short stories are her preferred form, but she is also a novelist, playwright, biographer, essayist, and poet. Most of her work is informed by a feminine (feminist?) perspective and she has made it clear in several interviews that she finds it necessary to tell these stories about women and the various worlds they inhabit and navigate (within the patriarchy). This particular poem is considered a classic and has been widely anthologized.
I trust Smt. Vaidehi will not object to this publication of my English translation of the poem. Naturally, the copyright to the original lies with Smt. Vaidehi and her publisher. I am also, since the poem is popular enough to be otherwise available, giving the poem’s original Kannada text and English transliteration below. You can find the guide to reading the transliteration here.
You who clearly know … tell me (ತಿಳಿದವರೇ … ಹೇಳಿ)
You who clearly know what poetry is – tell me; I do not know poetry clear saaru* is what I know
What do you think clear saaru is? It too needs within a water-truth – a truth of fragrance – a rasa-truth that boiling forms; this way –
in the corner lay the saaru-pan cooled-like but uncooled, as though wait-boiling upon an emberous stove; so what if it waiting-boils?
Within the merriness of lightly-exchanged laughter of the drumbeat-feet of servers who serve the meaty-meal with a dash of spice (like a lightning-flash), the diaphanous clear-saar remained from the morning on
cooled-like but uncooled upon the emberous stove dried from the boiling and reboiling, unspoiled though it is now night!
Tell me, you who know poetry so clearly do you know clear-saaru? Forgive me, I do not know poetry
(Translated by Madhav K. Ajjampur)
*saaru – the Kannada word for a watery broth or infusion (usually) made using a specially-prepared powder (saaru pudi), several spices, and boiled-to-softening toor dal; often and mistakenly conflated with rasam – which is (usually) a much blander dal-less version
Nota bene: I have deliberately chosen to translate the word ತತ್ತ್ವ (tattva) as truth – rather than the usual “essence”. While I will acknowledge that my main reason for doing so is the translation’s prosody, it is worth noting that tattva is a Sanskrit word that encompasses a spectrum of meaning – with a primary (ontological) meaning that references the higher truth of the metaphysical sameness of the aatman and the brahmaṇ.
Original and Transliterated lyrics:
ಕಾವ್ಯದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ತಿಳಿದವರೇ ಹೇಳಿ. ನನಗೆ ಕಾವ್ಯ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ ತಿಳಿಸಾರು ಗೊತ್ತು
Every once in a rare while, I come across a poem that seems (to me) to be imbued with a certain magic, a magic that is often as palpable as it is unexplainable. This poem was one such.
I suppose my reason for translating it was to try to transfer that magic to another language. (You must tell me if I’ve succeeded.)
To compensate for the absence of an audio recording of the original Kannada poem, I’ve included the poem’s text and the text of the poem’s English transliteration. For a guide to reading the English transliteration, go here.
The Snake-Charmer’s Little Boy (ಹಾವಾಡಿಗರ ಹುಡುಗ)
1
For a house that had nine doors nine attics worked out well; filled with wealth to overflowing were nine large vessels. So as not to lose a single coin all day long and through the night the guardian-serpent-of-providence reared its hood and spat upon all those within its sight. Its hood upraised, it swayed to the tune that was outdrawn from the iron tinkle of the coins. What does it know, the snake that acts as the guardian of providence?
2
It was the dawn one day; from the wide-open directions the winds blew every way – that day they wore a heady scent, a fragrance of a myriad hues borrowed from some pulsing flowers; that day, he just showed up the snake-charmer’s little boy – what a brave he was! His skin was of a hue darker than a raincloud’s blue. This darling little cowherd-boy eats both curd and butter, he splits his red-bud-lips – his laugh-smile’s melted butter; a step of his’s enough for the ground to turn to gold – his anklet’s bells all sweetly tinkle, his little ears are richly crowned
3
The guardian-serpent-of-providence had begun to hiss and spit its hood upraised, its eyes were wide; the snake-charmer’s little boy took little steps and came to stand right in its sight; standing there, he raised his tiny hand, and stroked its reared hood; to the garuda-rider’s magic touch the snake became a gem-garland; when to the call of providence itself the guardian-serpent-of-the-fates glittered like a gemmed-garland – shri hari picked the garland up and placed it round his neck; then lying on his shésha-bed went back to sleep again.
(Translated by Madhav K. Ajjampur)
Original Kannada Poem and English Transliteration:
ಹಾವಾಡಿಗರ ಹುಡುಗ (hāvāḍigara huḍuga)
೧
ಒಂಬತ್ತು ಬಾಗಿಲುಗಳಿರುವ ಮನೆಗೊಪ್ಪಿದವು ಒಂಬತ್ತು ಉಪ್ಪರಿಗೆ; ತುಂಬಿತ್ತು ಸಂಪತ್ತು ತುಳುಕಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದವು ಒಂಬತ್ತು ಕೊಪ್ಪರಿಗೆ. ಬಿಡಿಗಾಸು ಕೂಡ ಹೊರ ಬಿಡದಂತೆ ಹಗಲಿರುಳು ವಿಧಿಯ ಕಾಯುವ ಸರ್ಪ ಬಂದಬಂದವರೆದುರು ಹೆಡೆಯೆತ್ತಿ ಫೂತ್ಕರಿಸುತಿತ್ತು. ಕಾಸುಕಾಸಿನ ಪುಂಗಿ ಯೆಳೆದ ಲೋಹಸ್ವರಕೆ ಹೆಡೆಯೆತ್ತಿ ತೂಗುತಿತ್ತು. ವಿಧಿಯ ಕಾಯುವ ಹಾವಿಗ್ಗೇನು ಗೊತ್ತು?
Kannada To English 