[Transcreation] What Nero said

19th July, AD 64


Why loathe me

for playing my fiddle

whilst Rome burns to ashes?

Isn’t it you who set the first flame?

Would the fire extinguish

if my fingers stop?

Will the fire rage anymore

riding on the notes of my song?

Susceptible is the artist within me

I cannot withstand the cries

of the fumes of burning flesh,

I abhor seeing

the art and efforts of great sculptors

ground into mere pieces of marble

I did not wish to hear

the helpless cries of Romulus,

the hapless last breaths of those heads

which dangle from spikes of leaders

fighting for a share in power,

the wails springing from skeletons

of Jesus’ disciples

sacrificed to crosses and lions,

the roar of blood oozing from

the headless torso of Pompey,

the groans of common men

crushed beneath Caesars’s throne,

the sighs let out by blood spilled

from the body of Mark Anthony,

the enticer of Cleopatra,

Octavian’s dreaded drum rolls,

incessant clanks from iron chains

from around the legs of slaves

who from Carthage to gaols,

fought for a stranger’s empire



I am afraid of my own shadow

My only solace is my fiddle

Please do not snatch this away from me

in its own sins as this city burns





“Neroyude Athmagatham”
A poem in Malayalam by K. Satchidanandan
Transcreation by Vijay © 24th May, 2007

[Transcreation] Prompting a conversation

Prompting a conversation


I.

We live inside a dagger
A dagger being brandished by someone else
It is somebody else's heart that it targets
Then, the blood that oozes out blinds us
Smeared in that blood are our war cries
We copulate soaked in that blood
Bloodied are even our dreams


II.

Atop swinging Satellite Television cables
above the simmering street
alights Ezhuthachan's* parrot
sans the olive branch in its beak
blood trickling down its wings


III.

But for tears
I too would have been a dagger
It's my mother who gifted me tears
She was dumb, but in her songs
I drowned and died


IV.

It is a girl that I always wanted to be
As a child, wearing skirts and lining my eyes with kohl
I danced in front of the mirror
No, I do not wish
for twenty men to tear me apart
No, I do not wish you to
usher a third girl into this blinding sunlight



V.

The tears gifted by mother,
the pearls I shed from my eyes
failed to wake up the sea
But, somewhere a small child
heard them fall and opened its eyes
to a flowery existence


VI.

The Dagger does not talk to flowers
It only tears apart roads and cities
It enters each heart merely in the quest
to seek out religions
It dips into each word
to seek out political leanings


VII.

Stranded between a forest and fire
gifted by her beloved husband
Asan's* Sita reminisces
of the sacrifice of Ravana,
the man who taught her what true love is
For a son as demonically intense a lover as him
her womb craves today


VIII.

Amorous words there are no more
Each word, merely a shattered piece
of a broken bottle of wine
We hurt each other with them
When the world pastes subpoenas on your door,
love remains nothing
but relishing each other's blood


IX.

Our language has died
The one who wrote it has escaped
On our shoulders travels the corpse
like the vampire, Betal
Neither the sweet chirps of birds
nor the tinkling bells of golden anklets
can answer its questions


X.

Those with a stammer
speak incessantly without demur
I, like a tongue cut fool
merely grunt and groan
The winds tell me
that what is lost shall be regained
I am afraid it's a dream
and I lash myself with a whip


XI.

Lillies bloom
on the banks of the river Brahmaputra
You are there in the room no more
My back itches
Perhaps, it seeks to load one more corpse
Or maybe, just maybe,
the itch is to sprout fresh wings
immune to daggers
Outside, in the scorching sun
a Jatayu* writhes in pain



A poem in Malayalam by K. Satchidanandan
Transcreation by Vijay © 19th May, 2007



*Ezhuthachan - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thunchaththu_Ramanujan_Ezhuthachan

*Asan - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kumaran_Asan

*Jatayu - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jatayu_%28Ramayana%29

On Uttar Pradesh

The Elephant tramples over the Hand
In its mammoth shadow the lotus wilts
Smashed bicycles strew the way
and I see how fortune tilts


Vijay (c) 11th May, 2007

[Translations] The walkers

There are two categories of people who go out for a walk. The ones who frequent the same place everyday and the ones who seek out a new place each day. Sometimes, the new place the latter discover is the same place as the former frequent. But, for the latter it would be a new place after all.

On their way, the ones who frequent the same place may come across the ones who seek out new places. While passing by each other, they would wonder as to how some reach the same place and some, a new place while treading the same path.

Then there are the ones who frequent the same place only to realize one day that it is but a new place. Then they think of themselves to be amongst those who seek out a new place each day. Their ignorance stems from obliviousness. Like suddenly a day a husband would seem a stranger to his wife and a father would find his son to be a stranger. Contrary to what some may conclude, this is not a symptom of any ailment. This is the symptom of a change. When this change occurs, one gets attracted to someone from the same sex, a student starts teaching his teacher, a pet dog bites his master, trees question the human race, rivers overflow their banks and one world invades the other.

Those who are in the habit of discovering new places everyday may realize one day that the place they considered new was not one after all. Feeling ashamed, they would conceal this fact from the world. As a result, many would for many years walk towards the same place each day under the false pretext of walking to a new place. One day, someone would fearlessly shout and tell the world the truth. Then, what was unknown would become familiar. Those who wanted to seek out new places would abandon old paths. The world can even be changed this way; however, they are unaware that there is a tiger lying in wait on the new path. Finally, the world starts believing only in people who do not venture out on a walk.

Translated in prose form from
“nadakkaan pokunnavar”, a poem in Malayalam by Satchidanandan.

Vijay © 8th May, 2007

[Poem] Counselling

My palms, like anesthesia’s effect,
sooth stiff nerves on your hands,
to help you melt inhibitions

My question, like that one single incision,
elicits a shudder yet gives me a leeway
enough to explore further

My eyes, like dexterous endoscopic tubes,
probe and prod your innards
to locate extent of the spread

My words, like a surgeon’s glove-clad fingers,
reach deep down your mind and take out
with precision, the implanted lies

My assurances, like soft cotton swabs,
try cleansing the bleeding voids
where the cancerous lies clung

My smiles, like surgical threads
weave to stitch the open wounds
But I guess, in vain

The damage was already done
You seem to have opted
to live with them
or perhaps, even die.

Vijay © 3rd May, 2007