Nagatihalli Ramesh

The Sea

and

the Rain

Translated from Kannada

by

Ankur Betageri

Don't say it is bland

Say 'put a grain of salt!'

from Avva's Words

final

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Published by:

Shrusti Prakashana

#550, Second Main

Water tank Road

RBI Layout

Puttenahalli

J P Nagar 7th Phase

Bangalore 560078. India.

Printed at:

Jwalamukhi Printers

#44/1, K R Road

Basavanagudi

Bangalore 560 004

Nagatihalli Ramesh, born in 1967 in Nagatihalli village of Nagamangala taluk,

Mandya, Karnataka has a Bachelor of Science degree from Bangalore University, a
Diploma in Journalism from Mysore University and a Bachelor of Law degree from
Bangalore University. In the 80s he participated in one hundred and fifty
intercollegiate debate competitions and won prizes in all of them.

He has been serving as editor, printer and publisher of the magazine Spardha
Prapancha for the past twelve years. His field of interest includes environment,
travel, reading, music, drama and short-film making. Considering his contribution
to the field of environment, the arts, literature and social work, the Government
of Karnataka honoured him with the Youth Award for the year 1988-89. For his
contribution to the field of environment, the Department of Forest, Environment
and Zoology has bestowed upon him the Environment Award for the year 2001-02. For
activities concerning environment, tourism development, culture and lifestyle he
has traveled to Srilanka, Maldives, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Hong Kong,
Nepal, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Dubai and Indonesia.

He is a member of YMCA Karnataka State Peace and Brotherhood Association, Founder

of Socially Concerned Friend's Circle, President of Spandana Yuvajana Kendra and
Vice-president of Paraspara Saamajika Samsthe.

Through Srusti Prakashana he is involved in publishing books, launching audio

cassettes and making short films. He is currently based in Bangalore.

Books edited: Buddha Pragne, Maanavatavaadi Malliah. The Sea and the Rain (Samudra
Mattu Male) is his first collection of poems. You can reach him at:
nagatihalliramesh@gmail.com.

Ankur Betageri, born on the 18th of November 1983, is a bilingual poet based in
Bangalore. He has published a collection of poetry in English entitled The Sea of
Silence (2000) and two collections in Kannada entitled Hidida Usiru (2004) and
Idara Hesaru (2006).

To the motherly touch of the fingers

of my grandmother

Nanjamma

who used to starve

to keep me from crying.

To the cloudy eyes

of father Rangappa

which used to

cool me

even in his city dress.

Mother who sits

in the darkness

of the house

and when I ask,

'where is father?'

says

'Yeah, I have eaten.'

When I hand the blanket saying,

'What cold! Take the blanket avva,'

She gathers the mud and spreading it,

Says, 'shall I cover you, son?'

I say,

'It's dark; shall I light the lamp mother?'

she replies,

'Why, have you grown old?'

Seeing me crying my heart out

she, who laughingly says,

'Your life's like being cooked in cold water

my son,' and suddenly starts crying;

to her who wanders from village to village

and singing songs held in her palms

turns darkness into light;

to the earth-heart

of my mother Kempakka.

Nagatihalli Ramesh

'My mother lived countless poems, but she never wrote one.' I for one, with my
poems, wrote hers as well.

'The song that sleeps silently in the mother's heart sings on the lips of the
child.'

-Khalil Gibran

I wrote

To live with my mother for a few days

To make the lives of people around.

-Nagatihalli Ramesh

You talk

of relationship and non-relationship.

If you know, please tell

what is and is not

a relationship?

Body relationship

life relationship

praana relationship -

He who understands

these relationships three

is a relative, O Lord
of caves.

-Allama Prabhu

Where was the mango tree,

where the koel bird

when were they kin?

Mountain gooseberry

and sea salt:

when

were they kin?

and when was I

kin to the Lord

of caves?

-Allama Prabhu (Tr. by A K Ramanujan)

Relationship is a big thing man.

-Devanooru Mahadeva

Contents

Preface

Translator's Note

Questions of loneliness and Darkness

My Mother

My Mother - 2

Father

Mother, Father and Me

My Grandmother
The Sea and the Rain

Waves: Rangolis Drawn by my Mother

It is Raining on the Sea

Woman

Like a Drop of Rain

This is Just a Line

Wandering Paths which History Doesn't Recognize

Avva's Words

Roots

Condition

Flower and Fiber

From the Diaries of the Dead

When Ocean Stands, Head Bowed

A Journey through the Desert

Like Blood Splashed

Mother's Children

The Spark

Source which Never Empties

They who thought it was…

Lots to do

Amoeba

Tightened Chain of Ice

It is Becoming Blue Again

On this Earth

Happiness

Natural Life

What the Jogi Said

Baba Budan Giri

'When the ground is wet'

Patent Notice

Denizens of Road

Ocean in the Drop

We are Tribal

Fruit Fallen to the Ground

The Drop of Sweat

Fate and Grains

World of Dew

Give the Street Kids Some Space to Sleep

Like Ashes Growing on Smolders

(Inspired by a haiku by Buson Yosa)

Before Unfurling Wings

Our Children

To Mother Earth

My People

You

Strategy

Song of Life

Power of Faith

Time

Root-word of Fulfillment

First Step of Creation

Question of the Bowl

Mud Lamp

Drizzle Beneath the Palms Holding Water

Jogi's Question

Wisdom

Breaching the Order of Face, the Tail had Shook

Water and Fire

Generation

Kallu Baana

The Saga of Drunkenness

Reflection of Darkness

Prison Song

The Song of Mother

Afterword

Success Story of a Villager

Preface

The communicative skills of Nagatihalli Ramesh were proverbial during his student
days when he astounded everyone by winning more than a hundred prizes in open
debates in colleges in and outside Bangalore during just one year. That he also
pens poetry is, however, a happy revelation to me, having only now gone through
his anthology of poems, The Sea and the Rain. With humble beginnings in life as
can be made out from his simple and yet touching poems, he has scaled great
heights in more fields than one. The confidence that he exudes is quite contagious
as evidenced by the organizational successes he has achieved in quite a few
fields.

A majority of the poems included in this anthology are of a personal nature in the
same sense that the focal point in most of the poems is his mother, who in the
process becomes the mother, thanks to the archetypal images associated with her.
It was during the 18th century that William Cowper wrote his memorable sentimental
poem about his mother and the chair she sat on. Nothing in that poem affects the
reader more than the intimacy, comfort and honour in the context of the mother. It
is that same warmth and comfort that characterize Ramesh's poems centred round his
mother, father, grandmother and so on. It is an ever present mother that has
etched herself permanently on the sensitive mind of Ramesh who basks in the
sunshine of his native milieu. It is only occasionally that emptiness haunts him
and always the distress is followed by cosy thoughts about the mother.

Another noteworthy string of thought that runs through his poems is the edifying
nature of labour. This is a classical sentiment enshrined in folklore. It is also
central to every community for whom agriculture is mainstay. Coming from this
background Ramesh can jolly well declare that

he who has ploughed the earth

is a billionaire

in the poetry of love

but at the same time he deplores exhibitionism as unwholesome

 Status, looks, wealth

should be like the work of an earthworm

underneath the ground.

As the earthworm climbs up

closer comes death.

Paradoxically enough, what is deplored is creativity, too, for the “earthworm

underneath the ground” is creative, which status cannot be. The simile seems to be
inapt, but the purport of the poet is quite unambiguous.

There are pantheistic outbursts like in

The forest springs forth

many tunes and melodies

that is the spoken word

of our little child.

Hope in the midst of agony, a longing for a better and brighter future, are in the
ultimate analysis what the poet projects. He hopes to “make tomorrows our
pillows.” But the pillows might be elusive, considering that the predatory nature
of man might become manifest anytime. That is why the “underwater creatures” have
a precarious existence:

Who has seen

the tears

of underwater creatures?

The tears are there nevertheless.

Having witnessed the horrors perpetrated by inhuman criminals in Cambodia, the

poet is justly indignant about the rapacious malignant monster who plunders
innocent poor people with no feelings. This plunderer - the United States, for
example - is like the mythical Cain given to motiveless murder. However painful
the ravages of war, one has to put up with it during and after the deadly event.
The brutal marauder unleashing terror on innocent unarmed people walks away with
his trophy leaving the victims to their fate. That has been the long story of a
whole century of dastardly crimes by a mighty power which has regard neither for
culture nor for life.

The shields of the

bombs and shells

that America dropped

 on Laos

have become homes

for many people

today.

One only hopes that there shall be no more such homes either in Laos or elsewhere.
That is the humanistic feeling that thematically pervades the poems of Ramesh.
Equally vehement is the poet in Ramesh to chastise those whose indiscriminate
destruction of civilization in the name of a higher civilization. (See “Like Blood
Splashed” for instance). The net impact is that

the birds are learning

to fly even before hatching from eggs

It is not the tending of life but tormenting it. And that is what disturbs Ramesh.
Surely a healthy disturbance when one realizes that

the spark of light

is being doused

as easily as pinching the wick

of a candle

Ramesh deserves our congratulations on exploring the conscience of man today and
the translator deserves it too for his creative endeavour.

G Ramakrishna

22nd October 2007

Translator's Note

Translating a work of desi Kannada into contemporary English I have faced many
challenges, and these challenges I have overcome in my own ways. I could not do
without Indianisms, and I hope at least these usages will make the discerning
reader reach out to the social and cultural contexts of rural India which are the
well springs of many of the poems here.

The author Nagatihalli Ramesh has been very forthcoming in clarifying the meaning
of the idiomatic usages for which I have tried my best to find the closest English
equivalent.

As a translator my greater agenda has always been to incorporate the experience of

rural India which plays a crucial role in shaping the character of the average
Indian. If this experience continues to occupy the backyard of our consciousness,
even in this era of globalization, it might hamper our very integrity as
individuals, leading to shallowness and falsity as we open ourselves up to the
influences of the outer world.

I do not know to what extent I have been successful in acquainting the non-Indian
reader with the nuances and complexities of colloquial Kannada whose meanings
spring out of the deep relation that the people here share with the soil. But I
would like to believe that the concerns and conflicts expressed here are
universal, and, as such, it would be no surprise if the rich significance of these
poems flow unhampered through the deeper connectedness of humankind.

I invite you to be a part of this poetic journey of growth and deeper

understanding.

Ankur Betageri

Bengaluru

Author's Note

Questions of Loneliness and Darkness

These are just questions that I have asked myself. Writing this down gives me
peace. Why does darkness and loneliness descend upon man? When does it dawn?

What are the effects of gaining and loosing relationships? What is the play of
light and darkness hiding in this? What kind of influence can this play of light
and darkness have on the success and failure of man?
What do relationships fill in a man? And why does he feel the emptiness when there
are no relationships? Is this state experienced only by a child? Does an old man
escape from this state?

This body which gets attached to things and burns, why does it feel futile? Why do
human beings love with a vengeance and remain attached to people? Which fear are
they haunted by? Whose crushing foot has made them immobile?

So, the foundation on which we have built our civilization, is it wrong? If we get
an answer to this question would the decadent path followed by civilization be
revealed?

Thinking about all this and not finding an answer, and stuffing all these thoughts
to a corner of the mind, and taking them out standing on some footpath, and
analyzing them with new thoughts... and still no answer.

The koel sings beautifully. Pulling some remote strings, a man sings. An old
woman, collecting torn clothes, stitches a quilt. What is the feeling behind the
crying of a little child? What is it that the child seeks? What is the mindset of
a soldier who has lost his hands in the war? Did his sword cheat him?

The flapping sound of the birds which are flying in their hearts, what does it
say?

Why do men write poems?

Can everyone see truth?

Whoever has seen:

it is the essence of his experience.

Its realization

is not possible with the words formed around it.

Only sometimes, one feels

the poetry of mystics

have a clear vision in them.

In the midst of our work

when we remember its experience

we remember the poem

and with it, the poet.

He wanders like a friend, an enemy

and a companion.
 Like someone about to tell

a secret, he laughs,

it is the sign of love.

In the words of the poet

it's like handing over

the key to life's mystery.

How Failure and Success Shape a Person

My life is a road broken into many paths. Since the time I was born my eagerness,
failures, inferiority, despair, loneliness, orphan-ness and suicidal attempts had
made me so desperate that I had become like an ant sinking in the mud.

To what extent can the love and concern of people can flow? Is it true that only
those who have struggled and suffered get shelter among people? I am still haunted
by the memories of people who helped me. Does the pain that we experience leave
marks on our face? Did people see these marks and helped me, or was it the life
jumping in me which devised this elaborate game and pushed me into it? I completed
my Bachelors in Science and a correspondence course in journalism from Mysore
University and got a degree in Law from evening college. With this my college life
ended. I used feel that I was happy while at college.

When I had to leave college I was haunted by the big question of 'what next?' I
had a pair of trousers, a shirt and a bag full of prizes that I had won during my
college days in open debate competitions. With these I wandered the streets of
Bangalore. And while hunting for a job I sold these prize trophies one by one and
managed to drink tea three times a day.

Such being my condition one day I met my dear friend from college, Venkataranga.
As they say, 'by the time the grains and lentils finish, it rains.' This friend
took me to a hotel, brought me lunch and as though he was waiting to hear me all
this while, sat silently listening to me. Then he took me straight to his house
and explained my talent, helplessness and dreams to his parents Sri B Krishna and
Sharada B Krishna. His father had already helped me by providing scholarship
during my college days. He gave me an office and the required money to start the
magazine Spardha Prapancha. And there were people like P Lankesh who didn't want
their name mentioned for help like these; I got a lot of encouragement from all
these people. Lankesh, the honest and irreverent man, who wrote with an innate
knowledge of those who had struggled and suffered, learning about me starting a
magazine, encouraged me with a fund of three thousand rupees in 1993. When I
returned the money in 1994, 'Not bad… you proved that even shudras return the
money lent,' he said with a smile. Lankesh, gave the solace of a mother, made the
lives of many like me, without recording them anywhere.

Even in this time when everybody is sinking into a state of two-facedness I see
people who still have faith and love in man. I have realised that there are
thousands of hands in this society which have real concern and love. Isn't this
enough to boost our confidence to realize all our big dreams, and to ignite the
determination of becoming one among those thousand hands!

Dear friend and poet Ankur Betageri who translated this book into English,
renowned thinker and the editor of Hosatu magazine Dr G Ramakrishna who wrote the
preface, my friend-poet Phoenix Ravi who wrote the Afterword and friend and
painter Vishnu who designed the cover and did the illustrations, all those who
helped in bringing out this book, all the people who saved my life with their
love, I cannot repay them with anything but my life.

Nagatihalli Ramesh

My Mother

Pulling off the thatch

she has played the song in the open

the earth has become a cradle

and life with her is singing word for word.

Holding the edge of her mother's saree

scattering mud in meeting paths

she has pinched and plucked

the thorn in my foot:

like turning into tears

the pain settled in heart.

When I went in search of you

which village? which keri1?

Every road has haunted like a tree

birds have flown in and out

darkness has entered the eyes.

The seven villages around

have opened

like a branching river

wherever you have walked

the smell of rain;

the only clue that you'd been there.

You have pelted stones at the stone god

to the hungry and bare skinned

you have given aplenty,

you have smiled like a star

at the husband who

without becoming a tomb

remained a well.

Mother of crying children

you pulled me into your whirlpools

seeing me clutched tight and being fed

you became

the haystack of the harvest.

I'm the fish lifted out of water,

the tears of the depths

are flowing like water

towards the spark burning underneath.

You are the queen of blue mountains

streams are flowing from your head

towards your feet,

I'm the ant playing in the depths -

I'm looking up at you

and a thousand elephants are running

in my eyes.

She is the forest-rain in the forest

the thorn bush, and the stream

of black boulders encircling the fields;

the ocean which hides

all that floods within.

O everyone's mother

who is she?

O everyone's village

which is it?
My Mother - 2

I build a tiled-roof house

for mother

for her to be good.

This is in accordance with her wishes

I assume, and building a wall in between

I was one who thought,

let her sleep in the shade.

Why darkness?

Let there be light whenever required.

Putting the light

I called mother

to my lively home.

She who walked like an elephant

with an single-minded gaze

smiled like an ant.

I wake up as usual

and rubbing eyes, I look at the house:

what a game fate has played.

Electric wires

have been pulled off and

me hanging like dead web;

beautifully carved walls

as if

battered in some war,

have fallen.
Is she a goddess

beside her a stone ball,

the mud of fields all over her bed:

she is simply sleeping

pulling off everything.

As it turns into evening

she, who walks into that home

walking into darkness

mixes her poetry

to the dense wandering silence,

to the darkness,

like a flower blooming

in a wind which does not blow;

words come to her flying

and gather around like bees.

Getting up in the morning

a singular hurry,

she has a bag in hand.

To some village

she has to go,

she has to see someone -

she has no slippers on her feet

she doesn't even know

the name of the village

but she reaches it.

Between the rubbed off lines of

her foot
which Pushpaka Vimana2 she's hiding

god alone knows.

When she's not there

only her thoughts for me

leaving the river where can

the mother fish swim?

As I think thus

she appears again.

She tells something

she sitting child-like

awakens us sitting around, she must be a queen

in her own kingdom.

Thinking that I am a prince

I do everything she says

and bow.

Without knowing whether

it's wrong or right

thinking that it must be

right for her

I am a-thrill within.

The game that I devised

has pulled me inside

like a pawn.

I jump every step

into the frame of the game

and call
'mother,'

that's my first mistake.

My extreme belief

that she believed

everything that I said -

tying my own hands

I'm standing witness to the mistake

a judgment, on this, has to come from her.

He who wanted to make

a bamboo vase

wandered all over the forest

not to find bamboo

but to find out what kind of flowers

would bloom in his bamboo vase.

If the flower believes

that it is the best

it is a burden for that vase,

what is the judgment

inside this turmoil?

This does not come under

any section or code

to call you as witness

you lack experience,

because even the slightest of mistakes

would kill me and my mother.

Father

My mother is a

lullaby-singing bird

of an ancient home on the plains;

when the song had filled the spaces

following the route of that song

my father flew from the blue mountains

like a migrating bird in search of life

and shining in his suit

I have heard, he married my mother.

After sometime

this wanderer who wandered

like the song in a desert

sat waiting for my mother

like a fountain of water.

She stood in front of him and smiled

when he went to catch she sparkled

and shrivelled;

he ran like a wild horse

searched on the blue sea

where only her smells and reflections were wandering.

Drinking and reaching his depths

he began to dig a well in himself

how many times it collapsed in his eyes

that well

digging and collapsing

collapsing and digging

O mountains and peaks,

O streams carrying the mud,

spread your saree here -

he prayed.

As he entered the depths

his fortune dwindled

his bungalows vanished

farms were pawned;

when the villagers called him names

he grinned and left the place.

When mother's song passed

the womb of his eye

he became a coolie

among the village coolies

withholding all its layers

the well opened

when the water spurted into a fountain

and the whole village gathered;

in a broken cycle

and torn coat, father, was still standing.

Resounding noise of the village

my mother's deep song

the whisper of birds -

listening to all this

he remained a well

without becoming a tomb.

Mother is still there:

like a fruit holding a million

trees in her womb.

Mother, Father and Me

Floating on the raft of tears

wide-eyed and sucking thumb

when I first saw my father

I was five years old.

Again,

in shabby clothes, tousled haired

a scared-eyed 10-year-old

when I encountered him

he picked me up unawares

and feeding sticks

to the bathroom furnace

he was profusely weeping.

In that darkness

stammering

dirt… dirt… dirt…

he was rubbing

even as the skin on my back

peeled off;

then, father's memory

haunted me like fear.

I have been astonished

at my father who

unfurled his wings and danced

like a peacock

to the lullabies and songs

of my mother

who flowed like a stream

throughout the forest of the village.

The truth of
father passing away

without remarrying

flashes like a bolt of lightening

Now the mark on the back

like seed-planted earth

longs for the rain.

Even now I have seen

clouds forming

in father's eyes

as he remembers

mother mumbling in the dark.

Now like a tree

I descend the depths of the ground

I swell in happiness

looking at birds

building nests over me -

I stare and laugh at the woodpecker

which pecks and pecks

until it forms a burrow -

I draw into my heart

the living voices

which whirl and dart about me.

Sloughing off loneliness

I become the fruit

to the beak

of dreamy-eyed migrating birds.

Budding again,
and bearing fruits and flowers.

My Grandmother

With a burning belly

she was born to work;

spilling children she tilled the fields

and filled the palms with seeds;

she taught how to seed.

By teaching how to hold the plough

she instilled in me a firmness.

Harvesting ragi, jowar, avare, horse gram

and sesame crops

she used to end the harvest time

celebrating her native land.

She took care of me

a toddler on four legs.

With her eyes

she would curse the crows and eagles

flying over the hut.

Before leaving for the field

she made me sit on my haunches

and giving a stick to my hand

taught me how to look after chicks

and went half-heartedly.

Carrying water on a bamboo bar

feeding water to every coconut plantation

she became the breath.

As the planted ones went on unfolding the fronds

considering it's height and fruit

in the mind

'This tree is a mighty one

it will come to life like a sandal'

-she said.

To the sound of the coconut

falling at night

she would wake up

like one always meditating on it.

In reply to the cows of the villages

she domesticated a buffalo.

Even when they stood barren

she squeezed the breast of goats

and fed me milk.

We, who were crying in hunger

when promised rice for the night

would stop crying.

Every Saturday

was like a fair.

Fair, was puffed rice, sev and battasu3

and dreams of tasty meals.

The memory of

putting a handful of puffed rice

to black coffee

and getting the lips to bite them

makes the body bloom even now.

Everything changes

rain and summer spread into winter.

Looking at people

who made use of the goodness in people

and later torched their foundations

'where's the time for goodness,'

she would wail.

God knows what quarrel,

to what whispers she turned morose -

in the village

only we two

remained lonely.

How many parrots

in the stories she used to tell,

all knew how to speak

and had flown in from a different land.

The elephant was defeated in front of the ant,

in front of Sita, Rama had shrunk.

She gave so many weapons to Rama

that Arjuna himself ran away from the battlefield.

Even Kunti stood head-bowed

even his guru stood ashamed

as sun disappeared at mid day.

Coins with holes

one, two, three… paisas

only sometimes she lived

in a quarter and half-a-rupee time.

Before seeing the rupee my grandpa

had died,

my mother was wandering from village

to village

and was singing the songs

of the soil.

In the time of new coins

my grandmother disappeared

like old lost coins.

O my mother, the owner of land

what is the colour of your hands

which tied the kacche4

and tilled the land?

When you stand with your wings unfurled

a fair of blooming flowers

the celebration of parrots, peacocks

crows and sparrows -

why do they gather around you?

every leaf of grass sprouts

at the time of dew.

Even heaven bows

in front of your dreams:

in the fair of your memories

even the palace collapses.

The Sea and the Rain

Dusk

the clouds have gathered

and it's raining hard.

Like a dark dot of charm

lightening and thunder.

In the field
mother like a lamp

is wandering among the grown-up crops.

I sat on the hillock

and watching the earth covered by the skies

in one sight,

called out loud: 'Avva!'

My child

running over my heart's cry of tears,

holding the saree-end of my mother

and with his thumb in mouth, follows her.

The sign of love that grew between me and mother

is a dense sea full of memories

I run to mother

who stands like a sea in the rain.

My mother like an innocent girl

holds my child in the left hand

and my wife's hand with the right

the chariot of their walking feet

is moving ahead

I, a devotee pulling that chariot,

no matter how far, I am someone

who has tied it's rope to my back.

In the footsteps walked by time

not placing my feet even by mistake

I recognize the 'cheetah' even in the dark.

Seeking the grains and lentils of life

rushing into the fields

those who cast a net on our very heart

know

the loss of having lost the net.

How to stop loving

if you ask me to stop?

After being kin to the

stickiness of heart.

2.

The time when everything turns to mud

does life grow heavy?

O nectar like love

what is the last game

of your finger touch?

Hold me still closer

I will only evaporate

what is the last song of the river

which hugs the sea?

Clouds, rain, earth…

what are all these?

When will it be unravelled

that the sea is greater than the Himalayas?

Waves: the Rangolis5 Drawn by my Mother

An unknown voice calls

not out of the house,

out of this very body!

How shall I go before listening

to the words of mother?

Wasn't she the one who built a wall

around this life, and filling blood

called it a lake? If the water flows out of the lake

doesn't it go waste like a broken stringed tamboori6?

In the darkness of the den

in the whirlpools of water

in the flame of forest-fires

in all my 'desires' and 'concerns'

I have seen its shadow;

the life-wing inside has cried and fluttered.

Then, I first remember my mother

if she lets her hair loose, and stands in a kacche7 with me

where would it run

for her one cry it's pillars

would start melting and dripping like wax.

When she walks

the trees bow down and stretch their shade

while ascending the mountains paths

the birds start singing.

She walks

inside the house and outside the house.

When once I followed her saying

Avva8… avva… she threw my black stone

into the tank, and singing

went somewhere far away.

Mother, who is not there even when she is there

spreads like a forest within me

I who have lost the way

stammer: avva… avva…

When she finds me again

she caresses and says, 'Where were you,

you were not to be seen,' and sits

singing through the night.

I can hear the consoling words of a few people

and also the knife-edged words

which cut through my gut.

A few others being mothers themselves

rub ointment over the cut wounds.

I should tell everything to mother

I run again and again

shaking head like she heard everything,

throwing whatever she gets on me

she walks away into the plains.

I who run behind

not seeing her even in the plain

cry 'avva… avva…'

I hear someone crying avva from that side.

I somehow decide

and try to jump towards it

by sleeping on railway tracks

by walking into sea

by going to the peaks of mountains;

an invisible hand grabs then

and when I turn back it's avva.

'What are you doing here?

I was searching for you everywhere,' she says

and hands jaggery and groundnuts to me.

What is the lifespan of the rain which rains on the sea?

And isn't she the sea itself?

Me who came out of her, am sitting on a boat

when storms rise the wings which come

and the life which wants to fly away

I have consoled rubbing on its back

when calm, I dream of reaching

some other shore.

I go on rowing

where would she take me?

the waves which rose at that birth

the rangolis written by my mother

between that my journey…

Avva,

tell me where is the end of your love?

It's Raining on the Sea

We have to face each other and

and he is not ready

I'm reminded of

the paths in the field

that we walked together,

the hands which quarreled

for the wafers of ragiball

sticking to the bottom of the cooking-pot…

Waving the torn clothes of

father and mother in lake, and waiting

for fishes which wouldn't come

the moments we stood, our backs bent to hunger.

The dense smell of

avare, ragi and jowar of somebody's field

that we burnt and ate at midnight.

Collecting honge, hippe and neem seeds

before the crowing of the cock

the days we waited for Saabanna

who would bring peanuts on the cycle…

Even when the ground broke into fissures

on the passing of famines

our tears didn't stop.

The grandpas and grandmas who sat

like the deities of the home

with their ash-covered-ember eyes

haunt me.

He is not ready,

to take shape with all these things old.

When he was the insect crawling

on plants and trees

I was the earthworm underneath, tilling the soil.

He was the firefly flying from plant to tree

and by the time people started to praise the light,

I had hidden my head

among rotten flowers and fallen leaves.

He might have lots of reasons to go far

I do not need any reason to love;

to rain on the sea, is its permission required?

He is not ready

he acts like all his memories have faded

the flower blooms and wilts,

even the tree which had flowered

dies, eaten away by termites.

The smell it has left in me

becomes a humongous tree

and sprouts well before the Spring,

I have held back the tears

hidden in heart

from falling to the ground;

thinking that one day he would hug me tight

and become my mother…

We must face each other,

if he doesn't get ready I have no choice

but to climb the staircase of that court.

Woman

The woman

is very picky

she doesn't swallow everything she gets;

man

is the sensuous one

who licks

everything he gets.

Civilizations drowned

because of this

sensuousness.

But the woman who sat in between,

sorting the illusion, dream and theory

in her nirvana

holds his hands

from civilization to civilization.

Like A Drop of Rain

Walking in the forest path

as the sun

blazed on my head

hungry,

I opened

the lunch box

The roti had mother's

fingerprints on them.

Mother's memory

is making the long road ahead

easy.
This is Just a Line

My grandmother who was

'mother' to me since birth

told me that she who was known to

me as 'my sister' was actually my mother.

When she was in her last sleep

I went to see her.

The lamp in her urgency

had burned really fast,

the flame was only as big

as the grain of a corn.

How terrified she must have been

that night.

Was death crushing her

beneath its thumb?

I moved towards the bed

and said, as usual, 'mother!'

I heard my own echo again.

'Even as she breathed

she didn't respond

she didn't break her promise.'

I who did,

became the calf of Dharanimandala9

who mumbled, 'grand ma, my grand ma!'

Who will take care of me

which language will take me to her?

She somehow said that

and walked off firmly

leaving only her footprints.

How to transform mother

into grandmother?

To the poison of broken promise

I have stood like a stone.

Ahalye10 teach me how to meditate.

In the day the night

in the night the day

seeps in,

not in every season

is there such a miracle.

I call my grandmother 'mother' again

no one has heard a stone as yet.

How to transform

someone who I always thought

to be sister

into mother?

This question is enough

for meditation.

As I thought

my sister was

like an incense stick

when lit,

and as my grandmother had told,

like a perfume

like the very sandal

she stood,

O my brothers.

From the bottom

the statue is cracking

can't you hear that sound?

This poem is

just a line

of the sound of that crack.

Wandering Paths which History Doesn't Recognize

Below the stars

for whom does it rain?

In a village faraway, a village festival,

the sound of drums and atmosphere of a fair,

when is the time when men's voices get wet in celebration

it must have rained in that village.

The wheels of ox carts which come from that land

will be covered by moss

bells tied to the neck will be shining

and chime with new sounds.

the cow- and goat-herds of our village

listening to that drum-beat

with their cow and goat, travel that path,

pitching tents in the midst of greens

they open new pages of life.

Little children on those pages

write the pictures of

colourful flowers

elephant, ant, tiger, deer, cheetah, grasshopper, butterfly

lake, field and plain.

Hearing the news of rains in their village

they touch their ears

and remove their tents and leave.

Dog, sheep, goat, donkey, cattle

return grown stout,

like going to a playground

the young ones come jumping.

Avva who reached the house

dusting, cleaning the floor, drawing rangoli

boils lentils in salt water,

driving sheep and goats into the pen

tying the cattle in the shed

keeping water for the thirst of the husband

she serves hot ragiball and curry.

Lighting the lamp and splitting the dark room

she opens the pouches and sacks

brought on back of the donkey

containing groundnuts, jaggery, lentils and rice

and embroidered old cloths,

and loosening the knots of saree ends

having sandalwood flakes and chunks of sugar

she calls the children.

Children,

eating groundnuts, jaggery, rock sugar

smelling the barks of sandal

look wide eyed at the opened sacks.

Separating the lentils and grains

keeping the sprouted grains aside

she meditates on tomorrow's rain.

Like a curtain between the earth and the sky

in the same speed the body heats up.

Like being called by the thunder and lightening,

like little stones flung on the coconut fronds,

covered over the house, a sound

and the roof begins to drip.

The cock, hen and the chicks

which walked out proudly somewhere

mother calls in… making sounds like them.

Even children happily go 'kva kva!'

their cry-song never ending…

After the passage of a long time

from some corner, the 'kva kva' sounds come

splitting through the darkness.

Avva with her eyes closed beneath the blanket

opening them like getting a boon for her meditation

cries kva kva koooo… again in the darkness

like pipers playing trumpets on street.

Listening to it the fowls which come

shaking their bodies as if returning from a victory

The chicken who stand bewildered

to mothers scolding, the hens and cocks

which sleep even as they hear her out.

Children pushing the fronds on the hut

watching the shapes of lightening and thunder

startled, with their bodies turned cold,

cuddle under the warm saree of their mother

isn't there mother where children's fear hide?

This emptiness which fills at its will

if mother is not there, if she is absent even in her presence

who stands in that empty space

who calling, caresses and fondles?

Avva's Words

Heavy rains

bring wealth and danger

at once.
The charm of the blue sky

is the play of lightening, thunder and storm.

Why son, I see

no jewellery on your face?

We keep the ritual food

for the dead,

feeling sorry

for their insatiable desires.

People nowadays

act like

they carry the earth

on their heads.

They who say

don't look for the source,

know its result.

Remember your previous step

wash your heel.

He who climbs

must definitely be small

and reaching, should become clean.

When the clouds have gathered

try to forget the pain,

it will definitely rain.

No part of earth

has ever remained completely barren.

Do not mock saying

he hasn't learnt the letters,

he who has ploughed the earth

is a billionaire

in the poetry of love.

Your life,

like being cooked

in cold water.

When the thorny jackfruit

is clawed open

the sweet flesh inside

is like the soul

of the poor man.

For a long journey

three are better than one.

When the ground id wet

the termite

lifts the mud up.

Status, looks, wealth

should be like the work of an earthworm

underneath the ground.

As the earthworm climbs up

closer comes death.

Roots

The tall mountain

is no taller than the river,

the river was born there

a bit above the mountain.

The ice candy of the village fair

gave birth to the city

and emptied the village.

The forest springs forth

many tunes and melodies

that is the spoken word

of our little child.

The depth

length

breadth

and height

of orphans

is more,

is more.

The question is looming

large.
We spread the question

and make it our pallet;

make tomorrows our pillows.

The stars are leaning towards us

fruits are dangling.

Though the lover has

stabbed and killed his love

yesterday's memories of love

are killing his tomorrows.

Who has seen

the tears

of underwater creatures?

Word history

turns the scoundrels of this land

into gods;

folk literature turns even the dry tree

into a river.

A phony poem

born on the heart of paper,

death of another plant.

However high people

might fly in the plane

they have to return to soil.

He who was thinking

that nothing in the world was right

woke up from his sleep,

and the risen sun

was washing

the dirt.
The cobbler

by seeing the face itself

gets the measurement of the feet.

Do not share your

pain and weaknesses;

they could become the stairs

taking you

to the depths of hell.

If tell people you must

look for those who're like mirrors.

Condition

The shields of the

bombs and shells

that America dropped

on Laos

have become homes

for many people,

today.

Flower and Fiber

In pained eyes I've seen

burning meteors

Nobody grew for them

even a small flower;

with the newly brought fiber

for them are being spun

hanging ropes.

From the Diaries of the Dead

Those who enter Cambodia

see a map of a thousand skulls

these skulls one by one

tell their stories

which begin,

'One day

after the declaration of peace

while returning from the war

America,

thinking that the bullets would go waste

lined up thousands of Cambodians

and killed them all.'

When Ocean Stands, Head Bowed

When we bend our heads

in front of the barber

even as he follows our order

the freedom of time which creates

the game of his fingers,

is a mystery of life.
A Journey through the Desert

They wander the deserts of Arabia

seeking faraway blooms

they pour sand on themselves

and sing their own elegies.

Between birth and death

only a few times they see clouds.

a Satan called storm

snatches even them.

With eyes clouded by dust

they would have expected all these

their eyes stretch in rapt desire

towards the moon appearing at night.

We Indians

we have ocean, river, grass, plants

mountains, hills and green valleys -

we have ice-capped peaks,

we also have hunger

which we've created on our own.

In the desert

camel the companion

of the lonely wanderer.

When the stomach had stuck to the back

on his shoulder as a companion

there was a bird;

with the flash in its eyes

it would hunt the far-off prey

and bring it to him.

A day of those two lives

would end in the flesh

of burnt prey.

Once in the water-spring

oil spurted,

like fruit, hen, grains and cloth

it became the well-spring

which brought pouch-fuls of gold,

the spring of oil

became a well,

everything began to come

to where they sat.

Water, seed, plants, climbers, artificial forests

fishes and fowls, water fountains

dazzling bungalows, girls

bursting with youth, days without nights.

Those who were wandering

have joined now in a fair

the storm is wandering with a howl

old men are muttering as if in a dream

'the tiger cub is dreaming

wandering in an artificial forest

holding its body against water fountains

and hugging women

falling in liquor bowls

and growling in gambling halls

to become like its father.'

Now the camels

by the bungalows, beside the streets

outside the museums and

are eating someone's garbage

and are ruminating age-old ties.

Like Blood Splashed

Whenever they mention Bellary

I'm reminded of its terrible heat,

it's like walking on a hot pan.

Jaali shrubs which do not grow deep roots,

wherever the earth has collapsed

the lines of stone,

the rain which pours, never stops

still there is no water to drink.

The treasury inside

the monstrous hills and mountains;

seeking minerals

as soon as the helicopters spluttered around

the village,

everything changed.

The tilling of tillers

turned towards mountains and hills.

I'm reminded of the fair

of Maari festival;

all around me the hills and mountains

stand faded,

before being shorn off

they have bowed their heads.

On the roads, red muddy water

house, temple, shop, tree, plants, creepers

all red,

like the red of the hen sacrificed

to prevent the craze of the son

maddened with lust.

Everything's red,

even the saree of a pregnant woman

is red.

Like a line of red ants

smelling each others behinds

the lorries down the hills and mountains

are passing.

To collect cheap oar

from passing lorries

all along the flat road

there is constant competition

to dig life-pits.

The whole village is alert;

they roost over night nest

and turn into day;

the birds are learning

to fly even before hatching from eggs -

a weave of red to the market;

lightening rain to the fashion bazaar.

After the setting of sun

the clouds appear as though

they are bleeding red

such is its terrible heat.

Bellary, like walking on a hot pan.

Mother's Children

Ragi, like farmers

becoming one with the soil

stretch their bodies to sun

and into black grains break.

Paddy,

like the people of city

below, there should always be water

which is money.

If water isn't enough

the pulp inside will wither

and before bearing fruit

it dies.

Farmer

puts his faith in the next rain

and waits

everyday
as if meditating;

and like plant buds

sprouting in rain,

he plays around like a jogi.

His field is his world

waiting-hut his palace

parrot, blue jay, earthworm

spider and ant are companions to till.

Fate itself stands with him

as the grains begin to swell.

Hot blood of the city

ate rice without seeing mud

so it can never know

the biting habit of root.

The Spark

For the pleasure of a few people

turning the villages and fields

barren,

these palatial high-rises and

luxurious apartments of

crazy kings,

are widening the highways of people's heart.

These villagers

who lost their land for them

stretching hands for rotten apples

limes and grapes

fallen by the fruit-shops of the city,

are wandering the lanes

as if cursed for life.

To send them to prison,

false crimes

are being created;

the spark of light

is being doused

as easily as pinching the wick

of a candle.

Source Which Never Empties

The lotus blooms hiding its roots

in the depths of the lake.

Being in water but not being like it.

They Who Thought It Was…

Disgust and dirt

take birth in the eye

and die there only.

Lots To Do

How many problems here?

Counting them in itself is a problem

……………………………….

waves, storms, cyclones, tsunamis themselves

haven't stayed here eternally.

Amoeba

No male

till date

has understood

the pain of woman.

he simply pretends -

in her eyes

his picture swells

like an anxious amoeba.

Chain of Ice Tightens

Now, in the lanes

of the great cities

crying rooms

are being created.

It's Becoming Blue Again

The river is flowing

swerving around and piercing through

the boulders and rocks

carrying afloat or drowning

stones, thorns, insects

and thrown shards of glass.

The river has turned red

no one has seen its scratched body.

Wandering around thousands of villages

flowing in fields and groves

it reaches the heart of the sea.

The heart of the sea

turning a little red,

is becoming blue again.

On this Earth

If everyone without knowing the gut

writes like a scholar

then no plants and trees would survive.

Happiness

Pain as long as it is inside

swells;

when it comes out,

shrinks.
Natural life

In devotion

thought,

the thought which broke the devotion.

Jogi said

He who lives in nature

is better than an

one who argues for it.

Baba Budan Giri

The mountain

has gone through

the cloud

the cloud

which

descended

slo-

wly

swallowing the ground

had become the gut.

Patent Notice

They who stole

the different species from the forest

and the different seeds of the land

and flew

in helicopters and planes,

are teaching us environmentalism.

Denizens of the Road

The progeny of those who

spill thorns on road

is still growing

We till at night

and sow the seed of light.

When they walk on those roads

let the roadside trees

we planted

solace them,

and the thorns planted by them

let it catch fire

and let the roads become clean.

Ocean in the Drop

It was raining on the sea,

the waves

were throwing the dead fishes

out, and with them the ones living.

The crows and eagles

flying above

without bothering about any of these

were spinning around

the peanut-selling old man.

We Are Tribal

We are tribal

we neither sweat

nor shudder

at the hunters

who walk around us

we are used to

feeding arrows

for the fires of our furnace

ever since.
Fruit Fallen to the Ground

Four people together

cut the fruit

sucking the juice

and without returning the seed to earth

but breaking it to pieces,

laughing that it got over,

walked off.

The broken seed

mixed with mud, turned into fertilizer

and entering all kinds of life

as it grew like time

the flowers and fruits of the earth

began to bloom

even in their eyes.

Drop of Sweat

In the verandah

while hundreds of intellectuals

discussed about the poet, poetry, play, cinema and

politics -

the master of all that was tilling the soil

till sunset.

Now and then,

the master was mentioned

by the intellectuals -

some said he was a hare-brained philosopher,

others that he was a mischief-monger, fated

to be what he was.
And some others still called him

a stupid old man, a lunatic -

The grains that he had brought from

the fields and stacked

were laughing, listening to all this.

(Inspired by a folk tale)

Fate and Grains

On every grain that is eaten

the name of the eater is written

until death suddenly pounces,

this rule continues unbroken.

Every grain one's own,

and after death

that of someone else.

With his death the story ends

the remaining grains,

someone else's…

(Inspired by a Hindi saying)

World of Dew

'This world of dew

is only a world of dew

and yet.'11

the sea roars,

god knows what urgency -

the koel cries,

who knows indicating what?

Before vaporizing, the dew

burns:

one moment

like a millennium.

Is it the roar of the sea?

or the indication of the koel?

Give the Street Kids Some Space to Sleep

'In the midst of the greens

sings the skylark

free of all things.*'

Sitting in a gunny sack

tied underneath
the Kengeri bridge of Bangalore

my eyes which float

seeking that sound

identify within themselves

all its colours and techniques

the different incarnations of motherliness.

All the sounds of the vehicles

on the bridge, sound like

that of the police.

If remembered

the whole day's a mess.

Many nights

for their kicking practice

they used us like guinea pigs.

Only they know why they used to beat us like that.

Like on the last cradle

of civilization, there

I was

swinging off-balance.

Once when my ball

hit the net of the goal

and untied the gunny sack

I joined the great city.

Even now

amidst the green

the skylark sings.

Who knows which homeless child

is playing there!

(Inspired by a haiku by Basho)

Like Ashes Growing on Smoulders

Mother who travels

from village to village,

everyday, pitches a tent

in every village

and ties a donkey to its right

As usual the moon appears upon the house

children gone begging, return -

groping in the bag

separating the grains

she keeps three stones

and douses the fire

of the stomachs of hungry children.

She has the big dream

of building a house

to stop the whirring

wheel of time

Even the children have the same dream

but what to do

life is not so easy.

How to hide the spark

of her urgent dream

in the end of the saree?

Like ashes growing on smoulders

every night, they tell a story to mother,

with moon as the witness.

In those stories

building a house of her liking;

smearing the earth with cow dung

to a door smooth as sandal,

tying mango-leaf-hangings

which would make a koel blush

and drawing a patterned rangoli

'come in mother!'

they said.

How many moons

heard those stories

and called to witness

they come every night.

Mother who would go to sleep

listening to these stories

every night,

in the morning

pitching a tent in the next village

would dream of those stories again!

(Inspired by a folktale told by Jungli Seeniah)

Midnight

inside the hut;

on the plate

the scrambling of a rat,

what a chill in the stomach!

(Inspired by a haiku by Buson Yosa)

Before Unfurling Wings

Truth is like the wild peacock

it has no obligation towards us

many alluring charms it has

at the time of unfurling wings.

It's richness can't be had

in a single glance

behind,

in front

beside

above

below
inside, outside

a truth beyond all these

keeps flowing.

You praise it,

it won't bow.

Criticize it,

it smiles.

Our Children

From city

they came to forest

holding Pepsi Cola bottles

'Save forest!'

'Save city!'

they lectured endlessly.

Our children

who insisted on having

those Pepsi Cola bottles

catching the road to city

became orphans.

To Mother Earth

I am not

just a lump of jaggery

mother

a child full of dreams

monstrous fleas have thronged

drive them away

with a kiss.

My People

Rain-

clouds

which

appeared

in

summer heat.

You

If

I go on despising everyone

what am I?

Strategy

There was a time

when America was thought to be

a land which had broken the walls

of slavery and racism.

A slave there

thinking of the famine of the future

in the field of the landlord

saved

a handful of grains;

a pair of male and female

animal and bird;

for a future day.

the sons of the landlord

thinking that that concern

of the slave was unfounded

taking the job of saving everything

now are stealing the best

of all the lands.

Their strategy

is to create a famine in the future

by hoarding in the present.

Song of Life

On the hot earth:

the eye of cloud glances

in fields, farms and plains:

song of life.

Half starved, bare bodied,

in the hot eyes

for the seething dreams:

the song of life.

The rotting love

between the people,

spreading root and sprouting:

the song of life.

Tree growing out of seed

the climbers spreading

to each tree

and blooming flowers

the song of life

which wanders the entire forest.

Power of Faith

In places where we have respect

things follow us

orders get passed;

people throng around like ants.

This place is the witness

that the man has lived.

It is not

that it is mine

or those who believe me are great

this is the power of faith.

Time

I like the beedi

to arrange money for beedi

I must smoke the cigarette.

Source of Fulfilment

If people

have faith

in us

then somebody's cow gives milk

and someone else's ox

tills our field.

The field sows itself

and stands full for harvest,

they stretch their arms

and distribute grains and fruits

their faces radiate with fulfilment.

First Step of Creation

The master is a lame man

who cannot even stand;

by the morsel given by mother

the first step of creation

before the student could

open his eyes

seeing his masters defeat

the master had won.

A Question of the Bowl

A student goes
to his guru

and begs him to teach poetry.

guru says:

it's beyond your ken,

suddenly a thunderbolt strikes

and the house of the guru is split into two.

The students who holds a bowl

in the journey of life

sings his folksongs

'when god doesn't protect

that guru will'

Mud Lamp

Ragi and paddy -

while sprouting

and growing

stare at heaven;

gathering the

golden crown

of harvest

they bow to the ground.

Drizzle Beneath the Palms Holding Water

How to catch

that far off moon?

beyond all our rituals

he has moved effortlessly

for millions of years.

A child

lifts water in it's palms;

the moon that

shines in it

in a drizzle beneath the small hands

Lanky neck stretches

and without hesitation

drinks

every drop of the moon

the child's stomach turns into a sky.

The stars caught with the moon

stand above the tree

someone's sitting beneath it

curly hair

a faint smile on lips

lips which have bloomed

like the petals of a rose

underneath his feet beasts have played;

like light twirled and thrown

around it

a fair of onlookers

drums, cymbals, tamboori

the festival of youth.

Jogi's Question

I was sitting in field;

late dusk

singing, a jogi entered the field

wondering from that distance who it was

'hoy!' I cried.

That, for the protection of my field

could I simply let him

enter my field?

Jogi lifting his iconic tamboori

asked a question:

'Who is more shy, male or female?'

Standing in my field,

he asks me a question!

I took out the boomerang of speech

and sticking an answer in it, threw:

saying 'female.'

I hadn't expected at all

but from that side

an answer came,

like forest rain which came without a sign

like the flood which swallowed the village at midnight.

He screamed back:

'You are male

how did you answer, female?'

Wisdom

Till now no one has heard

the sound

of any woman

speaking aloud

in any epic

or religion.

The words

of woman characters

of Mahabharata

sound like whispers

caught under the shadows of religion.

I understood Draupadi12

by the fact that she dreamt of Karna.

If a woman roars aloud

then the helm of power

melts like candle,

and kings and kingdoms flow

towards villages,

fields and farms.

If we search history

we get thousands of biographies like these.

Politics has the guts

to travel beyond religion and the puranas.

For this reason, religion

always fears politics.

But still

politics pretends as if it is the slave

of religion.

If religion has to become a pawn

all this needs to be done -

politics knows that.

Travellers who wander

in the ruins of this history

long to see this;

and when they see,

they are amazed.

Breaching the Order of Face the Tail had Shook

Between cultures

histories

objects

letters

religions

parties

politics

the elephants and chariots

which stand,

and on their backs, glittering golden umbrellas.

In its shadow

people are wearing the costumes

like the characters of some play.

All around the celebratory show,

the blind support

of people who believe whatever they say as true.

In the faces of innocent people

has appeared the lines

of a poster

of people with their hands stretching

for the treasure inside the mirror.

By unsheathing the sword alone

can you become a king?

does he have the formulae

to safeguard people?

Money, politics, education, religion

can bring some kingly charm

to people, isn't it?

King means

light in front

darkness behind

the blood which flows

in the constricted darkness

this is a common thing for them.

Freeing white pigeons in the day

people who

flung stones at them at night

Their winning secret

under their footprints

has grown dense thus:

make people believe

what you say is true,

if you can't
by talking about your mother

make them forget theirs,

victory is yours!

Water and Fire

A piece of roti for the hungry

I stretch my hands,

Oh God
make my hands longer.

To carry orphans

lot of strength

lot of life-force

is needed.

I'm not the sinner

who kills the hen

laying golden eggs.

Let my long hands

touch you alone

I'm the one cooked

in the fires of orphan's hunger.

Has the rice cooked O Lord?

Lift a grain

and test my own self.13

Generation
Why are wandering paths forked into a thousand?

In the same paths, our great grandparents

were searching for wet earth

till the day they died; holding seeds in palms

they would sow when it rained

and sing the song of harvest.

Far away, a roaring sea

a land beyond that,

there, price of gold for seeds.

Though my grand father and grand mother

knew this fact since the day they were born,

they never tried to step into that land.

Kallu Baana14

Desert

heap of sand wherever you see

the wind that blows is

erasing the faces

if you look back

there is no trace of footsteps

your walk is the path.

Sun which burns hot on head,

sand turned to smoulders beneath feet,

strengthless, I am dragging the legs

eyes, dried up lakes;

and sometimes, the shadows of vultures -

how can I decide to be a corpse-to-be-cast-off15 on my own?

Will the heart accept?

I have to disappear from all these. But how?

Birth,

I shouldn't have been born; in this land of

faded colours;

in the burning gut, the blood boils;

in the pulse of nerve

a colourless fair of speech and silence.

All the Shudhodhanas and Mayadevis

who embraced me whole

in the looming darkness of terrible nights -

this poetry
is their first child.

The Saga of Drunkenness

Politics is an art

politician is a poet

The infinite creation born of love

the aim of politics;

the efforts which thinks beyond self,

that labour, its home.

On the throne of power

drunkenness of pride

welfare of people, the sacrificial lamb

nation's progress, daily beheaded.

Centuries passing

and centuries returning

past future present,

the wheel of politics turns

like a compromise between

earth and sky.

Reflection of Darkness

Like the drop of poison

hidden in the beauty of snake's hood

in the intoxication of drunkenness

death is hiding

The pleasure of drinking doesn't kill me

it kills the wife and children

bitten by the snake of drinking

life's ruined, come to dust

Inside the dense bamboo growth

the bird of poor peoples breath is caught.

And inside the sweating eyes

there is only the reflection of a moonless night.

Prison Song

Since thousands of years

with the sculpture of caste and creed

who built life-tombs?

Sweating from dawn to dusk

burning their pyre of dream

who held the torch

in the fire of their pain?

Earth, sky, air and light

our right, they laughed

who were they who went on

boasting, I'm superior, superior.

Earth, water and natural strength

its not ours, they cried

who were they who went on

suffering, feeling inferior and inferior.

In the village, in the town

and in the glorious country

as the strength of creed is crying

every mind is a prison house.

Where is that guru's home

everyone's native home

which enters everyone's life

and which keeps growing like time?

The Song of Mother

A lake is not just a lake

it is the eye of the village.

A lake is not just water

it is the granary of civilization.

As the field overflows

let our lives overflow

but chasing away rain, and cutting forest

filled the lake with silt.

It is not the lake that's covered

it is our lives come to dust.

Bearing with people and animals

the mothers who take care of villages.

If the heart of these mothers overflow

the grains and the lentils fill with juice.

Afterword

Kempavva

Avva

Kempavva

has opened her heart

in her heart a cage-swallowed

parrot flutters.
2

With the parrot inside she is speaking;

like the sunflower field

which looks at the sun in the morning.

Every line of her wrinkled skin

is a path in a dense forest

in the folds of that path

the shadows of birds

flying in flocks,

in the dimple of the cheek

the sound of the roar of the sea.

The legs have gotten down

somewhere beneath the ground;

the face, high up

has disappeared somewhere in the skies.

Using her shoulders

she is holding tight;

from the never-drying well

she has made me drink

a handful of water.

My avva

is the blue space which gives birth to stars,

the drop of water

which has curled tight

its thousand arms.

Nagatihalli Ramesh

When disaster itself is holding his hands

who can save him?

These men and women, his friends

who find hundreds of reasons to love

to hate, pick from the bottom of their heart

a reason.

O god even you won't save him

he is the primal man who jumps out

of the frame of your game.

Even you are just an insect for him.

Whether he will win or loose

he's one who has thrown the

clothes of cause and effect.

He has no taste for them now.

He is the son who gives everything he has

and runs to his mother;

look at him in a state of nirvana.

He is the swimmer who has fallen into

the sea called compassion

he has seen the mud grown dense

turning into a pearl.

Disaster is a golden fire-pit

a rest-house for those who win divinity

and still rise up.

Standing in the hot golden cast of the rest-house

he remembered his mother,

and pulling his mother in his arms

he himself became the mother.

Around his soul, flowers have bloomed

like the celebration of the young bird

which has reached its home;

he is now at peace,

relaxed beyond

pleasure and pain

lies and betrayals….

One day in May 2006, I saw Nagatihalli Ramesh's mother. Till then he had created
his mother's world in me through his talk, songs and crying, and like unravelling
all those pictures he showed her to me.

There are very few people in this world who have hated women as much as I have
done. Even as I sought them for consolation, love and tenderness, seeing their
narrowness, guile and selfishness I have recoiled in horror. Ramesh's mother
Kempavva is someone who has reached a saintly state and has forgotten all sense of
this and the other world. Giving off rice, clothes, jewellery, money for those in
need and then standing with her hands outstretched, her figure has reminded me of
Jesus Christ. Christ said, 'let the wealth flow down from above.' Avva, like
Christ, is both a giver as well as a bhikshu. That she stands here as the very
earth is a testament to man's capacity to be transformed. From the time I have
seen her, my old pictures have started blurring and my hate related diseases have
started disappearing.

With the above kind of diseases becoming common, the magical touch of mother's
fingers is the only cure for the modern world.

A child who has lost mother's love, even in the cosy confines of his house feels
like one lost in a forest. In my journey from such a state towards one which
promises love and tenderness, avva has haunted me like a huge explosion of
awareness; to her, and to Rameshanna and Shobhaakka who opened up these
possibilities, I am forever grateful.

Phoenix Ravi

Success Story of a Villager

Nagatihalli Ramesh is a proper village lad. About two decades back he lost his way
into the city of Bangalore like an orphaned calf. Though born into a well-to-do
family, throughout his childhood he had to experience humiliation, inferiority and
ridicule of people. He lost his father's support even before he could come of age,
and was shaped by the otherworldly-motherhood of his mother. Though initially
neglected for his stammering, he overcame that through sheer effort and innate
talent. He's someone who has mastered the art of spell bounding people with
speech. During the 80's he won almost all the debating competitions in which he
participated with the help of his exact logic and eloquent speech, tempered with
great presence of mind. On the streets of the rich city he sold fruits and
vegetables, and distributing newspaper to households, he built his life through
his own efforts. In moments of great despair he slept on railway tracks to find
the ultimate solace. As trains do not arrive on their scheduled time in our
country, he survived.

Later he graduated in science and journalism, found flourishing ground in the

shade of kind-hearted men and grew into a tree. In the 90s to provide succour to
the dreams and aspirations of village lads like him, he started a magazine called
Spardha Prapancha, and in spite of all hindrances, has been running it for the
past twelve years. He is the kind-hearted man who offers support and love to all
those dreamy lads who, orphaned, stumble into the great doors of Bangalore. His
life itself is a miraculous story.

K Y Narayanaswamy