Category: Partnered Events

PaperPlanes#8 -The Lost Emperor

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

You would think an aging person unanimously chosen, nay forced, to lead several factions from various regions, cultures and even agonistic religions in an underdog war against the might of the Empire, in its full glory, would be the stuff of legends, considering how many Star Wars and superhero spinoffs permeate our waking moments these days. And yet hardly anyone remembers Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor of India.

And yet I am not here to correct the annals of history (William Dalrymple has already done the world that favour) but rather to speak about Bahadur, the man, Zafar, the poet. So you didn’t know he was a poet, you don’t say!

Zafar lived in the times of Ghalib and Zauq, two of the biggest names in Urdu Shayari which, of course, Zafar himself was instrumental in promoting. But despite living in the shadow of giants (a theme with his life, it seems), he was no mean pen-pusher himself (being trained by Zauq, the court poet himself) and tackled and improved upon some of the hottest themes and images in ghazals of the time:

kyA hogA rafu-gar se rafu merA garebAn

ae dast-e-junoon tu ne nahin tAr bhi chhoDA

Pining lovers tearing their clothes off in a fit of passion and jealousy was a common theme. Zafar hits the hyperbole out of the park by saying he has ripped his to such shreds that there’s not even a thread left to stitch.

marg hi sehat hae us ki marg hi us kA ilAj

ishq kA bimAr kyA jAne davA kyA cheez hae

While Ghalib famously said that pain beyond limit becomes its own medicine, Zafar is beyond the point of caring for medicine and recommends slow sweet death as panacea! What was most striking for me when I read Zafar for the first time, however, was the softness of his sorrow. In a field (led by Ghalib again, who else!) where chest thumping, self-patting and gore was the order of the day in romantic ghazals, Zafar comes across as a breath of soothing air, a balm on lovers’ rent chests!

What king, let alone the Emperor of the greatest of all kingdoms, India, would speak with this humility to the woman of his dreams, begging for his daily wages of insults!

gAliyA tankhvAh thahri hae agar baT jAegi

Ashiqo ke ghar miThAi lab shakar baT jAegi

Zafar was an unwilling emperor, the crown thrust on his sensitive head! Before his accession, he lived like a pauper, unlike his three royal brothers. In 1828, a decade before he succeeded the throne, Major Archer had this to say of Zafar – “His appearance is that of an indigent munshi or teacher of languages”.

itnA miliye khAk me jo khAk me DhunDe koi

khAksAri khAk ki gar KhAk sAri rah gai

In the words of the simple king himself, be so humble that if someone searches for your ashes in the dust, let them find only dust! So in a way, it is fitting then, that the victorious Emperor (Zafar means victor) is lost to time.

About the Author – Kaushal Suvarna has published two poetry collections – Siamese Compassion and A Trans-Arabian Handshake. He writes at https://lovelifeetc.com.

PaperPlanes#6 – Boast of Quietness

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

“Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to
understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove’s visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive.”

It is because of this piece, I was drawn towards poetry. What held my fascination was the fact that in this world of poetry, one can be honest; that one can be true to oneself and to the world; the gesture will be applauded. It is a pity that when I came across this piece, my meekness led me to believe that being oneself was possible only in the world of poems. Back then there was an utter lack of ambition and one would immerse into and hide behind this world where the day would pass as a maze of thoughts. Time was never a worry, as it seemed to be playing along my pace. I realize how this piece gave me an intellectual high, comforting my self imposed limitations and fears. However, even back then as now it did twinge this point just below my breast and just above the lungs, somewhere in the centre.

Today when I consider myself far more confident, and not at war with the world, I want to partake in its worldliness. This piece does not comfort me anymore, as I feel the need to find a place in this world. I do not feel the same pride I once felt addressing myself as someone and anyone. While I still feel we are the voices of same poverty, there is an urge to change the status quo the country is still languishing in. I have developed drive whose inspiration is still not materialism, although my day has become greedy from the need to make this country a better place to live. I have never felt this identification for my homeland as I do now, and would like to see its men and women rise above the worries of food and shelter. My ambition is to not worry about a livelihood but about ‘a way of life’.

I am afraid to admit that one has developed a conflict with the idea of a city and its need to ‘build’. I am at conflict with its pace. With no first hand experience of a countryside, I assume it to be a place with unattended green wilderness punctuated by houses which are not at conflict with nature. I have many complaints, angst and regrets against the cities I have been a part of and still am. The quick to attack rage of steel and the lariats of my fellow Indians makes my heart burn, though now I do not feel isolated by their aspirations.

The willow grove’s visible prayer holds much more beauty for me now, as do all the phases of a day. Now I want to be a part of every sunrise, and every sunset and find romance in noon. While I am much more aware of my dispensability, I would like to feel worthy of tomorrow as I sleep and wake up, every day.
I want to develop my own pace, fast or slow and be unashamed of it.
I want to be more prodigious than a meteor as I wanted to be back then, albeit being a part of this worldliness.

The ‘Boast of Quietness’ holds a much more meaningful place in my life now. Thank you for this poem.

About the Author : Gunjan Vashisht is a poet, writer who has a flair for human nature and finds herself at home with the propensity to explore habits, reactions, opinions, mindsets.

Grasmere churchyard.. Grave of William Wordsworth and his wife Mary.

PaperPlanes#5 – His Words are Great Music!

Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

I am convinced that there are three things to rejoice at in this Age—The Excursion, Your Pictures, and Hazlitt’s depth of Taste.
– John Keats in his letter to Benjamin Robert Haydon on 10th January, 1818.

The onset of life is poetry. A rose may smell as sweet by any other name but a child’s first words with the maternal force of divine, in any shape or form other than the rhythmical, cadenced cry cannot weave the same magic in the ears or the airs of the world. When a mother lullabies her child to sleep for the first time, poetry becomes the first and the sweetest words of instruction for a lifetime. When a Teacher establishes her first contact with the aliens on earth who are to be schooled to become humans, poetry drenches and softens the first pathways of unyielding greatness.

Professor William Hastie taught at the Scottish Church College, Calcutta. At the time, this college was known as the General Assembly Institution. The Professor in one of his classes was discussing the ‘Great Poem’ of William Wordsworth – The Excursion. It is the longest poem written by the poet and is considered to be one of the most influential poems of its time. The poem advances through a debate among its 4 main characters – the Poet, the Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor. This poem was published in 1814 and is arranged into 9 books. Notably, the 3rd and the 4th books consist of a conversation between the Wanderer and the Solitary regarding religion, spirituality, and human virtues. As with every other poem of Wordsworth, these lines too were born from the deep meditative reflections of his mood. For me, Wordsworth becomes one with his subjects of poetry – nature, mind, or soul notwithstanding, he seemed to transcend into the inner chambers of entities he dealt with. Naturally, he remains one of the most difficult poets to teach in a classroom.

 

But descending
         From these imaginative heights, that yield
         Far-stretching views into eternity,
         Acknowledge that to Nature’s humbler power                
         Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend
         Even here, where her amenities are sown
         With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad
         To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields,
         Where on the labours of the happy throng
         She smiles, including in her wide embrace
         City, and town, and tower,–and sea with ships
         Sprinkled;–be our Companion while we track
         Her rivers populous with gliding life;
         While, free as air, o’er printless sands we march,        
         Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods;
         Roaming, or resting under grateful shade
         In peace and meditative cheerfulness;
         Where living things, and things inanimate,
         Do speak, at Heaven’s command, to eye and ear,
         And speak to social reason’s inner sense,
         With inarticulate language.

         – From Book 4, Despondency Corrected, The Excursion – William Wordsworth

During his lecture on the poem, Professor Hastie was explaining the nature and meaning of ‘trance’. For his students to have an understanding of the subject, he directed them to visit Dakshineshwar in Calcutta and see Sri Ramakrishna who was believed to be a realized soul in spiritual experiences and someone who went into Bhava-Samadhi (a state of ecstatic and heightened consciousness or spiritual ecstasy) at will.

Narendranath Dutta, who was present in the classroom, heeded to Hastie’s advice and went to see Sri Ramakrishna. This young man was to become Swami Vivekananda through his association with Sri Ramakrishna in the years to come by collecting gems at his Master’s feet and influence the history of humanity in a way that the French Nobel Laureate Romain Rolland described thus – “His words are great music, phrases in the style of Beethoven, stirring rhythms like the march of Handel choruses. I cannot touch these sayings of his, scattered as they are through the pages of books at thirty years’ distance, without receiving a thrill through my body like an electric shock. And what shocks, what transports must have been produced when in burning words they issued from the lips of the hero !
India was hauled out of the shifting sands of barren speculation wherein she had been engulfed for centuries, by the hand of one of her own sannya?sins; and the result was that the whole reservoir of mysticism, sleeping beneath, broke its bounds and spread by a series of great ripples into action. The West ought to be aware of the tremendous energies liberated by these means.”

Sublimity, thy name is Poetry!

PaperPlanes#4 – Panth Rehne Do Aparichit, Pran Rehne Do Akela

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

Those feet must be someone else’s, which were defeated,
Which returned after surrendering their resolution to obstacles,
My feet are different: unafraid of sorrow, eager to create,
My feet measuring immortality,
In their quest to reinvent
They will create a golden era even in darkness.

Those stories must be someone else’s
The sounds of which were destroyed in vacuum, and all traces lost in dust,
My story is one which even amazes destruction,
I create everyday,
A market of pearls,
And a festival of sparks.
Let the path be unknown, and you me alone!

(Translated from Hindi by Prachi Jha and Ashok Kumar Jha)

Poetry has always been a source and expression of strength for the subalterns. In the early 20th Century, when India was reeling under the influence of British Raj as well as patriarchy, there came a wave of fresh poetry from Mahadevi Verma. I got introduced to Mahadevi Verma as one of the storytellers in my small book of Hindi lessons. I vividly remember in the textbook, Verma wrote about her pet squirrel ‘Gillu’ and her encounters with the little being. The more interesting part of that lesson was the description of Verma’s own life. She lived alone in the times when the thought of a woman living all by herself was never heard of.

She came to my rescue again on a gloomy Sunday morning recently, when I was reading a digital postcard called DaakVaak in my emails. This was one of the poems from that postcard. I was awed by how she started her poem by rejecting those feet which were headed to defeat. I related to this line more than anything else. It talks about how defeats are a way and not a necessity in life and it must be someone else ’s feet if it had returned. Had it been her feet then it wouldn’t have returned, it wouldn’t have given up. This poem has something innately courageous about it. It rejects the conventional defeat. However, it doesn’t mean that she hates the idea of defeat but she says that she believes in her ability so much that she sees victory in the fallen. To me, she is Satan and Almighty at the same time. Christianity has always viewed Satan as the most ‘Satanical’ being on earth but I find heroism even in Satan. ‘Paradise Lost’, one of the epics by John Milton has the epic begin in medias-res where Satan is glorified and his followers are given a prodigious prose about working for their master but at the end, he is the fallen angel. For me, Mahadevi Verma starts after Satan has fallen because she may be sweeping the floor off and preparing to start the next round when the doomsday prediction is around the corner.

The next stanza in the above poem is even more interesting where she makes her story unique and common at the same time. She starts by saying that she creates and innovates every day. At the same time, she shares the stage with you, me and anyone who would want to be an active responder. The reason for choosing this piece is that poetry has always been the language of the elite, the language only rich quote while they give speeches or appear in ballets but Verma’s poetry gives feet to the common and appear in everyday emotions. This poem felt like a unique tribute but to every man.

Read the original poem here

About the Author: Kalpita Wadher is a Masters’ student of Social Science but her undergrad in literature makes her combine society and people with words of solace.

PaperPlanes#3 – KurigaLu Saar KurigaLu

TheSeer Team1 Comment

Prof. K S Nissar Ahmed (Kokkare Hosahalli Shekh Haider Nissar Ahmed) is a prominent Kannada poet and writer. KurigaLu, Saar, KurigaLu is his hard-hitting poetical satire that will forever apply to humans.

ಕುರಿಗಳು, ಸಾರ್, ಕುರಿಗಳು; ಸಾಗಿದ್ದೇ ಗುರಿಗಳು. (kurigaLu, saar, kurigaLu; saagidde gurigaLu.)
ಮಂದೆಯಲಿ ಒಂದಾಗಿ, ಸ್ವಂತತೆಯೆ ಬಂದಾಗಿ (mandheyalli ondagi, swantateye bandagi)
ಇದರ ಬಾಲ ಅದು ಮತ್ತೆ ಅದರ ಬಾಲ ಇದು ಮೂಸಿ, (idara baala adu matte adara baala idu moosi,)
ದನಿ ಕುಗ್ಗಿಸಿ, ತಲೆತಗ್ಗಿಸಿ, (dani kuggisi, tale taggisi,)
ಹುಡುಕಿ ಹುಲ್ಲು ಕಡ್ಡಿ ಮೇವು, ಅಂಡಲೆಯುವ ನಾವು, ನೀವು, (huDuki hullu kaDDI mEvu, anDaleyuva naavu neevu)
ನಮಗೊ ನೂರು ಗುರಿಗಳು (namagO nooru gurigaLu.)
ಎಡ ದಿಕ್ಕಿಗೆ ಬಲ ದಿಕ್ಕಿಗೆ, ಒಮ್ಮೆ ದಿಕ್ಕು ಪಾಲಾಗಿ, (eda dikkige, bala dikkige, omme dikkapaalagi,)
ಒಮ್ಮೆ ಅದೂ ಕಳೆದುಕೊಂಡು ತಾಟಸ್ಥ್ಯದಿ ದಿಕ್ಕೆಟ್ಟು (omme adU kaLedukonDu TaaTasthyadi dikkeTTu)
ಹೇಗೆ ಹೇಗೊ ಏಗುತಿರುವ, ಬರೀ ಕಿರುಚಿ ರೇಗುತಿರುವ, (hege hego eegutiruva, bari kiruchi regutiruva,)
ನೊಣ ಕೂತರೆ ಬಾಗುತಿರುವ, ತಿನದಿದ್ದರು ತೇಗುತಿರುವ, (noNa kuthare baaguthiruva, tinnadiddaru tegutiruva,)
ಹಿಂದೆ ಬಂದರೊದೆಯದ, ಮುಂದೆ ಬರಲು ಹಾಯದ (hinde bandarodeyada, mundhe baralu haayada)
ಅವರು, ಇವರು, ನಾವುಗಳು (avaru, ivaru, naavugalu)
ಮಂದೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲವೊಂದೆ ಆದಾಗಲೆ ಸ್ವರ್ಗ ಮುಂದೆ – (mandheyalli ellavonde aadagale swarga mundhe –)
ಅದಕಿಲ್ಲವೆ ನಾವುತ್ತರ? ಮೆದುಳಿನಲ್ಲಿ ತಗ್ಗೆತ್ತರ, (adakillave naavuttara? MedhuLinalli taggettara)
ಹಿರಿದು, ಕಿರಿದು ಮಾಯಿಸಿ, (hiridu kiridu maayisi,)
ಒಬ್ಬೊಬ್ಬರಿಗಿರುವ ಮೆದುಳ ಸ್ವಾರ್ಥದ ಉಪಯೋಗದಿಂದ (obbobbarigiruva medhuLa swarthada upayogadinda)
ಇಡಿ ಮಂದೆಗೆ ಹಾಯಿಸಿ (iDi mandhege haayisi,)
ಹೊಟ್ಟೆ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗೊಗ್ಗದಂಥ ಕಲೆಯ ಕರ್ಮಕಿಳಿಯದಂತೆ (hoTTe baTTegoggadantha kaleya karmakkiLiyadanthe)
ತಲೆ ಬೆಲೆಯ ಸುಧಾರಿಸಿ, (tale beleya sudharisi,)
ಬಿಳಿ ಕಪ್ಪಿನ ದ್ವಂದ್ವಗಳಿಗೆ ಮಾಡಿಸಿ ಸಮಜಾಯಿಷಿ (biLi kappina dwandwagaLige maadisi samajayishi,)
ನಮ್ಮ ಮೆದುಳು ಶುದ್ಧಿಯಾಗಿ, ಬುದ್ಧಿ ನಿರ್ಬುದ್ಧಿಯಾಗಿ, (namma medhuLu shuddhiyagi, buddhi nirbuddhiyaagi)
ಕೆಂಬಣ್ಣವನೊಂದೆ ಪೂಸಿ, (kembaNNavanonde poosi)
ಅದರ ಬಾಲ ಇದು ಮತ್ತೆ ಇದರ ಬಾಲ ಅದು ಮೂಸಿ (adara baala idu, matte idara baala adu moosi)
ನಡೆವ ನಮ್ಮೊಳೆಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿರುಕು? (naDuve nammoLelli biruku?)
ನಮ್ಮ ಕಾಯ್ವ ಕುರುಬರು: (namma kaaiva kurubaru:)
ಪುಟಗೋಸಿಯ ಮೊನ್ನೆ ತಾನೆ ಕಿತ್ತು ಪಂಚೆಯುಟ್ಟವರು (puTagosiya monne taane kitthu pancheyuTTavaru,)
ಶಾನುಭೋಗ ಗೀಚಿದಕ್ಕೆ ಹೆಬ್ಬೆಟ್ಟನು ಒತ್ತುವವರು; (shaanubhoga geechiddakke hebbettannu otthuvavaru;)
ಜಮಾಬಂದಿಗಮಲ್ದಾರ ಬರಲು ನಮ್ಮಳೊಬ್ಬನನ್ನ (jamaabandigamaldaara baralu nammoLobbananna)
ಮೆಚ್ಚಿ, ಮಸೆದ ಮಚ್ಚ ಹಿರಿದು ಕಚಕ್ಕೆಂದು ಕೊಚ್ಚಿ ಕತ್ತ (mechchi, maseda machcha hiridu kachakkendu kochchi kattha,)
ಬಿರಿಯಾನಿಯ ಮೆಹರುಬಾನಿ ಮಾಡಿ ಕೈಯ್ಯ ಜೋಡಿಸುತ್ತ (biriyaniya meharubaani maaDi kaiyya jodisuttha,)
ಕಿಸೆಗೆ ಹಸಿರುನೋಟು ತುರುಕಿ, ನುಡಿಗೆ ಬೆಣ್ಣೆ ಹಚ್ಚುವವರು. (kisege hasiru noTu turuki, nudige benne hachchuvavaru.)
ಬಿಸಿಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ದೂಡಿ, ಮರದಡಿಯಲಿ ತಾವು ಕೂತು (bisilinalli namma dooDi, maradaDiyali taavu koothu)
ಮಾತು, ಮಾತು, ಮಾತು, ಮಾತು (maathu, maathu, maathu, maathu)
ಮಾತಿನ ಗೈರತ್ತಿನಲ್ಲೆ ಕರಾಮತ್ತು ನಡೆಸುವವರು, (maathina gairatthinalle karaamatthu naDesuvavaru.)
ನಮ್ಮ ಮೈಯ ತುಪ್ಪಟವ ರವಷ್ಟು ಬಿಡದ ಹಾಗೆ ಸವರಿ (namma maiyya tuppaTava ravashTu biDada haage savari)
ಕಂಬಳಿಗಳ ನೇಯುವಂಥ ಯೋಜನೆಗಳ ಹಾಕುವವರು. (kambaLigaLa neyuvantha yojanegaLa haakuvavaru.)
ಮಾರಮ್ಮನ ಮುಡಿಗೆ ಕೆಂಪು ದಾಸವಾಳ ಆಯುವವರು (Maarammana muDige kempu daasavaaLa aayuvavaru)
ಬೆಟ್ಟ ದಾಟಿ ಕಿರುಬ ನುಗ್ಗಿ , ನಮ್ಮೊಳಿಬ್ಬರನ್ನ ಮುಗಿಸಿ (beTTa daaTi kiruba nuggi, nimmoLibbaranna mugisi,)
ನಾವು ‘ಬ್ಯಾ, ಬ್ಯಾ’ ಎಂದು ಬಾಯಿ ಬಾಯಿ ಬಡಿದುಕೊಂಡು (naavu ‘bya bya’ endhu baayi baayi baDedukonDu)
ಬೊಬ್ಬೆ ಹಾಕುತಿದ್ದರೂ – (bobbe haakuthiddarU –)
ಚಕ್ಕ ಭಾರ ಆಟದಲ್ಲೆ ಮಗ್ನರು ಇವರೆಲ್ಲರು (chakkabhaara aaTadalli magnaru ivarellaru)
ನಮ್ಮ ಕಾಯ್ವ ಗೊಲ್ಲರು. (namma kaaiva gollaru.)
ದೊಡ್ಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೂಡಿಹಾಕಿ ನಿಲ್ಲಲಿಲ್ಲ, ಕೂರಲಿಲ್ಲ (doDDiyalli kooDihaaki nillalilla, kooralilla,)
ಎದ್ದರೆ ಸರಿದಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ , ಬಿದ್ದರೆ ಹರಿದಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ, (eddhare saridaDalilla, biddare haridaDalilla,)
ದೀಪದ ದೌಲತ್ತು ಇಲ್ಲ, (deepada daulatthu illa,)
ಗಾಳಿಯ ಗಮ್ಮತ್ತು ಇಲ್ಲ, (gaaLiya gammatthu illa.)
ಕಿಂಡಿಯಿಂದ ತೆವಳಿ ಬಂದ ಗಾಳಿ ಕೂಡ ನಮ್ಮದೇನೆ (kinDiyinda tevaLi bandha gaaLi kooDa nammadene)
ನಮ್ಮ ಮುಂದೆ ಕುರಿಯ ಸುಲಿದು ಆಚೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಉಪ್ಪು ಸವರಿ (namma mundhe kuriya sulidu, aache alli uppu savari)
ಒಣಗಲಿಟ್ಟ ಹಸಿ ತೊಗಲಿನ ಬಿಸಿ ಬಿಸಿ ಹಬೆ ವಾಸನೆ, (oNagaliTTa hasi togalina bisibisi habe vaasane,)
ಇರಿಯುತಿಹುದು ಮೂಗನೆ! (iriyutihudu moogane!)
ಕೊಬ್ಬಿರುವೀ ಮಬ್ಬಿನಲ್ಲಿ, ಮೈ ನಾತದ ಗಬ್ಬಿನಲ್ಲಿ (kobbiruvee mabbinalli, mai naathada gabbinalli,)
ಇದರ ಉಸಿರು ಅದು ಮತ್ತೆ ಅದರ ಉಸಿರು ಇದು ಮೂಸಿ – (idara usiru adu, matthe adara usiru idu moosi –)
ಹೇಸಿದರು ನಿಭಾಯಿಸಿ, (hesidaru nibhayisi,)
ತಾಳ್ಮೆಯನೆ ದಬಾಯಿಸಿ, (taaLmeyane dabaayisi,)
ನಮ್ಮ ನಾವೆ ಅಂದುಕೊಂಡೊ, ಉಗುಳುನುಂಗಿ ನೊಂದುಕೊಂಡೊ, (namma naave andhukonDo, ugulu nungi nondhukonDo,)
ನಂಬಿಕೊಂಡು ಏಗುತ್ತಿರುವ ನಾವು, ನೀವು, ಇಡೀ ಹಿಂಡು. (nambikonDu Eguthiruva naavu, neevu, iDee hinDu)
ತಳವೂರಿದ ಕುರುಬ ಕಟುಕನಾದ; ಅವನ ಮಚ್ಚೊ ಅಹ! (taLavoorida kuruba kaTukanaada; avana machcho aaha!)
ಏನು ಝಳಪು, ಏನು ಹೊಳಪು, ಏನು ಜಾದು, ಏನು ಮೋಹ! (enu jhaLapu, enu hoLapu, enu jaadu, enu moha!)
ಆ ಹೊಳಪಿಗೆ ದಂಗಾಗಿ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗದೇ ರಂಗಾಗಿ, (aa hoLapige dangagi, kaNNigade rangagi,)
ಒಳಗೊಳಗೇ ಜಂಗಾಗಿ (oLagoLage jangagi,)
ಕಣ್ಣು ಕುಕ್ಕಿ, ಸೊಕ್ಕಿರುವ, ಹೋಗಿ ಹೋಗಿ ನೆಕ್ಕಿರುವ, (kaNNu kukki sokkiruva, hogi hogi nekkiruva)
ಕತ್ತನದಕ್ಕೆ ತಿಕ್ಕಿರುವ (katthanadake thikkiruva)
ನಾವು, ನೀವು, ಅವರು, ಇವರು (naavu, neevu, avaru, ivaru)
ಮಚ್ಚಿನ ಆ ಮೆಚ್ಚಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅದರಾಳದ ಕಿಚ್ಚಿನಲ್ಲಿ (machchina aa mechchinalli, adaraLada kichchinalli,)
ಮನೆ ಮಾಡಿವೆ ಹುಚ್ಚಿನಲ್ಲಿ (mane maaDive huchchinalli)
ನಮ್ಮೆಲ್ಲರ ಗುರಿಗಳು (nammellara gurigaLu!)

Translation into English

Sheep, sir, sheep; what goes ahead are the goals.

Become one with the crowd, shut down the individuality,

Sniff each other’s tails,

Lower the voice, bow down the head,

Search for grass, twigs and hay, you and us, roaming jobless.

We too have hundreds of goals.

To the left, to the right, sometimes directionless,

Sometimes losing that too being distraught at neutrality

Somehow tolerating, only shouting and screaming,

Bowing even to a fly, burping even if not eaten,

Not kicking whoever is behind, not ramming whoever is in the front,

Them, us, everyone.

Heaven is when everyone becomes one with the crowd

Aren’t we the answer for that? The sulci-gyri of the brain

Level the younger and older

Using the selfishness of each brain

Set sail for the whole crowd

A talent unsuitable for either food or clothes, not even for work

To set a price per head,

Explain the duel between white and black

Purify our brains, knowledge becomes unknowledgeable

Worship only the red

Sniff each other’s tails

Where are the differences among us?

The shepherds who protect us

Only day before yesterday threw the loins and wore panche

Put thumbprints to whatever the accountant writes

The credit man comes, likes one of us,

Stabs with sharpened machete and slits the neck

Prepares biryani of sympathy by pleading

Stuffs money into grinning mouths and buttering words

They push us to work under the sun while they sit under the tree

Talk, talk, talk, talk

Perform miracles only with their talks

They skin us completely without leaving a trace

And come up with a scheme to weave blankets for us

They scavenge hibiscus for goddess Maramma

When a hyena crosses over the mountain, kills two of us

And we bleat

Creating chaos

Engrossed in a game of ludo

Are our cowherds.

Even when locked in a barn, neither stand nor sit,

Don’t move when awake, don’t sprawl when fall,

No privilege of light

No scent of air

The air that comes in through the peepholes is ours

The sheep they skinned and smeared salt

To dry from it comes the warm raw smell

That drills our nose.

In this thickened fog, in this bad odour of our bodies,

Sniff each other’s breath

Manage the shit

Silence the patience

Admonish ourselves, not speak about the hurt,

Trust and wait, us, you and the whole herd.

The shepherd who sat down became the tyrant; what a machete he has!

What reflection, what shine, what magic, what lust!

Stunned by its shine, it is colourful to our eyes

It rusts us from inside

Blinds our eyes with arrogance, licking it again and again,

Rubbing our necks to it,

Us, you and them.

In the admiration of the machete, in its fire of passion,

Our goals

Have made their home.

About the Author : Shwetha H S is reader, writer, traveller, book reviewer and author of Blues Brewery, a prose and poetry anthology. She  writes on  https://shwethahs.wordpress.com/

Haiku Monument of Matsuo Basho in Yuno Pass

PaperPlanes#2 – Warming up to Haiku

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

To say I’ve hated haiku as an art form is a gross understatement; I had never given it a moment’s thought, forget considering it poetry!

And it’s not just the kitsch that most wannabe pseudo-intellectual or insta-intoxicated Sufi/Zen oafs churn out and repeat all over Whatsapp and other digital media either.

Consider this epitome, that’s now a cliche in the haiku universe, the piece that eventually led to the coinage of the word haiku (it was originally hokku, and the hokku used to be part of a longer poem, renga; Masaoka Shiki came up with the term for standalone haiku, made popular by Basho):

an old pond
a frog jumps in
the sound of water

( furuike ya kawazu tobikomu mizu no oto

if you care for the original Japanese text.)

This piece by Basho has been hailed for portraying eternity in a moment, stillness, Zen and whatever the reader’s fertile or troubled mind conjures – it has over 170 official translations in English alone.

No matter how many times I read or thought it over, for the life of me, I couldn’t find any such depth in it. And so I gave up on the genre altogether as snake oil being peddled by Japanophile zealots.

(And lest you should think me an ignorant boor, you are free to peruse this:

https://whrarchives.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/a-contrarian-view-of-bashos-frog/)

So when I recently picked up The Classic Tradition of Haiku (there was nothing else around to read) I tried to keep a very open mind and was truly astonished by the unassuming simplicity and nothingness of it. And then it struck me!

It wasn’t haiku that I hated all these years but the over-interpretations of them! (By the way, haiku is both singular and plural.)

Haiku, rather hokku, is, what it always was, a simple rhythmic formal description of nature – nothing more, nothing less.

It is just a terse fleeting image of a transient natural phenomenon. True to its Japanese roots, it does not overdo on either sentimentality or meaning, it just states an existential fact.

And this very elemental picture, a word-image of an ephemeron in this phantasmagoria we call living on this blind plane of existence, it is this observation that is, and creates, its own meaning.

And so it is, that it is the water in the still pond that makes a sound, not the frog that eagerly jumps into it!

(And it’s not a mere play on words but the revelation of the paradoxical in the commonplace that lends the tiny haiku, barely 11-17 syllables, its unfathomable power – the recognition of truth!)

Having said that, human nature is also nature, and while Basho is synonymous with haiku to today’s western-educated youth, it is the soft sadness of Kobayashi Issa that resounded most vibrantly in me, whether it be his compassion for animals:

Exhausted by
the crowd of children –
a sparrow

or this gut wrenching observation:

her row veering off,
the peasant woman plants
toward her crying child

However, if I had to pick one quintessential haiku, it would be this masterpiece by Kikaku, Basho’s flippant, though arguably best, student:

It is my snow, I think
And the weight on my hat lightens

 

 

 

About the Author – Kaushal Suvarna has published two poetry collections – Siamese Compassion and A Trans-Arabian Handshake. He writes at https://lovelifeetc.com.

 

 

 

A Thomas Nast Santa, from 1881, wearing the modern Santa suit

PaperPlanes#1 – Made of Poetry

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

Reproduced above are lines from the poem The Night Before Christmas composed by Clement Clarke Moore for his children on the Christmas Eve of 1822. The poem was originally called A Visit from St. Nicholas and travelled time to become the most defining description of the modern day Santa Claus. How?

In 1863, Harper’s Weekly hired Thomas Nast to draw Santa Claus bringing gifts for the troops fighting in the American Civil War. Nast resorted to Clement’s poem for his inspiration and the resulting Santa was welcomed warmly by the troops. This Santa was a much more relatable one when compared to the ones depicted before Clement’s poem. Nast drew this Santa every year for 40 years.

Years later, Coca Cola in 1931, commissioned D’Arcy Advertising Agency and Michigan-born artist Haddon Sundblom to create a campaign featuring Santa Claus who would be friendlier and more approachable than the earlier versions being used by the company till then. The inspiration came again from Clement’s poem. The ‘jolly old elf’ has come to represent happiness as well as Coke till today,  all from a poem that went out anonymously when it was published for the first time!

 

 

Reference – Coke Lore Santa Claus

 

Public Libraries in the Digital Age

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

The speaker of the house was Hannelore Vogt with Satish Hosamani, the former is the director of Cologne Public Library, Germany and the latter represented Karnataka State Libraries. The session started with Hannelore presenting us some articles which looked like toys and one would wonder about its significance, only to realise from her presentation that those were printed out from the 3D printer of Hannelore’s public library.

Continue reading “Public Libraries in the Digital Age” →

The Family as a Microcosm

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

Bangaloreans got a chance to interact face to face with the renowned author Sadiqa Peerbhoy, who launched her latest book on the first day of Bangalore Literature Festival, 2017. ‘The Family as a Microcosm’ is the story of a dysfunctional family which is trying to survive through a distraught Bombay, post-Babri Masjid demolition. While both the family and the city are in turmoil, the author tries to portray how deeply the fate of both these two entities are intertwined. Whatever happens to the family, happens to the city and hence, the word ‘microcosm’ fits so aptly into the title.

Continue reading “The Family as a Microcosm” →

Voyage of Words – Translators Set Sail

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment
Mini Krishnan, a well-known publisher, drove the session with Kannan Sundaram, a publisher in Tamil and MS Asha Devi and Subhashree Krishnaswamy, prominent literary translators to emphasize the dynamics and challenges of the literary translation, an art that often goes unacknowledged. The translators discussed theoretical and practical aspects of their translation experience, and critical statements on the extent, quality, consistency, and impact of the translator’s work. The publishers shared their views on choosing the right books to publish.

Continue reading “Voyage of Words – Translators Set Sail” →

Proudly powered by WordPress | Theme: Pena by Anariel Design.