Six Malayalam Poems In Translation || RA SH

Kitchenware
Chithira Kusuman

In my house,
apart from me,
there are many other entities
bearing my name.

Big and small lunch boxes, 
a bronze cauldron,
a deep fry pot, ears missing,
a water pot,
a rice barrel,
five of six porcelain plates,
three aluminium and steel pots
of various sizes…..et cetra

In my house
when I am there
or not 
sometimes in the sink
sometimes on the slab
in different racks
in a row
upside down
wet
dry
full
empty
keep clanging poems 
with my name
etched on them.


Valley
Shaju VV

It was one of the mountains
on both sides of the valley,
lost in each other 
like meditating statues,
that vanished first.
(that picturesque valley
was the table between them.)

Finding a mountain 
disappear in a flash 
even as he watched,
a shepherd named Anvar swooned.
Three boys catching fish in the lake
flailed like fish caught in the hook
when they witnessed
one of the snow clad pine trees,
frozen in the click of
of a camera wizard
in the midst of a long march,
vanish with a suppressed scream.

The usual migratory bird
often seen on the minaret of the mosque
(that had forgotten its own behavior
on reaching the valley) flew off 
grumbling that it will never return.

It was in front of the dead child that
the old man selling hash,
who used to declare time and again
that the army is disciplined insanity
marching in rhythmic strides, vanished.

When she saw the stream of sheep
flowing down the hill
vanishing like in the poem ‘how a river vanishes’,
the girl named Haseena screamed in fright 
that she had gone blind.

People, trees, birds,
the constellation like a tamed animal
that bloomed bright in the sky 
above the valley every night,
towns, vehicles, villages, roads,
snow bears,
concepts,
memories,
dreams,
scents, tastes,
pathways like the nerves in the brain,
words uttered by the people,
words scribed on books,
evenings tinted with sadness,
feelings of anguish that became
things of the past,
thus, 
from that nation, day by day,
many people
many things
vanished.

In each and every map, that nation was seen
rotting and infested with worms.

The pain of losing
everything that one loved
settled down in that valley.

The few remaining wondered
where all of them vanished.
Eventually,
they too vanished.

How can we call them refugees,
the people who vanish
with no destination,
leaving no signs of themselves?

Much later,
that nation,
where only the army and
the shepherds grazing them remained,
came to be known as
the putrid corpse
of paradise.


Mermaid
Subin Ambitharayil

Once,
in a dream,
I had to traverse on foot
a sea seething with fish.

Though I walked far,
though it was a dream,
I did not come across
any mermaid.

The schools of fish
swam thick and sang
while gulping down food.
I felt like saying Hi to them.
But, they did not mind me
even with the swish of a tail.
I felt irritated.

I let float a troll
‘how thrilling is their life
till  trawled by a net!’

They cannot fool around with me
who can troll even someone’s death.

Wasting not the opportunity
that came free of cost,
I roamed around
all corners of the sea
searching for the wreckage
of the Titanic.
Apart from wasting my time,
I could not find the Titanic.

I found relief in the thought that
the time of my dreaming
might have been before
the Titanic was wrecked
and that there could be no dream
that travelled alongside life.

It was one expanse of a dream
that spread like the sea
to the far distance and
down to great depths.

Though I was in water the whole time,
I had no difficulty in breathing.
I assumed that there is 
no need for oxygen to dream.

If that is so,
there won’t be any break in dreaming
even after death, I happily thought.

I even felt like writing a poem
about the dreams the dead ones have.

After walking for long
I crawled up the shore of
the dream about to end.

She was sleeping beside
unmindful of all this.

Like always, I thought then.
What a pretty sight is a woman’s slumber!

Calling out to her, “O my mermaid!”
I planted a kiss, lip-locked.

No, the lingering scent of 
last night’s fish curry
was yet to leave her lips.

I felt hungry again. 


Room of the believer
Samudra Neelima

Long vacation.
The beginning of summer.
When you took time returning 
from your home town
some of us joked that
you were exiled by the state.
I laughed with them.

One day, you called.
Asked me to send you the id card 
you had left behind in your room.
I opened your room.
but, could not find the card.
I sat for some time in your room
wondering how to go about it.
The room was cooler than elsewhere.
Your holy book bound in green
lay on your table.
I slipped into a nap for some time
secured by the coolness of the marble floor.

I woke up hearing the muezzin’s call to prayer.
I was startled as if it had dawned.
Why had I not ever heard that call
living right next door?
Prayer is more valuable than slumber.
I felt that prayer was also resistance.
The modulations of that voice echoed 
from the minarets of the setting sky.
I shut her room and threw a glance inside 
through the window.

I felt that the room was brilliantly lit up inside,
luminescent and glowing.
I did not feel like returning to my own room.


Guerilla warfare
Rajesh Chithira

First, the newspaper.
One can live without the news, 
isn’t it so?

Then, the milk vender.
One can live without milk,
Isn’t it so?

A solution to everything.

We are safe in our homes,
Aren’t we?

Stocked up for one month.
Not consumed even in three months.
We should not strain our body.
The illness catches you where there is strain.

Started sleeping in two different rooms.
One could live without seeing each other,
Isn’t it?
One could sleep without hugging each other,
Isn’t it?

There is a solution to everything.


Shashankan’s travails.
Vipitha

Shashankan frequently suffered from
indigestion and itching.

Women, like the royal characters
in the dubbed Hindi serials 
are not pronouncing the word
‘breasts’, but get a kick from
calling them ‘boobs’ or ‘boobies!’

Boobs in stories
Boobs in poems
Boobs in the streets
Boobs in streetcars.

Women do very many things
with the thing for breastfeeding.
Women are not women like before.
Shamelessly, they say that
they have vaginas.
Even if they have, can they
publicize it to the people?
Can they sketch and show?
Can they hug other breasts?

Shashankan was distraught.
He burned in and out.
Vagina in sketch lines.
Vagina in poetry lines.
Blooming in red, in black,
giving birth to kids.

His anger knew no bounds
when watching the sun.
As if the sun rose
and dawns broke from
the cleavage between breasts
and not between mountain peaks.
Shashankan screwed shut his eyes.

He boycotted fruits
seeing the vagina in camouflage
in orange slices.

He suffered. He suffered.
Suffered till he became
thick skinned, poor guy!

Thus,
unable to overcome
indigestion or itching,
suffering because of women,
the royal character Shashankan
kicked the bucket.