Translated from Odia to English by Animesh Mohapatra
Translator’s note
I felt drawn to the poems by Basudev Sunani because they articulate experiences not generally explored in modern Odia poetry. His poems meditate upon forms of deprivation and the ways in which the downtrodden are stripped of their humanity. They are suffused with understated yet powerful irony. These elements presented special challenges when I translated the poems into English. Since the poems embody a compelling response to extraordinary social crises, a translator runs the risk of reducing them to statements. So, I paid particular attention to the music of words, syntactical structures and the nuances of the images. While translating the poems, I have avoided being absolutely faithful to the words on the page as an overemphasis on literalness would have diminished the appeal of the poem to the reader. For example, I silently dropped reference to the Gita in ‘My Dream House.’ On occasion, I have omitted translating words which I thought were repetitive and redundant to achieve intensity of effect.
My Dream House
I think
I’ll build a house.
Borrowing the plan
from the weaver bird
I’ll engage the spider,
even if I have to pay a little more,
to be the mason.
And as for the plot on which to build it
I am sure
someone will spare me
five feet five inches
in the heart.
When the house is ready
I’ll stock in the courtyard
the tweet of sparrows,
the click of geckos,
and in the kitchen
I’ll store the squeak of rats.
And what will be the subject
of the painting I’ll hang on the wall?
Not a boat on the sea
nor tigers in the forest
nor even Krishna on the battlefield in the Mahabharata.
No, for such images
adorn every house.
Instead I’ll hang a painting
of Poda Majhi boarding a bus
on his way to the brick kiln
carrying his tin box on his head
and holding aluminium pots and pans.
I’ll hang this painting
with his name written beneath it
on the wall facing my bed.
Listening to the wonderful choral sound of
tweet, click and squeak
and focusing on the painting
I’ll be lulled to sleep.
For centuries I’ll sleep.
And when archaeologists
unearth this house
after many many years
they won’t find
the sparrows’ tweet
the geckos’ click
the rats’ squeak.
They may not even find
my bed or my bones.
But the painting would
still be on the wall
making historians imagine
that people in the bygone age
were traders and that
Poda Majhi was their leader.
Helpless City
Like a python
the lonely road
lies asleep.
The timid stray dog
once afraid of crossing the street
now roams like a lion.
The road knew well
the bustle of the traffic and people
who scurried in swarms like the winged ants
fly out of their hill
And also knew
the soiled palms
that kept it clean
and the sweaty feet
that pedalled on it tirelessly.
It knew the parched throats
that drained water from the pipe
in the public toilet
And the guts
that hurriedly swallowed rajma-chawal
bought from the street vendor.
Long days ago, having crushed underfoot
their wives’ love
their children’s tenderness
their well-wishers’ concern
and the pull of their ancestral land
they had rushed to Delhi
a burden of hunger
their sole possession.
Their dreams, sweat and skills
breathed life
into the city.
Homes, drains, streets
chowks, malls, offices, parks
stations, bazaars
every place their hands cleaned
and brought smiles to a million faces.
A film of arrogance
dropped between our eyes and
the miserable shanty towns
and the roadside trees
they perilously struggled under.
A dreadful loneliness
fills these empty roads now.
Invisible are those
palms, feet and guts.
Their hunger and misery
bundled in a cloth
they head for
the broken walls
and torn thatch
of the homes
they were forced to abandon.
Like a dead python
lies Delhi
helpless.
The city teems with
mighty millionaires and powerful politicians.
And yet
the head of the state
pleads with folded hands
all the worthless feet and palms
to stay back.
Tell me why?
Who depends on whom?
Does the city need them
or do the feet and palms, Delhi?
Illustration by Rohini Mani
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