For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a selection of works by Indian poet and journalist Manglesh Dabral. Dabral wrote in deceptively simple yet precise language; his artistic sensibility, which comes across as modest and humble in its ambitions, inquired into some of the most pressing questions of postcolonial India. Ranging from social themes, like the way postcolonial modernity blinds itself to its own past, to themes of personal memory, the experience of displacement, and the unending longing for home, Dabral embraced a vast spectrum of human emotions. A line from “In Memory of my Father” could serve as a statement for his poetic vision: “Within empty containers[,] torn-up books[,] and things infested with granary weevil, whatever life was left in them[,] you used to believe in it.” Translated from the Hindi by Nisarg P., the seven poems featured here are perfect representations of Dabral’s poetics―in their language, their form, and the themes with which they engage.
Here was that River
She wanted to reach there in haste
the place where a man
was heading for a bath in her water
a boat
was waiting for its travelers
and a line of birds
were approaching in search of her water
In that river of our childhood
we used to see our faces moving
on her shore were our houses
always over-flooded
she loved her islands and her stones
days used to begin from that river
her sound
audible at all the windows
her waves knocking on the doors
calling us incessantly
we remember
here was that river [,] in this very sand
where our faces once moved
here was that awaiting boat
now there is nothing
except at night when people are asleep
a voice is sometimes heard from its sand.
(1976)
Poem on Hopelessness
After doing a lot when it feels like we have been unable to do anything[,] then this is called hopelessness. To hopeless men[,] people greet their salaam from a distance. We guard our hopelessness as if it was our sole great happiness. In front of our eyes[,] a layer of dust settles onto the world. Sparrow’s flight looks like that of torn-up pages. Even music fails to make us generous. We hear a dissonant sound incessantly. In colors we find spots of blood and scenes in the wake of murders. Words escape from our command and love seems to be beyond the control of humans.
In hopelessness we say, ‘hopelessness give us roti. To walk couple of steps[,] strength’
(1990)
In Memory of my Father
Vials of medicine are empty [,] envelopes have been torn apart [,] letters have been read. No longer you sit waiting at the doorpost [,] no longer you lie shrunk in the bed [,] no longer you wake-up in the morning to open up the doors. Opening the invisible doors of air, water, and dust, you have left for a mountain, river, or star, to become a mountain, a river, a star yourself.
How easily you used to inhabit words. Your thin and shriveled-up body knew no end to the pain and yet was hopeful till the very end. Amidst the slowly breaking walls you would find the immortality of stones. Within empty containers[,] torn-up books[,] and things infested with granary weevil, whatever life was left in them[,] you used to believe in it. Whenever I returned[,] you used to hide your sadness within those things. All battles you would fight[,] victory was only mine.
(1992)
A Poem
A poem [,] during the day[,] was like exhaustion
and at night it was like sleep
questioning me in the morning:
“Did you eat anything last night?”
(1978)
Sounds
A dog will bark from someplace near
at a little distance [,] a horse will neigh
beyond the settlement [,] a Jackal will howl
somewhere in between will be the speech of crickets
the movement of leaves
somewhere in between
on the road[,] a solitary walk of a person
beyond all this
the sound of a tiger’s roar
will be heard in my village.
(1979)
The House
This house has hidden everything
within its darkness a women
women’s dream
women’s children
women’s death.
(1975)
A Possibility
I wanted there to be a tree
wind and night
I wanted there to be a river
a person
relieving his exhaustion
by washing his hands and feet.
(1986)
Translated from the Hindi by Nisarg P.
Manglesh Dabral (1948-2020) was one of the central Hindi-language poets of 20th-century India. Having written five collections of poetry, two collections of prose, and a travel diary, he was the recipient of the Sahitya Academy Award, India’s Academy of Letters, for his collection हम जो देखते है (2000, Radha Krishna publishers).
Nisarg P. [નિસર્ગ પી.] thinks, writes, and translates literary works in and between Hindi, Gujarati, and English.
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