1
. . . and these orchestrations
these points of view
brave-hearts gathered here from so many places
spectators of royalty from so many places
on these ascents
these difficult slopes
monuments standing on tremulous knees about to tumble down
walls that barely tell
roofless rooms from courtyards
on very long very strong crags
the derelict abodes of daredevils
and undaunted falcon flights . . .
With what craft shall we arrange
these dissonant lines
so that ‘bravo’ may echo
in words fluttering like flags—
so that these desolations
may look less desolate.
2
Right here, where I have sat down tired,
a royal prisoner had decided
that these etchings scratched out on mute rocks
shall persist
these prayers, the proof of his innocence . . .
he shall return to hear the verdict on these appeals
If we dig around somewhere here
we may find a date engraved on an amulet
when a fortunate king was born
when a king grew bigger than his kingdom
when a king set out to conquer the world
when a king lost to himself and his own . . .
when a proud dynasty kept its head high
against the enveloping darkness,
when Abulhasan put around the neck of Azamshah
an entire empire sunk in the rubble of deceit
like a regal necklace of pearls . . .
when from this royal mortuary bathed and cleaned
a royal procession came out for the last time . . .
3
Let me sleep you voices of the near,
wake up in me you silences of the far,
someone is breathing in my lungs.
Fists grip these guns and daggers,
these waistbands, shadows
hang like bats in nooks and corners,
moss creeps up castles like monitor lizards,
bloody hands take off masks
from faces of conspiracy,
a cold evening descends
on the merciful valley of death.
4
‘Must return home before dark,’
he who drives a taxi knows better
the needs of tourists,
he shows them the ruins and takes them home daily,
he is indifferent
to tourists and ruins, for him time
is the time that passes
at the rapid pace of a meter
Far more difficult
than the battles of the ancestors
of taxi driver Rahmat Ali Shah
or guide Matsa Raj
is the struggle of the two with today,
their resolve to stay undefeated . . .
Apart from the histories of battles and igniting explosives
there is a third history too
of reconciliation
between the cigarettes of Rahmat Ali Shah
and the matchsticks of Matsa Raj.
An Evening in Golconda
Kunwar Narain
translated from the Hindi by Apurva Narain
Kunwar Narain was born in 1927. He is regarded as one of India’s finest living poets and a leading figure of Hindi literature. He has been writing for over six decades now, since his first book in 1956; his most recent work is an epic poem published in 2015. He writes in multiple genres: poems, epics, stories, criticism, translations, as well as essays on world cinema, the arts, and areas of diverse cultural interest. Translated nationally and internationally, he has received some of the highest honours of any living Indian writer; they include the Sāhitya Akādemī Award, the Kabīr Sammān, Warsaw University’s honorary medal, Italy’s Premio Feronia for a distinguished international author, India’s civilian honour the Padma Bhūshan, the Sāhitya Akademi’s Senior Fellowship, and the Jnānpīth (India’s highest literary prize across all languages).
Apurva Narain is Kunwar Narain’s son and translator into English. His first book of translations, No Other World, was published in 2008 from Rupa, India, and in 2010 from Arc, UK. He studied in India and at the University of Cambridge, UK, and is a development consultant by profession, but it is literature that has been his abiding interest. He writes in English. An avid traveler, he has lived in the UK, USA and France, and now lives in New Delhi.
