Dharwadker, Vinay (ed.); A.K. Ramanujan (ed.);
The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry
OUP 1994 / 8th pr. 2006, 265 pages [earlier article with sixteen poets ]
topics: | poetry | anthology | india | english | translation
One of the best references to poetry from all regions of India. Very few books attempt this, since it requires a balanced editing across the many literatures of India.
Indeed, like Buddhadeb Basu was fond of saying, there is nothing called "Indian poetry" - it is at best a very loose concept, for all practicality substantially separate literatures.
Contrast, for example a term such as "European poetry", and you get the flavour of what "Indian poetry" may mean.
A couple of other volumes with this kind of multi-lingual coverage:
* In their own voice: The Penguin anthology of contemporary Indian women poets ed. Arlene R. K. Zide (1993)
* Modern Indian Literature, an Anthology: Surveys and poems ed. K. M. George, 1992
of this meager lot, this volume is definitely the most readable, though Zide packs a powerful punch in her selections.
The editors are personally familiar with the literature of Hindi, Marathi (VD), and Tamil, Kannada and Telugu (AKR), and these literatures are well represented and read somewhat better than the others.
I have the indian edition, but the cover image above, from the UK edition, is far more striking.
Kshemendra: KavikanThabharaNa verses 10-11, 12th c.[ dedicatory poem; tr. WS Merwin / J. Mousaieff-Mason] A poet should learn with his eyes the forms of leaves he should know how to make people laugh when they are together he should get to see what they are really like he should know about oceans and mountains in themselves and the sun and the moon and the stars his mind should enter into the seasons he should go among many people in many places and learn their languages
P. S. Rege (Marathi, 1910-1978): The Pact p.1(tr. Vinay Dharwadker) There were two conditions to the pact -- There were two conditions to the pact she and I made. First: she ccould break it at any time. Second: I could never break it We took our vows with the echo in the hills as our witness, made a bed of the wind, and drew the sheet of the stars over ourselves -- and there was more, much more. But so far she hasn't kept her side of the bargain. What should I do now with the second condition? Is a pact merely a pact?
N. Revathi Devi (Telugu, b. 1951) : This Nighttr. V. Narayana Rao and AK Ramanujan If this night passes which does not surrender even to sleeping pills if this night passes the night that spreads under my back like a bed of arrows for not compromising with man The night that flows in my veins the bloood from the thorns of the toddy palm for not compromising with God if this night passes covering the face of honesty with a blanket of light another day another day another night another day at some time another night another day if honesty stands naked, smooth not finding light if that night stands without passing it will pass, it will move away, honestly
Kedarnath Singh (Hindi, b. 1934): On reading a love poem p.4When I'd read that long love poem I closed the book and asked -- Where are the ducks? I was surprised that they were nowhere even far into the distance It was in the third line of the poem or perhaps the fifth that I first felt there might be ducks here somewhere I'd heard the flap flap of their wings but that may have been my illusion I don't know for how long that woman had been standing in the twelfth line waiting for a bus The poem was completely silent about where she wanted to go only a little sunshine sifted from the seventeenth floor was falling on her shoulders The woman was happy at least there was nothing in her face to suggest that by the time she reached the twenty-first line she'd disappear completely like every other woman There were sakhu trees [shAl_ tree] standing where the next line began the trees were spreading a strange dread through the poem Every line that came next was a deep disturbing fear and doubt about every subsequent line If only I'd remembered-- it was in the nineteenth line that the woman was slicing potatoes She was slicing large round brown potatoes inside the poem and the poem was becoming more and more silent more solid I think it was the smell of freshly chopped vegetables that kept the woman alive for the next several lines By the time I got to the twenty-second line I felt that the poem was changing its location [?moving?] like a speeding bullet the poem had whizzed over the woman's shoulder towards the _sakhu trees There were no lines after that there were no more words in the poem there was only the woman there were only her shoulders her back her voice-- there was only the woman standing whole outside the poem now and breaking it to pieces tr. Vinay Dharwadker Bio and bilingual poems: poetryinternationalweb Poems (bilingual) : pratilipi
Gagan Gill (Hindi) : The Girl's Desire Moves Among Her Bangles p.8ek icchA churiyon mein The girl's desire moves among her bangles They should break first on his bed Then on the threshold of his house. But why on the threshold? Because a woman sits grieving inside the girl A woman who's a widow No, not really one But a woman who'll surely become A widow. The girl's fear throbs in her veins And moves across her bangles The girl's desire throbs in her bangles And they throb with her sorrow. Sorrow? Where's this girl's man? The man who's in her mourning veins Who fills her bangles with desire? Her man lies caught In someone else's body Someone else's dream, someone else's sorrow Someone else's tears Each one of his sorrows, dreams, tears Lies beyond the girl's mourning grasp. But the girl's still a girl The same primitive innocence in her Fills her with madness, a deathwish For which she will always punish the man In the days to come. When she will smash her bangles On the threshold of his house... tr. Mrinal Pande and Arlene Zide link: poetryinternationalweb
Rabindranath Tagore : Flute musictr. William Radice Kinu the milkman's alley A ground floored room in a two storeyed valley Slap on the road, window barred. Decaying walls, windows crumbling to dust in places Or strained with damp. Stuck on the floor, A picture of Ganesha, Bringer of Success, From the end of a bale of cloth. Another creature apart from me lives in my room For the same rent; A lizard. There's one difference between him and me: He doesn't go hungry. I get twenty five rupees a month As junior clerk in a trading office. I'm fed at the Dattas' house For coaching their boy. At dusk I go to Sealdah station. Spend the evening there To save the cost of light. Engines chuffing, Whistles shrieking, Passengers scurrying, Coolies shouting. I stay till half past ten, Then back to my dark,silent,lonely room. A village on the Dhalesvari river, that's where my aunt's people live. Her brother-in-law's daughter - She was due to marry my unfortunate self, everything was fixed. The moment was indeed auspicious for her, no doubt of that - For I ran away. The girl was saved from me, And I from her. She did not come to this room, but she's in and out of my mind all the time: Dacca sari, vermilion on her forehead. Pouring rain. My tram costs go up, But often as not my pay gets cut for lateness. Along the alley, Mango skins and stones, jack fruit pulp, Fish-gills, dead kittens And God knows what other rubbish Pile up and rot. My umbrella is like my depleted pay - Full of holes. My sopping office clothes ooze Like a pious Vaisnava. Monsoon darkness Sticks in my damp room Like an animal caught in a dead trap, Lifeless and numb. day and night I feel strapped bodily On to a half-dead world. At the corner of the alley lives Kantababu - Long hair, carefully parted, Large eyes. Cultivated tastes. He fancies himself on the cornet: The sound of it comes in gusts On the foul breeze of the alley - Sometimes in the middle of the night, Sometimes in the early morning twilight, Sometimes in the afternoon When sun and shadows glitter. Suddenly this evening He starts to play runs in Sindhu-Baroya rag, And the whole sky rings With eternal pangs of separation. At once the alley is a lie, False and vile as the ravings of a drunkard, And I feel that nothing distinguishes Haripada the clerk From the Emperor Akbar. Torn umbrella and royal parasol merge, Rise on the sad music of a flute Towards one heaven. The music is true, Where, in the everlasting twilight-hour of my wedding, The Dhalesvari river flows, Its banks deeply shaded by tamal-trees, And she who waits in the courtyard Is dressed in a Dacca sari, vermillion on her forehead.
Aziz Qaisi (Urdu, 1931-1992) : Outside the Furnace p.12tr. Baidar Bakht and Leslie Lavigne Every day she threw her supple arms, her soft, silken thighs, her young and rounded breasts, her rosy lips and cheeks, her glossy black hair, and all her body parts into the burning furnace. A thick liquid, the color of silver and gold, set in the hot and cold forms of her breaths and became her body. One night when she threw her body into the burning furnace, the gold and silver liquidw ould not set in the hot and cold forms of her breaths. All her limbs were scattered. First her lips, then her cheeks, and then her arms were thrown apart. Her hair was scorched, her breasts were consumed, her waist was seared, her thighs were parched. Then the heavy liquid, turning into jagged golden nuggets, sank into her bones until she died. But her eyes still live. They say to me: Throw your body's steel, the glass of your heart into the furnace. Look, every day and every night and every moment, you too are dying, just like me. Everyone is dying, just like me. But take this warning and save your eyes.
G. M. Muktibodh (Hindi, 1917-64) : The void p.29[tr. Vinay Dharwadker] the void inside us has jaws, those jaws have carnivorous teeth; those teeth will chew you up, those teeth will chew up everyone else. The dearth inside is our nature, habitually angry, in the dark hollow inside the jaws there is a pond of blood. This void is utterly black, is barbaric, is naked, disowned, debased, completely self-absorbed. I scatter it, give it away, with fiery words and deeds. Those who cross my path find this void in the wound I inflict on them. They let it grow, spread it around, scatter it and give it away to others, raising the children of emptiness. The void is very durable, it is fertile. Everywhere it breeds saws, daggers, sickles, breeds carnivorous teeth. That is why, wherever you look, there is dancing, jubilation, death is now giving birth to brand new children. Everywhere there are oversights with the teeth of saws, there are heavily armed mistakes: the world looks at them and walks on, rubbings it's hands.
Hira Bansode : Woman 30Marathi; tr. Vinay Dharwadker She, the river said to him the sea: All my life i've been dissolving myself and flowing towards you for your sake in the end it was i who tuned into the sea a woman's gift is as large as the sky but you went on worshipping yourself you never thought of becoming a river and merging with me
Munib-ur-Rahman (Urdu, b.1924) : Tall Buildings p.32All our lives we crawled in the shadow of tall buildings, clinging to the walls. The buildings were tall mountains and we were ants,. always in search of food. Tall buildings loomed in the way whenever friends came together. These buildings grew and grew even as we shrank. At last, one day, we disappeared, leaving behind nothing but tall buildings. tr. Kathleen Grant Jaeger and Baidar Bakht see another translation at Frances Pritchett's urdu site
Vijaya Mukhopadhyay: Monday (Bengali) p.33tr. Sunil B. Ray, Carolyn Wright, and the poet At the crack of dawn, Monday stands beside you, his hand on your shoulder. Soon, people start moving about; sweat, fragrance, and the inimitable noise of traffic get mixed up, as if he had no hand in it. His shirt is mauve on moss-green corduroy trousers; his eyes are silent, determined. dimmed by a little shadow. Whenever I say something critical, he raises a finger to his lips; then slowly, under the finger's pressure, his lips grow bigger and bigger, until his mouth is like a red clay drum, a pomegranate's pod split open. Pretending to pick burrs from his trousers, I bend down and say -- We wander about busily like pygmies on this planet controlled by satellites, with no work, not reason to panic, Monday, you're our passport to the big wide world, our impetus - but even before I finish, darkness bursts out of the basement and he vanishes without a trace.
S. Usha (Kannada) : To Mother 49[tr. AK Ramanujan] Mother, don't, please don't. [...] Don't say: You're seventeen already, don't flash your sari in the street, don't make eyes at passers-by, don't be a tomboy riding the winds. Don't play that tune again that your mother, her mother and her mother had played on the snake-charmer's flute into the ears of nitwits like me. I'm just spreading my hood. I'll sink my fangs into someone and lose my venom Let go, make way. Circumambulating the holy plant in the yard, making rangoli designs to see heaven, turning up dead without light and air, for god's sake, I can't do it. Breaking out of the dam you've built, swelling in a thunderstorm, roaring through the land, let me live, very different from you, Mother. Let go, make way.
Akhtar-ul-Iman (Urdu) : Compromise p.54Whenever I kissed her, The smell of cigarettes filled my nostrils. I've always thought of smoking as a vice, but now I'm used to it, it's a part of me. She too has got used to my stained teeth. Whenever we meet, we beccome strangers to words, only our breathing, sweat, and loneliness fill the room. Maybe our souls are dead, our senses have run dry, or this story's repeated over and over again: life's always going through the pangs of birth, new messiahs come and go to the cross, a dusty man in the back rows pushes his way to the front, climbs the pulpit, and says, 'The crucified man was ours! His blood is our heritage!' Then he swallows all the ideals, all that had caused calumny, and spits them out as commentaries and interpretations, the last resort of helpless people, maybe all people. I look for the ideal man in vain. People dream and ride the high winds, then reach a stage where they weep bitterly and break like branches. They find loved ones, who're the focus of their desires and lives then come to hate them even while loving them still. I hate her, she despises me. But when we meet in the loneliness, the darkness, we become one whole, like a lump of kneaded clay, hatred leaves, silence stays, the silence that covered the earth after it was created, and we go on breaking like branches. We don't talk about the dreams we once dreamt, we don't talk about the joys, we simply go on breaking, I'm fond of drinking, she's addicted to smoking, wrapped in a sheet of silence we cling to each other, we go on breaking like tender branches. tr. C.M. Naim and Vinay Dharwadker, using earlier translations by Gopi Chand Narang, DP Douglass, Adil Jussawalla and the poet
Kamala Das : Hot Noon in Malabar 63This is a noon for beggars with whining Voices, a noon for men who come from hills With parrots in a cage and fortune cards, All stained with time, for brown kurava girls With old eyes, who read palms in light singsong Voices, for bangle-sellers who spread On the cool black floor those red and green and blue Bangles, all covered with the dust of roads, For all of them whose feet, devouring rough Miles, grow cracks on the heels, so that when they Clambered up our porch, the noise was grating, Strange This is a noon for strangers who part The window - drapes and peer in, their hot eyes Brimming with the sun, not seeing a thing in Shadowy rooms, and turn away and look So yearningly at the brick - ledged well. This Is a noon for strangers with mistrust in Their eyes, dark, silent ones who rarely speak At all, so that when they speak, their voices Run wild, like jungle - voices. Yes, this is A noon for wild men, wild thoughts, wild love. To Be here, far away, is torture. Wild feet Stirring up the dust, this hot noon at my Home in Malabar, and I so far away.
Meena Alexander: Her Garden p.64The mountains crackle they are full of flint, the cicada bristles it does not sing in grandmother's garden as mulberry trees gnarled like her hands start their long slide seawards. I imagine her sitting under the mulberry leaves, hot fruit splashed to her eyes, a blindness cleaned in that solitary hour when trees clamber out of bark and swim to a rock that is black and bare and like nothing else in this homeland. I like to think she died in the day her face set heavenward exacting little attention from the sun: once risen it sets in finicky chaos in a sky so flat and blue that light mirrors itself as if on water, soundlessly: so losing body she crept into her own soul and she slept. As young goats leap over cracks in the garden wall, as the cicada shunts sparks from its wings, I remember her. She died so long before my birth that we are one, entirely as a sky disowned by sun and star: a bleakness beneath my dreams a rare fragrance as of dry mulberry pierced by this monsoon wind.
K. Satchidanandan (Malaylam, b.1946) : Genesis p.70My grandmother was insane. As her madness ripened into death, my uncle, a miser, kept her in our store-room, covered with straw. My grandmother dried up, burst, her seeds flew out of the windows. The sun came, and the rain, one seedling grew into a tree, whose lusts bore me. Can I help writing poems about monkeys with gold teeth? tr. by the poet
Popati Hiranandani b.1924 : Husband 68Sindhi; tr. by poet This is my home. I've touched you, kissed you, smelt you, enjoyed you. That's why I keep you here. This house has polished floors and expensive furniture. A roof over your head, four walls to protect you. A kitchen, a drawing room. You cook for me. I provide you with two meals a day. This home has lively children. They're my own blood. They'll use my own money, make my name in the world, and carry on my line. When I'm dead and gone, they'll propitiate my spirit and feed me in th next world even if they don't feed me in this one. You're my children's mother, that's why you're my wife. If I give up my claim to fatherhood, you'll lose your claim to this motherhood. You belong to me -- I own everything that's yours. With me it's different. I'm your husband.
T. S. Venugopalan (Tamil, b. 1934) : Family Pride p.72tr. K Parthasarathy The rustic mango-stone boasted of its pedigree. I sowed it and waited. The huge tree and its fruits turned into a shadow. What wriggled out was a worm.
Benoy Majumdar (Bengali, 1934-2006): Time Wins p.72I have lost this wager; Time wins. It rained last night or did I merely Long for it in my sleep? The rain now lies in pools, mirrors for the sky To shave off its lather of clouds, Fermenting mosquitoes, flies. All that was delight and nourishment In the mouth last night Has turned into sordid history this pure morning, Putrefaction in the crevices of the teeth. The blue stone in my ring simmers with unquenchable thirst I fear the day of my death will be one like this. tr. Jyotirmay Dutta সময়ের সাথে এক বাজি ধরে পরাস্ত হয়েছি । ব্যর্থ আকাঙ্খায়, স্বপ্নে বৃষ্টি হয়ে মাটিতে যেখানে একদিন জল জমে, আকাশ বিস্বিত হয়ে আসে সেখানে সত্বর দেখি, মশা জন্মে; অমল প্রতূ্ষে ঘুম ভেঙ্গে দেখা যায় ; আমাদের মুখের ভিতর স্বাদ ছিল, তৃপ্তি ছিল জে সব আহার্য প’চে ইতিহাস সৃষ্টি করে; সুখ ক্রমে ব্যথা হয়ে উঠে । অঙ্গুরীয় নীল পাথরের বিচ্ছুরিত আলো অনুষ্ণ অনির্বাণ, জ্বলে যায় পিপাসার বেগে ভয় হয় একদিন পালকের মত ঝরে যাব । from ফিরে এসো চাকা – ২১ জুন ১৯৬১ [this series of poems are in a diary format, dedicated to Gayatri Chakravorty] [Benoy Majumdar enjoys has the reputation of an iconoclast in Bengali poetry circles. After being spurned in love by Gayatri Chakravorty (later Spivak), he lost mental balance and attempted suicide several times. Bio: (Kaurab.com) ]
Forensic Medicine : Gieve PatelText Book A case in point, the expert says; A woman thrust glowing faggots Where properly Her son's sparrow should nest. Puerile in-law practice, he says, But good as any other To set the story rolling; begin With a burn in the sparrow's nest To extend over all therefrom emerging Fan and flourish of the world: Hold the foetus tumbling through, And before it may express Surprise at a clean new blast of air, Lay subtle finger over mouth and nose. Watch it blue. If rather you would be coarse, go ahead, Use rope and hatchet, knife, stone, bullet, All you would on the more aged; Bodies whose gel of blood and skin Have not exchanged years against sweet air Will not relinquish with ease. Against these devise infinite means, The pictures in my book will instruct. Change vantage point inch by inch To discover them all: recall grace Inherent in each new part, find Weapon against it. Lop off limbs. Smash teeth. Push splinters Underneath nails and lever them Off fingers; offer acid in a drink of wine, The house of song is blasted. Soft skin That clothes the gentlest dunes will retract Before knife and bullet. Proceed. Flick pages. The regal column of the neck Upholding the globe of sight and sound Is often undermined; or straight Charge at speech and sight, chop off tongue, Gouge eyeballs out, hammer nails into the ear. When you have ravished all, missing No entrail, do not forget To return where you started: with a penknife Strike at the rising sparrow's neck; With ends of twine strangle the orbs That feed him seed; And outrage the sparrow's nest. You are now full circle With nothing Not thought of, not done before.
Kabita Sinha: Diamond of character p.104From the eyes ceaselessly falls all that is not the eye, not vision, all that has no substance -- from the lips slip all that is not worth uttering, not words, not sounds, not kisses; the mind's true worth falls from the heart, all that is not one's own, not love, not peace, not anything of one's own. Just as with a flower in its proper season all that is not the flower's falls away; the brightly colored petals fall in those same patterns. Come back to my face, you lines of sorrow, come back from beyond the wheel of birth and rebirth breaking through sorrow and betrayal the terrible humiliations; come back, pushing through the black hair purity's pallor now casting off beauty's gleam, the blaze of youth; I want to take up the diamond of character. tr. Wright, Carolyne; Mitra-Banerjee, Swapna;
Arun Kolatkar : The Alphabet p.116(Marathi; tr. Vinay Dharwadker) anvil arrow bow box and brahmin cart chariot cloud and compost heap are all sitting in their separate squares corn cup deer duck and frock ganesh garlic hexagon and house all have places of their own inkpot jackfruit kite lemon and lotus mango medicine mother old man and ostrich are all holding their proper positions pajamas pineapple rabbit and ram sacrifice seal spoon and sugarcane won't interefere with each other sword tap tombstone and umbrella warrior watermelon weight and yacht have all found the ternal resting place the mother won’t put her baby on the compost heap the brahmin won’t season the duck with garlic the yacht won’t hit the watermelon and sink unless the ostrich eats the baby's frock the warrior won’t shoot an arrow into ganesh's belly and if the ram doesn’t knock down the old man why would he need to smash the cup on the tombstone (source: http://courses.nus.edu.sg/course/ellpatke/Miscellany/Poetry/Kolatkar.htm) NOTE: this poem was translated by Kolatkar as Pictures from a Marathi Alphabet Chart [p. 259, kolatkar, collected poems in English, 2010, ed. Mehrotra)
Jibanananda Das (1899-1954): In Camp p. 121tr. Clinton B. Seely [I present some lines from another translation, from Sukanta Chaudhuri's A Certain Sense (2006) - somewhat more compact, and also closer to the original in the "decoy-doe" than "doe-in-heat".] At the camp (tr. Indrani Haldar) Here, on the forest's edge, I have pitched camp. I have struck camp near the forest here All night long, in the pleasant southern breezes, All night on the south wind in the light of the moon in the sky, Under the moonlit sky I hear the call of the doe in heat? I hear the call of a decoy-doe whom is she calling? Whom does she call? Somewhere tonight the deer are being hunted. Somwhere tonight a deerhunt is on. The hunters came to the forest today? Hunters have entered the forest tonight I too catch their scent I too can almost smell them. as I lie here on my campbed, Lying on my bed here, wide awake Sleep still delays on this spring night. On this night in spring. The wonder of the forest is everywhere, The wonders of the forest all around, an April breeze, The spring wind like the taste like the taste of the moon's rays. of the moonlight's body. All night long the doe calls in heat. The decoy-doe calls all night. Deep in the forest somewhere, in places the moonlight does not reach, Somewhere in the deep forest, where there is no more moonlight, all the stags hear her call; The stags hear her call; they sense her presence, Sensing her presence, they move towards her. They come towards her. Tonight, on this night of wonder, On this night of wonders their time for love has come. Their hour of love has come; The sister of their hearts calls them through the moonlight Their soul sister from their forest cover Calls to them from her forest lair in the moonlight to quench their thirst, by smell, by taste. In thirsty craving's solace- in scent- in taste! Tonight, as if the forest were free of tigers, It's as though no tiger stirred in the forest today. no sharp fear, not even a shadow of doubt, There is no sharp fear today in the stag's hearts, fills the heart of those deer? No shade of doubt; only There is only a thirst. excitement. Only romantic thrill. Perhaps wonder awakens even in the cheetah's breast Perhaps the leopard too marvels at the beauty of the doe's at the doe's fair face. Tonight, on this night of spring, Lust, desire, yearning, love, dream lust, longing, love, desire, dreams burst all around. unpetal on all sides This is my "nocturne." Here is my nocturne. The deer come, one by one, leaving the dense (from "A certain sense", ed. S. Chaudhuri) forest trails, leaving behind the sounds of water in search of a different assurance; forgetting tooth and claw, they come there in the moonlight to their sister under the sundari tree. Those deer come like a man who draws near his salty woman lured by her scent. I sense them, I hear the sound of numerous hooves, the doe in heat is calling through the moonlight. I cannot sleep. As I lie here, I hear gunshots. Once more I hear the sound of guns. Once more the doe in heat calls in the moonlight as I lie here fallen, alone; a weariness swells my heart as I listen to the sound of guns as I hear the doe call. She will come back tomorrow. We will see her by daylight in the morning with all her lovers lying dead around her. She has learned all this from men. I will smell venison on my dinner plate. - Hasn't the eating of flesh come to an end? - But why should it end? Why should I be pained at the thought of those deer? am I not like them? On a spring night, on one of life's wondrous nights, did someone not come into the moonlight and call me too? in the pleasant southern breezes, like that doe in heat? Has not my heart, a stag, wanted to hold you with all caution thrown aside, forgetting all the violence of this world, forgetting the fear of the cheetah's gaze? When the love in my heart lay smeared with blood and dust, like those dead deer, did you not live on like that doe through life's wondrous night one night in spring? Even you have learned it from someone. We too lie here with our flesh like the flesh of dead beasts. Like those dead deer everyone comes, then falls in the face of separation and death. By living, loving, longing for love, we are hurt, we are embittered, we die, do we not? I hear the report of a double-barreled gun. The doe in heat has called. My heart cannot sleep as I lie here alone. Yet I must forget the sound of those guns. Night talks about other things on campbeds, of them whose double-barreled guns killed the deer tonight, on whose dinner plates satisfaction was served, the taste of deer flesh and bone. They too are like you. Their hearts too are withering away on their campbeds, thinking, just thinking. This pain, this love, is everywhere, in the locust, in the worm, in the breasts of men, in all our lives. We are all like those slain deer in spring moonlight.
Dhoomil (1935-1975) : The city, evening, and an old man: me p.139[tr. from Hindi, Vinay Dharwadker] I've taken the last drag and stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray, and now I'm a respectable man with all the trappings of civility. When I'm on vacation I don't hate anyone. I don't have any protest march to join. I've drunk all the liquor in the bottle marked FOR DEFENCE SERVICES ONLY and thrown it away in the bathroom. That's the sum total of my life. (Like every good citizen I draw the curtains across my windows the moment I hear the air-raid siren. These days it isn't the light outside but the light inside that's dangerous.) I haven't done a thing to deserve a statue whose unveiling would make the wise men of this city waste a whole busy day. I've been sitting in a corner of my dinner plate and leading a very ordinary life. What I inherited were citizenship in the neighbourhood of a jail and gentlemanliness in front of a slaughter-house. I've tied them both to my own convenience and taken them two steps forward. The municipal government has taught me to stay on the left side of the road. (To succeed in life you don't need to read Dale Carnegie's book but to understand traffic signs.) Other than petty lies I don't know the weight of a gun. On the face of the traffic policeman doing his drill in the square I've always seen the map of democracy. And now I don't have a single worry, I don't have to do a thing. I've reached the stage in life when files begin to close. I'm sitting in my own chair on the verandah without any qualms. The sun's setting on the toe of my shoe. A bugle's blowing in the distance. This is the time when the soldiers come back, and the possessed city is now slowly turning its madness into the windowpanes and lights.
Naresh Guha: Winding Sand 140[Bengali: tr. Lila Ray] There are many winding rivers Which I have changed to sand Since the time when, Through a story's black hair, The vague heart of my childhood Crossed a courtyward Patterned by moonlight hours. She stands there with lowered eyes At the window on the upper floor. I turned on the blue light After the evening's shower of rain. She shuts the window. A train passes in the distance. It is rumoured that Tapati Sen Will soon be married. The shimmering lake In the shadow of the pines Quivers in the breeze Of the pale moonlit evening. Finesse is still needed. Who is coming? Who comes With light feet over the grass? No one. I realize my mistake. The monotonous night Comes and goes. (What hand do I have In the shaping of life?) Cigarettes and women's bodies Flare and burn out in the camp In the city, in the village. In the small hours of the morning The rain falls On roofs, on roads, On streetcorners in the metropolis.
Kunwar Narain (b. 1927): TOWARDS DELHI, p. 159(tr. from Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker and Aparna Dharwadker) I've seen him many times before go dragging along in the direction in which the horsemen are headed. Both hands tied, in helplessness, once more who was he? I can't say because only two tied hands reached Delhi.
Jayaprabha : Burn this sari : p.169tr. Velcheru Narayana Rao and AK Ramanujan When I see this end of the sari on my shoulder I think of chastity a log hung from my neck. It doesn't let me stand up straight It presses my chest with its hands bows me down teaches me shame and whirls around me a certain bird-like confusion It hypnotizes me telling me, 'You, you're a woman,' makes me forget I'm human It covers both my shoulders with its own hands and flutters announcing 'See, see, this woman! she's chaste!' I feel like screaming, 'No, no I'm not,' but my throat doesn't open I am defeated by this sari It pulls me in like quicksand [*] it throws me down like a whirlwind it's the blame generations have laid on me the unseen patriarchal hand This sari is the white shroud on the corpse that's me in this culture of loot and plunder If I’ve to stop being the walking dead I’ve to burn this sari first just burn this sari. [*]text has: "pulls me in like a mire"; this version, which works better, I feel, is from Velcheru Narayana Rao's 20th c. Telugu Poetry
Jyoti Lanjewar : I Never Saw You 171orig. Marathi title: ai i find the version in the book, tr. by Vinay Dhadwadker, wordier and somewhat inferior to this translation by Sylvie Martinez, Rujita Pathre, S. K. Thorat, Vimal Thorat, and Eleanor Zelliot, which i found online at The shared mirror I have never seen you wearing one of those gold bordered saris with a gold necklace with gold bangles with fancy sandals. Mother! I have seen you burning the soles of your feet in the harsh summer sun hanging your little ones in a cradle on an acacia tree carrying barrels of tar working on a road construction site... I have seen you with a basket of earth on your head rags bound on your feet giving a sweaty kiss to the naked child who came tottering over to you working for your daily wage, working, working... I have seen you turning back the tide of tears trying to ignore your stomach's growl suffering parched throat and lips building a dam on a lake... I have seen you for a dream of four mud walls stepping carefully, pregnant on the scaffolding of a sky scraper carrying a hod of wet cement on your head... I have seen you in evening, untying the end of your sari for the coins to buy salt and oil, putting a five paise coin on a little hand saying 'go eat candy' taking the little bundle from the cradle to your breast saying "Study, become an Ambedkar" and let the baskets fall from my hands... I have seen you sitting in front of the stove burning your very bones to make coarse bread and a little something to feed everybody, but half-feed yourself so there'd be a bit in the morning... I have seen you washing clothes and cleaning pots in different households rejecting the scraps of food offered to you with pride covering yourself with a sari that had been mended so many times saying "Don't you have a mother or a sister?" to anyone who looked at you with lust in his eyes.... I have seen you on a crowded street with a market basket on your head trying always to keep your head covered with the end of your sari chasing anyone who nudged you deliberately with your sandal in your hand... I have seen you working until sunset piercing the darkness to turn toward home, then forcing from the door that man who staggered in from the hooch hut ... I have seen you at the front of the Long March the end of your sari tucked tightly at the waist shouting "Change the name" taking the blow of the police stick on your upraised hands going to jail with head held high... I have seen you saying when your only son fell martyr to police bullets "You died for Bhim, your death means something" saying boldly to the police "If I had two or three sons, I would be fortunate. They would fight on." I have seen you on your deathbed giving that money you earned rag-picking to the diksha bhumi saying with your dying breadth "Live in unity... fight for Baba... don't forget him.... And with your very last breadth "Jai Bhim." I have seen you... I have never seen you even wanting a new broad-bordered sari Mother, I have seen you..... Note: Dharwadker may be more literal; e.g. where the above has I have never seen you even wanting a new broad-bordered sari dharwadker writes: I never saw you praying with beads for a brand new silk sari which may be closer to the original, but the former version gets the point across more powerfully...
Subhash Mukhopadhyay (Bengali, b.1919) : The Task 177tr. Pritish Nandy I want these words to stand, I want these shadows to see. I want these scenes to move. Don't call me a poet, I want to walk with the others shoulder to shoulder till I die. So that in the end I can put down my pen beside the tractor and say: Comrade give me a light.
M. Gopalakrishna Adiga (Kannada, 1918-1992) : Do Something, Brother, p.178taught English at Mysore and Udipi; principal of a college in Sagar; edited lit magazine sAkShI (started 1987); 4 vols of poetry; the novel anAtha, and several translations into Kannada; Do something, brother: keep doing something, anything; you musn't be idle. Pull out this plant, nip this little leaf, crush that flower. There's grass, run a burning brand through it, burn it like Lanka. Tiny butterflies, parrots, sparrows? chase them, catch them, pluck their wings, pull out their fur and feather. There, in the garden, jasmine and the banana's gold grow for the wild elephant's feet. All over the walls virility's master switches itch for your fingers; close your eyes and pull down twenty of them. Earth, water, the skies, they're all your geese with golden eggs: gouge them out, slash them. "Do, or die," they say. Disasters are the test for your genius's galloping dance: something must crash every minute. Brother, act, act at once, do something. Thought's weights and measures are all for the past, for the undying ghostly treasures of the dead. There's the forest, cut it clean to the stump, slit it for your buntings. You have the axe, the sickle, the saw, and the knife; go, harvest all the world with a flourish of your hand. But you meet winter mists, walls of fog, walls that line the space between face and face, and the road that sighs and breaks in two under your eyes, a couple of mountain peaks that rear their hoods and lower upon your head, or lightning winks from sirens that sing in every tree: do they plunge you into anxieties and dilemmas of reason? No, no, this won't do. You're a simple man, and that's your strength. Horse sense and the blinkers are your forte. Eat what comes to hand; crush what you touch; cut the hindering vines. Mother Earth herself, though tired, lies open to the skies; there's still flesh on her bone, marrow for your hunger. Come, come, brother, never forget that you're a man! Then there's the Well of Life. Rope the wheel and axle, pull out all the water. Reach the last dryness of the rock; grope, grope with the grappling iron. "V for Victory," brother. Break down the atom, reach for the ultimate world within. Find God's own arrow and aim it straight at the heart of God's own embryo world. Do something, brother, do anything. Idle men are burdens on the land. Do something, brother. Keep doing something all the time to lighten Mother Earth's loads. This is right. This is natural. This is the one thing needful. tr. A. K. Ramanujan
Contents: as in book (thematic)Dedicatory poem: Kshemendra, 12th c.: KavikanThabharaNa Acknowledgements Preface
I. On reading a love poemP. S. Rege (Marathi,1910-1978): The Pact 3 N. Revathi Devi (Telugu, b. Tenali 1951) : This Night 3 Kedarnath Singh (Hindi, b. 1934) : On Reading a Love Poem 4 P. Lankesh (Kannada) : Mother 6 Gagan Gill (Hindi, b. Delhi 1959) : The Girl's Desire Moves Among Her Bangles 8 Rabindranath Tagore (Bengali) : Flute-music 9 Eunice de Souza (English) : Women in Dutch Painting 12 Aziz Qaisi (Urdu, Hyderabad, 1931-1992) : Outside the Furnace 12 Vinda Karandikar (Marathi) : The Knot 14 A. K. Ramanujan (English) : Love Poem for a Wife, 2; 17 Jyotsna Milan (Hindi): Woman, 2 link:Pratilipi; 20
II. A Pond named gangaK. S. Narasimhaswami (Kannada) : Consolation to Empty Pitchers 23 In the heat of the noon the waterless watertap offers consolation to empty pitchers. B. S. Mardhekar (Marathi) : The Forest of Yellow Bamboo Trees 25 Nissim Ezekiel (English) : from Hymns in Darkness 26 G. M. Muktibodh (Hindi, 1917-64) : The Void 29 Hira Bansode (Marathi) : Woman 30 Archana Varma (Hindi) : Man 31 Ismail (Telugu) : The Wall 32 I know what should be out and what should be in. But then what's this window doing here? Munib-ur-Rahman (Urdu, b.1924-) : Tall Buildings 32 Vijaya Mukhopadhyay (Bengali) : Monday 33 Jayanta Mahapatra (English) : An October Morning 34 Padma Sachdev (Dogri) : The Well 35 Sitanshu Yashashchandra (Gujrati) : Drought 36 R. Meenakshi (Tamil) : If Hot Flowers Come to the Street 39 Agha Shahid Ali (English) : Desert Landscape 40 Chandrashekhar Kambar (Kannada) : A Pond Named Ganga 41
III Household FiresAnuradha Mahapatra (Bengali) : Spell 47 Mrinal Pande (Hindi) : Two Women Knitting 47 Indira Sant (Marathi) : Household Fires 48 S. Usha (Kannada) : To Mother 49 Shanmuga Subbiah (Tamil) : Salutations 50 G. S. Shivarudrappa (Kannada) : This Man 51 Nirendranath Chakrabarti (Bengali) : Amalkanti 52 Akhtar-ul-Iman (Urdu) : Compromise 54 Devdas Chhotray (Oriya) : Fear 55 Kaifi Azmi (Urdu) : Humiliation 56 Chandrashekhar Patil (Kannada) : Freak 57 Soubhagya Kumar Mishra (Oriya) : Robinson Crusoe 58 Daya Pawar (Marathi) : The Buddha 59 Dilip Chitre (English) : My Father Travels 60 Vaidehi (Kannada) : Girl in the Kitchen 61 Kamala Das (English) : Hot Noon in Malabar 63 N. Balamani Amma (Malaylm) : To My Daughter 63 Meena Alexander (English) : Her Garden 64 V. Indira Bhavani (Tamil) : Avatars 66 Popati Hiranandani (Sindhi) : Husband 68 Pranabendu Dasgupta (Bengali) : Man: 1961 69 K. Satchidanandan (Malaylm) : Genesis 70 Saleem Peeradina (English) : Sisters 71 T. S. Venugopalan (Tamil, b. 1934) : Family Pride 72 Benoy Majumdar (Bengali, 1934-2006): Time Wins 72 Gieve Patel (English) : Forensic Medicine 73 Api (Tamil) : Another Me 74 Rajani Parulekar (Marathi) : Birthmarks 76
IV. The master carpenterSri Sri (Telugu) : from Some People Laugh, Some People Cry 81 Arvind Krishna Mehrotra (English) : The Roys 82 Shrikant Verma (Hindi) : The Pleasure Dome 86 G. Shankara Kurup (Malaylm) : The Master Carpenter 91
V. What is worth knowingLabhshankar Thacker (Gujrati) : Poem 99 Sujata Bhatt (English) : What Is Worth Knowing? 99 Kaa Naa Subramanyam (Tamil) : Situation 101 Amrita Pritam (Punjabi) : The Creative Process 102 Savithri Rajeevan (Malaylm) : A Pair of Glasses 103 Kabita Sinha (Bengali) : The Diamond of Character 104 Gnanakoothan (Tamil) : Tamil 105 Raghuvir Sahay (Hindi) : Our Hindi 105 Siddhalinga Pattanshetti (Kannada) : Woman 107 Bahinabai Chaudhari (Marathi) : The Naming of Things 107 Nabaneeta Dev Sen (Bengali) : The Yellow River 109 Sadanand Rege (Marathi) : Old Leaves from the Chinese Earth 110 K. Ayyappa Paniker (Malaylm) : The Itch 111 Khalil-ur-Rahman Azmi (Urdu) : I and 'I' 112 Nara (Kunwar) : White Paper 112 Subramania Bharati (Tamil) : Wind, 9 113 Shakti Chattopadhyay (bengali) : Forgive Me 114 Chennavira Kanavi (Kannada) : On Bismillah Khan's Shehnai 115 Shahryar (Urdu) : Still Life 115 Arun Kolatkar (Marathi) : The Alphabet 116
VI. The doe in heatB. R. Lakshman Rao (Kannada) : Green Snake 119 Paresh Chandra Raut (Oriya) : Snake 119 Nirmalprabha Bardoloi (Assamese) : Dawn 121 Jibanananda Das (Bengali, 1899-1954) : In Camp 121 Bhanuji Rao (Oriya) : Fish 124 Bishnu De (Bengali) : Santhal Poems, 1; 125 Nida Fazli (Urdu) : A Page from the New Diary 126 Atmanam (Tamil) : Next Page 127 Ravji Patel (Gujrati) : Whirlwind 127 N. Pichamurti (Tamil) : National Bird 128 K. V. Tirumalesh (Kannada) : Face to Face 129 Buddhadeva Bose (Bengali) : Frogs 131 Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena (Hindi) : The Black Panther 131 VII. The possessed city Adil Jussawalla (English) : Sea Breeze, Bombay 135 Sunil Gangopadhyay (Bengali) : Calcutta and I 137 Sunanda Tripathy (Oriya) : Tryst 138 Vinay Dharwadker (English) : New Delhi, 1974; 139 Dhoomil (Hindi) : The City, Evening, and an Old Man: Me 140 Naresh Guha (Bengali) : Winding Sand 141 Ghulam Mohammed Sheikh (Gujrati) : Jaisalmer, 1 142 R. Parthasarathy (English) : Speaking of Places 142 Sumitranandan Pant (Hindi) : Almora Spring 144 Shamsher Bahadur Singh (Hindi) : On the Slope of this Hill 145 Umashankar Joshi (Gujrati) : Passing through Rajasthan 146 Chemmanam Chacko (Malaylm) : Rice 150 Keki N. Daruwalla (English) : Of Mohenjo Daro at Oxford 150 Amiya Chakravarty (Bengali) : Fire 152 B. C. Ramachandra Sharma (Kannada) : American Tourist 153 Shiv K. Kumar (English) : Days in New York 154 VIII. Do something, brother Kunwar Narain (Hindi) : Towards Delhi 159 Narayan Surve (Marathi) : Lifetime 159 Namdeo Dhasal (Marathi) : Stone-masons, My Father, and Me 160 Dom Moraes (English) : Babur 161 Jagannath Prasad Das (Oriya) : The Corpse 162 Sati Kumar (Punjabi) : Come Back, Alexander 163 Agyeya (Hindi) : Hiroshima 164 Vikram Seth (English) : A Doctor's Journal Entry for August 6, 1945; 165 K. Nisar Ahmad (Kannada) : America, America 167 A. Jayaprabha (Telugu) : Burn this Sari 169 Imtiaz Dharker (English) : Purdah, 1; 170 Jyoti Lanjewar (Marathi) : I Never Saw You 171 Ali Sardar Jafri (Urdu) : Morsel 175 Sitakant Mahapatra (Oriya) : The Election 176 Subhash Mukhopadhyay (Bengali) : The Task 177 Nirala (Hindi) : The Betrayal 177 M. Gopalakrishna Adiga (Kannada, 1918-1992) : Do Something, Brother 178 Mangesh Padgaonkar (Marathi) : Salaam 181 Afterword: Modern Indian Poetry and its Contexts (Vinay Dharwadker) 185 Notes to the Poems 207 Suggestions for Further Reading 216 Select Notes on Poets and Translators 218 Index of Languages, Poets, and Translators 255
Contents: by LanguagesAssamese 1 Hindi 15 Punjabi 2 Bengali 16 Kannada 14 Sindhi 1 Dogri 1 Malayalam 6 Tamil 10 English 20 Marathi 14 Telugu 6 Gujrati 5 Oriya 7 Urdu 8 Total: 125 Language Translator title poet ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Assamese DNBezbarua Dawn Nirmalprabha Bardoloi Bengali B. Bose Man: 1961 Pranabendu Dasgupta Bengali CBSeely In Camp Jibanananda Das Bengali JyoDutta Spell Anuradha Mahapatra Bengali JyoDutta Time Wins Benoy Majumdar Bengali Lila Ray Winding Sand Naresh Guha bengali PChakr+Beier Forgive Me Shakti Chattopadhyay Bengali poet Frogs Buddhadeva Bose Bengali poet The Yellow Rivr Nabaneeta Dev Sen Bengali Pritish Nandy The Task Subhash Mukhopadhyay Bengali Radice Flute-music Rabindranath Tagore Bengali SDasg_Hay Santhal PoemsI Bishnu De Bengali SMitra+CWright The Diamond Chr Kabita Sinha Bengali SRay+CWright Monday Vijaya Mukhopadhyay Bengali Sujit+MeenaksM Amalkanti Nirendranath Chakrabarti Bengali Sujit+MeenaksM Calcutta and I Sunil Gangopadhyay Bengali SujitMuk Fire Amiya Chakravarty Dogri Iqbal Masud The Well Padma Sachdev ---------------------------------------------------------------------- English A Doctor's Jrnl Vikram Seth English An October Morn Jayanta Mahapatra English Babur Dom Moraes English Days in New Yrk Shiv K. Kumar English Desert Landscap Agha Shahid Ali English Forensic Medici Gieve Patel English Hymns in Dark Nissim Ezekiel English Her Garden Meena Alexander English Hot Noon Malabr Kamala Das English Love Poem Wife A. K. Ramanujan English My Father Trvls Dilip Chitre English New Delhi, Vinay Dharwadker English MohenjoDaroOxf Keki N. Daruwalla English Purdah, 1 Imtiaz Dharker English Sea Breeze,Bmby Adil Jussawalla English Sisters Saleem Peeradina English Speaking Plces R. Parthasarathy English The Roys Arvind Krishna Mehrotra English What Worth Kno Sujata Bhatt English Women in Dutch Eunice de Souza Language Translator title poet ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Gujrati NBhagat+Coppola Passing Rajsthn Umashankar Joshi Gujrati HansaJhaveri Whirlwind Ravji Patel Gujrati Peeradina+poet Jaisalmer, 1 Ghulam Mohammed Sheikh Gujrati Peeradna Drought Sitanshu Yashashchandra Gujrati SYashaschandra Poem Labhshankar Thacker Hindi AK Mehrotra The Betrayal Nirala Hindi David Rubin Almora Spring Sumitranandan Pant Hindi MP+ArlZide Girl's Desire Gagan Gill Hindi MP+Zide Woman, 2 Jyotsna Milan Hindi poet+A.Zide Women Knitting Mrinal Pande Hindi poet+LNathan Hiroshima Agyeya Hindi Sitesh+Zide Man Archana Varma Hindi VD ReadingLovePoem Kedarnath Singh Hindi VD Slope of Hill Shamsher Bahadur Singh Hindi VD Our Hindi Raghuvir Sahay Hindi VD Black Panther Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena Hindi VD City, Evening Dhoomil Hindi VD Pleasure Dome Shrikant Verma Hindi VD+aparnaD Towards Delhi Kunwar Narain Hindi VD Void G. M. Muktibodh Kannada AKR A Pond Ganga Chandrashekhar Kambar Kannada AKR America,Americ K. Nisar Ahmad Kannada AKR Empty Pitchers K. S. Narasimhaswami Kannada AKR Do Sth,Brother M. Gopalakrishna Adiga Kannada AKR Face to Face K. V. Tirumalesh Kannada AKR Freak Chandrashekhar Patil Kannada AKR Girl in Kitchn Vaidehi Kannada AKR Green Snake B. R. Lakshman Rao Kannada AKR Mother P. Lankesh Kannada AKR Bismillah Khan Chennavira Kanavi Kannada AKR This Man G. S. Shivarudrappa Kannada AKR To Mother S. Usha Kannada AKR Woman Siddhalinga Pattanshetti Kannada AKR+poet AmericanTourist B. C. Ramachandra Sharma Language Translator title poet ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Malaylm K.A.Paniker Pair of Glasses Savithri Rajeevan Malaylm KAPaniker Rice Chemmanam Chacko Malaylm KMGeorge+AKR Master Carpntr G. Shankara Kurup Malaylm poet Genesis K. Satchidanandan Malaylm poet The Itch K. Ayyappa Paniker Malaylm poet To My Daughter N. Balamani Amma Marathi VD Lifetime Narayan Surve Marathi VD Stone-masons Namdeo Dhasal Marathi VD The Alphabet Arun Kolatkar Marathi VD The Forest B. S. Mardhekar Marathi DilipChitre Old Leaves Sadanand Rege Marathi EZelliot+JKarve The Buddha Daya Pawar Marathi PEngblom+JKarve The Naming Bahinabai Chaudhari Marathi V.Dharwadker The Pact P. S. Rege (1910-1978) Marathi VD Birthmarks Rajani Parulekar Marathi VD Household Fires Indira Sant Marathi VD Never Saw You Jyoti Lanjewar Marathi VD Salaam Mangesh Padgaonkar Marathi VD The Knot Vinda Karandikar Marathi VD Woman Hira Bansode Language Translator title poet ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Oriya JMahapatra Fear Devdas Chhotray Oriya JMahapatra Fish Bhanuji Rao Oriya JMahapatra RobinsonCrusoe Soubhagya Kumar Mishra Oriya JMahapatra Snake Paresh Chandra Raut Oriya JMahapatra The Corpse Jagannath Prasad Das Oriya JPDas+AZide Tryst Sunanda Tripathy Oriya poet The Election Sitakant Mahapatra Punjabi MBandopadhyay Come Bk,Alxndr Sati Kumar Punjabi poet+A.Zide Creative Proc Amrita Pritam Sindhi poet Husband Popati Hiranandani Tamil AKR Another Me Api Tamil AKR Next Page Atmanam Tamil AKR Tamil Gnanakoothan Tamil AKR Wind, 9 Subramania Bharati Tamil M.A. Seely Avatars V. Indira Bhavani Tamil MA Selby If Hot Flowers R. Meenakshi Tamil poet Situation Kaa Naa Subramanyam Tamil R.Parthasarathy Family Pride T. S. Venugopalan Tamil RParthasarathy National Bird N. Pichamurti Tamil TKDoraisw Salutations Shanmuga Subbiah Telugu VNR The Wall Ismail Telugu VNR White Paper Nara Telugu VNR+AKR Burn this Sari A. Jayaprabha Telugu VNR+AKR This Night N. Revathi Devi Telugu VNR+AKR Some Laugh,Cry Sri Sri Urdu B.Bakht+Lavigne Out Furnace Aziz Qaisi Urdu BBakht+Lavigne Page frm Diary Nida Fazli Urdu CMNaim+NHZide I and 'I' Khalil-ur-Rahman Azmi Urdu CMNaim+VD++ Compromise Akhtar-ul-Iman Urdu GCNarang+Dougls Still Life Shahryar Urdu Jaeger/B.Bakht Tall Bldngs Munib-ur-Rahman Urdu KJaeger+BBakht Morsel Ali Sardar Jafri Urdu Mumtaz Jahan Humiliation Kaifi Azmi ----------------------------------------------------------------------
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