book excerptise:   a book unexamined is wasting trees

The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry

Vinay (ed.) Dharwadker and A.K. Ramanujan (ed.)

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 ]

ISBN 0195639170

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 Night

			tr. 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.4

	When 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.8

			ek 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.


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 music

			tr. 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.12

		tr. 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.
	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 30

		Marathi; 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.32


All 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.33

			tr. 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.54

Whenever 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 63

This 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.64

	The 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

	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.70

My 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 68

		Sindhi; 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.72

			       tr. 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.72

I 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:	( ]

Forensic Medicine : Gieve Patel

Text 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.104

From 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

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. 121

				   tr. 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
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.169

			tr. 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 171

		orig. 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
		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 177

		tr. 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:
give me a light.

M. Gopalakrishna Adiga (Kannada, 1918-1992) : Do Something, Brother, p.178

		taught 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

I. On reading a love poem

    P. 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 ganga

    K. 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 Fires

    Anuradha 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 carpenter

    Sri 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 knowing

    Labhshankar 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 heat

    B. 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 Languages

  Assamese    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

amitabha mukerjee (mukerjee [at-symbol] gmail) 2013 Aug 28