An anthology of modern Hindi poetry
Kailash Vajpeyi (ed.)
Vajpeyi, Kailash (ed.);
An anthology of modern Hindi poetry
Rupa, 2000, 318 pages
ISBN 8171674305, 9788171674305
topics: | poetry | hindi | translation
i came to this book with little expectation, but as i turned the pages, i was impressed by the novelty in many of the voices, and the quality of much of the translation, which is due to the eclectic process of selecting from a large set of translators. The poets were born between 1900 and 1963, and every poet represented appears to have won some award or the other; in selecting them, vajpeyi is perhaps saying - look, others also find their work good. suryakant tripathi 'nirala' is perhaps the only poet represented who does not seem to have received awards... personally I don't hold much for awards; bowing to the preferences of nameless committees does not seem to be a good way of appreciating poetry. i would rather face the curmudgeonly biases that mark truly excellent anthologies (e.g. Mehrotra's Twelve Modern Indian Poets. Many of the poets I had encountered earlier (Manglesh Dabral, Kedarnath Singh, Kunwar Narain), but most were new voices, and it was a pleasure to discover the gems here and there. [/cvr] while the selection is excellent, the book is completely lacking in any reference to the source texts of the poems or citations for the translations or the backgrounds in which the poets lived and wrote... particularly sloppy is the lack of a title or first-lines index. one of the hopes expressed by vajpeyi in the introduction is that the selection may spur the reader to discover the originals, but any reader attempting to do so is completely frustrated by the absence of any reference to the original title. Further, the translations by so many hands have obviously been taken from many sources, but these are also completely opaque to the reader. Even the customary (and legally necessary) copyright notice is missing. in fact, it is my suspicion that no copyright permissions were obtained - this is still possible in India, I guess - otherwise, who would be able to go around to all these poets and their translators, many of them dead, seeking permissions. perhaps vajpeyi said, let's just put the best together, to heck with legalities. this is the other side of the editorial dysfunction at rupa, but for this i, as a reader, am pleased; too much good poetry is lost today in legalities. but i do wish they would have done a bit more in terms of editing and presenting the work. the poet biographies are mere skeletons, just a listing of the awards and titles of some works. footnotes appear here and there, in a haphazard manner. there is no biography whatsoever of the translators; initially, it seemed as if many of the translators were not known, since the translator is named only in a small fraction of the poems. however, then i noticed that the translator is usually named for the last poem; this indicates that perhaps the block of preceding anonymous translations were by this last-cited name. however, the reader cannot confirm this - nowhere in the book are you told that this is the scheme being adopted. but on the whole, the poems speak for themselves. there are fewer typos compared to many books edited in india, but it is still irritating to come across The three is like the proclamation of a garden when the intention was surely "The tree is" (p. 175). high quality human editors have become all the more crucial for spell-checked errors like these. this could have been an excellent resource on this generation of poets, had it been edited.
Excerpts
Introduction: anuvAda in Sanskrit : "writing after" - includes interpretation, commentary, interrogation, re-working, etc. p. x
Suryakant Tripathi 'Nirala': All Alone p. 1
tr. Arvind K Mehrotra
All alone,
I watch my day's twilight
Approach.
The hair is half grey,
The cheeks without colour,
I can see my pace slacken;
The fair's almost over.
The cataracts and swift rivers
Are behind me, I know,
But look back to find
No skiff no oar.
Nirala: Because there's corn on the cob here p.2
[tr. Arvind K Mehrotra]
The crone is here, the lover is here
There's a crowd here and an audience,
There are serenades and violins, generosity and bravado;
The flame is here and the moth is here
Because there's corn on the cob here
The eye is here, its gaze fixed,
The pulse throbs, the spirit's dead;
The two-eyed is here and the one-eyed is here
Because there's corn on the cob here
Mummy is here, daddy is here
A slap across the cheek and lollipops are here
The strapping uncle and the old grandfather are here
Because there's corn on the cob here
Nirala: Little princess and the one-eyed girl p.3
[tr. Arvind K Mehrotra]
Her mother calls her the Little Princess,
Affectionately, as the name suggests.
The truth, however,
Is a pock-pitted, flat-nosed, bald
And one-eyed face.
Little princess has come of age.
She cuts and threshes, pounds and grinds,
Crushes the gleanings till her hands are raw,
Sweeps the floor, throws the rubbish out,
Fetches the water.
And yet her mother's heart is troubled,
It feels like a box a thief has emptied:
How will she find
A husband for her daughter?
She despairs if a neighbour says,
"All said and done,
Little princess is a woman.
But who wants a wone-eyed wife?"
Whenever she hears this,
Little Princess shivers,
She sees her motheer's grief
And a tear fills her good eye,
But the blind left one stays dry, watchful.
Shamsher Bahadur Singh: In bits and pieces p.9
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid
My verse
bits and pieces
tea leaves
trampled underfoot
My hide
deprived and loose
made of mud
My hair ashen, unwashed, thin, falling, sticking to my neck
Wheelbarrows of expectation parked in the afternoon sunshade
Like my ribs...
Empty gunnysacks being darned... They
are the voids of my eyes.
[...]
Vaidyanath Mishra 'Nagarjun': Rosy Bangles p.24
tr. Vishnu Khare Though the driver of a private bus He is the father of a seven-year old daughter Above the bonnet of the engine Below the windshield Dangle four little bangles on a hook And tingle, as the bus moves, fast or slow I bent down and enquired The mustachioed stern face registered a jolt and he mumbled, Yes, Saheb, I have often told her not to do this But she always hangs these bangles here before I start Her memento must always remain before her father's eyes. And I think too After all what harm do these bangles do -- For what offence should I remove them? And looked straight into my eyes. And I into his large eyes Which brimmed with the milk of affection His straightforward question was moist with tenderness As his glance reverted to the road before him. Bending down I said: Brother, I am a father too Do not mind my casual question For who would not like them - These rosy bangles from a tender wrist?
Sacchidanand Hiranand Vatsyayan 'Ajneya' : Vina p.25
tr. by the poet First she said look the sky that ocean of light and I saw birds like sailboats gliding to unknown shores. Then she said look that vast ocean of green and I saw leaves gleaming in the sun and deep shadows alive with the hum and drone and buzz of insects of many kinds and brooks rustling and distant cataracts. [...]
'Ajneya' : Oedipus at Phocis p.28
tr. by the poet You who travel, watch for the crossroads! This is where the paths converge, to go ahead and Each toward its own destination. But at these crossroads, in a darkness unawares, Sometimes one runs unrecognizing into forefathers: Their arrogant questions waken ancient angers; Sometimes old equivocal prophecies Rumble through the dark cave in the dim valley of a more ancient sense; The first obscure passions lift their heads Like snakes that have been trampled on: The traveller is then caught in the evil of an ancient curse. And then The crime that all his life he had run from Suddenly by reluctant hands is committed. You who travel, watch for the crossroads, There behind the stumps of dead trees Couch in ambush Decomposing laws, Insanities, delusions, looming, lowering evil shadows Which all Reviving at the traveller's own footfall, Quickly, relentlessly, Close in, like traps, nooses, snares... You who travel, watch for the crossroads!
agyeya: Hiroshima
On this day, the sun
appeared - no, not slowly over the horizon -
but right in the city square.
A blast of dazzle poured over
Not from the middle sky,
But from the earth torn raggedly open.
Human shadows, dazed and lost, pitched
Human shadows, dazed and lost, pitched
In every direction: this blaze,
Not risen from the east,
Smashed in the city's heart--
An immense wheel
Of Death's swart(1) suncar, spinning down and apart
In every direction.
Instant of a sun's rise and set.
Vision-annihilating flare one compressed noon.
And then?
It was not human shadows that lengthened, paled, and died;
It was men suddenly become as mist, then gone.
The shadows stay:
Burned on rocks, stones of these vacant streets.
A sun conjured by men converted men to air, to nothing;
White shadows singed on the black rock give back
Man's witness to himself.
(Agyeya and Leonard Nathan)
Ajneya: The Mountain does not tremble 32
[tr. by poet] The Mountain does not tremble, Nor the trees, nor the valley: It is the small glow of light From the house on the hillside Mirrored in the lake That trembles.
Vasudev Singh 'Trilochan' : Where are they 38
tr. Vishnu Khare Where are they Who spoke with such vehemence Last year And you, dear one, Thought that the days of scorching summer Had disappeared under the comforting shade of their words That all those palms Would shelter you from the blazing sun. Where are they Who had come here Carrying succour in their rucksack? [...]
Muktibodh: A dream 39
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid I don't know since when in the dark of self-consciousness in the blocked caves of mountain-tops I have spread a soiled net and caught the garbage of cities. The long-faded pages of the Ramayana Some broken switches of spent-out light Theses bursting with pompous bibliographies Broken arms of chairs belonging to dead nymphs A pile of cosmetics and underwear Yellowed love letters Bursting bank books An arch of graceful fine arts Mildly obscene matters Photographs in numerous poses and angles Pomp and show Tricks and trump cards Garments for export Passports gray with age worn-out portmanteaus...
Muktibodh: They tell me 45
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid They tell me your labour is futile your verse puerile your language vulgar and sterile your similes awkward your imagery odd your idiom and usage a fraud your rhythms and lines so fragile. They tell me your loud thoughts have strange silly sounds in your unmusical words -- like those of an ox-cart loaded with rocks in a country road riddled with potholes. They tell me who will waste their time on your poems sans rhythm sans meaning sans music. As I listen to their reproaches I'm overcome by memories of burnt out bushes of leafless chopped-off trees of the half-eaten carcass of a cow lying in a desolate jungle that once was under a white-hot sun under the vast sad smile of heaven blackened by kites floating in air over the half-eaten carcass of the cow watching the fun. As I watch scenes of horrible waste terrible bad luck frightening neglect of man the deep resonance of callous cruelties that glow in one's spine like a tingling inflammation of veins I'm haunted once again by that image of the carcass of the cow and the vultures and the kites flying overhead.
Kunwar Narain: The Destruction of Nalanda by Bakhtiyar Khilji 64
[tr. by the poet]
He was a dwarf
but his arms were long —
they reached beyond his knees.
His greed knew no bounds —
like a ferocious vulture
in one swoop he had grabbed
Bihar, Bengal, Tibet ...
The Khilji court was stunned:
sporting a club, single-handed
he had subdued a mad elephant.
He was casting greedy looks at Hindustan!
*
Killings, arson, loot ...
The great University of Nalanda fell.
A burning page of history and
a minor error of judgement - "Brahmin,
we wanted gold, not these wretched books;
we mistook your 'school' for a 'fort'!"
There was none to answer.
All had fled into the jungles
carrying with them
nothing but a few rare books.
They are still fleeing to jungles
with nothing but a few rare books
shunning wars
shunning conquerors
who cannot see the difference
between a 'school' and a 'fort'.
*
Bakhtiyar has returned
from his Tibetan campaign
all alone!
All alone he dies in a dark room
tears of shame
flowing down his sunken cheeks
as the widows of his dead soldiers wail
beating their breasts
in the bazaars of Lakhnauti.
Kunwar Narain: The circus 69
tr. by the poet In a world jam-packed with spectators to play the part of a clown with complete honesty and not lose balance was the biggest feat. Cool down, take off the make-up. You are not the first to have earned applause from your people nor the last man whose success provokes such side-splitting laughter. [tr. by poet]
Kunwar Narain: The hilt of a broken dagger p.72
tr. by the poet I hold in my hands the hilt of a broken dagger and wonder about daggers about hands wielding a dagger about assassins and attacks about thousands of years and about a sudden scream vanishing in a blind alley
Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena: Don't remind me of the forest 79
[tr. Mrinal Pande] Leaving behind A little smoke, A few flames, A few embers, And some ash, I burn like firewood within the stove, Do not remind me of the forest. Of the lush green forest Within which I stood unbent and whole. The birds sat chirping upon me, The slender dhAmin_ lay entwined [_dhamin: kind of snake] upon my trunk And the spotted leopard leapt upon my branches to doze. The memory of the forest Is the memory of axes Which slashed me again and again, Splitting me into bits, Robbing me of my form, Like so many iron-toothed saws. I now lie burning like firwood within the stove. And I do not know if the pot That sits singing above my flames Carries within it a meal for hungry stomachs Or is bubbling in pain. I do not know if the flushed faces of folks around me, Seem so because of the flames, or an anger within, Whether they will carry me with them, Or will pour water on me and go to sleep, Do not remind me of the forest. Each spark is a falling lef With which I wish to kiss this earth That once housed my roots.
Raghuvir Sahay : Sanskrit 87
tr. Vinay Dharwadker
Armies kill men
then dig themselves in
and set up camp
somehow the mango tree survives
The two armies come to an agreement
to go fight somewhere else
The departure ceremony
takes place under that mango tree
It was under the same tree
that they had tied up and shot
those eighteen-year-old boys
from the Hindi-speaking village
who had refused to give in
And now those old Sanskrit scholars have come
to sing the shastric praises of the mango tree
under that tree.
Shrikant Verma
bio from pratilipi Shrikant Verma was born in 1931 in Bilaspur, formerly in the Central Provinces and the state of Madhya Pradesh, and now in Chattisgarh. He was educated in Bilaspur and Raipur, and received his M.A. in Hindi from Nagpur University in 1956 (which he attended on the recommendation of Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh, a leading Hindi writer of the previous generation). Verma then moved to New Delhi, where, for a decade, he worked as a journalist and in various capacities for political organizations. Between 1966 and 1977, he served as a special correspondent for Dinman, a major Hindi periodical then edited by S. H. Vatsyayan (Agyeya). Later, he was elected as a member of the Rajya Sabha on a Congress (I) ticket in 1976; and served as an official and spokesman of the party in the late 1970s and the early 1980s. He was Indira Gandhi's national campaign manager in the 1980 elections that brought her back to power, and he worked as an adviser and political writer for Rajiv Gandhi after 1984. Verma passed away while being treated for cancer in New York City in 1986. He was a central figure in the Nai Kavita movement in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and published an influential short novel as well as collections of short stories and literary interviews and essays. His important volumes of poems are Jalasaghar (1973) and Magadh (1984), the latter perhaps the best-known book of Hindi poetry in the 1980s. He was a visitor at the Iowa International Writing Program twice (in 1970-71 and 1978), and won the Tulsi Puraskar (Madhya Pradesh) in 1976 and the Sahitya Akademi Award, posthumosuly for Magadh in 1985. [Vajpeyi gives the spelling as "Srikant", but perhaps "Shrikant", which seems to be more widely used - is more correct, given the "sh" used. ]
Srikant Verma : My shadow 103
Years later I learnt that she was not my shadow I trampled on her she groaned I beckoned her she blushed I shouted at her She clung to my calves I said Leave me alone she did not I took my seat she took hers next to me While everybody watched Everybody has gone The party is over she is still by my side She can't just be my shadow.
Kedarnath Singh : The carpenter and the bird 115
tr. Vinay Dharwadker बढ़ई और चिड़िया
He was sawing logs वह लकड़ी चीर रहा था
After spending several nights कई रातों तक
in the damp jungle जंगल की नमी में रहने के बाद उसने फैसला किया था
he’d decided to do it और वह चीर रहा था
and now he was sawing logs
His saw often strayed उसकी आरी कई बार लकड़ी की नींद
into the log's roots और जड़ों में भटक जाती थी
into its sleep कई बार एक चिड़िया के खोते से
his saw often struck टकरा जाती थी उसकी आरी
a bird's nest
He could feel उसे लकड़ी में
the flick of a squirrel's tail गिलहरी की पूँछ की हरकत महसूस हो रही थी
inside the log एक गुर्राहट थी
he could hear growls एक बाघिन के बच्चे सो रहे थे लकड़ी के अन्दर
a tiger's cubs were sleeping एक चिड़िया का दाना गायब हो गया था
inside the log
a bird had lost the seed
it had been pecking
उसकी आरी हर बार
At each stroke चिड़िया के दाने को
his saw pulled the seed लकड़ी के कटते हुए रेषों से खींचकर
out of the grain of the wood बाहर लाती थी
and the seed dropped और दाना हर बार उसके दाँतों से छूटकर
from the saw's teeth गायब हो जाता था
and disappeared
He was sawing logs वह चीर रहा था
and the world was falling down और दुनिया दोनों तरफ
on either side of his saw चिरे हुए पटरों की तरह गिरती जा रही थी
like planks of wood
The seed दाना
wasn’t outside the log बाहर नहीं था
that's why the bird was sure इसलिए लकड़ी के अन्दर जरूर कहीं होगा
it was still somewhere inside the wood यह चिड़िया का खयाल था
He was sawing logs वह चीर रहा था
and the bird was somewhere और चिड़िया खुद लकड़ी के अन्दर
inside the wood कहीं थी
and it was shrieking और चीख रही थी
(text from pratilipi magazine)
Vinod Kumar Shukla : The river is all on this bank 177
tr. Arvind K Mehrotra The river is all in this bank, Or all on the other Or all in mid-channel: The river of love has an unpredictable course. To get wet in the river and to get wet in the rain Is the same thing. The times I've gone walking And not carried an umbrella, I've set up house under A capsized boat.
Vinod Kumar Shukla : Debate 178
tr. Girdhar Rathi In the political debate on drought I did not tell anyone that A flock of birds had flown away in fragments, But showing a bird sitting Amidst the dozing men in neighbouring chairs I shouted That a fragment of the wave was on the table. Ten friends sand that the fragment Of the wave had come from the window. SSat on a peg in the wall. Have to wash, et cetera. And the face of the wave resembles the river In the process of the parliament's being in the shape of a comb There was no hair on the government's head.
Ashok Vajpeyi : Ancestors 211
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid We live in the bones of our ancestors. When we choose a word we disturb the syntax of some distant century. When we open a door we send a sound echoing in an ancient home. We live like worms in the dense shade of trees. We entrust our children to our ancestors before we leave for work. We carry on our heads bundles and time. After a meal of bread and water we set out for infinity and fade into the void. Nobody can tell that we were ever here. We live in the bones of our ancestors.
Earth : Ashok Vajpeyi p. 217
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid The Lord is an old poet wrapped in a crazy quilt robe adoring the earth from his remote deserted corridor of stars still imagining that words can cure mortality.
Sunita Jain : The other woman 223
I was quite impressed by Sunita Jain, who was one of the new voices for me. It turns out she had been a professor in IIT Delhi for many years. It takes courage to write: "the bones are a witness to my shame / excretion seeded my belly. (Mother, p.218)" You had resolved never again to be the-other-woman in any man's life. to be apologetic for your existence, to be servile, and to love even his dog to give him peace of mind that the wholeness of his hearth was not under threat from one who lived on doled-out loving. who was always willing to please, who allowed aasans_ and acrobatics with which [_aasan: yoga poses] a wife's bed is not defiled though she may be shrill and conceited. You had resolved had you not, that the days shall blanch and nights not let in lamp or star? tr. by the poet
Leeladhar Jagudi : The child who died that year 232
The child who died that year Was only three years of age. The child who died that year Wore a woollen bonnet and a coat, The child who died that year Had a pair of flawless legs, Was picking up human speech. He had started on cereals, He had been weaned away from his mother's breast. [...] Also notable: The secret (about a policeman's dream)
Manglesh Dabral : Good for a Lifetime 255
Ek Jivan ke liye tr. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Perhaps there was a bit of moisture there
or a pastel shade
Perhaps a shiver, perhaps hope
Perhaps there was just one teardrop there
or, as a keepsake,
a kiss
Perhaps there was snow there
or a small hand
or the attempt to touch
Perhaps there was darkness there
or an open field
or standing room
Perhaps there was a man there
struggling in his own way.
Manglesh Dabral : The Death of Leaves 256
Patton ki mrtyu tr. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra The leaves that settle on my face Fall from my childhood's trees. A lake sends me its waves, and, Like a wave, the night quivers. I walk On it, the death of leaves on my face. The birds have made their sounds. The place is empty. The lights Are ash. The houses on either side Of the road have locked front doors. I call out, and my voice rebounds.
Manglesh Dabral : The Quiet House 257
Ghar shant hai tr. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra The sun by slow degrees heats up the walls There's a fire smoldering somewhere near There's a ball lying on the bed the books, storehouses of disaster, are silent. I'm half awake, half asleep Half asleep, half awake Listening to sounds outside No sobbing in them No threats being made or fear expressed Nobody praying, nobody Asking for alms. And no bitterness in me But space, empty, waiting to be filled And easily inhabited Nor do I feel helpless But an aching spreads through my limbs And I recall the house of my childhood Its backyard, lying on my stomach Basking in the sun. I ask nothing of the world And can live as squirrels do As grass does or a ball That a small jolt will bring This quiet house down Doesn't worry me. more poems (w original hindi titles) at Delhimagazine
Gagan Gill : The fifth man 307
tr. Mrinal Pande and Arlene Zide Moving towards the hangman's noose The fifth man steps Onto the fifth place. Whether it is daylight or dark, the fifth man watches His own shadow On the fifth place. Only the fifth man believes That there are four ahead of him. Till the very end he believes That he will not be the fifth.
Gagan Gill: Nearing the hangman's noose
tr. Madhu B Joshi and Arlene Zide Nearing the hangman's noose What is the first man thinking? He's thinking couldn't he Also have been the last man/ Walking towards the rope Suddenly, he attains freedom From the terror of death. Suddenly, free of attachment and illusion Just one thing remains with him - His envy -- Of the last man. Infinite envy, Arriving at the end He turns for the first time and looks At the last man As though reassuring with his own end This last man's end as well. In a helpless dark instant could anyone do anything else?
Gagan Gill: The Fish-1 p. 310
death flashed in her eyes as if it were a flickering star as if it were a sky full of birds as if it were the wind before it rains. the fish lunged out of the water as if it were not death out there but a longing to return to the primal dream. she caught the water in her fine teeth as if it were the very last time she knows, this river-fish she'd die, going to the sea. she wanted before this death of hers by drowning one last time to return to the waters of the river then, in her own waters this river fish she drowned. [tr. JP Das, Madhu B Joshi, Arlene Zide w poet]
Gagan Gill: The Fish-2
it's not water
but the sky
which has filled the brain of this fish.
not water,
but a longing to fly,
has filled the body of this fish.
she has been emptying herself
into the sea
for centuries, endlessly.
swimming past fish, lasrge and small
rapt in thought
this fish asks herself
say, your sea, where has it gone?
swimming, this fish
repeats the question,
as if it were a prayer or mantra.
she doesn't know, this fish
that the sky has filled her brain
that the skull-breaking rites *
have already begun
within herself.
[tr. JP Das, Madhu B Joshi, Arlene Zide w poet]
[Footnote: * The skull of a dead person on the funeral pyre is cracked
in order to allow the soul to escape.]
Contents (seriously incomplete)
[The book has only a list of poets; it does not have a table of
contents with all the poems listed; let alone any reference to their
originals, where the translations appeared, or any other form of
provenance. ]
Introduction
Suryakant Tripathi 'Nirala' (b. 1896-1962) 1
tr. Arvind K Mehrotra / Vishnu Khare
All Alone [AKM] 1
Because there's corn on the cob here [AKM] 2
Little princess and the one-eyed girl [AKM] 3
The dog barked [VK] 5
Moscow dialogues [VK] 6
The cloud [tr. SB Singh] 8
Shamsher Bahadur Singh (b. 1911-94) 9
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid
In bits and pieces 9
Vaidyanath Mishra 'Nagarjun' (b. 1911-98) 18
tr. Vishnu Khare
Rosy Bangles 24
Sacchidanand Hiranand Vatsyayan 'Ajneya' (b. 1911-86) 25
# tr. by the poet [also "Agyeya"]
Vina 25
Oedipus at Phocis 28
Hiroshima 30
On this day, the sun
appeared - no, not slowly over the horizon -
but right in the city square. [...]
The Mountain does not tremble 32
Vasudev Singh 'Trilochan' 35
tr. Vishnu Khare
Where are they 38
Muktibodh (b. 1917-64) 39
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid
A dream 39
They tell me 45
Vijay Dev Narain Sahi (b.1924-82) 48
Kunwar Narain 64
tr. by the poet
The Destruction of Nalanda by Bakhtiyar Khilji 64
The circus 69
The hilt of a broken dagger 72
Sarveshwaar Dayal Saxena (b. 1927-83) 73
[tr. Mrinal Pande]
Don't remind me of the forest 79
Raghuvir Sahay (b. 1929-90) 79
tr. Giridhar Rathi / Vinay Dharwadker
The girl is growing up [GR] 79
Ought to be doing much more [GR] 81
I wept [GR] 83
Woman past forty [GR] 84
Our Hindi [VD] 85
Sanskrit [VD] 87
Champa Vaid 88
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid
Srikant Verma (b. 1931-86) 97
tr. Krishna Baldev Vaid
Prayer 97
On sand 99
In Kapilvastu 100
To friends 102
My shadow 103
Destination: Champa 104
Reflection 105
The mirror and I 107
Kedarnath Singh 109
tr. Vinay Dharwadker
Signature 109
On reading a love poem 112
The carpenter and the bird 115
An argument about horses
Kailash Vajpeyi (b. 1936) 122
Kumar Vikal (b. 1935-97) 140
Rajee Seth [b. NWFP (Pakistan), 1935-] 149
Fear 153
I was no historian
to be able to say
how the barbed wire sprang up
fencing off the open field.
The mosque wall, lying neglected
came up
overnight.
Who divided the narrow street
so quickly
right down the middle
Indu Jain 155
Chandrakant Devtale 160
Ramesh Chandra Shah 165
Vinod Kumar Shukla 175
The river is all on this bank 177
Debate 178
Kamlesh 181
Soumitra Mohan 189
Prayag Shukla 197
Vishnu Khare 205
Ashok Vajpeyi 209
Ancestors 211
Earth 217
Sunita Jain 218
The other woman 223
Leeladhar Jagudi (b. 1944, Sahitya Akademi awardee) 225
The child who died that year 232
Girdhar Rathi 236
Vinod Bhardwaj 244
Manglesh Dabral 255
tr. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Good for a Lifetime 255
The Death of Leaves 256
The Quiet House 257
Kuber Dutt 264
Vishnu Nagar 270
Dhruv Shukla 276
Arun Kamal 281
Mukta 287
Teji Grover 292
Gagan Gill 302
[tr. JP Das, Madhu B Joshi, Arlene Zide w poet]
The fifth man (tr. Mrinal Pande / Arlene Zide) 307
That was Why 308
Nearing the hangman's noose (tr. Madhu Joshi / Arlene Zide) 309
The Fish-1 310
The Fish-2 312
Anamika 314
bio
Dr. Kailash Vajpeyi (b.1936) began his career by designing the magazine Sarika for The Times of India. In 1972 he was appointed director of the Indian Cultural Centre, Georgetown. He has held several academic posts during his career, and is presently associate professor of Hindi, Delhi University. Dr. Vajpayi has been invited the world over to present papers and recite poetry. He has also been New York 1997.He has several collections of poems to his credit which have been included in German, Russian, Danish, and Swedish anthologies. He has also been advisor to the ministry of environment and has eleven films to his credit. Apart from sixteen volumes in Hindi and English, two of his books have also been published from Mexico in Spanish. --blurb Hindi, since its inception has been the language of revolt. It emerged as a powerful tool of expression around AD 750 when Sarahapa, a Buddhist monk during his stay at the Nalanda University, composed couplets (dohas) denouncing traditional beliefs prevalent among the masses. Similarly Gorakhnath, a poet reformer, through his mystic writings propagated the idea of a classless society through self-discipline. The writings of Sarhapa, Gorakhnath and Kabir are essentailly sectarian and underline the importance of universal oneness. From then, up to independence, Hindi poetry has crossed many bridges. Nirala, the propounder of nai kavita,(new poetry),not only lived an unusual life but also experimented with various poetic techniques which have inspired several generations of poets. This anthology brings together five generations of Hindi poets, whose talents have been acknowledged through several awards and citations. Whatever the shortfalls, whey are the constraints inherent to an anthology of this range and scope. Kailash Vajpeyi's third attempt in the last almost three decades to bring forth the best of Hindi poetry to a worldwide readership transcends narrow self aggrandising considerations. The Hindu
bookexcerptise is maintained by a small group of editors. get in touch with us! bookexcerptise [at] gmail [dot] .com. This review by Amit Mukerjee was last updated on : 2015 Mar 08