Found in Translation

I am fortunate to have Pramod Khadilkar as a friend and colleague. He is an exceptional playwright, poet and philosopher (with some time to go before he is a Doctor of Philosophy;). When he writes something new, I am one of the first persons he reads it out to and leaves enthralled. So when he asked me if I could try and translate a few of his Marathi poems, I gladly jumped on the challenge and worked on it. Here are three of the translations we did with links where available to audios of him reading his original pieces.

A Timeless Tale

[based on Ek Goshta in the Marathi of Pramod Khadilkar]

There once lived a Seka who’d taken to sprint,

Right from the instant that he was an infant!

Since the start of his days,

He’d never lost a race

All this time up to the present.

Seka was almost addicted to winning:

He once dreamed of loss and since had stopped sleeping!

In his bid to finish first,

He wouldn’t look around lest

His eyes catch something distracting.

Cruising on course, he saw someone ahead-

But Seka’s being second wasn’t tolerated!

He raced and he raced

Till frontrunner were outpaced,

And never did turn back his head.

Just as he was to stop so to breathe,

Seka saw loser again in the lead!

Foo...haa! Foo...haa!

Seka overtook Mika,

And the wind too was slower in speed.

Mika, among athletes, though was top-shot,

Cursed himself for not ever taking top spot!

No matter how fast

He sprinted, but past

Him, Seka would pass on the trot.

Fast as he was and try as he might,

Him winning was like a moon on amavasya night!

To the difference minute

Did Mika attribute

His loss, in their thinness and height.

Tired of trailing, now Mr. Mika

Stopped by the stocky and slow Mr. Taka;

Seeing quorum in place,

And so quelling pace,

The couple was joined by our Seka.

“Comrades!” said Taka, “Oh what is this ruse

Of running behind a golden-eyed goose?

When with rushing legs,

We’re crushing her eggs

That we could have put to good use?

“Even if we do pick our own destination,

And choose to be our own competition,

We can’t win or lose

Nor grab the gold goose

Unless we stop at satisfaction.”

“What’s the time, dear?” she called in a bawl,

I rolled up my head and looked at the wall

To see that time stands

Still with joint hands,

Bringing our clockwork to stall.

I opened our age-old Grandfather’s face

And did his pacemaker with new cells replace,

Causing to trigger

To resume with new vigour,

Taka’s and Mika’s and Seka’s old race.

“It’s 2.10,” said Mika, “I hope I shall see

You two for a second at quarter-past-three!”

“I wonder why it stopped,”

Said she and I laughed,

“Doesn’t running all the while make you weary?”

_

Casting off my Conscience

[translated from Karaar in the Marathi of Pramod Khadilkar]

Must you interrupt me for everything I say? We two could

have some arguments – must you tell the whole neighbourhood?

Agreed, talk resolves matters, but we must keep it to our fences.

What is the deal for you to brandish now these muskets of silences?

Arey national economies work on trade. Let’s have an exchange: You

be a bit brazen, yes, yes, I’ll work on my selfishness too.

I cannot allow this insinuation that I am insensitive – I write such moving verse,

my audience feels for its poetic themes and I fetch much applause.

Alright, alright, let’s donate some money to some charitable outfits and we’re through?

Twice a year? Once? Okay twice, we’ll give them our time too.

Look, just because sugarcane is sweet, you mustn’t eat its roots;

You mustn’t keep putting someone’s goodness to your use.

Here’s a 200 rupee stamp paper, come, let’s annul this true

and legal; I don’t want this brought up annually like the water supply issue.

It’s decided now, I don’t want your troubles any more,

Your suffering and your pain, I won’t hear of any more.

When I squander food again, don’t remind me of the starving,

Don’t come asking me for tissue next time you feel like crying.

I know you’re true of conscience, you’ll abide by our agreement,

You’ll meet me only as we’ve planned to, never sans appointment.

I’ll see you then, be practical, please at least do try!

This world of ours is ugly – don’t get taken for a ride.

Okay then, you take your leave, yes, we shall stay in touch,

Let’s ensure non-familiarity doesn’t contempt breed so much.

_

The World Within

[translated from Aat in the Marathi of Pramod Khadilkar]

Today I happen to see her, walking towards me,

Head lowered, as if speaking to the ground beneath her feet.

She laughs within herself and she cries within her too,

She blossoms within herself and then withers within too.

Someone in her girlhood years had latched her from the outside,

A thousand tries of opening hence, she locked herself inside.

Now she claims she’s grown a pretty world wholly inside her,

And rides to foreign lands within her with a royal rider.

A pond, a park, a bungalow within, a crematorium beside it,

Lest her fort were impregnated, she had a pyre at the lit.

When she comes close, I stop her – she looks up in a fluster

And gives me a hearty smile, though I can see her tears muster.

‘How have you been?’ I ask. She nods and says, ‘Oh great!’

‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’ say I. She says, ‘No, I’ll be late.’

‘Come out of yourself once,’ I tell her, ‘I can help you out.’

‘I’ve lost the way to the outer world, there are thickets all about.

‘You come inside me,’ said she, ‘It’s like a dream in here!

‘There’s a swing, there are jasmine creepers and...’ stops, sensing my fear.

She gathers her books to her breast and wipes the tearstains off her face,

‘I need to go and water my park, or the plants dry up,’ she says.

A glimpse at me and she walks away, her gaze upon the ground,

I stare at her and wonder if she were lost within or found.

_