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The Sea
and
the Rain
Translated from Kannada
by
Ankur Betageri
No of copies: 2000
No of pages:
Price:
Published by:
Shrusti Prakashana
#550, Second Main
Water tank Road
RBI Layout
Puttenahalli
J P Nagar 7th Phase
Bangalore 560078. India.
Printed at:
Jwalamukhi Printers
#44/1, K R Road
Basavanagudi
Bangalore 560 004
2
NAGATIHALLI RAMESH, born in 1967 in Nagatihalli village of Nagamangala taluk, Mandya,
Karnataka has a Bachelor of Science degree from Bangalore University, a Diploma in
Journalism from Mysore University and a Bachelor of Law degree from Bangalore University.
In the 80s he participated in one hundred and fifty intercollegiate debate competitions and
won prizes in all of them.
He has been serving as editor, printer and publisher of the magazine Spardha Prapancha for
the past twelve years. His field of interest includes environment, travel, reading, music,
drama and short-film making. Considering his contribution to the field of environment, the
arts, literature and social work, the Government of Karnataka honoured him with the Youth
Award for the year 1988-89. For his contribution to the field of environment, the Department
of Forest, Environment and Zoology has bestowed upon him the Environment Award for the
year 2001-02. For activities concerning environment, tourism development, culture and
lifestyle he has traveled to Srilanka, Maldives, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Hong Kong,
Nepal, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Dubai and Indonesia.
Through Srusti Prakashana he is involved in publishing books, launching audio cassettes and
making short films. He is currently based in Bangalore.
Books edited: Buddha Pragne, Maanavatavaadi Malliah. The Sea and the Rain (Samudra
Mattu Male) is his first collection of poems. You can reach him at:
nagatihalliramesh@gmail.com.
ANKUR BETAGERI, born on the 18th of November 1983, is a bilingual poet based in Bangalore. He
has published a collection of poetry in English entitled The Sea of Silence (2000) and two
collections in Kannada entitled Hidida Usiru (2004) and Idara Hesaru (2006).
3
To the motherly touch of the fingers
of my grandmother
Nanjamma
who used to starve
to keep me from crying.
I say,
‘It’s dark; shall I light the lamp mother?’
she replies,
‘Why, have you grown old?’
4
and singing songs held in her palms
turns darkness into light;
to the earth-heart
of my mother Kempakka.
Nagatihalli Ramesh
‘My mother lived countless poems, but she never wrote one.’ I for one, with
my poems, wrote hers as well.
‘The song that sleeps silently in the mother’s heart sings on the lips of the
child.’
-Khalil
Gibran
I wrote
To live with my mother for a few days
To make the lives of people around.
-Nagatihalli Ramesh
5
You talk
of relationship and non-relationship.
Body relationship
life relationship
praana relationship –
He who understands
these relationships three
is a relative, O Lord
of caves.
-Allama Prabhu
Mountain gooseberry
and sea salt:
when
6
were they kin?
Contents
PREFACE
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
My Mother
My Mother – 2
Father
My Grandmother
Woman
7
Wandering Paths which History Doesn’t Recognize
Avva’s Words
Roots
Condition
Mother’s Children
The Spark
Lots to do
Amoeba
On this Earth
Happiness
Natural Life
Patent Notice
Denizens of Road
8
Ocean in the Drop
We are Tribal
World of Dew
Our Children
To Mother Earth
My People
You
Strategy
Song of Life
Power of Faith
Time
Root-word of Fulfillment
Mud Lamp
Jogi’s Question
Wisdom
9
Breaching the Order of Face, the Tail had Shook
Generation
Kallu Baana
Reflection of Darkness
Prison Song
AFTERWORD
Preface
THE COMMUNICATIVE skills of Nagatihalli Ramesh were proverbial during his
student days when he astounded everyone by winning more than a hundred
prizes in open debates in colleges in and outside Bangalore during just one
year. That he also pens poetry is, however, a happy revelation to me, having
only now gone through his anthology of poems, The Sea and the Rain. With
humble beginnings in life as can be made out from his simple and yet
touching poems, he has scaled great heights in more fields than one. The
confidence that he exudes is quite contagious as evidenced by the
organizational successes he has achieved in quite a few fields.
10
grandmother and so on. It is an ever present mother that has etched herself
permanently on the sensitive mind of Ramesh who basks in the sunshine of
his native milieu. It is only occasionally that emptiness haunts him and
always the distress is followed by cosy thoughts about the mother.
Another noteworthy string of thought that runs through his poems is the
edifying nature of labour. This is a classical sentiment enshrined in folklore. It
is also central to every community for whom agriculture is mainstay. Coming
from this background Ramesh can jolly well declare that
Hope in the midst of agony, a longing for a better and brighter future, are in
the ultimate analysis what the poet projects. He hopes to “make tomorrows
our pillows.” But the pillows might be elusive, considering that the predatory
nature of man might become manifest anytime. That is why the “underwater
creatures” have a precarious existence:
11
The tears are there nevertheless.
One only hopes that there shall be no more such homes either in Laos or
elsewhere. That is the humanistic feeling that thematically pervades the
poems of Ramesh. Equally vehement is the poet in Ramesh to chastise those
whose indiscriminate destruction of civilization in the name of a higher
civilization. (See “Like Blood Splashed” for instance). The net impact is that
It is not the tending of life but tormenting it. And that is what disturbs
Ramesh. Surely a healthy disturbance when one realizes that
G Ramakrishna
12
22nd October 2007
Translator’s Note
TRANSLATING a work of desi Kannada into contemporary English I have faced
many challenges, and these challenges I have overcome in my own ways. I
could not do without Indianisms, and I hope at least these usages will make
the discerning reader reach out to the social and cultural contexts of rural
13
India which are the well springs of many of the poems here.
The author Nagatihalli Ramesh has been very forthcoming in clarifying the
meaning of the idiomatic usages for which I have tried my best to find the
closest English equivalent.
I do not know to what extent I have been successful in acquainting the non-
Indian reader with the nuances and complexities of colloquial Kannada
whose meanings spring out of the deep relation that the people here share
with the soil. But I would like to believe that the concerns and conflicts
expressed here are universal, and, as such, it would be no surprise if the rich
significance of these poems flow unhampered through the deeper
connectedness of humankind.
Ankur Betageri
Bengaluru
14
Author’s Note
Questions of Loneliness and Darkness
These are just questions that I have asked myself. Writing this down gives
me peace. Why does darkness and loneliness descend upon man? When
does it dawn?
What are the effects of gaining and loosing relationships? What is the play of
light and darkness hiding in this? What kind of influence can this play of light
and darkness have on the success and failure of man?
What do relationships fill in a man? And why does he feel the emptiness
when there are no relationships? Is this state experienced only by a child?
Does an old man escape from this state?
This body which gets attached to things and burns, why does it feel futile?
Why do human beings love with a vengeance and remain attached to
people? Which fear are they haunted by? Whose crushing foot has made
them immobile?
Thinking about all this and not finding an answer, and stuffing all these
thoughts to a corner of the mind, and taking them out standing on some
footpath, and analyzing them with new thoughts... and still no answer.
The koel sings beautifully. Pulling some remote strings, a man sings. An old
woman, collecting torn clothes, stitches a quilt. What is the feeling behind
the crying of a little child? What is it that the child seeks? What is the
mindset of a soldier who has lost his hands in the war? Did his sword cheat
him?
The flapping sound of the birds which are flying in their hearts, what does it
say?
15
Its realization
is not possible with the words formed around it.
My life is a road broken into many paths. Since the time I was born my
eagerness, failures, inferiority, despair, loneliness, orphan-ness and suicidal
attempts had made me so desperate that I had become like an ant sinking in
the mud.
To what extent can the love and concern of people can flow? Is it true that
only those who have struggled and suffered get shelter among people? I am
still haunted by the memories of people who helped me. Does the pain that
we experience leave marks on our face? Did people see these marks and
helped me, or was it the life jumping in me which devised this elaborate
game and pushed me into it? I completed my Bachelors in Science and a
correspondence course in journalism from Mysore University and got a
degree in Law from evening college. With this my college life ended. I used
feel that I was happy while at college.
When I had to leave college I was haunted by the big question of ‘what
next?’ I had a pair of trousers, a shirt and a bag full of prizes that I had won
during my college days in open debate competitions. With these I wandered
the streets of Bangalore. And while hunting for a job I sold these prize
trophies one by one and managed to drink tea three times a day.
16
Such being my condition one day I met my dear friend from college,
Venkataranga. As they say, ‘by the time the grains and lentils finish, it rains.’
This friend took me to a hotel, brought me lunch and as though he was
waiting to hear me all this while, sat silently listening to me. Then he took
me straight to his house and explained my talent, helplessness and dreams
to his parents Sri B Krishna and Sharada B Krishna. His father had already
helped me by providing scholarship during my college days. He gave me an
office and the required money to start the magazine Spardha Prapancha. And
there were people like P Lankesh who didn’t want their name mentioned for
help like these; I got a lot of encouragement from all these people. Lankesh,
the honest and irreverent man, who wrote with an innate knowledge of those
who had struggled and suffered, learning about me starting a magazine,
encouraged me with a fund of three thousand rupees in 1993. When I
returned the money in 1994, ‘Not bad… you proved that even shudras return
the money lent,’ he said with a smile. Lankesh, gave the solace of a mother,
made the lives of many like me, without recording them anywhere.
Dear friend and poet Ankur Betageri who translated this book into English,
renowned thinker and the editor of Hosatu magazine Dr G Ramakrishna who
wrote the preface, my friend-poet Phoenix Ravi who wrote the Afterword and
friend and painter Vishnu who designed the cover and did the illustrations,
all those who helped in bringing out this book, all the people who saved my
life with their love, I cannot repay them with anything but my life.
Nagatihalli Ramesh
17
My Mother
1 Keri: Keri is a Dalit settlement found outside or in the outskirts of the village. When untouchability was still in
practice people from the keri were not allowed to enter the village.
18
darkness has entered the eyes.
O everyone’s mother
who is she?
19
O everyone’s village
which is it?
My Mother – 2
Why darkness?
Let there be light whenever required.
20
She who walked like an elephant
with an single-minded gaze
smiled like an ant.
I wake up as usual
and rubbing eyes, I look at the house:
what a game fate has played.
Electric wires
have been pulled off and
me hanging like dead web;
beautifully carved walls
as if
battered in some war,
have fallen.
Is she a goddess
beside her a stone ball,
the mud of fields all over her bed:
she is simply sleeping
pulling off everything.
To some village
she has to go,
she has to see someone –
she has no slippers on her feet
she doesn’t even know
the name of the village
but she reaches it.
21
her foot
which Pushpaka Vimana2 she’s hiding
god alone knows.
My extreme belief
that she believed
everything that I said –
tying my own hands
I’m standing witness to the mistake
a judgment, on this, has to come from her.
22
not to find bamboo
but to find out what kind of flowers
would bloom in his bamboo vase.
If the flower believes
that it is the best
it is a burden for that vase,
what is the judgment
inside this turmoil?
Father
My mother is a
lullaby-singing bird
of an ancient home on the plains;
when the song had filled the spaces
following the route of that song
my father flew from the blue mountains
like a migrating bird in search of life
and shining in his suit
I have heard, he married my mother.
23
After sometime
this wanderer who wandered
like the song in a desert
sat waiting for my mother
like a fountain of water.
24
the whisper of birds –
listening to all this
he remained a well
without becoming a tomb.
25
Again,
in shabby clothes, tousled haired
a scared-eyed 10-year-old
when I encountered him
he picked me up unawares
and feeding sticks
to the bathroom furnace
he was profusely weeping.
In that darkness
stammering
dirt… dirt… dirt…
he was rubbing
even as the skin on my back
peeled off;
then, father’s memory
haunted me like fear.
The truth of
father passing away
without remarrying
flashes like a bolt of lightening
Now the mark on the back
like seed-planted earth
longs for the rain.
26
building nests over me –
I stare and laugh at the woodpecker
which pecks and pecks
until it forms a burrow –
I draw into my heart
the living voices
which whirl and dart about me.
My Grandmother
27
she was born to work;
spilling children she tilled the fields
and filled the palms with seeds;
she taught how to seed.
By teaching how to hold the plough
she instilled in me a firmness.
Harvesting ragi, jowar, avare, horse gram
and sesame crops
she used to end the harvest time
celebrating her native land.
Every Saturday
28
was like a fair.
Fair, was puffed rice, sev and battasu3
and dreams of tasty meals.
The memory of
putting a handful of puffed rice
to black coffee
and getting the lips to bite them
makes the body bloom even now.
Everything changes
rain and summer spread into winter.
Looking at people
who made use of the goodness in people
and later torched their foundations
‘where’s the time for goodness,’
she would wail.
3 Battasu: A kind of coloured sugar candy usually eaten with puffed rice and sev.
29
to village
and was singing the songs
of the soil.
30
The Sea and the Rain
Dusk
the clouds have gathered
and it’s raining hard.
Like a dark dot of charm
lightening and thunder.
In the field
mother like a lamp
is wandering among the grown-up crops.
My child
running over my heart’s cry of tears,
holding the saree-end of my mother
and with his thumb in mouth, follows her.
31
How to stop loving
if you ask me to stop?
After being kin to the
stickiness of heart.
2.
32
Waves: the Rangolis5 Drawn by my Mother
5 Rangoli: A pattern-picture drawn in front of the house usually by joining the dots, or by
looping the lines around the dots.
6 Tamboori: a stringed instrument used by poor wandering singers and singers of religious
songs.
7 Kacche: A particular style of draping a dhoti or a saree which allows the legs to move more
freely.
33
She walks
inside the house and outside the house.
When once I followed her saying
Avva8… avva… she threw my black stone
into the tank, and singing
went somewhere far away.
I somehow decide
and try to jump towards it
by sleeping on railway tracks
by walking into sea
by going to the peaks of mountains;
8 Avva: Colloquial way of calling mother; corresponds to the English mummy or mama.
34
an invisible hand grabs then
and when I turn back it’s avva.
‘What are you doing here?
I was searching for you everywhere,’ she says
and hands jaggery and groundnuts to me.
I go on rowing
where would she take me?
the waves which rose at that birth
the rangolis written by my mother
between that my journey…
Avva,
tell me where is the end of your love?
35
It’s Raining on the Sea
I’m reminded of
the paths in the field
that we walked together,
the hands which quarreled
for the wafers of ragiball
sticking to the bottom of the cooking-pot…
36
to take shape with all these things old.
He is not ready
he acts like all his memories have faded
the flower blooms and wilts,
even the tree which had flowered
dies, eaten away by termites.
37
Woman
The woman
is very picky
she doesn’t swallow everything she gets;
man
is the sensuous one
who licks
everything he gets.
Civilizations drowned
because of this
sensuousness.
38
Like A Drop of Rain
Mother’s memory
is making the long road ahead
easy.
39
This is Just a Line
40
became the calf of Dharanimandala9
who mumbled, ‘grand ma, my grand ma!’
Who will take care of me
which language will take me to her?
How to transform
someone who I always thought
to be sister
into mother?
This question is enough
for meditation.
As I thought
my sister was
like an incense stick
when lit,
and as my grandmother had told,
like a perfume
like the very sandal
she stood,
9 Dharanimandala: literally, the earth. Here, it refers to a very popular Indian folk story
about a truthful cow’s encounter with a hungry tiger.
A tiger ambushes a cow which has strayed away from the herd. The cow requests the tiger
to allow it to feed its calf and promises to return. The tiger doesn’t believe that the cow
would return but still lets it go. The cow returns home, feeds the calf and entrusting the calf
to its relatives and friends, comes back to the tiger and offers itself as its food. The tiger
moved by the cow’s truthfulness and feeling terrible about having thought of killing it, jumps
off the cliff and kills itself.
10 Ahalye: A character in the epic, Ramayana. A woman cursed into being a stone; she
revived after being touched by Lord Rama’s toe.
41
O my brothers.
This poem is
just a line
of the sound of that crack.
42
colourful flowers
elephant, ant, tiger, deer, cheetah, grasshopper, butterfly
lake, field and plain.
Children,
eating groundnuts, jaggery, rock sugar
smelling the barks of sandal
look wide eyed at the opened sacks.
43
like little stones flung on the coconut fronds,
covered over the house, a sound
and the roof begins to drip.
44
Avva’s Words
Heavy rains
bring wealth and danger
at once.
45
The charm of the blue sky
is the play of lightening, thunder and storm.
Why son, I see
no jewellery on your face?
46
People nowadays
act like
they carry the earth
on their heads.
47
Remember your previous step
wash your heel.
He who climbs
must definitely be small
and reaching, should become clean.
48
Do not mock saying
he hasn’t learnt the letters,
he who has ploughed the earth
is a billionaire
in the poetry of love.
Your life,
like being cooked
in cold water.
49
For a long journey
three are better than one.
50
Status, looks, wealth
should be like the work of an earthworm
underneath the ground.
As the earthworm climbs up
closer comes death.
Roots
The tall mountain
is no taller than the river,
the river was born there
a bit above the mountain.
51
The ice candy of the village fair
gave birth to the city
and emptied the village.
The depth
length
breadth
and height
of orphans
is more,
is more.
52
The question is looming
large.
We spread the question
and make it our pallet;
make tomorrows our pillows.
The stars are leaning towards us
fruits are dangling.
53
Word history
turns the scoundrels of this land
into gods;
folk literature turns even the dry tree
into a river.
A phony poem
born on the heart of paper,
death of another plant.
54
He who was thinking
that nothing in the world was right
woke up from his sleep,
and the risen sun
was washing
the dirt.
The cobbler
by seeing the face itself
gets the measurement of the feet.
55
Condition
56
From the Diaries of the Dead
‘One day
after the declaration of peace
while returning from the war
America,
thinking that the bullets would go waste
lined up thousands of Cambodians
and killed them all.’
57
A Journey through the Desert
We Indians
we have ocean, river, grass, plants
mountains, hills and green valleys –
we have ice-capped peaks,
we also have hunger
which we’ve created on our own.
In the desert
camel the companion
of the lonely wanderer.
58
the spring of oil
became a well,
everything began to come
to where they sat.
Water, seed, plants, climbers, artificial forests
fishes and fowls, water fountains
dazzling bungalows, girls
bursting with youth, days without nights.
59
Like Blood Splashed
60
the lorries down the hills and mountains
are passing.
61
Mother’s Children
Paddy,
like the people of city
below, there should always be water
which is money.
Farmer
puts his faith in the next rain
and waits
everyday
as if meditating;
and like plant buds
sprouting in rain,
he plays around like a jogi.
62
so it can never know
the biting habit of root.
The Spark
These villagers
who lost their land for them
stretching hands for rotten apples
limes and grapes
fallen by the fruit-shops of the city,
are wandering the lanes
as if cursed for life.
63
Source Which Never Empties
64
They Who Thought It Was…
Lots To Do
……………………………….
Amoeba
65
No male
till date
has understood
the pain of woman.
he simply pretends –
in her eyes
his picture swells
like an anxious amoeba.
66
stones, thorns, insects
and thrown shards of glass.
On this Earth
67
Happiness
Natural life
In devotion
thought,
the thought which broke the devotion.
68
Jogi said
The mountain
has gone through
the cloud
the cloud
which
descended
slo-
wly
69
Patent Notice
We till at night
and sow the seed of light.
70
Ocean in the Drop
We Are Tribal
We are tribal
we neither sweat
nor shudder
at the hunters
who walk around us
we are used to
feeding arrows
for the fires of our furnace
ever since.
71
Fruit Fallen to the Ground
72
began to bloom
even in their eyes.
Drop of Sweat
In the verandah
while hundreds of intellectuals
discussed about the poet, poetry, play, cinema and
politics –
the master of all that was tilling the soil
till sunset.
73
others that he was a mischief-monger, fated
to be what he was.
And some others still called him
a stupid old man, a lunatic –
74
the remaining grains,
someone else’s…
World of Dew
and yet.’11
the sea roars,
god knows what urgency –
75
the koel cries,
who knows indicating what?
76
the Kengeri bridge of Bangalore
my eyes which float
seeking that sound
identify within themselves
all its colours and techniques
the different incarnations of motherliness.
If remembered
the whole day’s a mess.
Many nights
for their kicking practice
they used us like guinea pigs.
Only they know why they used to beat us like that.
Even now
amidst the green
the skylark sings.
77
and ties a donkey to its right
In those stories
building a house of her liking;
smearing the earth with cow dung
to a door smooth as sandal,
tying mango-leaf-hangings
which would make a koel blush
and drawing a patterned rangoli
‘come in mother!’
they said.
78
pitching a tent in the next village
would dream of those stories again!
Midnight
inside the hut;
79
on the plate
the scrambling of a rat,
what a chill in the stomach!
80
Before Unfurling Wings
Criticize it,
it smiles.
81
Our Children
From city
they came to forest
holding Pepsi Cola bottles
‘Save forest!’
‘Save city!’
they lectured endlessly.
Our children
who insisted on having
those Pepsi Cola bottles
catching the road to city
became orphans.
82
To Mother Earth
I am not
just a lump of jaggery
mother
a child full of dreams
monstrous fleas have thronged
drive them away
with a kiss.
My People
Rain-
clouds
which
appeared
in
summer heat.
You
If
I go on despising everyone
what am I?
83
Strategy
A slave there
thinking of the famine of the future
in the field of the landlord
saved
a handful of grains;
a pair of male and female
animal and bird;
for a future day.
Their strategy
is to create a famine in the future
by hoarding in the present.
84
Song of Life
85
Power of Faith
It is not
that it is mine
or those who believe me are great
this is the power of faith.
Time
86
Source of Fulfilment
If people
have faith
in us
87
First Step of Creation
A student goes
to his guru
and begs him to teach poetry.
guru says:
it’s beyond your ken,
suddenly a thunderbolt strikes
and the house of the guru is split into two.
88
The students who holds a bowl
in the journey of life
sings his folksongs
‘when god doesn’t protect
that guru will’
Mud Lamp
89
Drizzle Beneath the Palms Holding Water
How to catch
that far off moon?
A child
lifts water in it’s palms;
the moon that
shines in it
in a drizzle beneath the small hands
90
underneath his feet beasts have played;
like light twirled and thrown
around it
a fair of onlookers
drums, cymbals, tamboori
the festival of youth.
Jogi’s Question
91
He screamed back:
‘You are male
how did you answer, female?’
Wisdom
The words
of woman characters
of Mahabharata
sound like whispers
caught under the shadows of religion.
I understood Draupadi12
by the fact that she dreamt of Karna.
12 Draupadi: the daughter of king Drupada and wife to all the five Pandavas. Karna
– the son of Kunti, the
mother of all the five Pandavas – is disowned by his mother, which ultimately results
in him being a part of the Kaurava faction: the arch-rivals of Pandavas.
92
then the helm of power
melts like candle,
and kings and kingdoms flow
towards villages,
fields and farms.
If we search history
we get thousands of biographies like these.
Politics has the guts
to travel beyond religion and the puranas.
For this reason, religion
always fears politics.
But still
politics pretends as if it is the slave
of religion.
93
Breaching the Order of Face the Tail had Shook
Between cultures
histories
objects
letters
religions
parties
politics
the elephants and chariots
which stand,
and on their backs, glittering golden umbrellas.
In its shadow
people are wearing the costumes
like the characters of some play.
94
In the faces of innocent people
has appeared the lines
of a poster
of people with their hands stretching
for the treasure inside the mirror.
King means
light in front
darkness behind
the blood which flows
in the constricted darkness
this is a common thing for them.
95
Water and Fire
96
I’m the one cooked
in the fires of orphan’s hunger.
Generation
13 ‘One grain of rice is enough to know whether the rice is cooked or not’ A common
practice in cooking which has become a popular folk idiom.
97
Kallu Baana14
Desert
heap of sand wherever you see
the wind that blows is
erasing the faces
if you look back
there is no trace of footsteps
your walk is the path.
14 Kallu Bana: Kallu Bana is the corpse of a diseased person, or of a person belonging to the
lower caste, cast off in the wastelands as food for wild animals and birds
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sand turned to smoulders beneath feet,
strengthless, I am dragging the legs
Birth,
I shouldn’t have been born; in this land of
faded colours;
in the burning gut, the blood boils;
in the pulse of nerve
a colourless fair of speech and silence.
Politics is an art
politician is a poet
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drunkenness of pride
welfare of people, the sacrificial lamb
nation’s progress, daily beheaded.
Centuries passing
and centuries returning
past future present,
the wheel of politics turns
like a compromise between
earth and sky.
Reflection of Darkness
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bitten by the snake of drinking
life’s ruined, come to dust
Prison Song
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who held the torch
in the fire of their pain?
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it is the granary of civilization.
Afterword
Kempavva
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Avva
Kempavva
has opened her heart
in her heart a cage-swallowed
parrot flutters.
3
Every line of her wrinkled skin
is a path in a dense forest
in the folds of that path
the shadows of birds
flying in flocks,
in the dimple of the cheek
the sound of the roar of the sea.
4
The legs have gotten down
somewhere beneath the ground;
the face, high up
has disappeared somewhere in the skies.
5
Using her shoulders
she is holding tight;
from the never-drying well
she has made me drink
a handful of water.
6
My avva
is the blue space which gives birth to stars,
the drop of water
which has curled tight
its thousand arms.
Nagatihalli Ramesh
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When disaster itself is holding his hands
who can save him?
These men and women, his friends
who find hundreds of reasons to love
to hate, pick from the bottom of their heart
a reason.
One day in May 2006, I saw Nagatihalli Ramesh’s mother. Till then he had
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created his mother’s world in me through his talk, songs and crying, and like
unravelling all those pictures he showed her to me.
There are very few people in this world who have hated women as much as I
have done. Even as I sought them for consolation, love and tenderness,
seeing their narrowness, guile and selfishness I have recoiled in horror.
Ramesh’s mother Kempavva is someone who has reached a saintly state and
has forgotten all sense of this and the other world. Giving off rice, clothes,
jewellery, money for those in need and then standing with her hands
outstretched, her figure has reminded me of Jesus Christ. Christ said, ‘let the
wealth flow down from above.’ Avva, like Christ, is both a giver as well as a
bhikshu. That she stands here as the very earth is a testament to man’s
capacity to be transformed. From the time I have seen her, my old pictures
have started blurring and my hate related diseases have started
disappearing.
With the above kind of diseases becoming common, the magical touch of
mother’s fingers is the only cure for the modern world.
A child who has lost mother’s love, even in the cosy confines of his house
feels like one lost in a forest. In my journey from such a state towards one
which promises love and tenderness, avva has haunted me like a huge
explosion of awareness; to her, and to Rameshanna and Shobhaakka who
opened up these possibilities, I am forever grateful.
Phoenix
Ravi
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Success Story of a Villager
Nagatihalli Ramesh is a proper village lad. About two decades back he lost
his way into the city of Bangalore like an orphaned calf. Though born into a
well-to-do family, throughout his childhood he had to experience humiliation,
inferiority and ridicule of people. He lost his father’s support even before he
could come of age, and was shaped by the otherworldly-motherhood of his
mother. Though initially neglected for his stammering, he overcame that
through sheer effort and innate talent. He’s someone who has mastered the
art of spell bounding people with speech. During the 80’s he won almost all
the debating competitions in which he participated with the help of his exact
logic and eloquent speech, tempered with great presence of mind. On the
streets of the rich city he sold fruits and vegetables, and distributing
newspaper to households, he built his life through his own efforts. In
moments of great despair he slept on railway tracks to find the ultimate
solace. As trains do not arrive on their scheduled time in our country, he
survived.
KY
Narayanaswamy
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