Translated from Hindi by Himanshi Pandey and H S Komalesha
 
[Note: First death anniversary of eminent Hindi poet and Jnanpith Awardee,
Kedarnath Singh (b. 7 July 1934) falls on 19 March 2019. This is a tribute to the great poet.]
 
 
POETRY
 
(Translation of the original poem ‘Kavita’ in Hindi)
 
And she is still alive
even today
after all those declarations of death
people still listen to her
in cities and in towns
flowing with the wind sometimes
her verses take a stroll
to market and shops
when people talk,
stop and listen
many a time she dazzle
in some gap
between their words,
search and you’ll find
there is often a poem
on the young lips
killed in the jungle.
 
I don't know
whether the poet Kapish* wrote the first
Ramayana
on the rocks of Gaalata* or not
but recently
when I was crossing the valleys
in the north-eastern mountains
I knew for the first time,
the most vibrant lines of my times
are being written
in the tongue of trees and hills.
 
She is alive,
only her address is changed,
letters are still addressed to her
postmen are worried
and so are the governments-
what to do?
what to do with this poetry?
give her air
give her water
even give her relaxations on tax
but when you go to her for vote
she’s never there
at her address
not sure what wild species she belongs to,
but for sure, she never blooms in any national park.
 
(*Based on the popular belief, it is said that Hanuman wrote the first Ramayan on the rocks of Gaalta found in Rajasthan, India.)
 
 
A FEW SUGGESTIONS TO GOD BY AN INDIAN CITIZEN
 
(Original poem in Hindi: ‘Ishwar Ko Ek Bharatiya Nagrik Ke Kuch Sujhaav)
 
Dear god
if the world needs to be rebuilt
(and it’s already late)
then I have some suggestions
not many
but a few
 
First of all
lift the atom bomb from the Earth
and keep it in the heaven,
nothing would happen there
I suppose
but we the earthlings
will be saved from the
terror of a terrible
nightmare

Take back
money from
the world
and make air
its substitute,
change the
worn out
wheels of the universe
and match the timing
of your watch
with the
sun clock
of the earth
 
The city streets
are getting narrower
nowadays
so please see to it
that our
kids from here
can play cricket
on the moon
sometimes
 
If you plan
to create
India
again
then
dump the trash of
caste into the bin
down your table
Let Banaras
remain
in the corridors
between
Ganga and
Varuna

It’s too foggy here
lift up Delhi
with Yamuna and Qutub
and keep it elsewhere
So the centre can glow
in the light of
of the margins
 
Amidst all this
topsy-turvy
please ensure
my village
is not uprooted
and the cattle of
this granny of
Dalpatpur-chatti
returns home, safely
without losing way
 
Suggestions, I have many
but in this rush
let this be the last one
these days
media’s playing out
the news of destruction
so please secure
the copyright
of the earth

These are times of cloning
it shouldn't happen
that someone
in a nook
secretly
creates
a cloned Earth
 
 
HINDI
 
(Original poem in Hindi: ‘Hindi’)
 
Folks of my language
are the folks of my street;
and the folks of the street,
folks of the world.
I had a dream last night:
All folks of the world
are sitting in a bus,
with Hindi on their tongues.
And all at once,
the yellow bus
melts into thin air;
well, like the last coin
saved for hard times
what’s left behind, as usual
at the end is my Hindi.
 
Hindi – she doesn’t speak much;
Yet she knows what’s on my tongue.
How many scars on her skin!
Many of her nouns know no sleep;
and her adjectives, no joys.
Yet amidst all this, on infinite lips
She shivers with joy
and hums a happy tune.
Go, peep in all government offices
ask the tables, question the walls
consult the vast piles of files.
Nowhere you find any
trace of her alphabet.
Except god, she doesn’t know
whom to thank for such fortune!
 
Standing on this crossroad
I’ve a request to make,
a humble one –
Let alone the language of nation,
Let it be a language,
Just a language,
See how it’s filled with
dabs and drips of voices
of both near and far off lands.
and whenever I speak it,
then, somewhere deep, I hear
the voices of Arabic, Turkish,
Bangla and Telugu in it.
so much so that
even the rustling sound of leaves
is heard like a melody.
When I speak Hindi,
I speak a bit of all these tongues.
 
But somewhere I feel vaguely,
Whenever I speak it,
in the body of her grammar,
I feel the plight of a case;
The pain of a tadbhav*
standing next to a tatsam**.
 
(*Tadbhav: Tadbhav words are modified version of words from the predecessor language.
**Tatsam: The words which are used in unadulterated form from the predecessor language.)
 
 
AN ADVERTISEMENT
 
(Original in Hindi: ‘Vigyapan’)
 
I am in dire need
of a few things
 
I need a school
where every letter
is erased from the memory
and an unlettered freshness
is left behind,
from there
every alphabet could
start again
 
I need a mantra
not the one
to resurrect the dead
but
the one
popped out of
the pain of
a deep suspicion
 
I need a head
for the
anonymous bod
lying in that street,
a tiny hat,
and a small name.
 
I need many things
I have a long list of ‘needs’
there is fog in it,
and the lilac leaves,
nilgai’s hoof,
and the voice of the eyes,
never heard
by the ears,
and I don’t know
what else…
 
Actually,
my problem is
that I need a scripture,
if at all it’s there
anywhere,
you know
a book of deep silence,
just published and dropped
amidst the noise of the city
in the evening,
at once
fresh and warm.