KEDARNATH SINGH : A POET IN TRANSLATION

Good poetry is believed to be untranslatable. We can even argue that at an undefined high level in creative writing, language itself attains a form that becomes untranslatable. Poetry, admittedly being the highest mode of creative writing, has this natural condition of untransmutability of language as a medium. In fact, one way to define poetry could be to emphasise its innate attribute of untransmutability. Once it attains an achieved original form in the medium of a native language, it cannot, to a satisfactory extent, be recreated in another language. Evidently, this may not be true of all different modes of creative writing which lie beyond the domain of poetry; in particular, writings in prose. One apparent reason for this could be the level and nature of meaning that soars to a very high level in poetry, unlike prose where it exits, by and large, on the terrestrial level. Also the use of ambiguity and symbolism of meaning in poetry is very complexly ingrained with the subtle cultural content of the language which it uses.

Generally speaking, one inevitably agrees with Robert Frost’s dictum of poetry being that which hardly ever survives translation. But there seems to be another iridescent facet of the prism. A good creative translation of a poem is more likely to achieve another poem in the translator’s language that not only reflects the core content of the poem translated but overrides the syntactic and semantic structures of the original. It often obtains in the translated poem a parallel semantic signification adumbrating the original creation. Also, there is always a certain extent of unpredictability in the chance occurrence of  ‘the right poet, the right translator, the right poem and the right moment’ in the achievement of a good translated poem. In other words, poetry may be as untranslatable in particular instances as it could be, in some other instances, equally translatable as a close and satisfactory parallel.

Still another facet to the iridescent prism is the serendipitous possibility of a poem that is so fluid and primordial, almost elemental, that it transmutes itself entirely smoothly into a closely parallel mould, almost effortlessly. It seems to exist at a level where it attains a form of signification that is almost beyond the apparent matrix of words and sounds of a particular language; even its cultural content and imagery being purely symbolical and universal.

 

And if this be true, it is most true of the modern Hindi poet, Kedarnath Singh, whose poems are generally crafted in a poetic language that transcends the semantic boundaries of the original language into a world of meaning that is often as close to universal signification as possible. It would thus be truer to say that Kedarji’s poetic language operates at a level of intensity and signification quite distinct from those of his contemporaries. It is a highly cultivated poetic language, paradoxically as close to normal speech and syntax as conceivable on the one hand, and on the other, imbued with a signification that is almost beyond words.  It uses language that seems deceptively close to normal spoken  prose, very simple and common on the surface and yet equally profound and diaphanous in its signification. Of course, such level of intensity and signification is not be seen in some of his own minor poems, or even on a uniform basis throughout his poetic ouevre, but it can surely be seen as a hallmark of his poetic art.

 Kedarnath Singh’s greatness as a modern Hindi poet lies precisely in his inventing a poetic idiom in contemporary Hindi poetry that distinguishes his poetry from his other contemporaries. One of the subtle markers of this pellucid poetic medium – closely adumbrating the rhythms of common speech -  is the near absence of punctuation and use of varying line lengths with occasional repetitions - lending it a fluidity consonant with its intensity of signification. (It is pertinent to remember here that Kedarji was himself a brilliant translator and had translated poems of Brecht, Paul Eluard, Jabananand Das, et al. Also, many of his own poems have been translated in world languages like English, German, Spanish, Hungarian, etc.)

The special appeal of Kedarji’s poetry lies in its dualism of empathetic intimacy juxtaposed with total objectivity which attains a new dimension beyond tangible text signification. As the famous Hindi critic Parmanand Shrivastav, in an insightful introduction to a popular edition of his selected poems, observes:

“The point of departure for Kedar’s poetry – the point from where it gets its energy – is the point where language per se gets moulded into meaning. In the contemporary scene in Hindi poetry, Kedarnath Singh is, perhaps, the singular poet who belongs as much to the village as to the city life. His world of experience in his poetry reaches out almost simultaneously in both these dimensions. Quite possibly, this is the crux of the quintessential Indian experience without which it is impossible to conceive of true Indian poetry. There is a primal quality  characterizing his poetry, verging to a hazardous extent on simplicity, touching upon pale, ordinary words and artefacts, and obscure natural phenomena, and thus obtaining a poetic meaning otherwise unobtainable.

“Rather than being monologic, Kedar’s poems are dialogic in the true sense. His poetry delves deep into the subterranean turbulence of life, and is vitally connected with all relevant contemporary concerns. And yet his poems never lose their innate lyricism and classic perfection of structure. The wealth of imaginative capital that his poetry displays is seldom to be seen in the poetic work of his contemporaries. Indeed, in his poetry is to be discovered a new, vibrant poetic form which marks his poetic personality as distinctive among his contemporaries.”

                                                            ***

The half-a-century long poetic journey of Kedarji came to an end on 19 March, 2018. His death cast a dark shadow on the entire Hindi literary world and also on me on a personal level. I had known Kedarji since the 80’s and also had a few occasions of meeting him. I tried to reconcile myself with the grief by translating some of his poems including his celebrated long-sequence poem Bagh. Translating poems, I felt, was also a tribute to the poet, because in translating poems in an empathetic situation, there could be much greater identification between the translator and the poet not only in relation to the sensitive text but also to the poetic persona of the poet. 

What struck me as especially inspirational was the ease with which his content as well as the rhythms, imagery, and even the formal structures in the poems lent themselves to smooth translation – almost guiding the translator gently and openheartedly in the act of parallel creativity. There is, then, reason to believe that perfect poetic communication is achieved at a level, and in a manner, where poetry attains the highest kind of signification and transcends the bounds of translation. If this be so, Kedarji’s poetry presents some of its finest examples. Here is a selection of his poems that can stand as imaginative creations on their own which amply prove the excellence and uniqueness of Kedarji’s poetry, and thus serving as the best tribute to his exceptional poetic art on the first anniversary of his eventful departure.

© Dr BSM Murty

Photo : Courtsey Google Images

[For 10 translated poems of Kedarnath Singh go to earlier post on this blog. And for older posts on Kedarnath Singh and translation of his sequenced poem “Bagh” go to 2018 (May 25 & July 15.]

Please also visit my two other blogs - 
(1)vagishwari.blogspot.com - 
for my Hindi articles and matter on Shivpoojan Sahay & others; & my translation/retelling of Bhagawad Geeta, Ramcharit Manas & Durga Saptshati & 

(2)murtymuse.blogspot.com
for my Hindi & English poems & poetry related materials. 

Other Important blog posts you may like to see here:

2010 : Sahitya Samagra : 5 Oct / 2011 : On Premchand: (26 May) / Has Hindi been defeated by English? : Shivpujan Sahay : (7 Dec) / 2012 : Memoirs on Prasad and Nirala : (25-26 Oct)/ 2013 : Sheaf of Old Letters (10 Oct) / 2014 :  Shivpujan Sahay Smriti Samaroh:( 27 Jan) / On Amrit Lal Nagar: (18 Aug)/ On Bachchan : (27 Nov) / 2015 : On Renu: (3 Mar) / On Trilochan: (1 Apr) /Odes of Keats + Shantiniketan: (25 May) / Premchand Patron Men: (3 Aug)/  Suhagraat: Dwivediji's poem: (13 Nov)/ 2016 : Three stories of JP:(6 Jul) / On Neelabh Ashk: (24 Jul)/ / Dehati Duniya: (8 Aug)/  Anupam Mishra: Paani ki Kahaani :(Dec 25) /   2017 :  Doctornama: memoirs of Shivpujan Sahay (July 10):  On Prithwiraj Kapoor (Nov 6) / Rajendra Jayanti Address @ Bihar Vidyapeeth, Patna (Dec 14)/ 2018:हिंदी नव जागरण, शिवपूजन सहाय  और काशी           (1 Mar)/Tribute to Kedar Nath Singh (25 May) /  राहुलजी और हिंदी-उर्दू-हिन्दुस्तानी का सवाल (12 Jun)/ Neelabh Mishra (16 Jun)/ Death of Shivpoojan Sahay(17 Jun) / बाबा नागार्जुन (1 Jul)/ On Kedarnath Singh (with full translation of ‘Tiger’, 15 July)/Five poems of Angst (14 Aug)/चंपारण सत्याग्रह : भारतीय राजनीति में सत्य का पहला प्रयोग (26 Nov)  2019: On Kamaleshwar’s stories collection: ‘Not Flowers of Henna’ (26 Jan)/ Why Gandhi was killed (30 Jan)/ ‘Wings on Fire’: The Art of Himanshu Joshi ( 18 April) मंगलमूर्ति की कुछ कविताएँ (28 April) / Stanley Wolpert (Jun 12)/ Three Eminent Men(Aug 3)

Kedarnath Singh : 10 Translated Poems

1.Nameless River

Cleaving my village

Much before the first man came

Silently flows a very thin river

That has no name!

Have you ever seen a river

How it looks without a name?

Full of algae and moss and mud

She has been flowing for hundreds of years

Just like this – looking for a name

The river of my village

When someone dies

People lift him up

And burn him somewhere around

Where the river is most lonely and silent

When I was a child I often thought

One whom people burn near the river

What would the river do with it!

Quite late after the sunrise

Come the buffaloes

To bathe in the river

Where it is deep it shakes for the first time

Then comes Jumman Miyan

Carrying his long fishing line and bait

For the first time comes a shine in the river

As if the river has recognized Jumman Miyan

And till the sun goes down

There at one place

With his fish hook sunk in the water

Jumman Miyan would sit transfixed

How many fish during the day

Get stung by his hook?

How many shrimp, how much moss

Would jump out of the water

Into his bag

No one knows

Who gives a name to a river

Have you ever thought?

From morning till evening

Does Jumman Miyan sit there alone

By the bank of the river

Looking for a name for it?

“Bina Nam ki Nadi” (1980)

2. People surrounded in flood

People surrounded in flood

Do not pray

They would look at the waters

In total trust

And one day

Without any notice

They would leave

For somewhere else

Carrying their belongings

On the back of a mule

Or on a bullock or buffalo

How strange it is that

However devastating

The flood may be

They do find some place

Even in the waters

Some sunshine

A piece of sky

And they would pitch

Some pillars

Spread some sackcloth

Tie some moonj ropes

And fix a tarpaulin

People surrounded in flood

Would bring with them 

The smell of straw

The bare rind of mangoes

Empty tins, fried gram

Fire and a chillum

Then get washed away

Their cattle, their puja bells

And their man-sized

Idol of god Hanuman

The mud walls

Of their hutments

The painted elephants

And horses on the walls

The flowers and motifs

All get washed away

But people surrounded in flood

Never complain and would

Always save some fire

In the holes of their chillums

Then the sun would set

Loud voices floating on the waters

Would come from somewhere

Smoke would rise

From some corner

Hovering over trees

And people surrounded in flood

Would become restive

They would light up

A broken lantern

Hang it on a tall bamboo

So that their presence

Should reach across the waters

Then in that dim light

Gazing into the eyes of the waters

They would stand for the whole night

Before the waters

By the side of the waters

Against the waters

Only within them

Like some landslide

Something breaks down

Something falls in the waters

Chhapaak!...Chhapaak!

“Pani Men Ghire Hue Log” [Yahan se Dekho, 1999]

3. Cranes in a drought

Three in the afternoon

They came

When they came

No one even thought

They could come like this

One after another

In flocks and hordes

Slowly they came

Slowly they spread around

In the whole sky

Slowly the whole town

Was filled with

Their craning noise

For long they kept

Circling over the town

For long they would shed

From their wings

Over the roofs and shacks

The tang of dry paddy straw

Suddenly an old woman

Saw them – sure, sure

They have come

Looking for water

She thought

She went into the kitchen

Brought a pot full of water

And kept it in the middle

Of the courtyard

But the cranes kept

Circling over the town

Neither seeing the old woman

Nor the pot full of water

The cranes didn’t even know

People who lived below

Call them cranes

Looking for water

They had come

 From far off places

So, craning their necks

They looked behind once

A glance full of hate or pity

It was hard to know

But for once they did

Look back at the town

Then flapping

Their wings in the air

They were lost

In the distance

“Akaal Men Saras” [ Akal Men Saras,1988]

4. Grass in drought

It’s a terrible drought

The birds are fled

The ants –male and female -

All have left the holes

And the tree trunks

Even doors with their frames

Have left the homes

And gone no one knows where

A terrible drought it is

The cattle are standing

Looking at each other

Father says

He never saw such drought -

Drought that would scorch

All grass in the village

Never heard

All the grass

Getting scorched

But grass never dies

Saying this

Father falls silent

I go out

Looking for grass

Searching everywhere

Peering into wells

Stomping around

Lanes and crossings

Grass is nowhere

Only empty gaping 

Buckets, pots, vessels

I pry into them

Into the cups of people’s eyes

Looking for grass

But there is no grass

No grass anywhere

In the end after searching

Everywhere in the village

I return frustrated

Sidestep the gutter

Beside the well

Suddenly I see amid

Scattered splinters of glass

A tiny green leaf

Of grass – yes, yes

Of grass – I can see it

I return and give

This news to father

His face glows

Even in darkness

‘Much is there still –

If grass is there’

He mutters

Then father is lost

In deep thought

“Akaal Men Doob” [1988]

5. Smell of  not being*

Now there was nothing

Only we were returning

So many people with heads bowed

Were returning silently

After offering him to the river

And the river looked more

Generous and infinite than before

Even in that darkness

Its flow was as gentle

As dark and nervous

And now we were returning

As now we were entirely emptied

And most emptied were our shoulders

Because now we had paid back

Our debt to the river

Someone had that lantern

In his hand, burning dimly

Walking ahead of us

So we saw the village

So we entered

Into the village again

The doors of that house

Were still ajar, with nothing more

As per ritual, only some fire

Simmering near the doorpost

And a little beside

Was kept the iron piece

We went by turns near the fire

Near the iron piece

By turns we bent

To touch the fire

And the iron piece

We were thus purified

Thus we had returned

To the sad neighbourhood

Of the living

Nothing there was

Except the mud walls

And the sodden roof tiles

And the smell

Of someone not being 

“Na Hone Ki Gandh”  [ Akal Men Saras, 1988)

6. Grass

She is the gypsy chased out

From all cities in the world

Looking for a name and address

In the dust of your city

In the democracy

Of human beings

There should be

An incessant discussion

On the question of grass

But till that time

As a beginning I proclaim

That in the next election

I shall vote

In favour of grass

Whether anyone votes

Or not, carrying a banner

Of a small grass leaf

She is always in the race

At any time

In any place

She is stubborn

To grow

“Ghas” [From Shrishti par Pahara, 2014]

[The main article “Kedarnath Singh:A Poet in Translation” and the six poems given above were published in Indian Literature 312, July-August, 2019]

Four more poems of Kedarnath Singh translated by me

7. One who knows a woman

Let the wind blow

And forget that woman

You love

You will get the fragrance

Of the leaves in forest

The warmth of the fur of an animal

You will get a strong stone

On which you may sit

Touch the stone

You’ll hear the music of water

Lift a leaf

And you will find yourself

Flowing like blood in its veins

You’ll come out

And you’ll get the sun

Herding his sheep like a shepherd

Look at him

Recognize him

Feel him on your neck

And your forehead

The heat would slowly

Prepare you for that ordeal

Which you yourself are

After the next Wednesday

The last Saturday

You may not remember at all

You may enter into your city

And feel that city has the name

Of the absence of a woman

(The first name of the city

No one knows)

You will see the tree

And feel as if it is throwing

Its roots at you

The roots are spreading in your blood

You’ll feel

Bear them – smell them

Let them spread

It’s the music of the roots

Ringing in your veins

Look not at the watch

Even the trees can

Give you the time

Even the leaves can fling you

Whither you have to go

Let the wind blow

Move ahead – a little more

And you’ll find you are forgetting

The day, the name, the date

Forgetting the city, the colour,

The faces

But the eyes would still remain

Like the warmth in the body after bathing

They would still remain within you

And you will feel

Grass is growing in your soul

Don’t get alarmed

There’s no wonder

He who knows a woman

For him it’s no wonder at all

Move ahead – a little more

At the end – the very end

You will see a river

Seeing a river after a long journey

You’ll find startling

You’ll be taken aback seeing it

That the water still has the same shine

That you had seen last March

“Jo ek stree ko janata hai” [1978]

8. With the new day

With the new day

A blank page has opened

Of our love

Morning,

Write your name on it somewhere!

I will put it among

The many sombre pages, somewhere,

And whenever the wind will come

And blow away suddenly the closed pages

The name, kept like a peacock feather,

Inside somewhere,

I’ll read it every time

“Naye Din Ke Sath” [1958]

9. Two minutes’ silence

Brothers and sisters

The day is going down

On this day going down

Two minutes’ silence

On the bird going away

On the water that lies still

On the night that is coming on

Two minutes’ silence

On that which is

On that which is not

On that what could have been

Two minutes’ silence

On the peel that lies fallen

On the grass that is broken

On every plan

On every development

Two minutes’ silence

On this great century

On the great intents

Of the great century

On the great words

On the great promises

Two minutes’ silence

Brothers and sisters

On this great epithet

Two minutes’ silence

“Do minat ka maun”  [ Yahan Se Dekho, 1983]

10. Lips

Every morning

The lips would need a name

Deep red and gluey like honey

That only oozes from a human body

Quite often

The lips would want to live

Separately from the body

To shiver and squirm in pain

Separately from the body

But knowing that

As not possible

They would swallow their anger

And start singing

 Where they be

Often behind the bars

A voice

A palm

Or lips pining

For a door-frame

Slowly become

Like a hard stone

And stones also have lips

Even sand or ash have them

Earth itself from here to there

Is lips and lips only

Whatever it be

The lips would need every evening

A burning truth

Glittering with

Thousands of lies

However they be

Lips would need much more

They would need the salt of ‘yes’

And the iron of ‘no’

And often both - together

But in fact

After giving all their statement

Lips would need

Only two lips

Hot and opening

And speaking lips.

“Honth” [Akal Men Saras, 1988]

© BSM Murty

Photo : Courtesy Google Images

*The title "Smell of not being' has been misprinted in Indian Literature without 'not'.

[For older posts on Kedarnath Singh and translation of his sequenced poem “Bagh” go to 2018, May 25 & July 15 on this blog.]