Stories from Vibhuti

By Shivapujan Sahay
Translated into English by Mangal Murty

The Key

Had the taxi not been available at the last moment, I would have missed the train. Charging me an exorbitant fare, it did reach me to the Howrah station right on time, but now the porters started higgling with me. At first they fell upon each other for the luggage, and then started bidding – a rupee, a rupee and half, almost like the priests in a temple.

Meanwhile, a monk appeared and lifted my suitcase, saying – “Take your bedding and hurry up before you miss the train”. He led me hurriedly, and I ran after him with my bedding, leaving the porters totally flabbergasted.

The moment I got in with the monk into an Inter class compartment, the train chugged off. The monk now said – “ A young man like you should be self-reliant. Why should you go for a porter ? Can happiness be yours if you depend on others ? Or is it a sign of being rich ? In fact, you should be ready to help others like a volunteer. But if you yourself need help, how can you help others ?”

“My luggage was heavy and the train was about to leave.That’s how I got entangled with the porters. By God’s grace, if you hadn’t come to my help, I’d still be sulking in the waiting room at Howrah.”

“But where are you going ?”

“To Kashi. One of my relations is ill. He’s in Kashi to die. I’ve got his telegram only today. Had I missed this train, I’d have been ruined.”

“Really, but how ?”

“One who is dying is a big merchant of Bombay. I’m his accountant. If I reach before his death, I might get part of his riches.”

“And how much that’d be ?”

“Even if it comes to the worst, at least two lacs”.

“Oh, then you’re going for two lacs; not for your master.”

“For both, if you please.”

“But mainly for the two lacs, isn’t it ?”

“ You’re an ascetic, a monk, but we’re worldly creatures. For us filthy lucre is like God.”

My words made the monk serious and brooding. Drawing a deep breath, he said – “Bhaj Govindam Bhaj Govindam, Govindam Bhaj Moodhmate” (Glory be to God, O foolish being!).”

He looked up into space, and with closed eyes and folded hands, bowed his head; then looked at me again. I asked him – “ Maharaj, what wre you doing ?”

“I was praying to the Almighty, who does all this rigmarole.”

“What rigmarole ?”

“What could be a funnier rigmarole in this world than this show of unabashed selfishness ?”

“But is there nothing else in the world except selfishness ?”

“Why not; but is selfishness not the most palpable ? The rest is only vast vacant space. That invisible divine rigmarole cannot be seen with these mortal eyes.”

“But for seeing that, has God given us any third eye besides these two ?”

“Yes, the eye of wisdom which opens when these two close”.

“Then does man become blind ?”

“No, after sunrise the lamp becomes useless”.

“Well, but when does that eye of wisdom open ?”

“When God showers his mercy”.

“When had the first shower of God’s mercy fallen on you ?”

This again made the monk silent and pensive. After a short spell of meditation, he looked at me again and said – “The God Who made the swan white, the parrot green, the kokil black, the koknad orange, the chamka yellow and the rainbow many-hued, and painted the peacock’s tail with resplendent colours, the same God overspread a thick layer of selfishness on this world. Just as we cannot take away the heat from fire, light from the sun, moonlight from the moon, fragrance from the earth, coldness from water, flash from the lightning, darkness from the cloud and fragility from the flower, similarly we cannot separate selfishness from this world.


“Just as penury and pain are inseparable, the world and selfishness have a similar inseparability. Just as sloth is the cause of all diseases, similarly this world is the play-field of all selfishness. If this world was not scorched by the raging fire of the conflict of self-interests, it would be far cooler and lovelier than paradise itself. Every single atom of this wondrous world is full of the might of selfishness. If selfishness were to go from this world, all its marvels will lose their mystery.

“One who breaks the shackles of selfishness, can get freedom from this world-prison. He defeats the world. The world bows in his feet and he puts his blessing hand on its head, making it free from all fear. But selfishness like a rootless creeper engulfs the world-tree completely. It’s not easy to slash this tangled mesh”.

“Then how did you slash it ?”

“I haven’t been able as yet. But I hope I will.. And the flame of that hope was ignited by the fire of my father’s blazing pyre”.

“You make me so curious to hear your whole story. Could you please tell me that story ?”

“If it does you any good, I can tell you in brief.”

“But I’m sure your inspiring life-story will be beneficial for me. Nothing is more valuable than the company of saints. Your story will quench my curiosity and also bring me valuable counsel.”

“So be it. I was the son of a very rich Zamindar of Madhya Pradesh. He had four brothers. When my father was on his death bed, counting days, I was passion-blind; no worldly worries ever came to me. Often I would sit by my father’s death bed and wipe the tears trickling down his cheeks. He would time and again kiss my hands. When I saw the final surges of his love, my heart would churn. The pious stream of his filial love still fills my heart and flows through my eyes.”

As he said this his eyes filled with tears. Tears came to my eyes, too. Impatiently I asked – “Why did you become a monk ?”

He said – “That’s the story. The day my father died, he was in full consciousness. He was staring at the charming picture of Shri Radhakrishna hung on the wall before his eyes. Moments later his eyes froze in death. The whole house was filled with crying and wailing. My harmonious world turned into chaos.

“My mother consoled herself looking at my face. Taking me into her lap she forgot her grief. My wife, too, shedding some false tears, said – “ Please take care of yourself. Don’t grieve too much.”

“That sounded the alarm for me. When my mother affectionately wiped my tears with her sari and, lifting my chin, said – ‘I, too, am living only for you, otherwise what’s the point of my life now’ – I felt a kick in my heart, but even that kick couldn’t break the pitcher of my delusion.

“Even earlier when my uncle sat beside my father’s death bed asking him in whispers about various money transactions, and I saw my father unable in great pain to answer his queries, I became extremely upset. But even that turmoil of the heart couldn’t break the spell of delusive slumber.”

I said – “ Then did you flee from home because of the iniquities of your uncle ?”

Cutting in sharply, he said – “ Why do you interrupt me ? Listen patiently to whatever I say. When my father’s bamboo bier reached the burning ghat, I had to help his body on to the pyre and perform the final fire ritual. My heart felt like a stone as I did so. Soon the pyre burst into a blaze.

“ Suddenly my elder uncle shouted – Oh, God, the string round the waist wasn’t broken. The key to the safe is still tied in it. Alas, we are ruined !”

“At once, on hearing this, my younger uncle hastily scattered the logs of the burning pyre. My father’s half-naked body slipped from the pyre. The string round his waist was already burnt, and the red-hot key was lying in the smouldering fire. Picking it up quickly, my younger uncle covered it with ash.

“That key, that same key, yes, that very key was able to open the lock of my ignorance. It was there that I saw the true reality of this world. There it was that my third eye opened up. There and then light entered into my life.”

Saying this, the monk at once lapsed into meditation; and I, too, sank into a strange and intense stream of thought.

‘Kunji’, a short story by Shivpujan Sahay translated into English by Mangal Murty
©BSMMurty

Hindi poems translated by me

Hindi Translated Poems
The Boat
O Brother, I must return home,
Please take me on your boat.

I got delayed in the market,
In all that haggling and purchase;
It was a luminous mirror
Which caught me in its spell:
But ,poor me, its price I could not pay.

Was it not sheer craziness on my part,
With just a cowrie in my purse,
To hang around near shops
Selling the finest cosmetic fripperies!
Who’d care for a pauper like me?
I suffered silently the salt on my wound.

I won’t be much of a burden for your boat,
Poor I am but I’ll give you all my love,
Will sing you the songs of Meera and Soor,
And pay you the few coins that I get.
I put my head on your feet; have mercy.
O Brother, I must return home,
Please take me on your boat.


The Etcher
My fame was your love,
I thought it was my due.
You came down on your own,
I thought I had summoned you!

Electric light took me across
The darkness that was doomed.
The light drew me into the forest
To the den of the dacoits.

Moonlight must have writhed in pain! –
As clouds had hemmed in the moon.
Even your dream had cheated me,
What to do, it was already morn.

Colours of your picture didn’t fade
You’d lovingly painted on my heart.
Even sculptors of tomorrow would say
That ‘Rudra’ was an etcher, not a poet.

These are two poems by Late Shri Ramgopal Sharma ‘Rudra’ (1 Nov 1912 – 19 Aug 1991), a lesser known poet from Bihar, who had taught me as a Hindi teacher in a Patna school. Here are two of his poems, translated by me, submitted as a tribute to his memory.
Shri ‘Rudra’ worked as a translator in the State Rajbhasha Department. He was better known in the literary circle in Bihar and as one who could draw tears by singing his poems in public poetic meets, in a melodious voice. His poetry is rich in textural quality, and marked by an intense lyricality. He died a tragic death by getting entangled in a roadside live electric wire as he was returning home on his bicycle on a dark night.

The Joohi Bud
By Suryakant Tripathi ‘Nirala’
Indolent, on a lonesome woodland bine
Lay lapped in leafy bowers – in wedded bliss –
lost in dreams of love-
A snow-fresh, soft, sweet maid – the Joohi bud:
Its eyelids sealed.

‘Twas vernal night time.
Loitering in some land remote
Was the lonely Breeze, love-lorn, forlorn
- the Breeze they call the Malaya.
Memories surged up,
Of that sweet murmur in reunion,
Of the moon-laved midnight,
Of the tremulous, lovely limbs of his love.

And lo, the Breeze – over lakes and groves and brooks
And sylvan mounts and tangles of vines and bushes,
- He came bouncing, and made love to the blossomed bud.
And she lay slumbering, unaware, naturally, of her lover’s breath.
He pressed a kiss on her cheek
And the whole bine-curl swung and quivered,
Still she awoke not nor sought excuse
Nor oped her sleep-flushed eyes.
An air of indolence and languor…!
Drugged - was she? – with the wine of youth.

Wantonly unkind, he was hard, oh, too hard on her –
Shook up amain with fitful gusts
The dainty petite frame,
Pinched, too, her plump cheeks.

Startled, the maid rolled her bewildered eyes
And espying her spouse in bed (or hard by)
She chuckled, her chin dipped and nestled,
And bloomed afresh in hue of love.

Nirala (1899-1961) is perhaps the greatest among modern Hindi poets, the leading light of the “Chhayavad school “ of modern Hindi poetry. ”Joohi ki kali” , written in 1918, is his earliest poem, embodying the true romantic spirit of the resurgent poetic mode. It was published in his second volume of poems Parimal (1929).
Translated from Hindi by B.S.M.Murty
Seadusk
Nalin Vilochan Sharma
Dunes of sand like cats curled asleep,
The waves lapping-playing on their paws.
Cloudlambs grazing sun’s greensward
Dauntless, unamazed.

I walking in an infinite void –
A vagrant point on the yellow sands –
Across the eternal triangle
Of sky, earth, and the shoreless sea.

As the backwash of my voyage
Are visible only : cigarette-smoke
Trailing on the wind; on the sands,
A number of footprints
To be full when the waves will sweep them over.

Nalin Vilochan Sharma (1916-1961) was Professor of Hindi at Patna University and a renowned Hindi poet and critic.He led a small group of poets, during the 1960s, who professed a manifesto of a new strain of experimental poetry called “Nakenvad” formed from the initial letters of their names: Nalin, Kesari and Naresh, during the 1960s. This poem is a typical example of that school of poetry.
Translated from Hindi by B.S.M.Murty

The Last Song
Let’s, go Love,
Beyond the Moon.
Oh, let’s Love!

Let’s hide among the stars,
And flee from this earth, this world.
Hold me fast,
I’m in a swirl of intoxication.
Wake me up
From this shadowy sleep.

Life, even if it ends,
Let not love’s journey end.
Oh, let’s go Love!

Pain raced through your veins,
As I listened to the song,
As if in a dream,
Wandering among the stars,
Holding your hand,
Sharing your pain.

It was a dark sky,
Splashed with glittering stars,
And the plaintive song
Echoed through them.

But I sensed a dark shadow,
Following up close behind.
I wouldn’t look back,
But rather hold your hand
Evermore tightly.

You gave me a faint smile
On your pallid lips.
My hand shook nervously
And the dream melted
Into tears.