Kedarnath Singh (1934-2018)
Kedarnath Singh
(Translated from Hindi by Alok Bhalla)
Even Without God
How strange it is
that at ten in the morning
the world is still going about its business
even without God.
The buses are crowded
and as usual
people are in a hurry.
The postman
is making his rounds as usual
with his bag slung on his shoulder
even without God.
Banks somehow open on time
grass continues to grow
all calculations – however complicated –
somehow add up in the end
the one who must live
lives
the one who must die
dies
even without God.
How strange it is
that trains
late or on time
depart from and arrive at
some station or the other
that elections are held
planes continue to fly in the sky
even without God.
Even without God
horses continue to neigh
salt is still made in the sea
a sparrow
flies here and there
in a frenzy all day
and somehow finds her way
back to her nest
even without God.
Even without God
my sorrow is as profound as ever
and the hair of the woman
I had loved ten years ago
is as black as ever
and it is still as fascinating
to go out of this house
and then return home.
How strange it is
that water still flows
and the bridge still stands
in the middle of the stream
with its arms outstretched
even without God.
1983
Hand
Taking her hand in mine
I thought
the world should be
as warm and beautiful
as her hand.
1980
The Highest Place
When I got there
I was afraid.
People of my city
it is terrifying to discover
that all the steps
of the city
lead up to
this place
where no one lives.
1969
On Recalling the Year 1947
Do you remember Noor Mian, Kedarnath Singh?
Wheat-coloured, Noor Mian?
Dwarf-like, Noor Mian?
Noor Mian, who was always
the last to return
from Rambagh market
after selling kaajal?
Do you remember anything at all
Kedarnath Singh?
You remember
the madarsa
the tamarind tree
the Immambara
you remember
the nineteen-times table
from beginning to end
but can you
add, subtract
and figure out
on your old forgotten slate
why Noor Mian
suddenly left
your basti one day?
Do you know
where he is now?
In Dhaka
or in Multan?
Can you tell
how many leaves
fall each year in Pakistan?
Why are you silent, Kedarnath Singh?
Is your arithmetic weak?
1983
Direction
Where are the Himalayas?
I asked the child
who was flying a kite
outside his school
There, there – he replied
pointing to where his kite was flying.
I admit
that for the first time
I understood
where the Himalayas were!
1970
In Another Town
The same thing
happened last time.
The same thing
will happen the next time.
We shall meet again
in another town
and will be left gazing
at each other’s faces.
1983
Slowly Softly Us
slowly softly leaves
slowly softly flowers
slowly softly god
slowly softly dust
slowly softly people
slowly softly gardens
slowly softly hay
slowly softly fire
slowly softly I
slowly softly you
slowly softly they
slowly softly us
1988
A Two-Minute Silence
Brothers and sisters
this day is dying
a two-minute silence
for this dying day
for the bird flying away
for the still water
for the night-fall
a two-minute silence
for that which is
for that which is not
for that which could have been
a two-minute silence
for the discarded peel
for the crushed grass
for every plan
for every project
a two-minute silence
for this great century
for its great ideas
for its great words
for its great intentions
a two-minute silence
brothers and sisters
for these great achievements
a two-minute silence.
1983
Suddenly One Day
Suddenly one day
the meaning of
diamonds pearls
turmeric onions
Kabir Nirala
heaven hell
crickets mist
will become
clear
just as
sunlight
passing over
thatched roof
suddenly sparkles.
1988
Come When You Find the Time
Come
when you find the time
come
even if you can’t find the time
come
like the strength
in hands
like blood
flowing through arteries
come
like the slow silent
flames
in stoves
come
come
like the fresh thorns
in babul trees
after the rains
shredding days
smashing promises
come
come
as Wednesday
arrives
after Tuesday.
Come.
1988
Like Flavour of Fruit
like stars in the sky
fish in the water
oxygen in the air
in the same way
on this earth
I
you
wind
death
mustard flowers
like the head of a matchstick
door of a house
boils on a back
flavour of fruit
in the same way…
in the same way…
1988
*******
Old Men Out for a Stroll
Five-six old men
strolled down an empty road.
The evening breeze
cool and gentle
held their hands
and helped them along.
The five-six old men
walked down the road
silent and serious.
Every now and then
one of them
said something softly
like the rustle of a leaf.
Then they stopped
and started walking again
separately – together
together
separately
together – separately…
Suddenly
as they were walking
one of them was startled
by something red
fluttering in the distant tree.
He gave
that urgent news
to the others.
All the old men stopped
and looked towards
the swaying branches
for some time
in silence
in awe.
Then suddenly
as if jolted by an electric current
they began walking again
quickly – firmly
firmly
quickly
firmly – quickly…
1988
A Small Request
I have
a small request
to all those
who are going to the market
this evening.
Why don’t we
put aside
our bags and baskets
this evening
and go directly
to the rice fields.
Rice is essential
so are
lentils
wheat
salt
mint leaves.
Why not go directly
to the fields
this evening
where rice trembles
in its own fragrance
before it ripens into grain.
The best thing for us
would be
to initiate a dialogue
directly
with that fragrance.
That would be good
for our blood
our appetite
our sleep.
How wonderful
it would be
if the market didn’t come between us
and we could
once…just once
quietly meet
rice
salt
mint leaves…
How wonderful it would be…
Once…just once…
1988
A Folktale
When the king died
his body was laid
in large coffin of gold.
A handsome body
no one who saw it
doubted that it was
the body of a king.
First the minister came
and stood with his head bowed
before the body
then the priest came
and mumbled something
under his breath for a long time
then the elephant came
and raised its trunk
in honour of the body
then the black and white horses came
but confused
by the grimness of the scene
they couldn’t decide
whether they should neigh.
Slowly – very slowly
came
the carpenter
the washer-man
the barber
the potter…
they stood around the magnificent coffin.
A strange sadness surrounded
the coffin.
Everyone was sad
the minister was sad
because the elephant was sad
the elephant was sad
because the horses were sad
the horses were sad
because the grass was sad
the grass was sad
because the carpenter was sad…
1988
A Letter
Yesterday
after a long time
I received a letter
from my village
perhaps the river had sent it
without a date
without a stamp
without an address
but in the top corner
hanging like a drop of water
was the small and beautiful
name of the village –
‘Chakia’.
In the busiest square
of the city
hiding from everyone
I read that blank letter
for a long time.
Only one word
cried and
echoed
through the entire letter
Chakia!
Chakia!
I remember
another letter.
I had posted it years ago
from Delhi.
It has still not
reached
Chakia!
1988
A Thumb Impression
Who made
the letters of the alphabet
these deep black letters
these brick-red letters
who made them
white chalk
a bird’s wing
termites
a blackboard
who after all
who
made the letters
of the alphabet
“I…I…” – whispered
a thumb impression
quietly
as it thumbed its nose
at all the letters
and vanished
into a blotting paper.
1988
Laughing, One Day
Laughing
one day
she drew a circle
on the ground
and said – “This is your house.”
I said –
“fine, I’ll live in it.”
Sheltered from
rain
cold
and heat
I lived
in that house
for a few seasons.
That happened a long time ago.
But since then
that house
has been with me
and I wear it
like a light
colourful sweater
against the coming winter.
1988
Also read on Kedarnath Singh: Between Thumbprints and Signatures
A Poet in the City
A poet lives
somewhere
in this big city.
He lives
like silence in a well
like words in silence
like the heart-beats of demons in words.
He lives here in this big city
and never says anything.
Except sometimes
without any reason
he gets restless.
Then he gets up
goes out
finds a piece of chalk somewhere
and on the gleaming white wall in front
writes क .
For a long time
a small
ordinary क
echoes throughout the city.
‘What does क mean?’
an old woman asks a policeman
the policeman asks
a teacher
the teacher asks
the quietest student in his class
the entire city asks
‘What does क mean?’
But no one
in this big city
knows
that every time
the poet
lifts his hand
and writes क
on the gleaming white wall
he is killed!
This much is true.
The rest is rumour
embellishment
conjecture.
I am sorry
I know
nothing more
about him.
1984
Night of the Full Moon
The moon
like a lantern in a prison
swings from the naked branch of tree
and we
all the prisoners on this earth
are happy
for at least something
that can help us see
each others faces.
1969
Dear Reader
Dear reader
I came to see you
but since you
were not at home
I left.
Believe me
I came
not to recite my poems
but to meet you.
It was difficult to get here
but I am happy that at least
I found your place in the end.
Surprisingly
a small boy
in your neighbourhood
directed me
to your house.
Otherwise
which poet
is so fortunate
as to leave his home
and go straight
to that strange unknown city
to that strange unknown door
where a reader lives.
I am leaving
but I shall come again
if not today
then tomorrow
if not tomorrow
then the day after
if not the day after
then years later
or maybe in my next birth.
Don’t misunderstand me
and assume
that I believe in rebirth.
But my dear reader
a poet can’t
function
unless he is reborn.
After all
he tries
as best as he can
to always ensure
that people
and even things
wish
to be born
again and again.
I am leaving
but only
after softly
leaving behind
like a bird’s feather
a small piece of paper
as proof
that a poet had come.
How can I demand
a reply from you
for in our days
a poet has
no single address
his address changes
with every breath he takes
and I don’t want
to increase the burden
of the post-office.
Dear reader
pardon me
for leaving
without meeting you
but I must leave
I have been travelling
since the morning.
It’s evening now.
As I leave
I can only hope
that when you return
early or later
may the greetings
of a poet
reach you.
1988
*******
Alok Bhalla is a literary critic, poet, translator and editor based in New Delhi
Alok Bhalla in The Beacon
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