I said once that “The Child-Widow” was my most facile translation. Well, the translation of this poem’s first stanza was almost as facile. While the rest of the translation took time – a fair amount of which was spent understanding the purport of stanzas 2 and 3 – I’m glad I got there in the end. There are a few things about the poem (and the translation) I’d like to share, but I’ll leave them for the Afterword (below). For now, here is the translated poem.
By the way, my father didn’t have a tune ready when I was ready to put this up, but one struck him later on and he sang it with gusto. It’s true that the rhythm of the translation follows the rhythm of the recited poem, but the song’s a lot nicer to listen to – as you’ll see (hear?) for yourselves. However, since there are people who I know prefer listening to a recitation, I’m letting that remain too. But it’ll have to take second billing to the song.
Appa’s singing of the Kannada poem:
Recitation of the Kannada poem:
The Seasons’ Song (ಋತುಗಾನ)
The harmony of the curtain-play of the night and day,
the richly ornamented and the divine starry way;
the flower-world upon the earth, the hills, and leafy trees;
the balance of the red of dawn and the evening’s húes.
The rise and falling of the sea within the earth’s embrace,
the graze of wind that wàters the east-and-west’s dark-waters-place,
the wonder of the ear-of-grain rising from the seed that falls,
ah look a death, ah look a birth, the breath of life rises and falls.
The enchantment of affection’s come from learning to unite,
a gentle-smile attained its place in a laughter of delight,
as a sweetness that was jaggery uprose on broken lips,
in wintertime came sprouting the essence of coupleness.
The stretching sky above us is new one mòment to the next,
each new day brings the rhythm-dánce of the spheres of the belt,
‘Turn, return, always be new’ is the song the seasons sing;
to the pitch-note of this song’s been túned the univèrse’s silence.
Recitation of the English Translation:
(Translated by Madhav K. Ajjampur)
Poem Details: From the collection “ನಾದಲೀಲೆ”, first published in 1938.
I first came across this poem in the form of its last two lines. ‘ತಿರುತಿರುಗಿಯು ಹೊಸತಾಗಿರಿ (‘Turn, return, always be new)’ was the title of a book of essays by G. Krishnappa; fondly known to his numerous admirers as ‘Bendre Krishnappa’. It was this encounter that piqued my interest and sent me in search of the poem.
I seem to remember being struck immediately by the felicity of the poem’s rhythm. Now that is not really surprising. After all, it is no secret that Bendre had a preternatural sense of ಲಯ (laya) or rhythm. Indeed, he had a preternatural sense of everything that was poetry. (Like he said himself in his later years, he was a ಹುಟ್ಟಾ ಕವಿ or a born poet.)
Anyway, it was this wonderfully attractive rhythm that made me want to do more than just read the poem out loud, that made me want to engage with it, that made me want to “borrow its beauty” – in short, that made me want to translate or transcreate it. It was in this state of ebullience that I translated the first stanza (which remains more or less unchanged). But I soon found that the second and third stanzas were nothing like the first. If the first stanza was a rhyming, rhythmic, direct and simple description of natural phenomena, the second and third stanzas were different. Not only did they not use not such simple language as the first stanza, they were – especially stanza 3 – also less direct, more complex, more allusive and, so, elusive. Finding them difficult to understand and stalled in my translation attempt, I set them aside with every intention to return to them. (It is worth noting that all through this I had been searching for the best translation for the last two lines of the poem. The penultimate line was not so hard but the pair of them together were proving a challenge.)
It was about three weeks ago that I returned to the poem (and the incomplete translation). The break proved itself a good idea. With a little help from the dictionary and some ಮನನ (manana: ~contemplation), it seemed to me that I had managed to understand what the second and third stanzas were trying to say. And what better way to check if I had than to try to translate the two stanzas?
(Like I say in the ‘About‘ section of the page, these translations are as much as for myself as they are for anyone else. What they do is give me a chance to engage both seriously and creatively with the poem. It is a fact that I now understand so many poems better simply because I have either translated or tried to translate them. An attempt at translation seems to me a sort of “creative close reading” of the poem. Untrained and uninterested as I am in the technique of “close reading” – which usually involves “taking the poem apart” – I find that translation allows me to actively engage with the poem as a rasika, an activity I find most worthwhile. What’s more, such close engagement with the poem also often ensures that it remains with me for a long time – which in turn means I often find myself returning to the translation to make a small change or two that’s occurred to me. ‘Jogi‘ is the best example: published some two and half years ago, I returned to it as recently as this September.)
To get back to the poem, I found myself able to make much more headway this time around. Their production might not have been as facile as the first stanza’s, but stanzas 2 and 3 were translated as stanza 4 too began to fall into place. An addition here, a cut there, a tweak somewhere else and the translation you just read was more or less ready.
Note: I often discuss (parts of) poems I don’t understand with my father. With this poem too, it was only after I’d read the translation out to him (as he listened while looking at the text of the original) that I thought to ask him what he thought the closing line of the poem meant – ಈ ಹಾಡಿಗೆ ಶ್ರುತಿ ಹಿಡಿದಿದೆ ಬ್ರಹ್ಮಾಂಡದ ಮೌನ (ee haaḍige shruti hiḍidide brahmaaṇḍada mouna). Particularly, what did it mean to say the “shruti” to the song was a (universal) silence? As we discussed what “shruti” itself meant – it is, loosely, a monotonic vibration of the stringed tamburi that plays continually in the background as it offers a pitch to a trained singer’s ears – my father talked about how the constant “drone” that is the shruti could be construed as a sort of silence – an idea I furthered by musing about how the monotone of the shruti could be thought as a “drone” that is subsumed by the surrounding silence. In any case, the discussion was very interesting and made me wonder further at the startling and original metaphors Bendre used so prolifically. It also occurred to me that this metaphor could be categorized under what Shankar Mokashi Punekar called Bendre’s “cosmic images”.
© Madhav K. Ajjampur