The Sea and the Rain

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NAGATIHALLI RAMESH

The Seaand

the Rain

Translated from Kannadaby

Ankur Betageri

Dont say it is bland

Say put a grain of salt!

from Avvas Words

final


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First Impression: Jan 2008

No of copies: 2000

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Published by:

Shrushti Prakashana

#550, Second Main

Water tank Road

RBI Layout

Puttenahalli

J P Nagar 7th Phase

Bangalore 560078. India.

Printed at:

Jwalamukhi Printers

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Basavanagudi

Bangalore 560 004


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NAGATIHALLI RAMESH, born in 1967 in Nagatihalli village of Nagamangala taluk, Mandya, Karnataka has a Bachelor of

Science degree from Bangalore University, a Diploma in Journalism from Mysore University and a Bachelor of Law

degree from Bangalore University. In the 80s he participated in one hundred and fifty intercollegiate debate competitions

and won prizes in all of them.

He has been serving as editor, printer and publisher of the magazine Spardha Prapanchafor the past twelve years. His field

of interest includes environment, travel, reading, music, drama and short-film making. Considering his contribution tothe field of environment, the arts, literature and social work, the Government of Karnataka honoured him with the

Youth Award for the year 1988-89. For his contribution to the field of environment, the Department of Forest,

Environment and Zoology has bestowed upon him the Environment Award for the year 2001-02. For activities

concerning environment, tourism development, culture and lifestyle he has traveled to Srilanka, Maldives, Singapore,

Malaysia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Nepal, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Dubai and Indonesia.

He is a member of YMCA Karnataka State Peace and Brotherhood Association, Founder of Socially Concerned Friends

Circle, President of Spandana Yuvajana Kendra and Vice-president of Paraspara Saamajika Samsthe.

Through Srusti Prakashana he is involved in publishing books, launching audio cassettes and making short films. He is

currently based in Bangalore.

Books edited: Buddha Pragne, Maanavatavaadi Malliah. The Sea and the Rain (Samudra Mattu Male ) is his first collection of

poems. You can reach him at: [email protected].

ANKURBETAGERI, born on the 18th of November 1983, is a bilingual poet based in Bangalore.He has published a

collection of poetry in English entitled The Sea of Silence(2000) and two collections in Kannada entitled Hidida Usiru

(2004) and Idara Hesaru(2006).


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To the motherly touch of the fingersof my grandmotherNanjammawho used to starveto keep me from crying.

To the cloudy eyesof father Rangappawhich used tocool meeven in his city dress.

Mother who sitsin the darknessof the houseand when I ask,where is father?

saysYeah, I have eaten.

When I hand the blanket saying,What cold! Take the blanket avva,She gathers the mud and spreading it,Says, shall I cover you, son?

I say,Its dark; shall I light the lamp mother?she replies,

Why, have you grown old?

Seeing me crying my heart outshe, who laughingly says,Your lifes like being cooked in cold watermy son, and suddenly starts crying;to her who wanders from village to villageand singing songs held in her palmsturns darkness into light;to the earth-heartof my mother Kempakka.

Nagatihalli Ramesh


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My mother lived countless poems, but she never wrote one. I for one, with my poems, wrote hers

as well.

The song that sleeps silently in the mothers heart sings on the lips of the child.

-Khalil Gibran

I wroteTo live with my mother for a few daysTo make the lives of people around.

-Nagatihalli Ramesh


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You talk

of relationship and non-relationship.

If you know, please tell

what is and is not

a relationship?

Body relationship

life relationship

praanarelationship

He who understands

these relationships three

is a relative, O Lord

of caves.

-Allama Prabhu

Where was the mango tree,

where the koel bird

when were they kin?

Mountain gooseberry

and sea salt:

when

were they kin?

and when was I

kin to the Lord

of caves?

-Allama Prabhu (Tr. by A K Ramanujan)

Relationship is a big thing man.

-Devanooru Mahadeva


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Contents

PREFACE

TRANSLATORS NOTE

QUESTIONS OF LONELINESS AND DARKNESS

My Mother

My Mother 2

Father

Mother, Father and Me

My Grandmother

The Sea and the Rain

Waves: Rangolis Drawn by my Mother

It is Raining on the Sea

Woman

Like a Drop of Rain

This is Just a Line

Wandering Paths which History Doesnt Recognize

Avvas Words

Roots

Condition

Flower and Fiber

From the Diaries of the Dead

When Ocean Stands, Head Bowed

A Journey through the Desert

Like Blood Splashed

Mothers Children

The Spark


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Source which Never Empties

They who thought it was

Lots to do

Amoeba

Tightened Chain of Ice

It is Becoming Blue Again

On this Earth

Happiness

Natural Life

What the Jogi Said

Baba Budan Giri

When the ground is wet

Patent Notice

Denizens of Road

Ocean in the Drop

We are Tribal

Fruit Fallen to the Ground

The Drop of Sweat

Fate and Grains

World of Dew

Give the Street Kids Some Space to Sleep

Like Ashes Growing on Smolders

(Inspired by a haiku by Buson Yosa)

Before Unfurling Wings

Our Children

To Mother Earth


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My People

You

Strategy

Song of Life

Power of Faith

Time

Root-word of Fulfillment

First Step of Creation

Question of the Bowl

Mud Lamp

Drizzle Beneath the Palms Holding Water

Jogis Question

Wisdom

Breaching the Order of Face, the Tail had Shook

Water and Fire

Generation

Kallu Baana

The Saga of Drunkenness

Reflection of Darkness

Prison Song

The Song of Mother

AFTERWORD

SUCCESS STORY OF AVILLAGER


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Preface

THE COMMUNICATIVE skills of Nagatihalli Ramesh were proverbial during his student days when he

astounded everyone by winning more than a hundred prizes in open debates in colleges in and

outside Bangalore during just one year. That he also pens poetry is, however, a happy revelation to

me, having only now gone through his anthology of poems, The Sea and the Rain. With humblebeginnings in life as can be made out from his simple and yet touching poems, he has scaled great

heights in more fields than one. The confidence that he exudes is quite contagious as evidenced by

the organizational successes he has achieved in quite a few fields.

A majority of the poems included in this anthology are of a personal nature in the same sense that

the focal point in most of the poems is his mother, who in the process becomes themother, thanks

to the archetypal images associated with her. It was during the 18 th century that William Cowper

wrote his memorable sentimental poem about his mother and the chair she sat on. Nothing in that

poem affects the reader more than the intimacy, comfort and honour in the context of the mother.

It is that same warmth and comfort that characterize Rameshs poems centred round his mother,father, grandmother and so on. It is an ever present mother that has etched herself permanently on

the sensitive mind of Ramesh who basks in the sunshine of his native milieu. It is only occasionally

that emptiness haunts him and always the distress is followed by cosy thoughts about the mother.

Another noteworthy string of thought that runs through his poems is the edifying nature of labour.

This is a classical sentiment enshrined in folklore. It is also central to every community for whom

agriculture is mainstay. Coming from this background Ramesh can jolly well declare that

he who has ploughed the earth

is a billionaire

in the poetry of love

but at the same time he deplores exhibitionism as unwholesome

Status, looks, wealth

should be like the work of an earthworm

underneath the ground.

As the earthworm climbs up

closer comes death.

Paradoxically enough, what is deplored is creativity, too, for the earthworm underneath theground is creative, which status cannot be. The simile seems to be inapt, but the purport of the

poet is quite unambiguous.

There are pantheistic outbursts like in

The forest springs forth

many tunes and melodies


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that is the spoken word

of our little child.

Hope in the midst of agony, a longing for a better and brighter future, are in the ultimate analysis

what the poet projects. He hopes to make tomorrows our pillows. But the pillows might be

elusive, considering that the predatory nature of man might become manifest anytime. That is whythe underwater creatures have a precarious existence:

Who has seen

the tears

of underwater creatures?

The tears are there nevertheless.

Having witnessed the horrors perpetrated by inhuman criminals in Cambodia, the poet is justly

indignant about the rapacious malignant monster who plunders innocent poor people with nofeelings. This plunderer the United States, for example is like the mythical Cain given to

motiveless murder. However painful the ravages of war, one has to put up with it during and after

the deadly event. The brutal marauder unleashing terror on innocent unarmed people walks away

with his trophy leaving the victims to their fate. That has been the long story of a whole century of

dastardly crimes by a mighty power which has regard neither for culture nor for life.

The shields of the

bombs and shells

that America dropped

on Laos

have become homes

for many people

today.

One only hopes that there shall be no more such homes either in Laos or elsewhere. That is the

humanistic feeling that thematically pervades the poems of Ramesh. Equally vehement is the poet in

Ramesh to chastise those whose indiscriminate destruction of civilization in the name of a higher

civilization. (See Like Blood Splashed for instance). The net impact is that

the birds are learningto fly even before hatching from eggs

It is not the tending of life but tormenting it. And that is what disturbs Ramesh. Surely a healthy

disturbance when one realizes that

the spark of light

is being doused


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as easily as pinching the wick

of a candle

Ramesh deserves our congratulations on exploring the conscience of man today and the translator

deserves it too for his creative endeavour.

G Ramakrishna

22nd October 2007


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Translators Note

TRANSLATING a work of desi Kannada into contemporary English I have faced many challenges,

and these challenges I have overcome in my own ways. I could not do without Indianisms, and I

hope at least these usages will make the discerning reader reach out to the social and cultural

contexts of rural India which are the well springs of many of the poems here.

The author Nagatihalli Ramesh has been very forthcoming in clarifying the meaning of the idiomatic

usages for which I have tried my best to find the closest English equivalent.

As a translator my greater agenda has always been to incorporate the experience of rural India which

plays a crucial role in shaping the character of the average Indian. If this experience continues to

occupy the backyard of our consciousness, even in this era of globalization, it might hamper our

very integrity as individuals, leading to shallowness and falsity as we open ourselves up to the

influences of the outer world.

I do not know to what extent I have been successful in acquainting the non-Indian reader with thenuances and complexities of colloquial Kannada whose meanings spring out of the deep relation

that the people here share with the soil. But I would like to believe that the concerns and conflicts

expressed here are universal, and, as such, it would be no surprise if the rich significance of these

poems flow unhampered through the deeper connectedness of humankind.

I invite you to be a part of this poetic journey of growth and deeper understanding.

Ankur Betageri

Bengaluru


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Authors Note

Questions of Loneliness and Darkness

These are just questions that I have asked myself. Writing this down gives me peace. Why does

darkness and loneliness descend upon man? When does it dawn?

What are the effects of gaining and loosing relationships? What is the play of light and darkness

hiding in this? What kind of influence can this play of light and darkness have on the success and

failure of man?

What do relationships fill in a man? And why does he feel the emptiness when there are no

relationships? Is this state experienced only by a child? Does an old man escape from this state?

This body which gets attached to things and burns, why does it feel futile? Why do human beings

love with a vengeance and remain attached to people? Which fear are they haunted by? Whose

crushing foot has made them immobile?

So, the foundation on which we have built our civilization, is it wrong? If we get an answer to this

question would the decadent path followed by civilization be revealed?

Thinking about all this and not finding an answer, and stuffing all these thoughts to a corner of the

mind, and taking them out standing on some footpath, and analyzing them with new thoughts... and

still no answer.

The koel sings beautifully. Pulling some remote strings, a man sings. An old woman, collecting torn

clothes, stitches a quilt. What is the feeling behind the crying of a little child? What is it that the child

seeks? What is the mindset of a soldier who has lost his hands in the war? Did his sword cheat him?

The flapping sound of the birds which are flying in their hearts, what does it say?

Why do men write poems?

Can everyone see truth?Whoever has seen:it is the essence of his experience.Its realizationis not possible with the words formed around it.

Only sometimes, one feelsthe poetry of mysticshave a clear vision in them.

In the midst of our workwhen we remember its experiencewe remember the poemand with it, the poet.He wanders like a friend, an enemy


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and a companion.

Like someone about to tella secret, he laughs,it is the sign of love.

In the words of the poetits like handing overthe key to lifes mystery.

How Failure and Success Shape a Person

My life is road broken into many paths. Since the time I was born my eagerness, failures, inferiority,

despair, loneliness, orphan-ness and suicidal attempts had made me so desperate that I had become

like an ant sinking in the mud.

To what extent can the love and concern of people can flow? Is it true that only those who have

struggled and suffered get shelter among people? I am still haunted by the memories of people who

helped me. Does the pain that we experience leave marks on our face? Did people see these marks

and helped me or was it the life jumping in me which devised this elaborate game and push me into

it? I completed my Bachelors in Science and a correspondence course in journalism from Mysore

University and got a degree in Law from evening college. With this my college life ended. I used feel

that I was happy while at college.

When I had to leave college I was haunted by the big question of what next? I had a pair of

trousers, a shirt and a bag full of prizes that I had won during my college days in open debate

competitions. With these I wandered the streets of Bangalore. And while hunting for a job I sold

these prize trophies one by one and managed to drink tea three times a day.

Such being my condition one day I met my dear friend from college, Venkataranga. As they say, by

the time the grains and lentils finish, it rains. This friend took me to a hotel, got me lunch and as

though he was waiting to hear me all this while, sat silently listening to me. Then he took me straight

to his house and explained my talent, helplessness and dreams to his parents Sri B Krishna and

Sharada B Krishna. His father had already helped me by providing scholarship during my college

days. He gave me an office and the required money to start the magazine Spardha Prapancha. And

there were people like P Lankesh who didnt want their name mentioned for help like these; I got a

lot of encouragement from all these people. Lankesh, the honest and irreverent man, who wrote

with an innate knowledge of those who had struggled and suffered, learning about me starting amagazine, encouraged me with a fund of three thousand rupees in 1993. When I returned the money

in 1994, Not bad you proved that even shudras return the money lent, he said with a smile.

Lankesh, who gave the solace of a mother, made the lives of many like me, without recording them

anywhere.

Even in this time when everybody is sinking into a state of two-facedness I see people who still have

faith and love in man. Since that time what I have realised is that there are thousands of hands in


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this society which have real concern and love. Isnt this enough to boost our confidence to realize all

our big dreams, and to ignite the determination of becoming one among those thousand hands!

Dear friend and poet Ankur Betageri who translated this book into English, G Ramakrishna who

wrote the preface and my friend-poet Phoenix Ravi who wrote the Afterword, all those who helped

in bringing out his book, all the people who saved my life with their love, I cannot repay them withanything but my life.

Nagatihalli Ramesh


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My Mother

Pulling off the thatchshe has played the song in the openthe earth has become a cradle

and life with her is singing word for word.

Holding the edge of her mothers sareescattering mud in meeting pathsshe has pinched and pluckedthe thorn in my foot:like turning into tearsthe pain settled in heart.

When I went in search of youwhich village? which keri1?Every road has haunted like a tree

birds have flown in and outdarkness has entered the eyes.

The seven villages aroundhave openedlike a branching riverwherever you have walkedthe smell of rain;the only clue that youd been there.

You have pelted stones at the stone god

to the hungry and bare skinnedyou have given aplenty,you have smiled like a starat the husband whowithout becoming a tombremained a well.

Mother of crying childrenyou pulled me into your whirlpoolsseeing me clutched tight and being fedyou became

the haystack of the harvest.

Im the fish lifted out of water,the tears of the depthsare flowing like watertowards the spark burning underneath.

1Keri: Keri is a Dalit settlement found outside or in the outskirts of the village. When untouchability was still in practice people from the keri were

not allowed to enter the village.


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You are the queen of blue mountainsstreams are flowing from your headtowards your feet,

Im the ant playing in the depths Im looking up at youand a thousand elephants are runningin my eyes.

She is the forest-rain in the forestthe thorn bush, and the streamof black boulders encircling the fields;the ocean which hidesall that floods within.

O everyones mother

who is she?O everyones villagewhich is it?


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My Mother 2

I build a tiled-roof housefor motherfor her to be good.

This is in accordance with her wishesI assume, and building a wall in betweenI was one who thought,let her sleep in the shade.

Why darkness?Let there be light whenever required.

Putting the lightI called motherto my lively home.She who walked like an elephant

with an single-minded gazesmiled like an ant.

I wake up as usualand rubbing eyes, I look at the house:what a game fate has played.

Electric wireshave been pulled off andme hanging like dead web;beautifully carved walls

as ifbattered in some war,have fallen.

Is she a goddessbeside her a stone ball,the mud of fields all over her bed:she is simply sleepingpulling off everything.

As it turns into evening

she, who walks into that homewalking into darknessmixes her poetryto the dense wandering silence,to the darkness,like a flower bloomingin a wind which does not blow;words come to her flyingand gather around like bees.


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mother,thats my first mistake.

My extreme beliefthat she believed

everything that I said tying my own handsIm standing witness to the mistakea judgment, on this, has to come from her.

He who wanted to makea bamboo vasewandered all over the forestnot to find bamboobut to find out what kind of flowerswould bloom in his bamboo vase.If the flower believes

that it is the bestit is a burden for that vase,what is the judgmentinside this turmoil?

This does not come underany section or codeto call you as witnessyou lack experience,because even the slightest of mistakeswould kill me and my mother.


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Father

My mother is alullaby-singing birdof an ancient home on the plains;

when the song had filled the spacesfollowing the route of that songmy father flew from the blue mountainslike a migrating bird in search of lifeand shining in his suitI have heard, he married my mother.

After sometimethis wanderer who wanderedlike the song in a desertsat waiting for my motherlike a fountain of water.

She stood in front of him and smiledwhen he went to catch she sparkledand shrivelled;he ran like a wild horsesearched on the blue seawhere only her smells and reflections were wandering.

Drinking and reaching his depthshe began to dig a well in himselfhow many times it collapsed in his eyes

that welldigging and collapsingcollapsing and diggingO mountains and peaks,O streams carrying the mud,spread your saree here he prayed.

As he entered the depthshis fortune dwindledhis bungalows vanished

farms were pawned;when the villagers called him nameshe grinned and left the place.

When mothers song passedthe womb of his eyehe became a coolieamong the village coolies


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withholding all its layersthe well openedwhen the water spurted into a fountainand the whole village gathered;in a broken cycle

and torn coat, father, was still standing.

Resounding noise of the villagemy mothers deep songthe whisper of birds listening to all thishe remained a wellwithout becoming a tomb.

Mother is still there:like a fruit holding a milliontrees in her womb.


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Mother, Father and Me

Floating on the raft of tearswide-eyed and sucking thumbwhen I first saw my father

I was five years old.

Again,in shabby clothes, tousled haireda scared-eyed 10-year-oldwhen I encountered himhe picked me up unawaresand feeding sticksto the bathroom furnacehe was profusely weeping.

In that darkness

stammeringdirt dirt dirthe was rubbingeven as the skin on my backpeeled off;then, fathers memoryhaunted me like fear.

I have been astonishedat my father whounfurled his wings and danced

like a peacockto the lullabies and songsof my motherwho flowed like a streamthroughout the forest of the village.

The truth offather passing awaywithout remarryingflashes like a bolt of lighteningNow the mark on the back

like seed-planted earthlongs for the rain.

Even now I have seenclouds formingin fathers eyesas he remembersmother mumbling in the dark.


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Now like a treeI descend the depths of the groundI swell in happinesslooking at birds

building nests over me I stare and laugh at the woodpeckerwhich pecks and pecksuntil it forms a burrow I draw into my heartthe living voiceswhich whirl and dart about me.

Sloughing off lonelinessI become the fruitto the beakof dreamy-eyed migrating birds.

Budding again,and bearing fruits and flowers.


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My Grandmother

With a burning bellyshe was born to work;spilling children she tilled the fields

and filled the palms with seeds;she taught how to seed.By teaching how to hold the ploughshe instilled in me a firmness.Harvesting ragi, jowar, avare, horse gramand sesame cropsshe used to end the harvest timecelebrating her native land.

She took care of mea toddler on four legs.With her eyes

she would curse the crows and eaglesflying over the hut.Before leaving for the fieldshe made me sit on my haunchesand giving a stick to my handtaught me how to look after chicksand went half-heartedly.

Carrying water on a bamboo barfeeding water to every coconut plantationshe became the breath.

As the planted ones went on unfolding the frondsconsidering its height and fruitin the mindThis tree is a mighty oneit will come to life like a sandal-she said.To the sound of the coconutfalling at nightshe would wake uplike one always meditating on it.

In reply to the cows of the villagesshe domesticated a buffalo.Even when they stood barrenshe squeezed the breast of goatsand fed me milk.We, who were crying in hungerwhen promised rice for the nightwould stop crying.


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Every Saturdaywas like a fair.Fair, was puffed rice, sev and battasu3and dreams of tasty meals.

The memory ofputting a handful of puffed riceto black coffeeand getting the lips to bite themmakes the body bloom even now.

Everything changesrain and summer spread into winter.

Looking at peoplewho made use of the goodness in people

and later torched their foundationswheres the time for goodness,she would wail.

God knows what quarrel,to what whispers she turned morose in the villageonly we tworemained lonely.

How many parrots

in the stories she used to tell,all knew how to speakand had flown in from a different land.The elephant was defeated in front of the ant,in front of Sita, Rama had shrunk.She gave so many weapons to Ramathat Arjuna himself ran away from the battlefield.Even Kunti stood head-bowedeven his guru stood ashamedas sun disappeared at mid day.

Coins with holesone, two, three paisasonly sometimes she livedin a quarter and half-a-rupee time.Before seeing the rupee my grandpahad died,my mother was wandering from village

3Battasu: A kind of coloured sugar candy usually eaten with puffed rice and sev.


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to villageand was singing the songsof the soil.

In the time of new coins

my grandmother disappearedlike old lost coins.

O my mother, the owner of landwhat is the colour of your handswhich tied the kacche4and tilled the land?When you stand with your wings unfurleda fair of blooming flowersthe celebration of parrots, peacockscrows and sparrows why do they gather around you?

every leaf of grass sproutsat the time of dew.

Even heaven bowsin front of your dreams:in the fair of your memorieseven the palace collapses.

4Kacche: A traditional way of wearing the saree or dhoti


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The Sea and the Rain

Duskthe clouds have gatheredand its raining hard.

Like a dark dot of charmlightening and thunder.

In the fieldmother like a lampis wandering among the grown-up crops.

I sat on the hillockand watching the earth covered by the skiesin one sight,called out loud: Avva!

My childrunning over my hearts cry of tears,holding the saree-end of my motherand with his thumb in mouth, follows her.

The sign of love that grew between me and motheris a dense sea full of memoriesI run to motherwho stands like a sea in the rain.

My mother like an innocent girl

holds my child in the left handand my wifes hand with the rightthe chariot of their walking feetis moving aheadI, a devotee pulling that chariot,no matter how far, I am someonewho has tied its rope to my back.

In the footsteps walked by timenot placing my feet even by mistakeI recognize the cheetah even in the dark.

Seeking the grains and lentils of liferushing into the fieldsthose who cast a net on our very heartknowthe loss of having lost the net.

How to stop lovingif you ask me to stop?


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After being kin to thestickiness of heart.

2.

The time when everything turns to muddoes life grow heavy?

O nectar like lovewhat is the last gameof your finger touch?

Hold me still closerI will only evaporatewhat is the last song of the riverwhich hugs the sea?

Clouds, rain, earthwhat are all these?

When will it be unravelledthat the sea is greater than the Himalayas?


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Waves: the Rangolis5 Drawn by my Mother

An unknown voice calls

not out of the house,

out of this very body!

How shall I go before listening

to the words of mother?

Wasnt she the one who built a wall

around this life, and filling blood

called it a lake? If the water flows out of the lake

doesnt it go waste like a broken stringed tamboori6?

In the darkness of the den

in the whirlpools of water

in the flame of forest-fires

in all my desires and concerns

I have seen its shadow;

the life-wing inside has cried and fluttered.

Then, I first remember my mother

if she lets her hair loose, and stands in a kacche7 with me

where would it run

for her one cry its pillars

would start melting and dripping like wax.

When she walks

the trees bow down and stretch their shade

while ascending the mountains paths

the birds start singing.

She walks

inside the house and outside the house.

When once I followed her sayingAvva8 avva she threw my black stone

into the tank, and singing

5Rangoli: A pattern-picture drawn in front of the house usually by joining the dots, or by looping the lines around the

dots.6Tamboori: a stringed instrument used by poor wandering singers and singers of religious songs.7Kacche: A particular style of draping a dhoti or a saree which allows the legs to move more freely.8Avva: Colloquial way of calling mother; corresponds to the English mummy or mama.


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went somewhere far away.

Mother, who is not there even when she is there

spreads like a forest within me

I who have lost the waystammer: avva avva

When she finds me again

she caresses and says, Where were you,

you were not to be seen, and sits

singing through the night.

I can hear the consoling words of a few people

and also the knife-edged words

which cut through my gut.

A few others being mothers themselves

rub ointment over the cut wounds.

I should tell everything to mother

I run again and again

shaking head like she heard everything,

throwing whatever she gets on me

she walks away into the plains.

I who run behind

not seeing her even in the plain

cry avva avva

I hear someone crying avva from that side.

I somehow decide

and try to jump towards it

by sleeping on railway tracks

by walking into sea

by going to the peaks of mountains;

an invisible hand grabs thenand when I turn back its avva.

What are you doing here?

I was searching for you everywhere, she says

and hands jaggery and groundnuts to me.

What is the lifespan of the rain which rains on the sea?

And isnt she the sea itself?


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Me who came out of her, am sitting on a boat

when storms rise the wings which come

and the life which wants to fly away

I have consoled rubbing on its back

when calm, I dream of reaching

some other shore.

I go on rowing

where would she take me?

the waves which rose at that birth

the rangolis written by my mother

between that my journey

Avva,

tell me where is the end of your love?


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Its Raining on the Sea

We have to face each other andand he is not ready

Im reminded ofthe paths in the fieldthat we walked together,the hands which quarreledfor the wafers of ragiballsticking to the bottom of the cooking-pot

Waving the torn clothes offather and mother in lake, and waitingfor fishes which wouldnt comethe moments we stood, our backs bent to hunger.

The dense smell ofavare, ragi and jowar of somebodys fieldthat we burnt and ate at midnight.

Collecting honge, hippe and neem seedsbefore the crowing of the cockthe days we waited for Saabannawho would bring peanuts on the cycle

Even when the ground broke into fissureson the passing of famines

our tears didnt stop.

The grandpas and grandmas who satlike the deities of the homewith their ash-covered-ember eyeshaunt me.He is not ready,to take shape with all these things old.

When he was the insect crawlingon plants and trees

I was the earthworm underneath, tilling the soil.He was the firefly flying from plant to treeand by the time people started to praise the light,I had hidden my headamong rotten flowers and fallen leaves.

He might have lots of reasons to go farI do not need any reason to love;to rain on the sea, is its permission required?


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He is not readyhe acts like all his memories have fadedthe flower blooms and wilts,even the tree which had flowered

dies, eaten away by termites.

The smell it has left in mebecomes a humongous treeand sprouts well before the Spring,I have held back the tearshidden in heartfrom falling to the ground;thinking that one day he would hug me tightand become my mother

We must face each other,

if he doesnt get ready I have no choicebut to climb the staircase ofthatcourt.


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36

Woman

The womanis very pickyshe doesnt swallow everything she gets;

manis the sensuous onewho lickseverything he gets.

Civilizations drownedbecause of thissensuousness.

But the woman who sat in between,sorting the illusion, dream and theoryin her nirvana

holds his handsfrom civilization to civilization.


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37

Like A Drop of Rain

Walking in the forest pathas the sunblazed on my head

hungry,I openedthe lunch box

The roti had mothersfingerprints on them.

Mothers memoryis making the long road aheadeasy.


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38

This is Just a Line

My grandmother who wasmother to me since birthtold me that she who was known to

me as my sister was actually my mother.

When she was in her last sleepI went to see her.The lamp in her urgencyhad burned really fast,the flame was only as bigas the grain of a corn.

How terrified she must have beenthat night.Was death crushing her

beneath its thumb?

I moved towards the bedand said, as usual, mother!I heard my own echo again.

Even as she breathedshe didnt respondshe didnt break her promise.I who did,became the calf of Dharanimandala9

who mumbled, grand ma, my grand ma!Who will take care of mewhich language will take me to her?

She somehow said thatand walked off firmlyleaving only her footprints.

How to transform motherinto grandmother?To the poison of broken promise

I have stood like a stone.Ahalye10 teach me how to meditate.

9Dharanimandala: literally, the earth. Here, it refers to a very popular Indian folk story about a truthful cows encounter

with a hungry tiger.A tiger ambushes a cow which has strayed away from the herd. The cow requests the tiger to allow it to feed its calf andpromises to return. The tiger doesnt believe that the cow would return but still lets it go. The cow returns home, feedsthe calf and entrusting the calf to its relatives and friends, comes back to the tiger and offers itself as its food. The tigermoved by the cows truthfulness and feeling terrible about having thought of killing it, jumps off the cliff and kills itself.


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In the day the nightin the night the dayseeps in,not in every seasonis there such a miracle.

I call my grandmother mother againno one has heard a stone as yet.

How to transformsomeone who I always thoughtto be sisterinto mother?This question is enoughfor meditation.

As I thought

my sister waslike an incense stickwhen lit,and as my grandmother had told,like a perfumelike the very sandalshe stood,O my brothers.

From the bottomthe statue is cracking

cant you hear that sound?

This poem isjust a lineof the sound of that crack.

10Ahalye: A character in the epic, Ramayana. A woman cursed into being a stone; she revived after being touched by

Lord Ramas toe.


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40

Wandering Paths which History Doesnt Recognize

Below the stars

for whom does it rain?

In a village faraway, a village festival,

the sound of drums and atmosphere of a fair,when is the time when mens voices get wet in celebration

it must have rained in that village.

The wheels of ox carts which come from that land

will be covered by moss

bells tied to the neck will be shining

and chime with new sounds.

the cow- and goat-herds of our village

listening to that drum-beat

with their cow and goat, travel that path,

pitching tents in the midst of greens

they open new pages of life.

Little children on those pages

write the pictures of

colourful flowers

elephant, ant, tiger, deer, cheetah, grasshopper, butterfly

lake, field and plain.

Hearing the news of rains in their village

they touch their ears

and remove their tents and leave.

Dog, sheep, goat, donkey, cattle

return grown stout,

like going to a playground

the young ones come jumping.

Avva who reached the house

dusting, cleaning the floor, drawing rangoliboils lentils in salt water,

driving sheep and goats into the pen

tying the cattle in the shed

keeping water for the thirst of the husband

she serves hot ragiball and curry.

Lighting the lamp and splitting the dark room


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41

she opens the pouches and sacks

brought on back of the donkey

containing groundnuts, jaggery, lentils and rice

and embroidered old cloths,

and loosening the knots of saree ends

having sandalwood flakes and chunks of sugarshe calls the children.

Children,

eating groundnuts, jaggery, rock sugar

smelling the barks of sandal

look wide eyed at the opened sacks.

Separating the lentils and grains

keeping the sprouted grains aside

she meditates on tomorrows rain.

Like a curtain between the earth and the sky

in the same speed the body heats up.

Like being called by the thunder and lightening,

like little stones flung on the coconut fronds,

covered over the house, a sound

and the roof begins to drip.

The cock, hen and the chicks

which walked out proudly somewhere

mother calls in making sounds like them.

Even children happily go kva kva!

their cry-song never ending

After the passage of a long time

from some corner, the kva kva sounds come

splitting through the darkness.

Avva with her eyes closed beneath the blanketopening them like getting a boon for her meditation

cries kva kva koooo again in the darkness

like pipers playing trumpets on street.

Listening to it the fowls which come

shaking their bodies as if returning from a victory


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The chicken who stand bewildered

to mothers scolding, the hens and cocks

which sleep even as they hear her out.

Children pushing the fronds on the hut

watching the shapes of lightening and thunderstartled, with their bodies turned cold,

cuddle under the warm saree of their mother

isnt there mother where childrens fear hide?

This emptiness which fills at its will

if mother is not there, if she is absent even in her presence

who stands in that empty space

who calling, caresses and fondles?


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We keep the ritual foodfor the dead,feeling sorryfor their insatiable desires.

People nowadaysact likethey carry the earthon their heads.


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45

They who say

dont look for the source,know its result.

Remember your previous stepwash your heel.

He who climbs

must definitely be smalland reaching, should become clean.


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When the clouds have gatheredtry to forget the pain,it will definitely rain.No part of earth

has ever remained completely barren.

Do not mock sayinghe hasnt learnt the letters,he who has ploughed the earthis a billionairein the poetry of love.

Your life,like being cookedin cold water.


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47

When the thorny jackfruitis clawed openthe sweet flesh inside

is like the soulof the poor man.

For a long journeythree are better than one.


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48

When the ground id wetthe termitelifts the mud up.

Status, looks, wealthshould be like the work of an earthwormunderneath the ground.

As the earthworm climbs upcloser comes death.


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49

Roots

The tall mountainis no taller than the river,

the river was born therea bit above the mountain.

The ice candy of the village fairgave birth to the cityand emptied the village.

The forest springs forthmany tunes and melodiesthat is the spoken word

of our little child.


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The depthlengthbreadthand heightof orphans

is more,is more.

The question is loominglarge.We spread the questionand make it our pallet;make tomorrows our pillows.The stars are leaning towards usfruits are dangling.

Though the lover hasstabbed and killed his love

yesterdays memories of loveare killing his tomorrows.


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51

Who has seenthe tearsof underwater creatures?

Word historyturns the scoundrels of this landinto gods;folk literature turns even the dry tree

into a river.

A phony poem

born on the heart of paper,death of another plant.

However high peoplemight fly in the planethey have to return to soil.


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52

He who was thinkingthat nothing in the world was right

woke up from his sleep,and the risen sunwas washingthe dirt.

The cobblerby seeing the face itselfgets the measurement of the feet.

Do not share yourpain and weaknesses;they could become the stairstaking youto the depths of hell.If tell people you mustlook for those whore like mirrors.


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53

Condition

The shields of thebombs and shells

that America droppedon Laoshave become homesfor many people,today.

Flower and Fiber

In pained eyes Ive seenburning meteors

Nobody grew for themeven a small flower;

with the newly brought fiberfor them are being spunhanging ropes.


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54

From the Diaries of the Dead

Those who enter Cambodiasee a map of a thousand skullsthese skulls one by one

tell their storieswhich begin,

One dayafter the declaration of peacewhile returning from the warAmerica,thinking that the bullets would go wastelined up thousands of Cambodiansand killed them all.

When Ocean Stands, Head Bowed

When we bend our headsin front of the barbereven as he follows our orderthe freedom of time which createsthe game of his fingers,is a mystery of life.


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55

A Journey through the Desert

They wander the deserts of Arabiaseeking faraway bloomsthey pour sand on themselves

and sing their own elegies.

Between birth and deathonly a few times they see clouds.a Satan called stormsnatches even them.With eyes clouded by dustthey would have expected all thesetheir eyes stretch in rapt desiretowards the moon appearing at night.

We Indians

we have ocean, river, grass, plantsmountains, hills and green valleys we have ice-capped peaks,we also have hungerwhich weve created on our own.

In the desertcamel the companionof the lonely wanderer.

When the stomach had stuck to the backon his shoulder as a companionthere was a bird;with the flash in its eyesit would hunt the far-off preyand bring it to him.A day of those two liveswould end in the fleshof burnt prey.

Once in the water-spring

oil spurted,like fruit, hen, grains and clothit became the well-springwhich brought pouch-fuls of gold,the spring of oilbecame a well,everything began to cometo where they sat.Water, seed, plants, climbers, artificial forests


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fishes and fowls, water fountainsdazzling bungalows, girlsbursting with youth, days without nights.

Those who were wandering

have joined now in a fairthe storm is wandering with a howlold men are muttering as if in a dreamthe tiger cub is dreamingwandering in an artificial forestholding its body against water fountainsand hugging womenfalling in liquor bowlsand growling in gambling hallsto become like its father.

Now the camels

by the bungalows, beside the streetsoutside the museums andare eating someones garbageand are ruminating age-old ties.


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they roost over night nestand turn into day;the birds are learningto fly even before hatching from eggs a weave of red to the market;

lightening rain to the fashion bazaar.

After the setting of sunthe clouds appear as thoughthey are bleeding redsuch is its terrible heat.

Bellary, like walking on a hot pan.


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59

Mothers Children

Ragi, like farmersbecoming one with the soilstretch their bodies to sun

and into black grains break.

Paddy,like the people of citybelow, there should always be waterwhich is money.

If water isnt enoughthe pulp inside will witherand before bearing fruitit dies.

Farmerputs his faith in the next rainand waitseverydayas if meditating;and like plant budssprouting in rain,he plays around like a jogi.

His field is his worldwaiting-hut his palace

parrot, blue jay, earthwormspider and ant are companions to till.Fate itself stands with himas the grains begin to swell.

Hot blood of the cityate rice without seeing mudso it can never knowthe biting habit of root.


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60

The Spark

For the pleasure of a few peopleturning the villages and fieldsbarren,

these palatial high-rises andluxurious apartments ofcrazy kings,are widening the highways of peoples heart.

These villagerswho lost their land for themstretching hands for rotten appleslimes and grapesfallen by the fruit-shops of the city,are wandering the lanesas if cursed for life.

To send them to prison,false crimesare being created;the spark of lightis being dousedas easily as pinching the wickof a candle.


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61

Source Which Never Empties

The lotus blooms hiding its rootsin the depths of the lake.Being in water but not being like it.

They Who Thought It Was

Disgust and dirttake birth in the eyeand die there only.


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62

Lots To Do

How many problems here?Counting them in itself is a problem

.

waves, storms, cyclones, tsunamis themselveshavent stayed here eternally.

Amoeba

No maletill datehas understoodthe pain of woman.

he simply pretends

in her eyeshis picture swells

like an anxious amoeba.


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63

Chain of Ice Tightens

Now, in the lanesof the great citiescrying rooms

are being created.

Its Becoming Blue Again

The river is flowingswerving around and piercing throughthe boulders and rockscarrying afloat or drowningstones, thorns, insects

and thrown shards of glass.

The river has turned redno one has seen its scratched body.

Wandering around thousands of villagesflowing in fields and grovesit reaches the heart of the sea.

The heart of the seaturning a little red,

is becoming blue again.


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64

On this Earth

If everyone without knowing the gutwrites like a scholarthen no plants and trees would survive.

Happiness

Pain as long as it is insideswells;when it comes out,shrinks.


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65

Natural life

In devotionthought,the thought which broke the devotion.

Jogi said

He who lives in natureis better than anone who argues for it.


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66

Baba Budan Giri

The mountainhas gone throughthe cloud

the cloudwhich

descendedslo-wly

swallowing the groundhad become the gut.

Patent Notice

They who stolethe different species from the forest

and the different seeds of the landand flewin helicopters and planes,are teaching us environmentalism.


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67

Denizens of the Road

The progeny of those whospill thorns on roadis still growing

We till at nightand sow the seed of light.

When they walk on those roadslet the roadside treeswe plantedsolace them,and the thorns planted by themlet it catch fireand let the roads become clean.

Ocean in the Drop

It was raining on the sea,the waveswere throwing the dead fishesout, and with them the ones living.The crows and eaglesflying abovewithout bothering about any of thesewere spinning aroundthe peanut-selling old man.


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68

We Are Tribal

We are tribalwe neither sweatnor shudder

at the hunterswho walk around us

we are used tofeeding arrowsfor the fires of our furnaceever since.


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69

Fruit Fallen to the Ground

Four people togethercut the fruitsucking the juice

and without returning the seed to earthbut breaking it to pieces,laughing that it got over,walked off.

The broken seedmixed with mud, turned into fertilizerand entering all kinds of lifeas it grew like timethe flowers and fruits of the earthbegan to bloomeven in their eyes.


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70

Drop of Sweat

In the verandahwhile hundreds of intellectualsdiscussed about the poet, poetry, play, cinema and

politics the master of all that was tilling the soiltill sunset.

Now and then,the master was mentionedby the intellectuals some said he was a hare-brained philosopher,others that he was a mischief-monger, fatedto be what he was.And some others still called hima stupid old man, a lunatic

The grains that he had brought fromthe fields and stackedwere laughing, listening to all this.

(Inspired by a folk tale)


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71

Fate and Grains

On every grain that is eatenthe name of the eater is writtenuntil death suddenly pounces,

this rule continues unbroken.Every grain ones own,and after deaththat of someone else.

With his death the story endsthe remaining grains,someone elses

(Inspired by a Hindi saying)


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72

World of Dew

This world of dewis only a world of dew

and yet.

11

the sea roars,god knows what urgency the koel cries,who knows indicating what?

Before vaporizing, the dewburns:one momentlike a millennium.

Is it the roar of the sea?

or the indication of the koel?

11 A haiku by Kobayashi Issa


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73

Give the Street Kids Some Space to Sleep

In the midst of the greenssings the skylarkfree of all things.*

Sitting in a gunny sacktied underneaththe Kengeri bridge of Bangaloremy eyes which floatseeking that soundidentify within themselvesall its colours and techniquesthe different incarnations of motherliness.

All the sounds of the vehicleson the bridge, sound like

that of the police.

If rememberedthe whole days a mess.

Many nightsfor their kicking practicethey used us like guinea pigs.Only they know why they used to beat us like that.

Like on the last cradle

of civilization, thereI wasswinging off-balance.

Once when my ballhit the net of the goaland untied the gunny sackI joined the great city.

Even nowamidst the green

the skylark sings.

Who knows which homeless childis playing there!

(Inspired by a haiku by Basho)


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74

Like Ashes Growing on Smoulders

Mother who travelsfrom village to village,everyday, pitches a tent

in every villageand ties a donkey to its right

As usual the moon appears upon the housechildren gone begging, return groping in the bagseparating the grainsshe keeps three stonesand douses the fireof the stomachs of hungry children.

She has the big dream

of building a houseto stop the whirringwheel of time

Even the children have the same dreambut what to dolife is not so easy.

How to hide the sparkof her urgent dreamin the end of the saree?

Like ashes growing on smouldersevery night, they tell a story to mother,with moon as the witness.

In those storiesbuilding a house of her liking;smearing the earth with cow dungto a door smooth as sandal,tying mango-leaf-hangingswhich would make a koel blush

and drawing a patterned rangolicome in mother!they said.

How many moonsheard those storiesand called to witnessthey come every night.


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Mother who would go to sleeplistening to these storiesevery night,in the morningpitching a tent in the next village

would dream of those stories again!

(Inspired by a folktale told by Jungli Seeniah)


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76

Midnightinside the hut;on the platethe scrambling of a rat,what a chill in the stomach!

(Inspired by a haiku by Buson Yosa)


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77

Before Unfurling Wings

Truth is like the wild peacockit has no obligation towards usmany alluring charms it has

at the time of unfurling wings.

Its richness cant be hadin a single glancebehind,in frontbesideabovebelowinside, outsidea truth beyond all thesekeeps flowing.

You praise it,it wont bow.

Criticize it,it smiles.


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78

Our Children

From citythey came to forestholding Pepsi Cola bottles

Save forest!Save city!they lectured endlessly.

Our childrenwho insisted on havingthose Pepsi Cola bottlescatching the road to citybecame orphans.


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79

To Mother Earth

I am notjust a lump of jaggerymother

a child full of dreamsmonstrous fleas have throngeddrive them awaywith a kiss.

My People

Rain-cloudswhichappearedinsummer heat.

You

IfI go on despising everyonewhat am I?


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81

Song of Life

On the hot earth:the eye of cloud glancesin fields, farms and plains:

song of life.

Half starved, bare bodied,in the hot eyesfor the seething dreams:the song of life.

The rotting lovebetween the people,spreading root and sprouting:the song of life.

Tree growing out of seedthe climbers spreadingto each treeand blooming flowersthe song of lifewhich wanders the entire forest.


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82

Power of Faith

In places where we have respectthings follow usorders get passed;

people throng around like ants.

This place is the witnessthat the man has lived.

It is notthat it is mineor those who believe me are greatthis is the power of faith.

Time

I like the beedito arrange money for beediI must smoke the cigarette.


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83

Source of Fulfilment

If peoplehave faithin us

then somebodys cow gives milkand someone elses oxtills our field.

The field sows itselfand stands full for harvest,they stretch their armsand distribute grains and fruitstheir faces radiate with fulfilment.


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84

First Step of Creation

The master is a lame manwho cannot even stand;by the morsel given by mother

the first step of creation

before the student couldopen his eyesseeing his masters defeatthe master had won.

A Question of the Bowl

A student goesto his guruand begs him to teach poetry.

guru says:its beyond your ken,suddenly a thunderbolt strikesand the house of the guru is split into two.

The students who holds a bowlin the journey of lifesings his folksongswhen god doesnt protectthatguru will


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85

Mud Lamp

Ragi and paddy while sproutingand growing

stare at heaven;gathering thegolden crownof harvestthey bow to the ground.


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86

Drizzle Beneath the Palms Holding Water

How to catchthat far off moon?

beyond all our ritualshe has moved effortlesslyfor millions of years.

A childlifts water in its palms;the moon thatshines in itin a drizzle beneath the small hands

Lanky neck stretchesand without hesitation

drinksevery drop of the moonthe childs stomach turns into a sky.

The stars caught with the moonstand above the treesomeones sitting beneath itcurly haira faint smile on lipslips which have bloomedlike the petals of a rose

underneath his feet beasts have played;like light twirled and thrownaround ita fair of onlookersdrums, cymbals, tamboorithe festival of youth.


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87

Jogis Question

I was sitting in field;late dusksinging, a jogi entered the field

wondering from that distance who it washoy! I cried.That, for the protection of my fieldcould I simply let himenter my field?

Jogi lifting his iconic tambooriasked a question:Who is more shy, male or female?Standing in my field,he asks me a question!I took out the boomerang of speech

and sticking an answer in it, threw:saying female.

I hadnt expected at allbut from that sidean answer came,like forest rain which came without a signlike the flood which swallowed the village at midnight.

He screamed back:You are male

how did you answer, female?


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88

Wisdom

Till now no one has heardthe soundof any woman

speaking aloudin any epicor religion.

The wordsof woman charactersof Mahabharatasound like whisperscaught under the shadows of religion.

I understood Draupadi12by the fact that she dreamt of Karna.

If a woman roars aloudthen the helm of powermelts like candle,and kings and kingdoms flowtowards villages,fields and farms.

If we search historywe get thousands of biographies like these.Politics has the guts

to travel beyond religion and the puranas.For this reason, religionalways fears politics.But stillpolitics pretends as if it is the slaveof religion.

If religion has to become a pawnall this needs to be done politics knows that.

12Draupadi: the daughter of king Drupada and wife to all the five Pandavas. Karna the son of Kunti, themother of all the five Pandavas is disowned by his mother, which ultimately results in him being a part ofthe Kaurava faction: the arch-rivals of Pandavas.


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91

make people believewhat you say is true,if you cantby talking about your mothermake them forget theirs,

victory is yours!


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92

Water and Fire

A piece of roti for the hungryI stretch my hands,Oh God

make my hands longer.To carry orphanslot of strengthlot of life-forceis needed.

Im not the sinnerwho kills the henlaying golden eggs.Let my long handstouch you aloneIm the one cooked

in the fires of orphans hunger.

Has the rice cooked O Lord?Lift a grainand test my own self.13

13One grain of rice is enough to know whether the rice is cooked or not A common practice in cooking which has

become a popular folk idiom.


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93

Generation

Why are wandering paths forked into a thousand?In the same paths, our great grandparentswere searching for wet earth

till the day they died; holding seeds in palmsthey would sow when it rainedand sing the song of harvest.

Far away, a roaring seaa land beyond that,there, price of gold for seeds.Though my grand father and grand motherknew this fact since the day they were born,they never tried to step into that land.


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95

The Saga of Drunkenness

Politics is an artpolitician is a poet

The infinite creation born of lovethe aim of politics;the efforts which thinks beyond self,that labour, its home.

On the throne of powerdrunkenness of pridewelfare of people, the sacrificial lambnations progress, daily beheaded.

Centuries passingand centuries returning

past future present,the wheel of politics turnslike a compromise betweenearth and sky.


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96

Reflection of Darkness

Like the drop of poisonhidden in the beauty of snakes hoodin the intoxication of drunkenness

death is hiding

The pleasure of drinking doesnt kill meit kills the wife and childrenbitten by the snake of drinkinglifes ruined, come to dust

Inside the dense bamboo growththe bird of poor peoples breath is caught.And inside the sweating eyesthere is only the reflection of a moonless night.


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97

Prison Song

Since thousands of yearswith the sculpture of caste and creedwho built life-tombs?

Sweating from dawn to duskburning their pyre of dreamwho held the torchin the fire of their pain?

Earth, sky, air and lightour right, they laughedwho were they who went onboasting, Im superior, superior.

Earth, water and natural strengthits not ours, they cried

who were they who went onsuffering, feeling inferior and inferior.

In the village, in the townand in the glorious countryas the strength of creed is cryingevery mind is a prison house.

Where is that gurus homeeveryones native homewhich enters everyones life

and which keeps growing like time?


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98

The Song of Mother

A lake is not just a lakeit is the eye of the village.A lake is not just water

it is the granary of civilization.

As the field overflowslet our lives overflowbut chasing away rain, and cutting forestfilled the lake with silt.

It is not the lake thats coveredit is our lives come to dust.

Bearing with people and animalsthe mothers who take care of villages.

If the heart of these mothers overflowthe grains and the lentils fill with juice.


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99

Afterword

Kempavva

Avva

Kempavvahas opened her heartin her heart a cage-swallowedparrot flutters.

2

With the parrot inside she is speaking;like the sunflower fieldwhich looks at the sun in the morning.

3Every line of her wrinkled skinis a path in a dense forestin the folds of that paththe shadows of birdsflying in flocks,in the dimple of the cheekthe sound of the roar of the sea.

4The legs have gotten downsomewhere beneath the ground;

the face, high uphas disappeared somewhere in the skies.

5Using her shouldersshe is holding tight;from the never-drying wellshe has made me drinka handful of water.

6

My avvais the blue space which gives birth to stars,the drop of waterwhich has curled tightits thousand arms.


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Success Story of a Villager

Nagatihalli Ramesh is a proper village lad. About two decades back he lost his way into the city of

Bangalore like an orphaned calf. Though born into a well-to-do family, throughout his childhood he

had to experience humiliation, inferiority and ridicule of people. He lost his fathers support even

before he could come of age, and was shaped by the otherworldly-motherhood of his mother. Though initially neglected for his stammering, he overcame that through sheer effort and innate

talent. Hes someone who has mastered the art of spell bounding people with speech. During the

80s he won almost all the debating competitions in which he participated with the help of his exact

logic and eloquent speech, tempered with great presence of mind. On the streets of the rich city he

sold fruits and vegetables, and distributing newspaper to households, he built his life through his

own efforts. In moments of great despair he slept on railway tracks to find the ultimate solace. As

trains do not arrive on their scheduled time in our country, he survived.

Later he graduated in science and journalism, found flourishing ground in the shade of kind-hearted

men and grew into a tree. In the 90s to provide succour to the dreams and aspirations of village ladslike him, he started a magazine called Spardha Prapancha, and in spite of all hindrances, has been

running it for the past twelve years. He is the kind-hearted man who offers support and love to all

those dreamy lads who, orphaned, stumble into the great doors of Bangalore. His life itself is a

miraculous story.

K Y Narayanaswamy

The Sea and the Rain

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Transcript of The Sea and the Rain