Five poems by Satrughna Pandab have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das
SUMMER JOURNEY
Does this journey begin in summer?
After the mango buds go dry
And the koel’s voice trails away…
When simuli, palash and krishna chuda
Blaze in red?
Does it begin when the blood
After reveling in the festivities of flesh
Crosses over the bone-fencing
And gets cold,
When the burning soul yearns for
The fragrant and cool sandalwood paste?
And the soothing monsoon showers?
Where lies the destination --
At what border, which estuary,
Which desolate island of wordlessness?
The journey perhaps itself decides
The appropriate hour.
You embark upon this journey alone --
Without friends, without kins,
Without allies without adversaries.
You yourself are the mendicant here.
You are the violin, you too are the ektara.
You are the alms too.
And what are the alms after all?
At that ultimate point,
When the end would wear the
Garb of blue ascetism,
The scorch of summer
Turns to
Sandalwood paste,
Besmears the breath that
Leaves you overwhelmed
With its exotic fragrance.
A SKETCH OF FAMINE
The white wrap of the clouds
Is ripped into shreds.
The pieces are blown away in the wind.
The sky spreads out like
A grey cremation ground,
Where the sun, like some kapalika
Performs a tantric ritual
A sacrificial act,
And slits the throat of a virgin cloud --
Moon: The skull of a man just died,
Constellations: A crowd of beggars,
Night: A Ghost Land
Fissured farmlands: Human skeletons.
Flames leap.
Green vegetations char.
The blue of the sky turns ashy.
The tender earth
Lamenting its bruised honour
Sprawls in a pathetic, arid sprawl.
WAR (I)
(FROM KURUKSHETRA TO KUWAIT)
All the Dhritarasthras
Between Kurukshetra and Kuwait
Are blinded kings,
Pride boiling in their blood,
Not a single weapon misses the target
Each Ajatasatru fights another
Ceaselessly,
Neither of them returns from the battlefield,
The weapons have no ears for
The mantra of love
Or of brotherhood,
Nor does the blood recognise its kinsmen.
The battlefield does not care to know
Which warrior belongs to which camp.
Not a soul could be seen on the bank of
The bottomless river of blood
That flows across the battlefield
Desolate and forlorn.
And there is always an Aswatthama,
Ready with his Naracha, the iron arrow,
Awaiting the Parikshitas yet to be born.
AUTUMN
Is this river your body
Flowing, calm and pristine,
A translucent green?
Are the dazzling streamers of sunlight
Hanging from the sky of
Your glowing skin?
Are the rows of paddy fields
Stretching to the horizon,
Your sari?
Do you smell like the paddy buds?
Do the delicate murmur of the river waves
Or the cheery chirpings of the birds
Carry your voice?
The glimmering stars of the night --
Are they your ear-studs?
Do your eyes sparkle
Like those of some goddess?
Do you ever cry?
Really?
Are the dew drops clustering
On the grass your tears, then?
And the pool of blood under your
Lotus-like feet --
Whose blood is that?
Ripping apart the night
Coloured like the buffalo’s skin,
Your lotus-face gleams like stars,
My breath smells of the lotus, too.
A FAMILY MAN’S DAILY ROUTINE
The man stands
His back turned to the sun,
Or is it the wind?
A bare back, always
Rough hair, dry, windblown,
May be there is a hunch on his back,
Or, is it a load of some kind?
Heavy and sagging,
His toils do not show on his face.
He stands like a scarecrow,
Waving aimless, hollow hands
Warding off the emptiness
Around him, or the void within?
His face does not show it,
Or he does not have a face at all?
Just a headless body
Moves about here and there,
Brushing the dust off,
Mopping the sweat beads away.
The cracks on his palms and his heels
Could be seen, indistinct though.
There are, however, times, when
A face fixes itself to the headless torso,
When he comes to know
About the pregnancy of his unwed daughter,
Or, when he has to carry his dead son
Over his shagging shoulders,
The pair of eyes in that face look like marbles
Deadpan, stiff and blank.
How does a family man take it
When the harvest succumbs
To the tyranny of flood and famine,
When a dividing wall is raised
In the house or in the fields,
Does it matter to the family man?
May be,
A dagger rips his heart apart,
The pain does not show on the face.
Sometimes one can see something like
A basket on his back --
Who does the family man carry in that?
His blind parents? His kids?
Perhaps his name is Shravan Kumar
And he is on a pilgrimage,
Perhaps not!
He buries his already sinking feet
Some more under earth,
Beads of sweat shine like pearls on him.
His beards hang off his face,
Like the aerial roots of a Banyan tree,
Does he move on carrying
A dead sun on his back?
His face reveals not much.
Who does the man stand
Showing his bare back to?
To the sun or to the wind?
Who knows?
Nothing shows clear on the family man’s face.
Satrughna Pandab is a conspicuous voice in contemporary Odia poetry. A poet working with an aim to define the existential issues man is confronted with in all ages, he adopts a style that embodies traditionalism and modernity in a proportionate measure. Highly emotive and poignant, his poetry that reveals a fine synthesis of the experiences both individual and universal, are testimonies of a rare poetic skill and craftmanship. A recipient of the Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award, the Sarala Award, and several such accolades the poet has nine anthologies of poems and several critical and nonfictional writing to his credit.
Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit.
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