selected

poems of
AMRITA PRITAM

a dialogue calcutta publication e

 SELECTED POEMS
OF
AMRITA PRITAM

edited by Pritish Nandy and translated from the original Panjabi by

Khushwant Singh, Krishna Gorowara, Suresh Kohli, Charles Brasch,
Prabhakar Machwe, Mahendra Kulashrestha and Amrita Pritam

ex:
Dialogue Calcutta Publications
 POEMS BY AMRITA PRITAM

TO WARIS SHAH
Speak from the depths of the grave,
to Waris Shah I say
and add a new page to your saga of love
today.
Once wept a daughter of Punjab,
your pen unleashed a million cries.
a million daughters weep today,
to you Waris Shah they turn their eyes.
Awake, decry your Punjab,
O sufferer with those suffering I
Corpses entomb the fields today,
the Chenab is flowing with blood.
Mingled with poison by some,
are the waters of five rivers.
and this torrent of pollution,
unceasingly covers our earth.
And heavy with venom were the winds,
that blew through the forests,
transmuting into a snake,
The reed of each musical branch.
With sting alter sting did the serpents
suppress the voice of people.
A moment, so brief, and the limbs of Punjab turned blue
Threads snapped from their shuttles
and rent the songs at the throat.
silenced was the spinning wheel's hum,
severed from their gatherings, the women.
Branches heavy with swings.
cracked from peepul trees,
boats laden with trappings,
loosened from anchors to sink.
Despoilers of beauty and love,
each man now turned a Kedu
where can we seek for another I ike
Waris Shah today ?
Only you can speak from the grave,
Dialogue Calcutta publications are edited by Pritish Nandy and published by
Rina Nandy from 5 Pearl Road, Calcutta 17, India and are printed at to Waris Shah I say
mudranika 29/3, Nirmal Chunder Street, Calcutta. add another page to your epic of love
Copyright O Amrita Pritam today.
Rs. 1O in India and S 4 elsewhere. (translated by Amrita Pritam)
THE ANNUNCIATION What kind of wheat did I harvest ?
I put it in a sieve, separated grain from chaff
All a-tremble she awoke My platter was aglitter with stars.
Smoothed with her hand the creased coverlet
Blushed, covered her bare shoulders with her crimson veil
One evening in the month of May
And glanced at the man lying beside her.
In the gloom of twilight
Timidly she stroked the white bedsheet
A strange sound I heard. What was it ?
And began to tell him her dream :
A surge of melody over land and sea
Was it Maya's fancy, self's delusion ?
"Remember the January night I slipped my foot into the stream ? Was it the Lord's hymn of creation ?
Freezing cold it was but the water warm.
An aroma of incense filled the air.
What could not be came to pass.
Was it the fragrance of musk rising from my navel ?
1 touched the water, it turned to milk.
I was seized with terror
It was a miracle. I bathed in milk.
I followed the ethereal sounds into the woods
Near Talwandi, is there such a stream ?
Did the music have a meaning ?
Or is it all my fancy, all a dream ?
Did the dream have a meaning ?
The moon floated on the bosom of the water ;
This music and this dream.
I cupped my hands, scooped it up and drank it down.
How much of them are for me ?
Waters of the stream coursed in my veins
How much for someone else ?
The moon quickened within my womb.
I was like a wounded doe ;
I put my ears against my belly
In February's bowl I mix the seven colours of the rainbow To catch the sound."
Not a word escaping my lips
(But in my mind I muse)
It was the month of June
This thing within me will one day be warm with life When her eyes opened,
Within me a bird hath made its nest. Softly as the flower opens its petals.
What prayers should I say ? Gently as the dawning of the day,
What penances perform ? "My life's streams are fed by bewitched water
Might a mother-to-be have vision of God within her ? I dreamt I saw a swan alig.ht upon them
And when I woke I felt the flutter of its wings
The cravings of early pregnancy Within my womb."
Restless palpitation of the heart
I will myself to work : to sit before the churn I see no man near me
And fancy that milk is churned into butter.
Nor any tree above
I dip my hand in the pitcher
Wherefrom came this coconut in my lap ?
And shape the butter into a part of sun-gold.
I split the shell ;
What had united us two into one ? People came for the kernel
What destiny hath brought us together ?
And the sweet juice of the unripe fruit.
Such were my dreams in the month of March.
I poured some into drinking bowls,
I performed no ritual.
From me to the womb within me Chanted no magic abracadabra,
Yawns a dream-distance of space. No mantra said, no evil warded off,
My soul falters, Yet the multitudes flocked to my door.
My heart trembles, Each one a sliced nut I gave and was left with more;
April is harvest time. What species of coconut was this?
How bizarre a dream was this THE CREATIVE PROCESS
With strings stretching into eternity ?
The poem looks at the paper. soon
Turns away
Rain-soaked July I As if the paper's an unfamiliar man.
I press my bosom
Milk-like coconut juice oozes out of my breasts But just as a maiden keeps a karva fast
What new miracles hath the month of August in store for me ? And dreams that night :
All that passed was passing strange ; Some male part touches her
Who will stitch the clothes And in dream her body quivers.
For this child within me 7 But at times, enjoying the excitement,
Spool in basket I spun all hours of the night Startled, she wakes,
Strings that shone hke rays of light. Touches her ripe breasts,
Unbuttons her blouse,
Came the month of September Sees her naked self
And the awakening, painful and yet joyous. And looking at her naked self,
•My dear soul I for whom spinnest thou Hesitates, a painful hesitation, though.
This yarn so lovingly 7 The darkness of the body spreads like a carpet
From the sky it's gossamer warp On which she reclines obversely,
From the sun its gilded woof Plucks its straws
This thing called truth And each part of her body smou Iders.
How is it woven into a garment ?' The darkness of her body dawns on her
I made obeisance to my belly To melt in an unflinching embrace.
And knew what my dreams had meant.
Suddenly a paper appears
And touches her trembling lips,
"The child is neither thine nor anyone else's
One part burns,
It is a time-less yogi
One part melts,
Spurred by its own mood to turn this way
She smells a strange odour
For a moment tarried to warm his hands And her hand sees the carved lines
Before the sacred fire In my womb."
That appear on her body.

October brings my faith to its fulncss The hand is tired,

Fulfils the dreams of o life-time The body is strange.
The burning embers within me burst into flame Drops of perspiration appear on the forehead,
My body becomes a fire-lit torch. A long line breaks
Ho someone I Send for the midwife, old Mother Earth And the breath is moistened by the
Is come upon me. I am ready to give birth. Intermingling odour of birth and death.
As if all these thin black straps
(translated by Krishna Gorowara and Khushwant Singh)
Are pieces of a long cry.
Quiet and astonished; squeezed, she sees...
Thinks of the injustice done I
Some portion of her has died
Perhaps I ike the abortion of a maiden I

(translated by Suresh Kohli)

 A VIRGIN
OEDIPUS
One married,
The other a maiden, both equally pure.
On one side of the line lies my sin
I wasn't alone but a combination of the two
On the other side of the line lies my punishment.
When I approached your bedstead.
l was to kill, I was to finish
I thought this smell of my mother's milk The maiden. the virgin for your endurance.
Was purity itself l did kill
But sucking her breast at once my lips were tainted. It was a murder which is legal
Only the embarrassment is illegal.
Whatever I said And having drunk the venom of embarrassment
With the first murmur of my lips I saw my hands, at dawn, in blood.
Has become a lie today. I washed them,
Just as one would wash the smelling organs.
In deep night But when I confronted the mirror
The womb was mine alone. I saw her standing across-
Now darkness has melted. One I thought I killed last night.
Oh God, was the darkness of the bed so profound 7
Whom was I to kill, whom did l kill.
The black snake of daylight
Has bitten my flesh, (translated by Suresh Kohli)
The poison is spreading through all my limbs.

In the foreignness of my eyes WORDS/MEANINGS

l look for my own familiar look, l encircled the meanings with an arm of words
A look ashamed of itself To protect the nudity.
The words do not stop at any length.
A look afraid to dream They do not lift their eyes onto me
And afraid not to dream, For they have turned, raping the meanings,
It cannot look me in the face. They are embarrassed.

(translated by Suresh Kohli)

Perhaps all my life
I must dip my hands in the strange flesh of bodies
Seeking the love I knew at first.
MEETING THE SELF

In permitted and forbidden flesh My bed is ready for you

I shall find the sweetness of that love
But take off your body
And the rankness of that love.
Like you did with your shirt and shoes
Keep it on the stool
Why does this curse weigh on me 7
It doesn't matter
On one side of the line lies my sin Every land has its own customs
On the other side of the line lies my punishment.
(translated by Mahendra Kulashrestha)
(translated by Charles Brasch)
YOU DO NOT COME TIME AND AGAIN
Spring is waking and stretching its arms,
A book on the loft, I am
Flowers weave their silk threads
A bunch of scriptures. maybe ;
For the festival of colours.
Or a booklet of prayers,
You do not come.
A chapter of the Kamasutra,
Or a prescription for venereal diseases.
Afternoons grow long
I realize nothing out of these.
Red has touched the grapes
(Someone would have read had I been one.)
Sickles are kissing the wheat.
You do not come.
... A meeting of revolutionaries -
Clouds are gathering, A resolution was passed -
Earth opens its hands to drink I am a script of that.
The bounty of the sky. The police seal upon it ...
You do not come. The resolution could not be implemented.
And now lies preserved for reference.
Trees murmur enchantment,
Airs from the woodland wander Sparrows with straws in their beaks come,
With lips full of honey. Sit on my breast and fear the next generation
You do not come. (How beautiful is the fear of generations !)
Sparrows have wings for action,
Seasons wear their beauty, Resolutions have no wings
Night sets on its brow (Or else resolutions have no generations).
A diadem of moon.
You do not come. Sometimes I reckon
To smell the whereabouts of my future.
Again the stars tell me
That in my body's house
My binding loosens in fear.
A candle of beauty still burns.
In an attempt to smell something
You do not come.
I smell a bird's frozen shit.
All the sun's rays vow Oh my earth's future
That light still wakes I am your present state ..•
From the death sleep of night. (translated by Suresh Kohli)
You do not come.
(translated by Charles Brasch)
A HANGOVER
DEMOCRACY
Like tinkling of empty bottles.
abuse growing in abundance The newspaper cuttings sound.
one can eat it as much as he likes My throat dries
and fill his bucket for future use Without a drink :
The body exhausted
he may even chew its cud Like a hangover
in his spare time Of the previous night's drunk dreams.
(translated by Mahendra Kulashrestha) (translated by Suresh Kohli)
THE SCAR OF A WOUND THE TRAVELOGUE OF THIRST

From the aqua of the Ganges to Vodka

When they forced my mother's womb Stretches the travelogue
I came as every child must come : Of my thirst.
I am the mark of that blow, A simple treatment
Violation bade me grow ; Of a divine birth, an undivine action.
In my country's agony An attempt to see a loverly face
They seared my mother's brow with me In a glass spilling-
When they forced my mother's womb. A need to forget a wound of the body
Which does not belong to me.
I am the curse of man today. How triangular these stones are
Time's wound cries out in me ; Which like a draught of bitter medicine
Sun and moon hid their light I have gulped down my throat.
And stars fell dead in thick night Many futures have I from the present saved
When they forced my mother's womb. Perchance the present too has been from the present saved.

A thought disturbs,
I am the scar of that wound Often it has disturbed,
That in my mother's body burned, Has suddenly pierced into the breast
I am the shame she nursed within. Of some tune from the bow of a guitar-
The stench and loathsomeness of man, One which a piano chews
The sign of torment she must bear Beneath its white and black teeth-
As her body's lasting wear. Like someone gulping a draught of death-
Terrified ...
Strange fruit ripened on the tree And then in no time vomit
Of Independence - look and see At the feel of it.
When they forced my mother's womb. But some breaths do live in even
The breasts that are quiet
(translated by Charles Brasch) And with the apnoea today I can say
That every travel begins from where
All travelogues end.

THE MAN From the aqua of the Ganges to Vodka

Stretches the travelogue
Of my thirst.
I have earned a lot
And spent even more, (translated by Suresh Kohli)
What remains
A DOCUMENT
Is my capital :
With a cover of the
Sun and the moon, the earth
A quarter of Hitler
Is a beautiful book.
A quarter of Christ
But starvation, poverty and slavery ..
A quarter of Manu
God. are these your sermons
And a quarter of Majnu
Or simply printing errors 7
(translated by Mahendra Kulashrestha) (translated by Suresh Kohli)
HAND-READING IMAGE

The line of faithfulness Stone God

No one knows how to read it All your senses are frozen
I know there is a line of faithfulness And never melt.
On my hand Your blood has been sleeping for centuries
The line of faithfulness. And still does not stir.

I don't know how to define it Women burning in beauty come

How to tell To bend low
What its limits are Before your dark rigid limbs,
How far thought should be free to stray They touch your stone feet
And at what point danger lies. With silken fingers
And bow vivid heads
How much nearness of other's lip Intoxicated with life.
How much intimacy of talk
How much warmth of hands The honey smell of their breath
Goes with the notion of faithfulness ? And the trailing smoke
The line of faithfulness. Drawn up from their incense
Do not rouse you to feel.
How can one deepen it
And strengthen it Delicate figures without number
When so many promises Moonlike beautiful faces
Cross one's lips - Narcissus eyes
As if words could measure it I Incline before your dark figure
Like snakes
I know there is a line of faithfulness That coil round the sandalwood tree.
On my hand
It may be invisible Your lips are still thirsty
But I can see it For this adoration
It is the long one, deep one After centuries.
On my small hand Generations of youth withered away,
Soft young arms that adored you
And there are five fingers Faded. dried up.
Five senses Cups of life in thousands
Five gods You drank
To witness But you are still thirsty.
The line of faithfulness
I, a small part
(translated by Charles Brasch)
Of that offering
I, your devotee
Will burn for a while
And burn out,
I, a small part
Of that offering.
Do you know how many 1, THE PUBLIC
Skins of touches
Have formed on your feet Queens I see every day :
And how many lips have shrivelled up With bracelets on their wrists
Kissing your feet? And feet tied to anklets of law.
Myrtle for their palms
I make every day
Baffled, I surrender, Without a word.
My virgin lips I am virtuous,
Kiss your feet that thousands have kissed. Imitation is bad. I know.
(translated by Charles Brasch)
The bed-fellow is the same,
The bed is different.
UNION AND SEPARATION What should I endure :
The bed of darkness
The springs of tears from our eyes flow. Or the darkness of the bed ?
In this valley of white crust My womb bears a child,
This valley where nothing can grow. Not an inheritor.
My children are obedient, virtuous
All lovers are cursed They know demanding right is evil.
No beauty wins
All nights stand witness My children spend
For the waiting eyes, gazing at the stars. Their youth patiently
And then serve
The players of this drama change. Some jewel of the nation.
They stage the play retold
But the tale is the same
I, the public
The tragic tale of old.
Spend the age without a word.
Understand the eye's signal :
I know this. yet I wish A good keep of a nation.
Your love to last till life
To get some boon by luck (translated by Suresh Kohli)
Lest your words be lost.

None was ever so severed

MARTIN LUTHER KING
None so met, it appears
Union and separation ... both together. Your essence is dead.
Tears embrace tears. I say nothing of her shaking hands,
(translated by Prabhakar Machwe) blue lips and swollen eyes,
I say only this :
I've seen the corpse while being bathed,
There was a poem in the womb.

(translated by Mahendra Kulashresthra)

 IMROZ AN HOUR AND A HALF LONG MEETING
A canvas
Is spread An hour and a half long meeting
On the easel before me Like a patch of cloud
Stitched to the sun
It seems
Did I my best to remove
As if the patch of colour
But in vain ; nothing emerged.
Stuck to the canvas
Who has stitched this patch
Swings
On the sun's red, red shirt 7...
Like red cloth
And the beast in the man An hour and a half long meeting
Raises its horn Like a sentry stands at the crossroads
Aims it to strike Today. And the inflow of thoughts, my thoughts
And every street, alley and lane He stops with a mere sign of his hand.
Forms the ring God knows what I whispered and
And Spanish passion God knows what He heard ...
Rages
In my Panjabi veins- An hour and a half long meeting.
The myth of Goya I think like an aadivasi woman
Bull-fighting That I should light up a chilam and
Till death Smoke the tobacco of one and a half hour
In one puff, mixed with fire.
(translated by Mahendra Kulashrestha) Before my senses relinquish
And turn towards a wrong route,
PRAYER Before the sun bursts
Set in the lap of young night While struggling to pull off the clouds,
A white coconut-moon Before the memories of a meeting
Turn into an idea of hatred ...
And for dates a handful of stars.
And set in the lap of young pain One and a half hour's smoke
For coconut the heart's wound
Which the air and myself in proportions may inhale,
And for dates a few tears.
Before its thought comes to your or my lips,
The east is preparing its cradle, Before your or my ears refuse
Its eternal cradle. To listen to it,
Night is pregnant with the sun. Before the fair sex brings humiliation to men,
Lips are preparing their cradle, Before man causes humiliation to women,
Their eternal cradle. Before this, before that.
Pain is pregnant with song. (translated by Suresh Kohli)
Sky, the ancient sage
Is taking the pulse of night,
The pulse of pain.
Midwife earth is praying
That night may never be barren
And pain never be barren.
(translated by Charles Brasch)
 MEMORY NOT TODAY
The sun was rather uneasy today
I always do the right thing
It opened the window of light,
But not today
Then it closed the cloud-window,
I always do what people ask
Then it descended the staircase of darkness.
But not today-
Beads of sweat hung No !
On the brows of the sky : In Nilchander Valley
It undid the star-buttons Where nothing grows old
And took off the moon-shirt. Nothing changes
Flawless
I was sitting in a corner by myself,
Starless
Your memory came to me
Like a thick and bitter smoke Stormless
From a wet log. The blood in my hot veins ,s rebellious
I want to see a storm
And with it came a hundred thoughts Passionate as my blood
As red sighs of fire Giant hills
Come from a dry log. Demonic stones
Both logs I have quenched now. I want to see the clouds
Breaking their heads
The coals of years are scattered
And I want to see deep gulfs
Some I could quench and some not :
Like the gulfs of sin
When time tried to sweep them up
I want to see the clouds
Its finger-tips got burnt.
Fall into those gulfs
The cooking pot slipped from your fingers Their limbs shattered
And broke: I don't like pure blue sky.
We had invited history to a feast I always do the right thing
And it has gone away hungry. But not today.
(translated by Charles Brasch)
I know society has a loud voice
But my purse is full
I can buy the voice ;
SOBHA SINGH
I know religion will be outraged
I would cast a net But I shall bow my head for a while
In the sea of darkness And it will be appeased.
To catch a few fish
A few rays I know something will cry in my soul
But the entire sun But psychology will find me an explanation
Is held in it And keep my soul quiet.
And with its weight
The net is drowning I always do the right thing
My arm is drowning But not today.

(translated by Mahendra Kulashrestha) ( translated by Charles Brasch )