Muria Tribe, Bastar. Picture credit - Groundreport.in

(Translated by Gopika Jadeja and Pinali Vadher)
 

WHY DID HE NOT WRITE THAT?

(1)

She does not have any brightly coloured clothes other than a blue school uniform
The school library is full in the name of books
She has no book other than a Hindi textbook and a bilingual Gondi-Hindi book from Class Four
The pages of the book have not been turned in months
She has to go to embank beds in the fields, feed green grass to the goat and the cow
No, she has not heard any touching mythological Guru-Shishya tales
In fact, she has begun looking older than her age
Now she can be held responsible for any incident

(2)

The season of Tendu leaves is the festive season
Tying the knot of his lungi, he asks—
Who do you have at home?
Ma has left us. Baba is there, he drinks alcohol
Brother drives a taxi in the city
Everyone likes a girl bent over
while tying a bundle
The contractor who handed her four rupees instead of two
Had understood the girl’s pain
The stories of their lives, dependent on the circle of seasons, are full of myths
The girl does not know the proud history
Of her ancestor “Rajkumari Chameli Devi”
Indeed, she begins to understand responsibility
Her shoulders are now ready to bear a heavy weight

(3)

Paved roads are being built in her village
She doesn’t have a new dupatta
It is okay until she picks up a basket full of Mahua flowers
But while lifting a load with tagadi
Her short, blue skirt slips lower
The driver of the big truck laughs
places his hand on her waist and asks
Would you like a red skirt?
The stories of Shirin-Farhad have not reached her as examples
She keeps searching for a path to immortality
in the love and sacrifice of Jhutku-Mitki
She is prepared to be lured by the ruse to red

(4)

What else can be built in your village but a camp?
A uniformed man asks Phulo returning from the jungle with Basta leaves
She is startled
Her sweat-drenched body begins to tremble
She wants to take her bag back
Tightening his grip, he smiles
I have never tasted curry made with Basta
The taste of food cooked on the chulha is different
She has not seen a uniformed man fire a gun
Towards the city
The kaccha walls of her house are not decorated with muggu
But with banners, posters and slogans
Five rupees worth of glue, two rupees of chana, then rupees of soya chunks
If that is too much
Four rupees worth of salt, potatoes, onions, oil, that’s it
This is the extent of her life
Her body for breath is not a bad deal at all

(5)

He was a big author for a big publisher in the big city
He had come to the jungle to write an article on the social life of Adivasi women
What other pleasures
can jungle women have
He had written poems about their beauty
Their liveliness 
Their dance and their lyrical songs
He had tried once
to understand their inner world
All the women stripped naked and stood
Their roar so loud the pen slipped from his hands
Junglee women are more dangerous than their men
Did he write that?
Why did he not write that?

Translated from Hindi by Gopika Jadeja.
 

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A JUNGLE

These days,
I am not reading books.
I am reading the jungle,

Why the flowers of palash have withered—
I am searching for the reason in stories;
the jungle writes it in its autobiography.

Holding the hand of his beloved,
Autumn took her away—from that side
where a terrible fire had broken out.
On page number 2020,
the jungle writes somewhere:
a thirsty deer,
wandering in search of water.
It tastes even more delicious
when roasted in the jungle’s fire.
Its body, just a handspan left—
What does the deer know
about important discourses?
Whether it is—
the deer’s thirst,
the deer’s death,
or the deer’s meat?

Somewhere in between,
there is a mention
of loss of life and property.
What kind of loss?
Just the same old herbs,
turned to ash.
The fruits, once guarded
from crows and cuckoos—
now burnt
along with the tender bamboo shoots.
The crackling of farewell songs echoes,
as they part ways.
There were such species—
sunken deep in the green well—
in whose bodies
only a hiccup remained,
just enough
to write the last lines
of a civilisation.
While writing for children,
the jungle starts murmuring—
"The jungle is on fire—run, run!"
The ones who run
are those whose wounds
are smeared
with the jungle’s soil.
Children love
to form trains in the crowd,
singing this song
while they flee.
Even now,
they don’t forget
to sing it while playing.
What do children know
about important discourses?
The jungle’s fire,
The jungle’s race,
or the jungle’s death?
At the end of page 2021,
the jungle pens
its autobiography carefully.
Those poems must be written
on vanishing species—
rabbits, owls, tigers, and anteaters.
Some work should be done
on a character sketch
of the jungle in stories.
Seeds, soil, fruits and flowers,
air and water—
they have their own
discourse on creation.
On the final page,
just this was written:
Whenever
the jungle animals
wish to return—
don’t let them be disappointed.
This is not a fire
on the laptop screen.
Here, there is a real fire
in the jungle—
Run, run!

Translated from Hindi by Pinali Vadher