Shantha,
There you are,
After a bath, wearing wet clothes,
Removing the knots from your hair
And combing it back with
A middle parting,
Slowly moving the hands
wearing bangles,
indifferently applying kohl to your eyes,
Putting a black mark on your forehead
Light the tip of your blossoming, glorious smile
Come near me and say four or five sweet words
Like the twilight devotional hymns addressed
To Goddess Lakshmi,
so simple and yet beautiful,
Let your words fill the air
May your eyes shine like the camphor lamps
May your words have the fragrance of Kasturi
Touch me with the tips of your fingers,
Caress my chest and wake up my inner being
Think we do not have another special twilight time
There is nothing left but one half of the night
Still, let us give meaning to that moment which
Comes as a surprise and make it special, glowing,
The raw firewood which refuses to burn
You kneel next to the fireplace, blowing, blowing
To get the fire going
Your eyelids swollen, your eyes filled with smoke,
Brimming with hot tears
The scattered ashes clinging to the strands of Windblown hair
The black soot smudge as you wiped your nose
With the palm of your hand
Below your hunched shoulders, a dirt and sweat mixture
And beneath that, three inch long scratches
In between your armpits your black blouse soaked in perspiration, the
small
tears showing,
All these I see
Shantha, let us forget
And make the few moments we have, our own
Let us sit in this small courtyard
And share the beauties of the wide sky
I shall look and sing
About the mountain, the elephants cannot climb,
a mountain, which cannot be scaled by humans too, where a thousand
flowers
bloom and fall down
And a deer that jumps from the sky
This is what I would sing:
“A thousand flowers bloomed and fell
on the mountain insurmountable by elephants
as well as human beings
A deer jumped from the skies
A sliver of moon on the horns of the deer
Deer with moon on horns,
Deer with moon on horns,
Prepare sandalwood paste and
Move rhythmically
Move with rhythm in this small courtyard
Dance around my Shantha”
What?
No water to drink, not even to have s bath
You haven’t bathed the children as there
Was no water?
Where are they?
The children covered with dust
In this heat, without a bath, tired
Have they gone to sleep?
Are they the ones who are humming
and groaning
the children who do not know
the hows and whys of the world
Seeing the children thus exhausted
The withering mango trees on the wayside
Asked me:
“Traveler, where are you going?
To the heart of that village, afflicted
By the heat and tiredness?
Why are you going to a place,
caught by the bad fate
Of having not even the shadow
Of a crow’s legs?”
I replied:
“Shantha is there, waiting for me
like water that springs even
in the worst desert of bad fate,
Don’t you hear her scolding the children
Who wait and listen with sharp ears,
to my footsteps
‘Unruly children, let your father come,
you will get a sound beating’
What about children who sleep tired,
Not even getting sound beatings
Has our well too dried up?
All the wells have dried up,
The ponds, the small rivulet and the river
Have gone dry
I saw the boatman, who has no work
Sitting on the split mast of the boat
lifted and stationed on the banks
Her face buried between his legs
His eyes unblinking, stuck on the sharp edges of
The dried up sand on the river banks
He has forgotten to greet and make small talk
As soon as I came I saw
The cucumber plants, you planted and tended
With water drawn from the well,
Fallen on the ground, unable to spread the creepers
Even the moistness of the fields have dried up
No welcome croaking of the frogs
Those frogs who cry and croak
And force the rain to come
What happened to them?
They might have died sitting
In the crevices of the ridges
Separating the fields
The moment I came I saw
People with leaf buckets and pots
Crowding round the
Dried up water source
At Kanhirappara
They were cursing each other
And showering four letter words
Folks who think that the
Next person was responsible
for their not getting water,
Shouting at each other,
their throats go dry
Then they cough and coughing
Continue scolding others
As the cough and shouting
Ger stuck in their throats
Then they sit down on the ground
Holding their beads in their hands
Look
Even the sources of air are dead
The trees don’t move
The roots which went searching for water
Must have roamed aimlessly below the ground
And got destroyed
How long can they survive
Drinking the salt water of the ground below
The beetles have pushed aside the anthills
And swarmed out
Take one beetle in your hand and look at it carefully
Not one of them has an underbelly
With the hue of the rain cloud
Let me press my ears to your heart and listen
Let me soak in the wisdom of your fragrance
Let me drink the seduction of your smile
My woman, let us become one and melt together
Then, we can cut open the forehead of this desperation
And unfold a lotus flower,
Then, we can run from one open petal to another and perspire, turn
into the
colourful dreams of perspiration we can once again melt and go up,
As the sound of the clouds, as the rain,
And seep through the pores of earth’s air
Come,
Come like the eternal green contentment
Come as the river which is filled with love
Come as the pain, come as the strength,
Come as the Truth, come as my life’s music,
Come as the music of the universe,
Oh, Shantha,
The last lap of twilight is like the corpse
which crawls towards the severed head,
The eight directions with their mouths twisted in pain,
I am not able to look at anything
Here everything is ugly
Even in my inner mind as the good visions come
Crouching like thieves
They run away, stealing what little comfort remains
What is there to see, what is there to hear,
The eyes that flounder and fall on top of various sights
The disobeying ears that rush behind all kinds of sounds
The tongue which is ensnared
in the prison of different tastes
The nose which is open to all smells
The skin which sucks all touches and fries them
The mind which absorbs the needed and the unneeded
The bird which flies round and round
over the mind
All, these, making us go through experiences.
Look at this sky like
A face, made ugly with pock marks
The eyelids covering the blind eyes alone move
every now and then
There is no hearty laugh, no happy news
Only the groan emanating from lame dogs
Far away, on top of a hill stool a flowering forest, caressed by a kind
smile
ln its shade, did we not sit, our eyes
glued to each other
Caressing the body of a small bud which sprouted,
indulging in Occasional love quarrels
pierced by a honeyed thorn and drinking the fullness
Of light
Don’t you remember sitting on the white sands
of the banks of the river,
which kept pleating its waves
and like a mischievous child
writing something and then rubbing it off
At night time, we ourselves turned into dreams,
along with the dreams which slept on the rocks
The mornings came, we heard the sounds of children collecting
flowers, and
smacked the taste of fruits
that are sweet thoughts
Drinking in the seduction of the forest we turned into magic colours
And spread our peacock’s wings and danced in a glow,
Happy dances filled with beauty
Fast movements, merging of colours, fast joining of feet,
The madness of quickening breath
The body melting and turning into
the rhythm of climaxing Tandava,
the intense burning desire of the river
In the end, the rosy dawn slipped and merged with
the banks of the river
Like the non-smelling air that comes from a sigh
Did we not wait, our ears alert,
for the same rosy dawn
Blossom once again, like a new dawn,
like an eye filled with surprise
Like the seduction of a forest,
Arise in my blood vessels
Arise like the infinite peace of the skies
Flow into me like the comforting Ganges
Come, Shantha,
like the awakening stream of music
From the prison of disgust,
From the inner verandahs fuming with anger,
From the small pox of words and looks,
From the illusion of mirrors,
From the threat of the clock,
From the distinctions of positions
From the assault of letters and figures
Stealing a moment, hoping for redemption,
I have come near you
Why are you so detached?
We have to search for enthusiasm
In memories or awakenings
You are not even perspiring,
There is not even the wetness of your perspiration
To cool my lips
Send a sigh at least and break
This detachment
I know everything,
I know that the son of the neighbour widow
Ran away in a fit of madness
I even know that the girl
Who used to run around like a lamb
Drank poison and died,
The houses where the hearths are not lit
Destroyed in a burning fire,
that too I know
The axe turning backwards and
piercing the wood cutter himself
I know that too,
I also know about the snippets of stories,
About young boys
Who turned and fled from the arrows that hit them
Unaware, unable to say anything’
During the heroic acts of old kings who indulge in new
Hunting games
I also saw the parents waiting for their son
Who went in search of water to quench thirst
I saw the dead corpses scattered and
putrefying in this village
As there were no one to burn them
Like a black cloth, detachment
Has smothered this village
Please release at least a sigh
And break this detachment
Please sweat over this dry silence
Child, nothing will be alike any time
Something may happen sometime,
Breaking open the black rocks, the sources of water
May begin to flow
So, let us at least talk to each other
Let us laugh, otherwise cry, or
Exchange meaningless words
If we cannot do any one of these,
We may also decay like the
Heart of this village
The putrefying corpses will
Be scattered all over the village
Our corpses’ decaying smell
Will lay eggs in our own noses
From those eggs the whores of destruction
Will bloom and descend
In our impure blood they will dance and grow
So, let us try to have a conversation
Let us break the black husk of silence
And get out
Let us protest against detachment
Oh, we are lying under this black palm tree
Our legs imprisoned in the iron chains
all that we see, hear and know
is done through the links of these chains
My woman, I am seeing even you
Through these chains
Emit a sigh at least and
Break this leg chain
Oh, the wet heat of your sigh
Has just caressed my face
The drops of perspiration
Have sprung on your forehead
I can hear your heart beats.
The wholesome woman,
With beautiful eyebrows
The woman who has been
shaped out of black leaves
You wake up, wake up
Wear the lightning on your
Cloud black hair
Have your long eyes filled
With rays of light,
Wearing palm leaf ornaments
In your ears
Sporting stone garlands on your neck
Come, enter
Katammanitta temple
Wake up, you wake up
Climbing the netherworld steps,
The army of parayas is coming
Moving to the rhythm bursting from the Para
Here comes the army of Parayas singing
Wholesome woman, the one with
Beautiful eyebrows
The woman who was born on the
Forest tree
Come,
To enter the Kadammanitta temple
In the empty stomach of the caverns of despair
Shedding its skin, the fire serpent raises its hood and dances
In the heart of the field awaiting the rainfall
The sound of the small drum resonates
Panting from waiting for the tender shoot,
the banana tree shrieks in a loud voice
wholesome woman, the river of water,
woman who disturbed the black palm tree,
Wake up, you wake up
To enter Kadammanitta temple
Translated from Malayalam by Vasanthi Sankaranayanan
Translator’s Note
Born on March 22, 1935 in a small village Kadammanitta in Southern Kerala, Kadammanitta Ramakrishnan graduated from Changanassery College in 1958 and migrated to Kolkata in search of a job. He was an auditor in the Postal Accounts Department from the year 1959 to 1967. He stayed in Madras as a bachelor and later as a married man, involved in Trade Union work and other hobbies such as reading and writing. Meeting with M. Govindan, a significant writer and critic of Malayalam Literature was a landmark in his life. He continued writing perms throughout that period. From 1967 he lives and works in Thiru- vananthapuram. He has won for his poems awards such as The Asan Prize and the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award. His wife is Shantamma and children Gitadevi and Gitakumar. His poems are influenced by folk themes and tunes and the myths and legends of Kerala villages.
The poem “Shantha” appears in an anthology of Kadammanitta Ramakrshnan’s published by D.C. Books, Kottayam, in the year 1993. Those of us who know Kadammanitta and his background are aware that this poem is addressed to his wife “Shantha”. We know of male poets, novelists and short story writers who have written through their chosen form of literature. euologies to their ‘lovers”. The term “lovers” should be carefully examined and analyzed. lnvariably, it signifies “romantic love”, a love which excites the imagination, expressions of lyrical beauty and feelings of tenderness and passion. Often, it is a case of “forbidden love” or ’unattainable love”. The male psyche and the male definition of love has instilled into us that it is the ideas of danger and adventure implicit in the forbidden love and the tragedy in which unattainable love ends that adds poignancy to the emotion of love. Following this argument, the male aesthetics has divided love into two kinds – the romantic love which they secretively nourish for the “forbidden and unattainable love” the recipient of which is the “other” woman, or the mistress. The second type of love is contained, sane, more lasting, but on the whole lacking colour, passion and adventure which is for the woman, who is needed to sustain familial relationships, the woman who has to take care of and share the unpleasant chores of life, the wife, the wife who is a permanent fixture, a person whom one can take for granted, a person to whom one can always come back when one is weary of the stresses of life or the pangs of unrequited love. Following this argument, the creative as well as the ordinary male has found a formula for relationships with women—the mistress to excite the creative urges, and the wife to sustain the familial duties. Elsewhere, I have called this tendency as the “one man, two women syndrome”.
This elaborate explanation of the male definition of his relationships with women has been given to show how Kadammanitta in his famous poem has veered away from this oft-followed principle and created a new kind of love poem, a love poem addressed to the wife. Here, the recipient of the romantic as well as familial love is one and the same person, the wife, Shantha. It is very non-patriarchal attitude- the finding of creative as well as practical fulfilment in one person, one relationship, one woman. In doing so, he has wiped off the wife/mistress distinction and has paid homage to the woman and her undying spirit. The poet or the man is not only aware of the hardships the wife undergoes in doing the household chores – the cooking of food, the looking after and caring of children – he appreciates without a feeling of superiority or smugness the value of these sacrifices. Doing these chores does not in any way diminish her charm and attraction for him as a life partner. In fact, even when the surroundings have lost their beauty and peace on account of the urbanisation and commodification, he finds comfort, solace and inspiration from the presence of his wife, Shantha. The very meaning to life, the hope of life is his attraction and love for Shantha. The love he feels for Shanta does not arise out of a sense of duty or necessity. It arises from the romantic past he has shared with her and which has sustained his creative energy at all times. In fact it is the romantic memories of a shared past that energises him. The poet is thus erasing the duality of patriarchal love for women (the wife/mistress syndrome) and is actively imploring the wife to participate in his creative endeavours.
He does not shut her out of his creative realm and thus create a wedge between his creative life and ordinary life. For him the creativity stems from a thousand little events that form part and parcel of the daily life. This linking of the creative life to the ordinary life and emphasising that it is the ordinary life which gives inspiration to the creative life demystifies the whole male idea of “romantic love” which in any case is outdated, and looks upon life as a whole, pulsating, emerging and on the whole optimistic experience.
The poet links his life, his relationship with his wife, that of love, happiness and creativity to his village, Kadammanitta. He is very rooted in his attachment to his village life and its salutary points. He decries the meaninglessness of modern life, where children do not have enough water to drink or bathe, the air itself is polluted and suffocating, withering all forms of life, including those of plants, and dries up all sources of life and energy.
He is also protesting against detachment, for him it is the death of passion, the death of creativity, the death of life itself. He does not see any virtue in that. It is a form of indifference to life and therefore avoidable. He is very modern in his outlook and is perhaps raising his voice against asceticism, negation of life which is a part and parcel of ritualistic Hinduism. He compares Shantha to the Devi (Mother Goddess) of Kadammanitta temple. Through this linking he is establishing the connection between the Earth, the Goddess or Eternal Woman, to the living personification or representation of both, the woman in his life, his life partner, the source of all his inspiration, his wife.
Rarely has a man given such undiluted attention, importance, respect and love to his wife through his creative efforts. lt is not just a dedication to his wife, but a dedication to all women, who are wives, mothers, lovers and muses. Therefore, I see in this poem a real respect for the woman and thereby an underscoring of the feministic principles. The language used in this poem is lyrical, but not obtuse or inaccessible. lt has a flow of its own like a slow village brook which goes at its own pace, occasionally hitting a stone and bursting into a spray of water. The simplicity is also attributable to the fact that the feeling or emotion behind the poem is far more important than the twists and turns of language to arouse “linguistic curiosity”. Language is just an instrument to express feelings and when feelings are so genuine and beautiful it finds its own language and pace. It is a poem which can be recited dramatically or even sung. The emotions are intense and universal. Therefore, from a content as well as the form points of view, it becomes a landmark.
