I bow to that magnificent spirit
Which carved
A thousand temple towers
As I leave
With a box of chisels and a measuring rod
I will not be a prey to that broad chisel
From the time I remember
My mind, robbed of speech
Sprouted under my father’s austere routine
What fun I had,
Playing with the scattered wood shavings
Joining them and making forests out of them.
The drop of water spawned by the blue black clouds
The tree lying hidden in the seed planted in the muddy earth
Thousands of stars joining to give light and life to the whole universe
That is how a sculptor’s spark of fire entered and burnt my insides.
Sometimes, while he worked
He recited verses for us, from the book on architecture
We listened, me and my brother, sitting on his right and left,
Words conjuring,
rope tricks –
judgement of directions –
earth traits –
measurement through folding fingers –
We learnt from father, the principles of architecture
from carving the figure of the deity to
building temple performance halls, often joining the two,
Bhaskara’s Mathematics and Maya’ s aesthetics
Yes, I listened and learnt it all
Together with my brother
At times, the great man would say,
Erudition is not enough,
Knowledge should be practical
The greatness of human beings lies
I in igniting
life in scientific truths
As they were made, those wooden lotuses
I watched, a close witness to that creation of beauty
In the centre, clusters of humming bumble bees too were carved
But, did I or anyone else grasp the intricate inner mechanism?
So many wonderful tricks,
A door which at the touch of a finger on the left hand corner
Opened into an underground cavern
The sixth square, which caved in at the pressure of a foot
And sank into a sea of water;
The miniature coconut, on which I carved a black eye
Making a doll to play with
In the midst of all this, my left eye saw
In that unmoving eye, the glow of an inner eye
Those cloistered rooms, in many places, this and beyond
The pillars supporting the face of hope,
Inside the pillars, several alert Narasimha deities
Shining like a hundred thousand suns,
The shape cannot be described as a circle, a square or even a definite angle
yet, it contained all these, giving a new look to the lake that disorients
even the practised defenders of the eight directions
the trick by the doll on the bridge,
the steps shaped like musical instruments
leading to the dome of the sanctum sanctorum,
Words to Agnihotri that to the mind, the concept of the single chosen deity
Is like the eight times churned holy gum used to fix idols
I of all that al. I till n around and stand for a while
The past is like the fields covered by the moonlight
In their banks stands a blooming Pala tree
Like the ghost of a beloved person;
I can’t bear its fragrance
A person, who from the day of birth grew along with me,
A person, who rubbed the smoke black
When I hurt my knee and cried aloud
A loving person, who made swings
And pushed them for me
The day I became a big girl, he declared
It is time to request Devendra to tie the tali
around the neck of my very own sister”
then he picked a fine piece of sandalwood and carved
a fu
My elder brother believed that all trees were
Unmade idols of Gods
The childless divine beings came to him in his sleep and pleaded:
“Make us into idols”.
With a desire to better his work, I heaped on him
Only the sting of my criticism
My brother’s sole response was always,
An enigmatic half smile.
One day, he who knew the craft
Was carving a stone idol of Mother Goddess
When I said in mock fun: –
“It is a pity that you make idols
the same way that father does”.
Then I looked deep into the smooth – lashed eyes
of my brother, a pensive man
to whom anger was unknown,
and continued
“Staying in the shade of a huge tree
you cannot grow your nourishment comes from seeking sunlight,
by yourself, unaided”
But, he, a satwika, did not agree.
Seeing the Lord of the eighth square in the ninth place
As the Lord of Birth
The astrologer predicted it was a horoscope of loss and untimely death
But, my elder brother, devoted to father,
Followed him like a shadow, wherever he went
Unsuspecting disciple, he wore on his face, his usual smile,
Filled with the sheen of purified gold,
Even as he lay with his throat severed
Even now, the hungry, inauspicious death
Lies under my feet in the form of a serpent
The broad chisel, darkened by blood stains
May slip and fall on my sleeping mat too.
I cannot, like a Rajput, turn mad and die
In the war field of revenge
For, I believe that insulting elders is a great sin
Moreover, if that consciousness which carves
The wonders of the world slips again
Who is there to question it
Who is fearless enough to face the elephant in rut and chain it
Brother, it is not possible for me
To offer as tribute to you.
I sat alone in my own space, accepting in my heart
The weight of a stone chisel
Striking on the black and white stones I
began to learn the facts of life
The turning chisel turned and did what I wanted
The small chisel, softened by ghee, submitted to my will
The; foot rider and the measuring rod, in these female hands
Were tame as petted and pampered cows
Father’s craft in chiseling thick tree trunks
Into thin slabs of wood
That I took over to steer my thoughts
In making boats, to conquer the wild seas
Outside my closed and bolted doors
Day and night, summer and monsoon came
I sat inside the ant-hill
Looking deep into myself.
Those who grieve, those that smile,
Those who fear, those that are peaceful,
The group of Devas, Kinnaras, and Yakshas,
The King of Demons, playing Rudraveena,
Sukra, the Master of Demonology,
Who keeps a pot of wine next to him
Accursed Yayati, Ahalya who looked at Indra with desire,
Bhishma, who had to lie on a bed of arrows
For supporting the wrong side. out of the marrow of the trees, I chiseled all of them
Into expressive shapes
Why did the sunlight falling on the half closed door
Grow dim once in a while
Did the shadow of a magnificent figure shut the light out
Just a glance and then it moves off.
What k ire the mind?
To kill or to nurture,
As the sight of a provoked tiger
In the heart of the forest, fright and adoration flare up
Though I do not believe in people’s gossip
The image of a broad chisel stained with blood clots
Moves in the air
And it is enough to disturb my concentration
Even when I struggle to carve the dragon’s protruding tooth
I have to carve many emotions —
Contempt, wonder, compassion and control
Carve I must, arrogance and competition,
The forest fire of jealousy that blazes
Carve I must, the desire which comes in disguise
Riding the Pushpaka plane
In the dreams. the demon king, Maya,
Who created the three cities in gold, silver and iron,
The meeting hall of
the Devas. And the Palace of the Pandavas
Says: –
Break the bondage of the silken thread,
go away,
as the moonlight falls on the window
lift up your toolbox and leave this house”
Every night I pondered like a coward,
To flee in fear is not easy
The face that has to confront life should not be scared
So, I have to bid goodbye properly
This morning, while father prayed, having dipped in
The early morning purity I went to him and said: –
Today is Saptami, the seventh day,
It is good to start a journey
If I can have your blessings with me”
He, the creator, woke up and his deep voice fell on top of my head
“Go,
But, wherever you go, remember,
The name that lasts rests on your fingertips”
True, what else can a father, who with a slip of a finger
Tarnished his reputation wish for his daughter
This toolbox weighs more with the weight of the journey
I do not have any disciples, followers or friends
To join me in my journey
Not is there a cluster of people to praise my sculpting skills
The forest, the domain of the single elephant
Will be my world front now on
The only light will come from Arundhati,
The female star in the Seven Sages Star Unit
As the benign and the malignant planets
Continue their cyclical movements in their orbits
I too start my journey, carrying the chisel box and the measuring rod,
I will not be a prey to the broad chisel.
Earlier, Viswakarmapralapaft,
The master sculptor of the Devas,
Gave his daughter, Samjna in marriage
To the Sun-God
Later, when the Sun’s heat of passion
Turned into an arrow of fire burning her insides,
She conveyed her grief to her father
The skill of his hands tamed the
Sun As a stone is softened on the grinding stone
Will the hands of that untiring divine sculptor
Filled with love and tenderness, falter?
If so, I shall let go my meagre sculpting skills
In the blood spilt as the head is severed
By the gifted weapon that falls in a straight line
From the master sculptor’s ever alert hands
The Banyan tree with roots above and branches below
May give protection even to the smallest atom
It was my grandfather who said
That the God who gave a mouth
Would provide food also
So, let me go with my chisel box and measuring rod
I will not be a prey to the broad chisel
Translated by Vasanti Sankaranaravanan from Malayalam
