A brief selection of the later work of the Hindi poet who died on November 15 at 90, translated by his son Apurva Narain.
Kunwar Narain (1927-2017) was considered one of the finest Hindi poets and, naturally, a leading literary figure in India. Widely read since his first book of poems was published in 1956, he blended a modern international sensibility with a thorough grounding in Indian history and thought. His work evolved continuously – from a metaphysical engagement with language to a creative use of history and mythology, and from a visionary sense of beauty to the coarse ironies of socio-political reality. Narain’s poems embody a unique layering of the simple and the complex, with a deep humanism. Widely translated, his honours include the Padma Bhushan, the Jnanpith, and Sahitya Akademi awards.
A Strange Day
I roamed about all day today and no mishap happened. I met people all day today and was slighted nowhere. I told the truth all day today and no one took it wrong. I trusted everyone today and got swindled nowhere. And the strangest miracle was that coming home I found not another but myself come back there. Published in No Other Worlds: Selected Poems, Arc Publications.On the Eighth Floor
On the eighth floor in this small flat are a pair of windows that open outward. To live incessantly alone in the flat at such a height with windows that open outward is terrifying. On both windows, I have put strong grilles knowing full well that on the eighth floor one will hardly dare to come in from the outside… In fact, I am scared from the inside not from the outside that, edgy with the world or bored with my own self, I myself may not someday jump out from within. Published in No Other Worlds: Selected Poems, Arc Publications.Princes
The game is not over yet. I will play: but not with them. Time that runs after butterflies dazzled by colour went playing childlike that way beyond this son of golden tone – to where other distances, other woods and groves, to where in a magic fountain of tales sleep countless princes in stone. Published in No Other Worlds: Selected Poems, Arc Publications.With Pablo Neruda
I look intently at the spot in Warsaw’s Bristol Hotel which has completely changed now after fifty years That hotel then was the left-over glory of a devastated city Sitting on a chair in front of me that person drinking tea was it not he perhaps I go near and hesitantly ask – “are you not he perhaps who wants the whole earth to be a residence for all where everyone can live happily, without unease” Neruda’s face had brightened up “sit, have tea with me: what do you do – where do you live” “I write I am Indian…” For a while he was a million miles away What was he thinking – the country of fakirs and philosophers “Oh, the country of Gandhi”, he said There was a table between us and two cups, we talked for long… then he left for a flight to return home Returning to India I too was seeing from the height of a flight a congeries of tiny houses on the earth beneath, spread far and wide kindred realities I was with Neruda half a century ago at a delicate cusp when a war-ravaged city was fast returning to life First published in K1N.The Decay Of Vijaynagar
Cities are just historic but forests are pre-historic, a city is that prologue whose moments of triumph are civilisations But under every garden is buried the heart of a defeated jungle, from there sometimes the grammar of a new cycle begins A seed attacks – first of all its raw life-force is seen, then, on a larger horizon, the elaborate vista of its triumphs This stunned city is not a city now but its own formless skeleton, somewhere here lived Sayan where now is a pond draped in hyacinth Sometimes greenery also flourishes in a way that ponds dry up from within, the outer cover looks fresh and green but termites consume the book within. To be published in City.Living An Ordinary Life
I know I cannot change the world nor even fight it and win Yes, fighting, I could become a martyr and beyond that maybe get a martyr’s monument or become famous like a star… But to be a martyr is an entirely different thing Living ordinary lives too people have been seen quietly being martyredWords That Disappear
There are words that if abased themselves leave life and language Purity is one word not in vogue any more, words of its kind are difficult to find in earth, water or air No living example these days can prove the word’s innocence Another word was peace, now its clan has vanished, it is nowhere to be seen within or without They say one finds it after death – I doubt all things found after death… Love too may be a word whose mere remembrance is now left in language… Many such words once the pride of life keep getting exiled if not lived… Where do they go after leaving our world Perhaps they turn solitary or seclude themselves so much that no language is able to reach them again First published in The Dhauli Review.A Diptych Of Ragas
For music maestro Amir Khan A Day, A Raga Come, begin a day like a raga In slow pace starting with a prelude like a morning begins little by little Then, taking tempo from tones and trills meandering mid-pace flowing into fast flight saturate the scales with structured notes And finally coursing the complex crests of cadence slowly be consigned to the lingering finale of a long silence Raga Bhatiyali In Baul music,there is a raga called Bhatiyali Its final note is left free swaying in the air a sound saturated with the fullness of life fading into infinity It does not bind the remaining notes and so in the end is not bound by them either Something like a last sigh it breathes a strange sense of emancipationAll poems translated from the Hindi by Apurva Narain.