Nuggets From A Literary Gold Mine

The Rapids of a Great River: The Penguin Book of Tamil Poetry
Lakshmi Holmström, Subashree Krishnaswamy and K. Srilata (eds)
Penguin/Viking; Rs 499

WITH extracts from over 50 Tamil poets, the anthology is truly remarkable in the scope of the effort that has gone into it. The three compilers, who also translated the poems into English from the original and kept the essence of the language, have been meticulous in making their choices.

Holmström, Krishnaswamy and Srilata took up the mammoth task of trying to catalogue the Tamil poetic tradition in its chronological order। Its ‘great river’ begins with the Sangam poets (300 BC to AD 300), moves onto Bhakti, and then eases into modern and contemporary Tamil poetry. Of course, the three couldn’t resist putting Subramania Bharati (1882–1921) as the opening poet in the modern section. Considering how Bharati took the country by storm with his nationalistic poems, he deserves an opener’s status.

The translations are good reads for those who love poetry in any form. The editors made sure that the poems they chose reflect each genre of the Tamil poetic tradition. For a first-time reader, the poems, by themselves, are worthy of one thorough read. And, along with the Introduction and Translator’s Notes, the selections are a window to a literature unknown to the reader.

The title is taken from a poem in the section devoted to Sangam poets. All poems in this section have been translated by A.K. Ramanujan, the well-known philologist, poet, playwright and translator. But because it’s an anthology, that too of translated poems, it fails to hold the reader’s interest for too long. The editors have also been arbitrary in their selections: a few lines from select cantos of Tamil epics and then parts of original compilations don’t always work.

If anything, these cantos, especially those from Silappadikaram, makes one want to read the whole epic.

Prolific ninth-century poet and Jain ascetic Ilanko Adigal’s Silappadikaram (one of the epics of Tamil literature) is reduced to eight 'part poems', which left this reviewer asking for more, especially because Holmström has translated both this and Adigal’s other famous work, Manimekalai. Also, because the part poems are disjointed from their free-flowing story plot, the flavour and relishment of the translation is disappointing.

The anthology’s modern section on the other hand is comprehensive. Tamil stalwarts such as Bharati and Nakulan (which was the pen name of the contemporary poet and novelist, T.K. Doraiswamy, 1921 – 2007) share pages with Sri Lankan Tamil poets, which exposes the reader to trends on both sides of Palk Strait.

The Sri Lankan poets, especailly, were able to give the reviewer a glimpse of their decades-long struggle to be part of mainstream in their native country. Anyone who has known what cards the Sri Lankan Tamils were dealt with would see that the pathos of their fight for an identitiy is not lost in translation.

The editors set out with the notion that the book would be an anthology that “links the old with the new, cementing the continuity of a richly textured tradition”. To an extent they have succeeded, but the pitfall of such compilations is that sometimes these can tax the patience of the lay reader.

As the editors state at the outset, they had wanted the collection to have “something … for every reader … at times startling and at times familiar,” but where they have failed is in their execution of the potentially brilliant idea of “chronologically arranged translations” for the “modern reader”.

They have failed to address the lay reader’s need to understand the chronological shifts and how they have influenced Tamil poetry.

Having said that, one cannot but appreciate the effort that has gone in to give the audience outside Tamil Nadu an insight into a poetic tradition that is as rich as it is undiscovered outside the Tamil-speaking communities.

इब्ने मरियम हुआ करे कोई,
मेरे दुःख की दवा करे कोई.
बक् रहा हूँ जुनून में क्या क्या कुछ
कुछ न समझे खुदा करे कोई

— Mirza Ghalib

मरिअम का वो पाक़ बेटा ईसा मसीहा पहले था, बेटा बाद में। लेकिन, वोह भगवानों की बात है। हम इन्सान हैं, मसीहे नही। ईसा की मौत भी एक अजूबा थी। हम इन्सान वैसे नही हैं।
मौत हमारे लिए एक अंत ही नही, शुरुआत भी है। मगर शुरू कोई तब करे जब हमे अंत का एहसास हुआ हो। बदन से जब वोह आखरी साँस निकल जाती है, फिर भी हम उस क्षण को अंत नही मानते। अंत तब तक नही जब तक वो हर एक पल, हर एक बात, जो हम यादों की तरह संभाल कर रखते हैं, मिट नही जाते, या और किसी यादों के बीच कहीं खो नही जाते।

लेकिन मैं उन यादों को कैसे खो दूँ, जो की मेरे वजूद का एक हिस्सा है? मेरे होने की एक वजह हैं? वो यादें जो की उस एक इन्सान को मुझ में ज़िन्दा रखती हैं, जिसकी वजह से आज मैं हूँ। मेरा अस्तित्व है। लोग समझते हैं की दर्द को नज़रंदाज़ करना उसके न होने के बराबर है। मेरा दर्द नज़रान्दाज़ करने की वजह आज से एक नासूर बन गया है। उस दर्द को कैसे भुला दूँ, जो मुझे हर वक़्त यह याद रखने पर मजबूर करता है, की हाँ, जो चला गया वोह वाकई चला गया। उसके लौटने की उम्मीद नही है। राह देखना फिज़ूल है। मगर इस दिल को कौन समझाए? आज भी इस आस में जीता है की इस बुरे सपने से मैं जल्द ही जागूंगी। जल्द ही सब कुछ वैसा होगा जैसा पहले था। जब हम ख़ुश थे, जब हम सब थे। जब एक की कमी नही थी। जब एक की कमी खलती नही थी। जब एक सूरज था, और इस दर्द की सर्दी की धुंद नही थी।