Avva (ಅವ್ವ) - Mother
Palya Lankesh
ನನ್ನವ್ವ ಫಲವತ್ತಾದ ಕಪ್ಪು ನೆಲ
ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಹಸಿರು ಪತ್ರದ ಹರವು, ಬಿಳಿಯ ಹೂ ಹಬ್ಬ;
ಸುಟ್ಟಷ್ಟು ಕಸುವು, ನೊಂದಷ್ಟು ಹೂ ಹಣ್ಣು
ಮಕ್ಕೊಳೊದ್ದರೆ ಅವಳ ಅಂಗಾಂಗ ಪುಲಕ;
ಹೊತ್ತ ಬುಟ್ಟಿಯ ಇಟ್ಟು ನರಳಿ ಎವೆ ಮುಚ್ಚಿದಳು ತೆರೆಯದಂತೆ.
ಪಲ್ಲ ಜೋಳವ ಎತ್ತಿ ಅಪ್ಪನ್ನ ಮೆಚ್ಚಿಸಿ ತೋಳಬಂದಿಯ ಗೆದ್ದು,
ಹೆಂಟೆಗೊಂದು ಮೊಗೆ ನೀರು ಹಿಗ್ಗಿ;
ಮೆಣಸು, ಅವರೆ, ಜೋಳ, ತೊಗರಿಯ ಹೊಲವ ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಉತ್ತು,
ಹೂವಲ್ಲಿ ಗದ್ದೆಯ ನೋಡಿಕೊಂಡು,
ಯೌವನವ ಕಳೆದವಳು ಚಿಂದಿಯ ಸೀರೆ ಉಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡು.
ಸತ್ತಳು ಈಕೆ:
ಬಾಗು ಬೆನ್ನಿನ ಮುದುಕಿಗೆಷ್ಟು ಪ್ರಾಯ?
ಎಷ್ಟು ಗಾದಿಯ ಚಂದ್ರ, ಒಲೆಯೆದುರು ಹೋಳಿಗೆಯ ಸಂಭ್ರಮ?
ಎಷ್ಟು ಸಲ ಈ ಮುದುಕಿ ಅತ್ತಳು
ಕಾಸಿಗೆ, ಕೆಟ್ಟ ಪೈರಿಗೆ, ಸತ್ತ ಕರುವಿಗೆ;
ಎಷ್ಟು ಸಲ ಹುಡುಕುತ್ತ ಊರೂರು ಅಲೆದಳು
ತಪ್ಪಿಸಿಕೊಂಡ ಮುದಿಯ ಎಮ್ಮೆಗೆ ?
ಸತಿ ಸಾವಿತ್ರಿ, ಜಾನಕಿ, ಊರ್ಮಿಳೆಯಲ್ಲ;
ಚರಿತ್ರೆ ಪುಸ್ತಕದ ಶಾಂತ, ಶ್ವೇತ, ಗಂಭೀರೆಯಲ್ಲ;
ಗಾಂಧೀಜಿ , ರಾಮಕೃಷ್ಣರ ಸತಿಯರಂತಲ್ಲ;
ಮುತ್ತೈದೆಯಾಗಿ ಕುಂಕುಮ ಕೂಡ ಇಡಲಿಲ್ಲ.
ಬನದ ಕರಡಿಯ ಹಾಗೆ
ಚಿಕ್ಕ ಮಕ್ಕಳ ಹೊತ್ತು
ಗಂಡನ್ನ ಸಾಕಿದಳು ಕಾಸು ಗಂಟಿಕ್ಕಿದಳು
ನೊಂದ ನಾಯಿಯ ಹಾಗೆ ಬೈದು, ಗೊಣಗಿ, ಗುದ್ದಾಡಿದಳು;
ಸಣ್ಣತನ, ಕೊಂಕು, ಕೆರೆದಾಟ ಕೋತಿಯ ಹಾಗೆ:
ಎಲ್ಲಕ್ಕೆ ಮನೆತನದ ಉದ್ಧಾರ ಸೂತ್ರ.
ಈಕೆ ಉರೆದೆದ್ದಾಳು
ಮಗ ಕೆಟ್ಟರೆ, ಗಂಡ ಬೇರೆ ಕಡೆ ಹೋದಾಗ ಮಾತ್ರ.
ಬನದ ಕರಡಿಗೆ ನಿಮ್ಮ ಭಗವದ್ಗೀತೆ ಬೇಡ;
ನನ್ನವ್ವ ಬದುಕಿದ್ದು
ಕಾಳುಕಡ್ಡಿಗೆ, ದುಡಿತಕ್ಕೆ, ಮಕ್ಕಳಿಗೆ;
ಮೇಲೊಂದು ಸೂರು, ಅನ್ನ , ರೊಟ್ಟಿ , ಹಚಡಕ್ಕೆ;
ಸರೀಕರ ಎದುರು ತಲೆಯೆತ್ತಿ ನಡೆಯಲಿಕ್ಕೆ.
ಇವಳಿಗೆ ಮೆಚ್ಚುಗೆ, ಕೃತಜ್ಞತೆಯ ಕಣ್ಣೀರು:
ಹೆತ್ತದ್ದಕ್ಕೆ ಸಾಕಿದ್ದಕ್ಕೆ ; ಮಣ್ಣಲ್ಲಿ ಬದುಕಿ,
ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹೊಲಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದಂತೆ
ತಣ್ಣಗೆ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಲೇ ಹೊರಟು ಹೋದದ್ದಕ್ಕೆ.
English Versions of Avva (Mother)
Translation: H S Komalesha
Black, fertile land,
a stretch of green leaves, and
a fest of fair flowers, my mother;
stronger with every burn,
with more suffering,
more fruits and flowers.
kick of her kids, heavenly bliss;
resting the basket on the ground, she
groaned, closed her eyes, didn’t open again.
Youth spent in tattered saris,
her hands tilled the lands,
watered the fields, and raised
pepper, jower, corns and grains;
treating her fields like tender buds,
treating her fields like tender buds,
she grew sacks full of corns
to please her man, win a hug and bracelet;
She died
with her double-bent back.
with her double-bent back.
How old you think the granny was?
How many full moons did she see?
And how many times
baked pancakes in the hot oven?
How many times did she howl over
soiled coins, festered crop and dead calf?
How many villages did she cross
looking for the lost, old buffalo?
She was no Sita,
neither Savitri nor Urmila;
no, she wasn’t any holy wife –
docile, dignified, graceful – you
find on the pages of histories and epics;
no, you can’t even compare her to
the great wives of Gandhi and Ramakrishna;
she didn’t pray, like good wife
she didn’t even wear
the sacred kumkum on her face.
Like the wild bear,
she bore her kids, reared her husband,
and, saved some money for hard times;
like the hurt bitch,
she growled and fought too;
petty, cheap, she picked faults,
bickered like a baboon;
she did everything, to save
her house, husband, kids.
She would flare: when her son
went wayward; and her husband
sniffed here and there.
The wild bear
needs no book of doctrines,
and none of your holy Gita;
my mother lived for grass and grain;
for her kids and hard work;
for rice, a roof over head,
and blanket to cover; and,
to walk equal with her peers.
To this woman, here’s some love,
praise, and tears of gratitude;
for bearing us; for rearing us;
for living in the soil; and,
for leaving us, amidst some small talks,
as casually as she would go
from home to fields.
Translation: A K Ramanujan
Published in The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry, 1994
My mother,
black, prolific earth mother,
a green leaf, a festival of white flowers;
earthier with every burn,
with every pang
more fruit and petal;
her limbs thrilled to children’s kicks:
laying down the basket on her head,
she groaned, closed her eyes, never opened them again.
She raised a hundred measures of millet
to please my father
and win a bracelet for her arm;
swilling water for each clod of earth,
for pepper, pea, millet and grain,
she ploughed with her hand:
blossoming in flowers, ripening in fruit,
she watched over the fields,
spending her youth in a tatter of saris.
She died, she did:
what’s the age of a hag bent double?
how many new year moons,
how many festival of sugar bread
over the live coals? How many times
had she wept, this woman,
for coin, for dead calf, for ruined grain?
How many times had she roamed the villages
for some ancient runaway buffalo?
No, she was no Savitri,
no Sita or Urmila,
no heroin out of history books,
tranquil, fair and grave in dignity;
nor like the wives of Gandhi and Ramakrishna.
She didn’t worship the gods
or listen to holy legends;
she didn’t even wear, like a good wife,
any vermillion on her brow.
A wild bear
bearing a litter of little ones,
she reared a husband, saved coins in a knot of cloth;
like a hurt bitch, she bared her teeth,
growled and fought.
She was mean, crooked, ready to scratch like a monkey;
her only rule: whatever raises a family.
She would burn and flare
if a son went wild, or the husband elsewhere.
A jungle bear has no need for your Gita.
My mother lived
for stick and grain, labour and babies;
for a rafter over her head,
rice, bread, a blanket;
to walk upright among equals.
Admiration, tears, thanks:
for bearing and raising us;
for living in mud and soil, for leaving as she did,
as if leaving home for the fields,
cool as usual,
in the middle of small talk.
Translation: S N Sridhar
My mother, fertile black earth.
There the spread of green leaves, feast of white flowers;
Tougher for each burn; more flowers and fruits with each pang;
When babies kicked, her limbs thrilled;
She set down the laden basket, groaned, and shut her eyelids,
never to open again.
She raised a hundred-measure sack of maize,
Impressed Father and won a bracelet;
She watered each clump of clay,
Seeded pepper, pea, maize, and lentil fields by hand;
A flower among flowers, ripening fruit among fruits,
Looked after the lentil field, and
Spent her youth in tattered saris.
She died.
How old was this bent-backed old woman?
How many New Year moons, festive sweet breads at the flaming stove?
How often had she wept, this old woman,
For money, for ruined crop, for a dead calf?
How often did she roam, village to village,
Searching for the runaway aged buffalo?
She was no Sati Savitri, Sita, or Urmila, paragon wives of myth;
Not the placid, fair, dignified figures of history;
Nor the storied wives of a Gandhiji or a Ramakrishna.
Did not worship God; did not listen to the sacred legends;
Married, yet didn’t even wear the auspicious vermillion.
Like a bear of the woods, she ferried her offspring,
Reared her husband, hoarded pennies;
Scolded, grumbled, quarreled, like an injured dog;
Pettiness, crookedness, scratching about like a monkey,
All in the name of the clan’s well-being.
She would flare up only
If the son strayed or the husband went elsewhere.
The bear of the woods needs no Bhagavadgita of yours.
My mother lived
For grain, brambles, toil, kids;
For a roof above, for rice, bread, a blanket;
To walk among peers with head held high.
To her, tears of admiration, gratitude
For bearing, nurturing; for living in the soil,
And going away, as though from home to field,
Coolly, still talking.
Translation: M S Nataraj
My mother, a fertile dark earth
Of extensive greenery and intensive white flowers,
Tauten by sunburn, blossomed by anguish
And fruited by pain; she gets her thrill
When children kick and test her will.
She unloads the burden of her heavy basket
Groans and closes her eyes never to open again.
She lifts a hundred-pound bag just to impress dad
And wins the bet; he had to buy her a silver arm band
She waters each clump of hardened mud by hand
Manually tills that land of pepper, pea, and maize
Merges with flowers, mingles with fruits
Toiling away her precious youth wearing torn saris
Saves our land of lentils and our family name.
Now, she is no more
How old was this old lady with a bow-like back?
How many new years and moons in her sack?
Spent near the stove, baking holige by the dozen?
How many villages visited looking for the lost aged buffalo?
She was no mythical Savithri, Seeta or Urmila;
Neither a fair, serious character of peace
To be found in well-known History textbooks.
Like the wives of Gandhiji or Ramakrishna
She never worshipped, nor did she listen to
Any sermons or stories of the Lord;
Didn’t care to put on the kumkum on her forehead
As a symbol of her living husband.
Carrying her kids, like a forest bear
She reared her husband, saving pennies.
She cursed, grumbled, and fought back
Like a beaten injured dog.
Pettiness, mockery and scratching
Just like a mean old monkey;
Everything in the name of protecting family.
She only lost her temper when her
Son went out of hand or her husband went to ‘others.’
This forest bear needed no Bhagavad-Gita;
My mother lived for grains, for labor, for kids;
A roof over the head, some rice and rotis to feed
A blanket to cover, an opportunity to
Stand erect and walk
Head held high in front of others.
How do you express appreciation to her
Except shedding tears of gratitude?
For giving birth, for bringing up,
For exiting so spontaneously while chatting,
Like, she left home to work in the fields
To live in the soil, and to rest in it.