Category Archives: Kannada Literature

K. Sharifa’s Poems


K Sharifa : K Sharifa was born in Gulbarga in Karnataka and works as a Senior Auditor in Bangalore. A poet, a literary critic and a feminist writer, she has been a part of women’s and human rights movements. She has more than seventeen books and has received several awards for her works.

Poems of K Sharifa

 Kannada original:  K Sharifa

English translation: Kamalakar Bhat


Be a Woman, Once, O Lord!

It is rancid kitchens for us.

It is slimy postnatal rooms for us.

No chance for throwing tantrums.

O Lord, shouldn’t you once visit

the sunless cells that is our lot?


My son

who went to the town

died in a police encounter;

My husband

who went to war

came back as bloody rags;

And my daughter,

in unbearable shame,

hanged herself after being raped;

To know the depths of my pain,

O Lord, shouldn’t you be born a woman once?


If I step out to earn a meager meal

unseen holy hands push me behind the curtains

training the guns on me;

I shudder at the slightest sound,

go pale, become breathless, miss a heartbeat;

I am totally lost;

How shall I live, O lord?


To know my indescribable pain,

to know what it is,

O Lord, shouldn’t you become a woman once?

The man who has the world’s contract in his hands

has declared a war at the borders;

How shall I describe the nature of my pain,

my anxious moments;

So, shouldn’t you become a woman once?



Behind the Veil

 On either side of the two stately minars of the darga

rows and rows of shacks.

Sackcloth curtains hanging at the door —

no colours, no frills, just the gray sackcloth —

speak of her life’s colours.

On feast days, Ma would drape the doors

with embroidered curtains, colourful and adorned

with many-hued beads at the edges.

I too had crocheted pretty curtains

with threads of many shades.

How would I know

one day the same curtains

would be the veil to keep my face hidden?


The first time I wore the veil

the heat irritated me till I felt dizzy

and, instinctively I had thrown it away.

My relatives prevailed upon me:

this is the sacred dress of our faith, they said;

God won’t like it otherwise.

And they pushed me behind the veil.

When the veil’s net covered my eyes

the whole world appeared dark.

Even my schoolmate Seeta

found me a stranger.

I felt all my companions falling away from me.

The veil had built a fence around me.


Under the protective gaze, dreams became

burnt walls blackening the universe.

In summer heat, I was drenched in sweat and felt stifled.

My face shrouded

inside the veil, I became only flesh.



Overhanging Swords of Talaak


The walls are like in a fort

built with massive stone slabs,

beyond the walls the free pigeon,

within the walls is my caged life


Life trots on rocky rough road

while I am the cool flow from the Himalayas

He is like the seething geysers

I have no firm foundation

in the dilapidated corners


With three wives and eyeing a fourth

If I even look out the window out of boredom

He screams at me, scared:

“Where is my hookah, Begum?

Are you nuts? Drop the curtains.”

Beware, don’t let your eyes wander

Don’t forget the overhanging sword of Talaak!


No milky moonlight for me

No spring ceremony

From within the prohibitive walls

Of the hopeless cage.


When the prisoner shakes off and asks

“Don’t’ frighten me with the sword of talaak”.


The stones of the walls begin to crumble

A new power in my tired hands

Breaking the fetters, my question rises up:

“It is I you are born of

Don’t frighten me with the sword of talaak

You are but an infant in my lap.





Upon the civilizations

She built lovingly

Appears your cruel imprint


Upon the cultures

She molded

Why not let her own imprint?

Why not let her erect her own mansions?

Why not let her reveal the dawn of a new day?



No more may her images

Peep through his-tory

Let her sing a new psalm

Let her fashion herstory


Since ages she has been

your companion

always walking beside you

How can your history be

Complete without her?



Put an end to your

his-stories accommodating her


Let the hands that write be hers

The mind that thinks be hers

And the heart that feels be hers

As she creates her own story





Githa Hariharan on Kannada Vachanas


Vachana means, simply, “what is said”. They are intensely personal, even intimate conversations, between the poet and the beloved — some form of Siva the vachana composer is deeply enamoured of. I fell in love with the four major Virashaiva “saints”, Basava, Dasimayya, Allama, and Mahadevi.

I think I was attracted most by Mahadevi’s work at first. For a girl whose literary intimacies were confined to Jane Austen, at best George Eliot, how heady it was to read lines such as “Take these husbands who die, decay, and feed them to your kitchen fires!” and “How can I bear it when He is here in my hands, right here in my heart, and will not take me?”

But as I read on, the need to “identify” with the writer — so major a guiding force in adolescent literary judgement — loosened its hold. The intellectual puzzles in Allama Prabhu’s vachanas teased me with their complexities. His poems are called “bedagina vachanas”: “fancy” poems, apparently obscure and riddle-like, written in “twilight” or “topsy-turvy” language. The yield, I found, usually made up for the difficulty of cracking the hard little nut open with persistence. (“Light devoured darkness. I was alone inside. Shedding the visible dark, I was your target, O Lord of Caves.”)

But perhaps it was Basava’s poetry which summed up best everything I learnt from Ramanujan’s vachana translations: that it’s possible to find a contemporary voice in the past. That the tussle between tradition and modernity is a continuous one; that the gap between the powerful and the powerless is as wide (if not wider) within a temple as it is without. “The rich will make temples for Siva. What shall I, a poor man, do? My legs are pillars, the body the shrine, the head a cupola of gold. Listen, O lord of the meeting rivers, things standing shall fall, but the moving ever shall stay.”

Read full here.

Image courtesy:

A Kannada Story


Darkness, a translation of ‘Kattalu’ a short story by Ashok Hegde, published in Muse India, online journal maintained by CIIL, Mysore.  Read it here.

Original Kannada:

Ashok Hegde

Translated by

Kamalakar Bhat

A day should never begin like this, he always felt. But yet another day had started to unfold as always. A scurry of activities just before setting out. Milkman hadn’t delivered milk; he had to rush to the neighborhood shop to fetch a packet. Atop the toilet seat he finished reading the reports in the morning newspaper about the vilely corrupt and their cohorts. There was an ad exhorting one to win a prize by suggesting a name for a film star’s newborn. By the time he gave his son a bath in the middle of all the haste – he got some work done on the blackberry in between – and faced his breakfast, he was tired even to talk. His wife asked him to return his mother’s call. Mother had been enquiring whether they would be visiting the village during the holidays. He hardly had the patience to respond to her. Manohar bellowed at his wife – “must the answer be given only by me? Couldn’t you have managed something while on the phone?”

She was washing her hands at the sink. “What is wrong with you these days? Can’t talk to you without you bullying me. You and your mother … why should I get caught in between. Call if you like, or don’t. I am late for work.” She left him to his breakfast and left for office.

As he took to the road he felt nauseated. On the FM, Sunayana was hosting Route One and was prattling; a variety of ads, call-ins; play this song for my brother, that one for my beau … name today cho chweet Madhuri’s third offspring; win a chance to eat ice cream with Salman Khan at Forum Mall … His nausea worsened. Switching the radio off he looked out: traffic jam, smoke, dust; the traffic police blowing his whistle – pirrrr – being ignored by the vehicles cutting in, red signals every few yards, BTS busses running god-knows-from-where-to-where, scooter, rickshaw, cycle, lorry; and amid all these old bullocks pulling with Herculean effort the loaded cart, people barging in … he just couldn’t put up with all the irritations.

He hoped that he can be home in time at least today. He happened to have a glance at the mirror in the car and noticed a chit lying on the back seat. He remembered his son giving the chit to him with a laugh – “Pappa, teacher has sent this for you”. He had thrown it in with a promise that he would read it once at the office. But it had been lying there for three days now. He picked it up: it was the school’s last notice for paying up the fees. “If you fail to pay the fees within a day of receiving this notice, your child’s admission will be withdrawn”, said the notice bearing Principal Bolar’s lavish signature.

Oh! Two days already. Must pay the fees tomorrow. Meantime he entered the company office in the Electronic City with a pickled brain. Once there, he was instantly consumed by countless office matters. Meeting, project planning, walk-in-interviews, the never-ending induction of new recruits, consultation with a client, proposal … he got entangled in a chain of preoccupations. He got everything out of the way and was about to leave for home when his boss KK called. “Manohar, MD had called asking for a presentation for a new client, I am busy with another matter, please, can you take care of this?” It was not a question. So he sat at it and didn’t realize how the time passed. Finally, it was all over and he switched off the laptop. It was ten in the night by then. In the middle of all these, he had forgotten to call her. There was a missed call from her. He considered calling her now, but was afraid of what she might say, so he switched off the mobile and called out a ‘see you tomorrow’ to his colleagues. “Arre yaar, why go home so late at night, who would wait this long, come along with us, there is a new dhaba that has come up, let’s have dinner there, and may be a peg of Jack Daniel, and then you can go home”, his friends insisted. No, they just dragged him along. Hosur road was busy even at 11 in the night. They slipped into the squeezing traffic – lorry, bus, scooter, car. Sandip kept cursing a client who had rejected the project, the Karnataka government for not erecting a flyover, Lalu Prasad who delivered lectures at IIM: “What abject depth the country has plunged to”, Sandip spat hard. Shameer trained his gun on Salman Khan, “Bhenchod, that Salman Khan, driving in drunken stupor, mowed down a few people who were asleep on the pavements in front of our building in Mumbai, see what fun he is still having”. “Leave Salman, yaar, look at our Dharwad, murderers are roaming free… to tell the truth, they should build fifty new jails every year” said Mulimani. “Tell me, how do you like Mallika Sherawat… what would it be like to marry her” said Sandip. “Man, you will get your balls blasted” said Mulimani as he downed another peg.

Talking disconnectedly, they ate masala ground nuts, masala papad, and chicken biryani along with Jack Daniel. They talked disparagingly about their old beloveds. By the time Manohar reached home it was past one in the night.

Watchman was dozing and got up with a curse when Manohar tapped on his shoulder. He began a stream of apologies: Sorry sir, I had checked all the gates only a minute ago… Had just closed my eyes… I always wake up with the slightest of sounds. Manohar scolded him gently: Talk of slightest sounds when you didn’t wake up even to the sound of the car, come on now and open the gate.

He waited in irritation till the gate was opened, then parked the car and began climbing the stairs. His neighbour Vibha, who worked in a call center, met him at the stairs. He made way for her. Vibha looked as alert in the mid night as in the daytime. She stopped to say “Uncle, can I give you my biodata, can you tell me when a position for a support engineer comes up in your company”. “Sure, why not, pass on the biodata, there are always vacancies”, he started to get ready for a chat when the Tata Sumo that had come to fetch her gave a call. The girl whispered “will speak to you tomorrow, uncle” and was gone in a rush. The fragrance of lavender hit him. Manohar began his ascent counting the stairs … one, two, three. Half way up, he felt, though the lift could have taken him faster to his floor, it is better if it takes longer to reach home, considering the state he was in.

His efforts to avoid making any sound that would wake her up while turning the key and opening the door was in vain as the door opened with a bang. He took off the shoes and dumped it in the rack. In the faint light his wife stood before him. He retraced his step seeing her rubbing her eyes.

“Not asleep yet”?

“So the lord comes home now? Why couldn’t you come earlier? Called you on the mobile several times since six. Couldn’t you at least call once when you were free! How much should we wait for you… why do you have a mobile… why should you have a wife, a child, a home? You should have stayed in a hostel… partying with friends. It is my plight that I have to put up with you. Yes, yes, I know all about you… your cold male chauvinistic pigheadedness. I tolerate everything and keep quiet, that’s why you are like this. Four days ago I asked you to get fruits and vegetables on the way home from office, did you bring? Three days ago I told you my car’s battery is not ok… now it has gone dead and the car is in the office. You can go and get it if you want. I had to take two autos and walk a mile before reaching home. Do you know how tiring it can be? Forget me, don’t do anything for me. But for the paapu, did you pay his fees? Today..” She started sobbing.

She stood there leaning on the wall, scratching her head with one hand, looking out through the window at the nothingness. “Why this irresponsibility Manohar? Poor paapu was sent away from the school because his fees aren’t paid. They have sent a chit with him saying ‘don’t come to school from tomorrow’. Why did we have to send him to such a costly school if it had to come to this? We could have sent him to some government school. I didn’t ask you to send him to this school. If you can’t handle, why should you get into this… when you take up something, do it the way it has to be… or else one shouldn’t take it up. What must have paapu felt when he was made to stand outside the classroom in front of all his mates? Have you ever thought about it?…” Overcome with hurt, she cried. Manohar felt a piercing pain in his innards.

Actually, with all the office-bother it had slipped his mind. Or the school may have forgotten that I had paid. He couldn’t be sure. Just to avoid the present confrontation, he said “but I had paid”. Lie flowed out unhesitatingly.

“What? You had paid? Where is the receipt, or have they kept it with them? Why do you lie Manohar, who are you trying to fool? Manu, look, I can’t manage this any longer. Paapu has fever. I took an auto from the office till the childcare, went to a doc with paapu, came home, fed him, gave him the medicines, put him to sleep. Now I feel dead. And here you are, home at one in the night, drunk, and picking a fight. There is a limit I say, there is a limit. You should at least believe me. When I say you haven’t paid the fees, you turn around and tell me a lie that you have paid. Why? You can admit that you made a mistake. But no, how can a man make a mistake, isn’t it? It is an insult to your male ego to admit that you made a mistake. Then you shouldn’t make a mistake in the first place. You keep saying you have project meeting in the office. Did I ever ask you where you find time in the middle of your office work to go with a gang of friends to get sozzled? Did I ever ask you why you go gallivanting instead of coming home directly from office? Is this how a family supposed to be? Better live alone”. She went into the room and shut the door with a bang.

On the dining table his food had gone cold. A bowl of rice, chapatti, and a beans dish. When does she get time to make food, Manohar wondered, zipping like a whirlwind as she does between office, work and childcare. He started to keep everything in the fridge. When he bent to place them inside the fridge a couple of plates crashed to the floor making a lot of noise. At the same time a Tata Sumo, on its way to fetch people for the night shift or bringing back people from the first shift, blew the horn loudly, sounding like a drum in the quiet of the night.

Bedroom door opened again. She came out in a huff and stood facing him. “You don’t seem to understand… It is a 500 mg antibiotic that poor paapu has taken. And now he is sleeping like an angel. I am dog tired now, working for you since morning. Don’t you think you should have been more careful and be noiseless while putting away the dishes? Do you have no feeling for us? You don’t bother about others… you have no concern for the others… look at the way you stand here and say nothing now… I know if I say a word more you will brandish threats of leaving the house… how would it be if I do the same? Tell me what the doctor said the last time we went to him.”

Manohar asked, “What did he say?” He didn’t mean to but there was a sign of anger as he spoke.

“Oh, yes, how can I expect you to remember! Paapu lacks resistance, give him Nirosil tonic, is what the doctor had said. Did you ever bring the tonic? When I brought it finally, did you ever make it a point to give it to paapu? Today the doctor asked me if we have been giving the tonic to paapu and I had to tell a lie. Because of you. Why should I lie? I am not going to lie for you any longer, do you get it”? She finished with a gasp and stood there.

Manohar looked at her eyes. They seemed to be full of pain, anger and disgust. He was beginning to feel queasy about her rejection. He wanted to ease the tension and save the situation. There was a hint of the trivial when he said, “You know… Valmiki’s story… the hunter went home and as directed by a muni, asked his wife and children… would you share the blame for my sins… His wife and children instantly refused to take any responsibility for his sins. The hunter realized the truth of life and went on a penance and became Valmiki… the Ramayana…” Afraid suddenly of what he saw in her eyes he stopped.

“What? Forget Valmiki’s Ramayana. First get your Ramayana into some shape”. Again she was gone and the bedroom door shut with a bang.

An impossible depression sent him crashing down on the sofa. He looked up and down. He waited for the door to open. A couple of vehicles drove past noisily on the road outside. Someone took the car out of the garage… the music of the reverse horn filled up the place. A Doberman began to howl in the neighbouring flat. Sound of flush from the toilet of the flat upstairs. He heard water flowing through the pipe clearly. Out of boredom, he put on CNBC. There was a debate on the crash in the market. They generally were of the opinion that the crash was a reaction to the interest rate in US of A and the price rise. One of the discussant said in utmost seriousness that the market may improve tomorrow… or go down further… or remain where it is today. Manohar wondered who would be foolish enough to pay him to say such dumb stuff. The fellow is wonderful, Manohar thought, to arrive at that opinion with the assistance of so many charts, diagrams and statistics. It occurred to him that people basically watch television and do not listen to it. That novel idea some how lifted his spirits. He thought of telling his wife about his new insight but then was a little anxious about receiving a scolding from her. Suddenly he realized that the crash meant that he had lost at least two lakhs. That made him rush to get the laptop out and calculate his entire investments portfolio. It couldn’t be two lakhs, he thought and felt consoled. He changed the channel and started watching NDTV. There was a heated debate on the issue of premarital sexual relationship. Such debates are fun only at midnight, thought Manohar. Bastards, better have sex before the marriage because after the marriage there would be no time for it. Manohar laughed naughtily. He changed the channel again. Here there was a debate about Mica Sing kissing Rakhi Savant. He kissed, she got kissed, why are these fellows jumping about. He switched off the tv. Would she pay the school fees tomorrow? The question returned.

He changed his clothes and brushed his teeth and spat hard. Because he was mad at her, he urinated in the washbasin and poured water into it. Then he entered the bedroom carefully, not making any noise, and got into the mosquito net to sleep when he saw her changing the wet cloth on paapu’s forehead. Paapu muttered ‘pappa’ in half sleep and turned to the other side. He did not have the guts to speak to her, yet could not do without saying something. So he touched her shoulders. She pushed his hands aside. “Listen, I need at least an hour’s sleep. You have been so very busy since morning… now your work is over, your drinking is over, your chatter with friends is over, your share market and all the rest are over… Have you ever wondered what happens with me? Stop flirting now… sit and look after paapu for sometime…” She faced away from him and slept.

Power supply must have stopped. The fan ceased. Inside the net it was terribly warm. Manohar scratched his back vigorously and turned in.

It was dawn once again.

He said “It is a new day”. She got up without a reply, brushed her teeth and poured some water on her face and got ready for the morning grind. He touched paapu’s forehead. Fever had come down. Paapu opened his eyes and said “Pappa, I was made to stand outside the classroom in the school”.

Manohar was enraged. He barged into the kitchen. He had something to start a conversation with her. “If we don’t pay the fees they can send us notice or levy penalty, why should they send the child out of the classroom.” “Why ask me about it, go and ask the school”, she said as she worked on the chapatti impatiently.

Manohar returned to the bedroom. He picked up paapu and and took him to the bathroom and poured some water on him. Paapu began to laugh as he felt tickled every time Manohar touched him. “Pappa, let’s play Pokeman, you are Charijaard and I am Pikachu”. Was it this little fellow who struggled all night in high fever? Manohar felt good. Paapu refused to have breakfast and began creating a din about it. Manohar was irritated and shouted at paapu. “Hey, are you crazy to say no to breakfast. I will spank you if you don’t eat.” Paapu made a face as if he was frightened and was about to cry.

She came out of the kitchen and confronted him. “What did you say? You are the one who is crazy. Can’t you play around and make him eat? Do I have to teach you even that”?

There was no more conversation. As he went to the sink to place his dish after having his breakfast, he gently asked her, “Will you drop Paapu to school”? She grinned ironically. “Do what you like… I don’t even have my car today”. She went into the bedroom, got ready for the office, put her sandals on, called out to the security man to get an auto, and in no time took the lift and left. Now, that left only Paapu and him in the house.

Sound of the school bus. Paapu started to race down. Manohar remembered he has to pay the fees and told the bus driver, “I will take him to school today, but please bring him back”. The driver whined, “Should have told me earlier, sir, been waiting here for ten minutes, it is better if you inform me in advance”. Manohar wanted to shout at him, but was afraid the driver may not bring Paapu back from the school.

Manohar hadn’t come even halfway to school when a biker started to blow his horn repeatedly. He went to the right and horned, then he went to the left and horned. In a while he overtook Manohar and went ahead. Then he got stuck at the red light. Once again the biker trailed behind Manohar and the blowing of the horn began. Got to teach him a lesson, thought Manohar, and braked suddenly. The bike hit the back of the car and smashed the sidelight. The biker who had fallen face down got up wiping himself. “Are you nuts? You braked suddenly, so I fell. Look at the front wheel of my bike, it is bent. Who will repair it now? Shell out thousand rupees before you leave”. People gathered around them anticipating some fun.

“What? Son of a gun, you ram into my car, smash the car’s lights, and then you dare ask me for a cool thousand bucks”.

The pent up irritation of the night drove him to slap the biker on his face. There was blood from the biker’s lips, a drop of it fell on Manohar’s shirt too. The biker broke into a shower of curses and started beating up Manohar. Both rolled on the road fighting each other. Inside the car, paapu was frightened and was crying. Seeing him, Manohar stopped the fight and stood up. The biker also got up with a curse.

“Bastard, I will fuck your mother. When I see you the next time if I don’t finish you off my name is not Govinda.”

He started his bike, raised the accelerator and was off. There was a traffic jam behind Manohar, from which a policeman emerged, chiding Manohar gently.

“You look educated. If people like you also get into street fight like this, what is to happen, sir? One has to make adjustments and go ahead. Come on now, move that car of yours.”

In the mirror Manohar noticed his torn shirt and mud smeared face. Paapu had stopped crying.

“Let us play Pokeman, I am Pikachu and you are Golam… Pikachu under attack.” Paapu said keenly.

It was very late when they reached the school. One look at Manohar’s condition and the security guard refused to let him in.

“What do you mean? I am Paapu’s father, you know, call your Principal, let me speak to her.” Manohar pushed aside the guard and barged in.

“OK, go in now, but come back soon. If I let in people like you, I get a scolding”, the guard said to Manohar’s back. “I am Paapu’s father, you understand”, Manohar said. The guard shrugged with a sign of irrelevance.

The moment he saw paapu’s class teacher, Manohar rattled on. “I was abroad, you see, I will pay the fees right away”. “You shouldn’t tell lies, papa, you were in Bangalore all along” chided paapu. The teacher gave a sardonic smile. Manohar rubbed his chin and went away to the school office. He was told that including the fine, he had to pay twenty three thousand nine hundred and thirty rupees, without the receipt.

“Why can’t you give me a receipt when I am paying the fine” argued Manohar. The clerk snapped. “No means no. You can speak to the manager who is on leave today and will be here tomorrow. You can also pay the fees tomorrow.”

“Bloody cheats” muttered Manohar under his breath. The clerk heard it and pushed an account book in front of Manohar and said “Mind what you say, we sent two notices, you had no time to pay up. Look at the fees card… it says so in capital letters, doesn’t it? If you are so hot tempered, you should have paid up in time. There would have been no issue. What is the time now… we don’t accept fees after 10 am… it is already ten fifteen… yet I took pity on you thinking that you have come all the way. Now you are abusing me in English” The clerk said and added, “come tomorrow”.

Manohar started to feel dizzy. He stared at the clerk. Without uttering a word further he counted the money and paid. Now he had only thirty five rupees left in his pocket.

He saw Principal Bolar as he came out of the office. Manohar approached her. “It is inhuman to make a child stand outside the classroom because there is a delay in paying the fees”, he said. Principal Bolar pushed up her specks and looked at Manohar. She tucked the billowing end of the sari into her waist and checked what time it was. Then she spoke: “May I know who you are?”

Manohar thought about the plus and minus of giving out his identity. Somehow he wanted to avoid taking paapu’s name now, so he said he is related to a child whose name he was familiar with as paapu often took the name. The Principal again adjusted her specks. “But they all have already paid the fees… the only one who has not paid is that child … you must be his father” she laughed cruelly.

Manohar wiped his face. He wanted to get out of the place. Principal Bolar continued. “What is inhuman about it? You should have responded to the two notices sent. If you think so badly of the school, you are welcome to withdraw your child from our school.”

Manohar didn’t want to start on the school admission affair all over again. Should bomb this place with a ton of RDX, he thought. The thought of paapu saddened him. His mobile started to ring. It was Preeti on the other side. “Where are you, boss? KK is looking for you since morning. A client presentation I think. Wherever you are, come to the meeting room or to the lunch room directly.” A traffic policeman tapped the glass of the car indicating Manohar to stop. “Preeti, tell KK I will be late, stuck in a traffic jam, have a flat tyre also” Manohar fibbed and disconnected the mobile. He lowered the glass and looked at the policeman.

“You can’t use mobile while driving. Two hundred fine”.

Manohar laughed aloud. “You can book me if you want to… the phone was from the hospital. My wife has just delivered. I have exactly 35 rupees. If you can adjust with the amount, fine, or I can give you my credit card.”

The policeman looked around and took the thirty five rupees. “If it is a son, name him Upendra, a good name” he advised and went away to catch another person. Mobile rang again. Manohar took the call. There was music flowing in. “Calling from ICICI sir… we have a personal offer for you… lifetime free credit card… minimum documentation… can I have your name please…”

“Shut up and cut the call… is it a public toilet or what… for anyone to come and urinate”, the phone went dead.

It was twelve by the time he reached office. An hour to go before the lunch. Makes no difference whether I go for the meeting or not. Manohar sat in his cabin. Shankar entered soon after. “Can I have a word with you, MM?”

Suppressing his impatience Manohar said “ok.”

Shankar looked up, looked down. “There was an American client today, no?” He said and added “Didn’t you go for the meeting”.

Manohar answered indifferently. Shankar dawdled. Manohar became restless. “Come out with it Shankar. No time for foreplay… if you want to fuck please do so.”

Shankar turned a page lying on the table. Looking at the photo on the table, asked if it is Manohar’s son. Then he continued. “MM, I have an offer from IBM. They offer 30% more than here. Will be located in London. I was wondering… been working here for the last five years, there has been no growth, you know that.”

“I know” Manohar said.

“No point in beating around the bush. I will ask you directly. Can you give me a 25% rise? Also a promotion… all my MBA classmates are up in the ladder… I think I made a mistake by getting into this industry.”

Manohar stared at him. Then he spoke decisively. “Shankar, you are welcome to resign today. Your progress this year has not been good. It makes no difference, you see. If it is a software engineer, it would be difficult to find replacement. An MBA position takes no more than three days. Your achievements in the past five years show you up. You have two options. Resign or get kicked out. It comes to the same in the end.”

It looked as if Shankar had no offer and was only trying to leverage his demand with a threat. He went black in the face. “Don’t talk like that MM, I have given five years of my life to the company. Let it be, I am not keen on the multinational offer, I just wanted to see the salary in the market, though I got it, I haven’t yet thought about it seriously…”

Manohar cut him short “Shankar, whether you have an offer from IBM or White House, you have no place here. I will release you next week. Now you can go.” Shankar got up slowly. He looked as if he would break down. Manohar felt a vicious pleasure. Bastard was using threats. Now see how he goes there with a peg in his arse.

He was about to start work when the mobile rang. It was his boss KK on the line. “KK, sorry,traffic problem” he said into the phone. KK was in a good mood. Must have defrauded a client. KK was saying “OK, come here for lunch… Edward wants to speak to you. He likes you… may be a homo.” He rang back immediately. “Do you have a suit with you? If not wear mine. There is an extra one in my room. My marriage suit. Don’t tell my wife though.”

Edward started off the moment he saw MM. There was a lady sitting next to him. From Edward’s tone it was clear he was trying to impress her. KK introduced her. “This is Ervin, Edward’s new boss”.

Edward went on. “MM, you should ask your boys to put in more hard work. If the work is not completed in time, there is a penalty to pay,” he looked at her and added, “isn’t it so?” She was drinking vegetable soup. “Fine”, she said to confirm what Edward had said. “Where do you find good leather stiff” she asked, “Is it true that in Mysore elephants roam around still?” Conversation dragged. In the middle of all the talk he read an sms from a friend asking him what he was doing. He smsed back saying he is reading an English paper. The friend sent another sms asking if it is good. Manohar wrote back, good but grammar is all wrong. He thought the conversation should be rescued. But Edward said, “It is a tragedy that in India there are no leaders except that Sonia Gandhi.” Manohar said, “Same tragedy with you. You elected George twice. Now you struggle to put petrol in the car. How much is it per gallon now”? Edward finished the remaining soup in a single gulp. Ervin forgot to wipe the butter away from her lips.

KK kicked his legs to make him shut up. After all the leave taking, they dropped Edward and his boss to Hotel Leela. When they were back KK called him in and scolded. “Do you have any sense? He was trying to impress her… if he loses his job there, the fellow will come here and pile on us. What is it to you if bin Laden throws a bomb or Bush drives a bamboo in his butt… it is a war between a chicken thief and pirates… we are vegetarians… why get involved… pick him up from the hotel tomorrow. Apologise to him and set things right. Praise George’s daughter if you like… arre, does he have a daughter…” KK concluded.

Manohar took off KK’s suit. KK saw Manohar’s torn shirt. “Hey, what happened… you should have got a mechanic to do it… why did you try it on your own?” Manohar looked at KK. “Do I have to pick him tomorrow… I have two proposals to send.” “Tell me in the morning, if you cannot I will pick him up” KK said staring at the wall. “Edward wanted to know about a good massage parlour, I told him you would know” KK gave him a wink.

Back in the room he noticed there were four missed calls. He called back. She said from the other end “Did you pay the bill?” “Paid. They didn’t charge any fine. I also took the Principal to task”, Manohar fibbed. “Why did you have to do that? What if paapu gets into trouble… I heard you had a fight with someone on the road… paapu is telling everyone here it was a big Pokeman fight. Everyone in the building knows about it now. Not only that, paapu is dancing around saying his father got scolded by the teacher for telling lies. What is happening to you Manohar? For trivial reasons people get murdered in this Bangalore, why did you have to have a street fight? What will people think? Why do you get into all kinds of laphadas? If something happens, what will paapu and I do? You have taken crores of loan on top of it for the site and for this flat. I have had enough of all these… the quarrels, fights… Tell me when are you coming home for dinner? I have to take paapu to his friend’s birthday party…Hope he won’t start telling stories of your escapades there”, she finished with, “I bought a sari, twelve thousand.”

“Don’t wait for me, I will reach by two or three in the night. Need to prepare a few proposals and I have to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting. Hope I will be forgiven”.

“All my life I will have this forgiving business. Let it be… Bring bananas if you can”.

By the time he finished all his work, it was three in the night. He started for home. On the way he saw an auto ahead of him wailing away. Either side of the road was being filled with a cloud of smoke emitted by the auto. Manohar kept honking so that he can overtake. Auto didn’t give him way, though it speeded a bit. Manohar thought of bumping into the auto.

Suddenly there was the sound of something breaking. The auto started to drag from one side to the other. Then it overturned and fell into the ditch dug on the roadside for the flyover. For a while there was a din – sounds of something breaking, shouts, all mixed up. Then there was silence. Manohar could only hear feeble sounds of agony.

Manohar stopped the car and looked for the source of the sound. He saw the driver crying in severe pain. Every nerve on the driver’s face was drawn out in pain. Blood oozed from his mouth and fell on his chest. Amid fear and pain he saw someone being near. He started to beg … please help me… call an ambulance…. Have a small daughter at home… please help… He began howling in pain.

Manohar touched his pocket. Found a Kings cigarette. He lighted it and took a puff. He looked at the howling, crying driver and said, “It is hurting, is it, bastard… you were driving in the middle of the road as if there is a rocket stuck to your bum… suffer now, what is it to me if you die, why should I get involved in your laphada.” He got into his car and turned the ignition. “Sorry sir” the driver was screaming. Slowly the driver’s wailing faded away.

Manohar looked into the side mirror to see what he can see. There was darkness spread right up to the horizon.

Although you are gone, NK


It is so sudden, so sad, so unnecessary. NK Hanumantayya, a promising young Kannada poet, is no more.

I have not met, seen or heard him. But I have read his poems which impressed me a lot. NK was considered by many poetry enthusiasts as a good poet. Much by him was liked, much was expected of him. It was hoped he would take kannada dalit poetry to further heights.

Hanumantayya wrote poems that were intensely political and personal. He was original in his expressions, his images. Well I liked his poems. NK, you will be loved for what you have given us, you will missed.

Here is a fine one in my intrepid translation.

The King, he waits

The King, he waits

Wearing the cobbler’s shoes

Bearing the blacksmith’s sword, the King, he waits

Wearing the weaver’s dress

Bearing the gardener’s flowers

He waits, the King, he waits

Invisible when we search

Inaccessible when we seek

Hiding behind the eye’s hue,

He waits, the King, he waits

photo from

photo from

A Kannada Poem by S Manjunath


In the street

– S Manjunath

Rain began to lash out midway;

granny covered the infant in her arms

with the folds of her sari

I can’t hasten

to shelter them under my umbrella – yet

I can’t keep on under it unruffled.

I hurry

as if to cross the distance

between us;

an unknown twinge – as if piercing the heart

from the umbrella’s handle.

As the granny rushed under a tree

with the infant bouncing like a ball in her arms

as if the rain drops had washed away her age

making even the infant cackle

tinkling waves of the infant’s laughter come floating

where have dark clouds gone

no one needs this umbrella anymore

Bhakti Expressions


H S Shivprakash is a brilliant poet who writes in Kannada. He has been a from: wikipremier poet and dramatist in Kannada for decades running. A poet of unique voice, he beats no trodden path, or perhaps he retraces the lost paths. Persistent in his search for alternative traditions to the hegemonic ones, Shivprakash has not hesitated to turn against the mainstream literary practices. Serving as a professor at JNU, Delhi, Shivprakash has also edited Indian Literature for some time. While he has a special liking for the vacana tradition, he has taken to explore the Sufi, bhakti, and other diverse mystic traditions in both life and letters. Shivprakash’s poems are not attempts to retrieve the bhakti form of writing poetry but that of bhakti spirit. More often Shivprakash’s poems explore the ‘narratives’ of the bhakti, sufi and other mystic personalities. Here again, he usually wanders far into the untrodden ways to steer away from the hegemonic fields. His poetry is a poetic rendering of the history of marginal forms of life.

Here is an excerpt from his article on Bhakti traditions “Transmutations of Desire and Power in Bhakti Expressions”.

One of the challenges associated with viewing India , as unified literary space is to trace continuities between creative practices in far-flung times and spaces of the many-tongued subcontinent. In this context, the study of various Bhakti movements assumes great significance for the simple reason that, as pointed out by Manager Pandey, Bhakti is the first and greatest pan-Indian literary and cultural movement across languages and regional barriers which altered cultures of people at large. The socio-historical and at times even the philosophical aspects of this pan-Indian movement have received sufficient scholarly and critical attention; at the same time, the literary and aesthetic dimensions of the movement have not yet received the attention they deserve. Because Bhakti mode of expressions dominated Indian creative psyche for well over a millennium, the study of patterns of continuities and divergences of the enormous body of literary and aesthetic practices relating to Bhakti can go a long way in helping us understand India as a common literary and cultural space.

A judicious mixture of synchronic and diachronic approaches is necessary to arrive at a comprehensive view of the achievements of Bhakti movements.  The obstacles are many, however. As Manager Pandey pointed out again we do not have in India the likes of continental critics of the west – Rene Wedlock or George Steiner, for example – whose scholarship extends over several languages, classical and modern.   This is true of literature on Bhakti, too.  For instance, even an eminent authority like V Subramaniam, who has written the most comprehensive account of Bhakti movement from a comparative perspective, can be accused of lopsidedness. For his superb analysis of Tamil Bhakti in relation to North Indian Bhakti passes silently over Karnataka, the next door neighbour of Tamil Nadu. The Karnataka experiment pioneered the subaltern forms of expressions of urban artisan Bhakti that paved the way for Nirguna Bhakti of North and of Orissa. Neither does he say anything about Sakta Bhakti whose paradigms are considerably different.

Attempts made to synthesize Bhakti in classical Bhakti texts also suffer from shortsighted view. For instance the typology of Bhakti worked out in Narada Bhakti Sutra in the form of nine types of Bhakti, though it relates Bhakti to mundane ways of relating, ignores some forms of labour-centered expressions characteristic of artisan Bhakti.

Such lopsidedness results from a) the enormous volume and bewildering variety of Bhakti expression and (b) our own limited familiarity with this vast material.

More here.



Kannada theatre and modernity


What is the significance of modernity in India? The question is quite old and has fostered diverse debates. But the answers have varied. A historical view from: hinduonnet.comof the debate on the status of modernity in India may trace various positions. For a long time the debate basically took a pro and anti stance. There were also questions about the form it takes in India. In the recent past, sociological theories of modernity have been quite influential. Increasingly people have been undertaking micro studies insisting on the diverse ways in which modernity has been accessed and practiced in India.

Recently Akshara, who is a theater scholar and a major figure in the Kannada literary scene, wrote an interesting piece on the ‘contradictory multiplicities within Kannada modernity’. He argues that the story of theater history is imprisoned in colonial categories and has not sufficiently attended to the diverse negotiations that Kannada theater has made with modernity. He indicates that the urge for coherent and linear narrative is the reason why the contradictions are not adequately incorporated in the story of modernity in India. He recommends a fragmentary, non-coherent historiography to develop a nuanced theater history. Akshara presents such a fragmentary narrative in his essay “The Contradictory Career of the ‘Modern’

in the Kannada Theater”. In this essay he grapples with the issue of ‘modern Kannada theater’ and asks how one can constitute a category such as this. He enacts his own recommendation by presenting micro-stories of Kannada theater to comment on the categories of historiography of theater in Kannada. He suggests ambitiously that if such a study is successfully carried out, it is possible to discover a ‘desi modernity’.

Here is an excerpt from this very fine essay. A shorter version of this essay appeared in Seminar here.

How do we account for these contradictory instances of ‘modernity’ while we write our history of Modern Kannada Theatre today? – This seems to be the key question to me, and this is the reason with which I set out to write my essay, invoking the contradictory multiplicities within Kannada modernity, that is perceived to be one single body. It is generally accepted by critics in Karnataka today, and elsewhere, that the term ‘modern’ denotes not only different things in different contexts, but is also defined by the particular context it emerges from. Today, we are also aware that the future of this concept, especially in the desi languages/cultures in India is an intricately woven multifaceted narrative. On the one hand, it is a fascinated acceptance of Western modernity (as it was perceived), and on the other, there are various attempts to adapt, alter, and even parody it, consciously or unconsciously. But what we have still not been able to do is to develop a nuanced narrative that captures the contradictions, ambivalences, multiplicities within the Kannada theatre traditions, without resorting to simplistic stereotypes generated about it.  Or, in other words, we have still not been able to create new ways of conceptualising the contradictory career of our modern theatres and instead, we are stuck with the imported and imposed categories like ‘folk’, ‘urban’ and ‘commercial’ and the like in almost all our narratives on the history of regional theatres.

Akshara is a fine playwright and an all encompassing theater personality. He currently heads the theatre school NINASAM. Read an interview with Akshara here. He is not an intellctual pretender. He writes with deep commitment. Not easily swayed by current fashions, Akshara’s views are always refreshingly practical and uncluttered.

Dalit Poetry in Kannada III – Moodnaakadu Chinnaswamy


There are some excellent dalit poets writing in Kannada these days. I don’t have too good an access to the latest dalit poetry emerging in Kannada as my visits to Karnataka are not vary frequent. I try my best to get as much as my friends can send me. Continuing my earlier posts, here and here, I present a translation of another Kannada Dalit poet. This time another well known name: Moodnakadu Chinnaswamy. I am familiar only with a few of his poems and they are very good. Here is one ‘Footwear and me’ in my poor translation. I read it in a magazine and can’t find that copy around me. So I am a little unsure if this is the complete poem or if I managed to translate only a fragment. I am sorry, I haven’t done enough homework on this. But I promise I will soon rectify this deficiency. I also don’t have a picture of the poet M. C. If anybody has one, do share, please….

Footwear and me

* Moodnaakadu Chinnaswamy

When I go to the temple

The footwear is not left outside

It is I who is outside

Shoes on cobbler’s feet

Makes as much news as when

A man bites a dog

Taking off the shoes

Everyone’s feet

tread all over me

I am a plant:

and they just don’t realize

that under their feet are my roots

Like a crane craning her neck

to the dried up lake’s spring

I stand on my toes

and peep in to steal

as much of god’s form as I can see

A Poem about Mother

Lankesh + Ramdas

A phenomenal prose writer Lankesh was not specially known for his poems except for his ‘Nilu’ poems.  But this one has moved so many people. Earthy in its perception of the mother, the poem so well captures what most of the modernist Kannada writers were doing: indexing the shift in the consciousness from rural to urban. The poem was translated by KV Tirumalesh, himself a great poet. It had appeared in Kavi Bharati- Triennial of Indian Poetry, March 1987.


* Lankesh (Translated by K.V. Tirumalesh)

Like a wild bear
She tended her children,
Cared for her husband and cared for the money.
She would howl like a hurt dog,
Groan and fight.

Mean, crooked and fretful like a monkey,
Guided only by the welfare of the family,
She would be a fury
If her son went out of her hand
Or husband went after another woman.

The jungle bear doesn’t want your scriptures;
My mother lived for a few morsels of food;
For work and for her children’s sake,
For a roof to live under,
For a sheet to cover,
For that upright walk
Among her equals.

For her are these tears of gratitude
And admiration – for bringing me up.
Bringing me to life
And for that departing – as if
It were to the fields that she went
Talking quietly
This woman of the earth.

Contemporary Kannada Poetry – Ashok Hegde


Here is the translation of Ashok Hegde’s poem A Morning Picture.

A Morning Picture

* Ashok Hegde

A sleep-interrupted, tea-nauseated chilly morn,
patches of people all over the floor,

in the corner, like a crumpled shirt, a child,
an old woman scratching her dugs in residual drugged sleep,

a teen’s endless cough.
As folk, like the wick extinguished in midnight,

lose the world in their impatience,

you, woman, in lonely expectation waiting…

Come and be a live track,
from your mere touch let
my life rail run full speed, fill each of your
atom with me, untie knots,

drape me in a new dress,

your lips to my lips bring;
drink sins in cupfuls, loot

the cup of my life.

Give to my hands all

mysteries of your body,

place ear to ear so they record each ache,

inhale the sweat smell of my body,

let it spread in this world
in anticipation of a new birth.

Let the snow melt, the rain-moth float,

let the river swell into a sea,

you be fuel to my

fiery lust, burn beyond other births

let hell’s worm be born

Phoenix like in this trashy flesh.

(Translation: Kamalakar)

Kannada Poetry – Alanahalli Krishna


His Kadu is the quintessential modernist novella. Yet, in his poetry he is very unlike the Kannada navya tradition of poetry. This is Shrikrishna Alanahalli who but for his early demise would have been by now known to everyone with any interest in Indian Literature. He has written enough to make him an icon in Kannada. Several stories and three novels. His poetry both his own and what he brought from elsewhere, are all of considerable interest. But I am interested specifically in this poem, ‘Butterfly and the Master’. I think it is a very good poem. Here Alanahalli manages to mix wonder and politics. There is the signature point of view of the ‘boy’ (not child yet not adult) that like the butterfly itself is now transforming from being ignorant to becoming aware of the worldly matters. The assertion at the end of the poem to retain innocent beauty as against accepting the ‘truth’ of science is super. For the boy is here trying to defend not so much truth or otherwise but his own idea of beauty. The sterilised knowledge with its impersonality is violent to its object – is why I think the boy refuses to accept teacher’s truth.

Anyway, here is Alanahalli Krishna’s :

Butterfly and the Teacher

* Shrikrishna Alanahallialanahalli

Near the pond in my village,

on the fence next to the well,

just in front of my home even,

such colourful butterflies!

White butterfly with red wings

gray butterfly with black wings

golden bordered – blue, yellow

deep red, coal black, light green…

I would go catching them

each time the colours overflow

the colours turn into butterflies

and bloom in my eyes.

From here to there, there to here

bending, swaying, flying,

my mind following

each of the flight

with colourful butterflies in my head,

and butterfly-like feelings

I would catch them daily,

then let them fly off

or smear the hands with gold dust

or keeping a golden wing hidden among pages,

I would feel happy,

would be filled with pleasure.


Suddenly one day when I was in the class of

the new bald plated teacher

when he said: ‘insect turns into a colourful butterfly’.

What I heard was like hot lead poured in my ears

I sat shell shocked.

Insect, cheee, thorny all over

black like the wool of a bear,

by chance if you touch

burning itch all over the body

If you squash it in disgust

Just puss.

Can such a disgusting insect

become my beautiful butterfly?

or is it loud talk of the

bald plated teacher?

The way in which doing the daily lessons

made true the earth going around the sun,

What if this also turns into truth?

No, none of these bald plated teacher’s lessons

no need to learn

This lesson on how my beautiful butterfly

was only an insect.

Abdul Rasheed – Kannada’s Basheer


Rasheed is a rare poet. Believe me he will prove to be one among the best. His poems as well as his stories. His eyes see the unseeable obvious. His heart hears the the faintest of voices.



His story ‘Kirti Patake’ (Rag Flag) is one of the best short stories I have read in the recent years. When you read him you will remember Vaikam Basheer. A few good translators should come up and carry him across to other languages. This story occurs on 6th December, the day of the Babri Masjid destruction. The oblique manner of evoking that farce through a lovable character’s entirely funny escapades is superb. Symbolic yet warm, satirical yet humble, intensely literary yet eminently readable – that is how this story is.

He is a fine poet too. Read his poems to see how intensely a poem can be personal. That is to say density of the personal details makes the poem totally objective. He creates a felt world, but does it through an intelligent weaving of details so that the poem grows into an intricate pattern. Vibrantly romantic, such poems of Rasheed defy the requirements of the current fashons.

This blogger in his ignorance has attempted a translation of one such poem:

A Personal Poem

* Abdul Rashid

Your sweat-filled chest

And the grains of sand from the sea inside your toe nail

And the feather caught in the curls of your hair

The scratch marks on your back that you have yourself made

And my grief at not being responsible for any of these.

Your alert indifference,

the grace of the fingers while you stretch your body,

and your generosity of yielding in small measures and withholding,

your crazy confidence that I can be put to sleep

by your flirtatious fingers in my hair!

I blabber and go back to sleep,

see all and cease to be,

touch and see if everything is in place,

returning after sending you away…