THE SAME THORNYBARBED WIRES, THE SAME NIGHTMARES

A poem by Deebachelvan in Tamil titled
ADHE MUTKAMBIGAL ADHE BAYANKARAM
Translated into English by Latha Ramakrishnan

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All Announcements are over.
The News and the Images have
made one and all believe.
Inside the same thorny barbed wires
My Mother’s face remains
withered and shrunken.
Younger sister’s hair has not yet grown.
Between us the same thorny-knots
That insist on wounding with a vengeance
My Mother’s too rare a smile.
They keep on tearing apart
the book in my little sister’s hands.
For my sake Mother had come
Carrying ‘Pittu’
The boundaries of Long Wait,
The dream of returning Home,
The hope of going back to the City-
Mother has inserted them all
in those thorny barbed wires.
In the night when ‘Nulumbugal’
Take away the tent
with bulbs fixed on the thorny fence
in the same tent that has
ceased to be one
folding her legs
My Mother huddles.
My Mother’s request for permission
to go to the shop in the distant city
has been rejected.
At the entrance
which allows not to go closer
and embrace
It is written that the
doors of the Detention Camps
had long since thrown open.
And, the Thanks offered profusely
in the Dailies and Journals
for opening the doors of the
Detention Camps
are being ready by many,
including my own self.
Of the thorny barbed wires
we have spoken
iquite a lot indeed.
All announcements and
uprisings are over.
Inside those fences
surrounded by those thorny
barbed wires
that we’ve been speaking all along
I saw children playing.
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(02.01.2010)

THE FLOWERS OFFERED BY US FOR THE FRUITS BROUGHT BY THE EMPEROR

A Poem By Deebachelvan in Tamil titled
ARASAN KONDU VANDHA PAZHANGALUKKAAGA
NAAM VAZHANGIYA POOKKALL
Translated into English by Latha Ramakrishnan

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The Emperor has come with fruits.
Yesterday he was throwing
all over the field
the fruits plucked in the War.
I ask even now
to give back those trees which have their rightful place
in our fences
and also the dolls of children.
My dear, affectionate People!
with our napes bleeding
all that this field asks for-
¬it’s you who have created.
Our appeals
and the Emperor’s deceitful promises
are hidden in the poisonous fruits.

Oh, Our Father
who keeps worrying over our days
froze in sorrow,
One day when the children
were hiding in the bushes
getting up in the well of night
carrying a Cross, oh, how
You were beseeching, appealing!
In front of us
it was but the mutilated bodies of children
that were piling up.
When the King ordered that
all the children should be butchered
with immediate effect
and threw into the cellars all the people-
For those hapless children and people
You were doing penance and praying,
pleading with God…

For children who were writhing in
indescribable agony
separated from parents,
staying in rooms brimming with sorrow-
My Father, who gave
Food and Words to them -
Oh, what are you going to tell
your lone child
about the Emperor’s fruits?
To disrobe us and scrutinize
To tear off our attires and make us run in the nude
It was the King
who had issued Ordinance.
And, we have honoured him
with the prestigious ‘Ponnaadai’.
Our compulsions and cursed life
continue to kill one and all.

He who had mutilated our Dreams
Who had snatched away Our Land
Who had plundered our streets and lanes
Who had built monstrous prison
on children
Who had been washing his face in
People’s blood
has come bringing fruit
plucked in the War
in basket woven with
treacherous weapon.
And, we too had eaten them
and thrust them into the hands of
our Children
and gifted him
with fruits drenched in
the deluge of people’s blood.
The Emperor leaves
with his hands full of lovely flowers.
_______________________________
(10.01.2010)

THE MOTHERS WHO ASK FOR THE BICYCLES OF CHILDREN WHO ASK FOR MILK-POWDER BAGS

A poem by Deebachelvan in Tamil, titled
PAALMAA PAIKKATRUKKALAI KOERUM KUZHANDHAI GALIN
THUVICHAKKARA VANDIGALAI KOERUM THAAIMAARGAL

Translated into English by Latha Ramakrishnan
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For trying the cradle made of cloth
for children
They went around requesting everybody.
Having their children in the rear-seat
of their borrowed bi-cycles
they go.
Tales abound in the pages of books
that they simultaneously play the roles of
Mothers and Wives.

About widowed female students
and those separated from their husbands
I have written very many letters.
In their letters written to me
tears swell and overflow.

With children waiting for long
wandering in search of houses
in vain they return in the evening hours.
Taking hold of their child and books
with great care
they drink the tea that remains
acutely restive.

All that they ask for
are milk-powder bags for their children
and books.
Boiling evening time.
Seems like the Sun, going down,
has fallen into their tea-cup.

How many days have gone since we began to
stay in our relative’s house?
Right from morning the child keeps on crying.
In the book
the houses sprout and multiply
marvelously.
In the centre of the book thrown open
cycles
and milk-powder bags lie in abundance.
Spreading the evening and mother’s book,
wide-opened,
the child keeps on reading them.
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