Editor's Note
These poems by Leeladhar Jagoori, even the short poems, hold as much as novels. There is an unsentimental empathy in the tone as the poem unfolds the exuberance of life in rural India, even in miserable situations— actors faking mythological characters, bored policemen, the epic drudgery of a labourer, the death of an old lady and her ox. Scenes like these will necessarily have particulars, and translating context is always challenging. Matt Reeck’s translation catches the nuances even for idiomatic expressions – for instance, “shatru ya shatrughn” become “friend or foe” – and his interpretations reach behind the words.
— Mani Rao
The Bombay Literary Magazine
Translator's Note
Leeladhar Jagoori’s 1970s poetry speaks to many areas of my interest including, here, antiauthoritarianism, an environmental ethos, and scenes from rural life in the mountains of Uttarakhand. These poems are from his 1975 volume It’s Still Night, which is characterized by the presence of these themes, both in shorter lyrics (like these), and some fabulous long poems. This formal difference is another reason I’m interested in Jagoori’s poems, and the shape that his work will take in the next decades includes some of the first prose poetry in Hindi in the 1980s.
In these translations, the reader might notice an absence of line-initial capitalization and punctuation. There are reasons for this that refer both to the Hindi and English. One interesting feature of Hindi is, of course, its absence of capitalization. The uniformity of appearance has, to my mind, a type of minimalism, which I attempt to capture and translate through consistent and minimal punctuation. But the reader will also see the use of exclamation marks in “Field Roller” that might seem to be a translator’s intervention. Yet, this is an example of Jagoori’s playful and feeling-based punctuation, which, to my mind, is integral to the poem and is so justified as a remnant in translation.
I had the opportunity to spend time with Jagoori in Dehradun over the summer 2024. I hadn’t been able to find this Hindi volume rat ab bhi maujood hai in online bookstores, and once with the book in hand, I was happy to have the chance to go over the translations immediately with him.
— Matt Reeck
I’m Scared
what the essayist didn’t write about
came through in the news
society’s in decline
and I’m scared
the rivers will rush together beneath my feet
no — no
or maybe there will be a slope like this
and people will fall down as soon as they see it
(you can almost hear them slipping right now)
I’m scared that in the grass
spears have grown
and rivers run dry
where thousands of snakes squirm
like river water
snakes
with their split tongues
are licking the ground
the riverbanks are collapsing
having fallen into the snake river
I can neither swim nor drown
what will my memories reveal
when they test me with their poison
will some memory
recall
the snakes’ flickering tongues?
will some memory of friendship
suffocate me like those snakes?
when the end comes
right on time
who will eat whom?
I’m scared
in the newspaper today
I imagine the drowned were seen
from the airplane
the earth is spinning
and hawks are circling overhead
suddenly
I start thinking about my fear
and the things I’m not able to say
then I realize
giving life to them in words
would make me fear them even more
Ram Lila1
Mangtu
is playing Ram
to earn money for a beedi
Prabhatu
is playing Sita
to earn money for a cup of tea
Lakshman
is copping Parshuram’s anger
while staring at Matadeen’s daughter Rekha
Bharat
has no real hopes
of earning enough
to buy sandals
who has it worse?
which exile is greater?
the one in the Ramayana or the one in this life?
where is the war being fought?
who is friend and who foe?
One and a Half Rupees
somewhere around here
there was once an impossibly big headwall
young workers from Raika and Ramoli2
were pounding it with iron rods
when the rods were raised
they looked like rifles
in their hands
but a rifle can’t break stone
it can only take a life
I asked them
where were you last winter?
— Kala Pahar
and before that?
— Chandi Dhangar
meaning
each winter
they were locked in drudgery on some rock
when in their minds
somewhere
far away
they were embracing their wives and kids
like dust
mixes with dust
in seven days
the mountain destroys each laborer’s rod
and the broken rocks their shovels
the rock was so strong
that to break off even a little was like
pulling a tooth from Brahma
and laying a street was like
pulling out his tongue
In Death’s Grasp
the ox had to be saved
but it was too big to grab
so my grandmother pulled its tail
and the two fell down the mountain
now everything passes before
the ox’s eyes and mind
the frolicking he used to enjoy
in the fresh breeze
that will die with him
her weary face
was like a Himalayan raspberry
her fading eyes were like an eagle’s
the wrinkles on her face
were like coiled snakes
even today
the valley bottom
and the space between the trees
ring out with my grandma’s cry
and the ox’s bellows
once the ox beat off a tiger
and did so with an ox’s resolve
on his back there was a cowlick
where he couldn’t stand
to be touched
and that was where his spine just snapped
two years ago he’d been neutered
he always stood on the left in the yoke
last year his mom was swept away
trying to cross the river
in this great weather for farming
the village is filled with the scent of fresh fodder
but his tongue
is now hanging from his mouth
grandma died with that ox
like a day laborer with his machine
people die from known causes
you can’t compare grandma dying all mangled and twisted
to anything you know
if you compare her death to a politician’s death
it would be like bringing her back to life
to beat her over the head with an old shoe
a dead politician
— if from some special department —
would be worth a one-day vacation
but a dead ox
— of any size —
is worth at least twenty-five pairs of shoes
here no one’s making comparisons
saying that she’s Mother India
would be stupid
right now her face
is covered with cow shit
and her body
is like an old gunnysack split
she didn’t have any weapons
though the ox was lucky to have
two horns
grandma’s woollen wrap is covered with shit
a government minister or Sahitya Akademi member
might be happy
saying at least she had something to eat
(in the future let it be known that for a dead person’s belly
to be filled with so much in our day and age was an achievement)
where grandma and the ox are lying dead on that untilled land
our petition for ownership
was rejected three days ago
anyone can come and see
how grandma didn’t have a gun
now she’s lying dead on that forbidden land
and in her mind’s eye an ox is still falling
The Field Roller
night! a pile of black manure
stars! a strain of good seeds
moon! a sickle
sky! a field
I want to use all of you
but I don’t have any cattle
sky!
some have yoked you to the backs of airplanes
who are these people
flying everywhere every day?
there’s not one single person
from my village
among all my relatives
among everyone I know
in those planes
I think (because this is my desire)
why don’t I just use a field roller to flatten the entire earth
Secret
the policeman dreamed
he wasn’t a policeman
children came asking for candy
in the dream
they bound him with rope
a girl appeared
as she approached
she turned into a woman
but the policeman couldn’t free himself from the rope
when the woman came up to him
she chased away the kids
like they were her own
then the policeman was standing with other policemen
telling them his dream
and his fellow officers said
hey those kids were us
and that woman
must have gone off somewhere to raise us
in his dream the man who was no longer a policeman
said
after a while the woman returned
I recognized her at once she was my wife
and the kids were my kids
so I’m your dad?
the policemen burst out laughing
in my dream
I was at a restaurant like I was drinking tea
the tea boy
came up and asked me in a tremulous voice
what happened today with the other policemen
police were laughing at police
what happened today
the police are laughing! the police are laughing!
then the boy fell
shot by a man sitting next to me
drinking tea and eating snacks
the bastard was sharing our secrets
now I’m wondering whether dawn has come
whether I’ve woken from my dream
whether I’m right to wonder
whether I should tell someone about it
or not
NOTES:
Acknowledgments
Image credits: Sebastião Salgado. Coal Mining, Dhanbad, Bihar, India, 1989. Photograph. Gelatin-Silver Print, 20.00 x 24.00 in (50.8 x 61.0 cm). Source: ArtSpace.com
Author | LEELADHAR JAGOORI
LEELADHAR JAGOORI (b. 1940) is one of the most important and widely read Hindi poets of his generation. He has published more than 15 volumes of poetry and has won many national-level awards for his writing. He lives in Dehradun.
Translator | MATT REECK
MATT REECK translates from Hindi, Urdu, French, and Korean. World Poetry Books published his first volume of Jagoori translations this year, What of The Earth Was Saved. He is currently a New India Foundation Translation Fellow for Qazi Abdul Ghaffar’s 1924 Urdu travelogue A Portrait of the West. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.