The Lost Case… Sriraj Ginne, Telugu, Indian

Sriraj Ginne

(Born: November 22, 1946)



“A lawyer shouldn’t discriminate between one case and the other. Doing justice to one’s clients is true dispensation of justice,” is what lawyer Sundara Ramayya always told his colleagues.

Everybody knew that only Sundara Ramayya had the knack of distancing ‘in’ from ‘justice’ jumbling with words and provisions of law to win cases for his clients. He argued every case with a blend of professional skill and artistic finesse to gain the winning edge. Anybody who had entered the Court premises anytime during the last fifteen years must have known that!

Not a single case he had taken up so far was lost. None of his clients was ever convicted. He never refused a case nor turned away his client.

He argued impetuously the love affairs of minor college girls; got many couple divorced; helped drunkards evade conviction; saved prostitutes from penalties and imprisonment. In one word, he took up every kind of case and won every one of them hands down! Of course, he collected fabulous amount as fee.

The Public Prosecutors quivered when they were to argue against his defence. He could even flummox the judges with his arguments. Many a criminal escaped the noose. Many an innocent was awarded rigorous imprisonment.

Sundara Ramayya was notorious for his sharp tongue. ‘your mother must have given some special brew in your childhood; otherwise, how could you argue with such ease?’ his friends used to compliment him bitterly.

‘Lord Brahma must have put his tongue one point up. That’s why he’s able to win any case so effortlessly,’ his senior colleagues at the bar used to say grudgingly.

‘He must have had the good omen of a beautiful dame coming in front on the very first day of his practice. He is still riding that Dame Luck to this day! That’s why he wins every damned case in a trice,’ the young crop of advocates thought, with a touch of envy.

Sundara Ramayya just laughed away all their remarks.

In the last fifteen years, he took up thousands of cases, collected lakhs od rupees in fees, constructed a palatial bungalow, bought an Impala, bought as much wet land as permissible by law and registered in his name and opened accounts in many prestigious banks.

You could sum-up his character thus:

He had ambitions with sky as the limit!

He had ideas as expansive as a desert!

He was all love for his queenly wife!

And, he had ‘polished popularity’ in the society.


One fine morning…

When the dew drops on the roses were melting away,

When the leaves of grass were smiling happily in the lawn,

Sundara Ramayya was looking at himself in the mirror tying his bow.

His wife, Lakshmi, was standing behind with a cup of coffee in one hand and a black coat in the other.

“So, what man! You say that we should go to Leela Mahal this evening!” he asked his wife, looking mischievously into her face in the mirror.

She was a fan of Richard Burton. He had been teasing her with promise to take her to “Where Eagles Dare”.

“Forget it! You shouldn’t be believed. You never stand on your word,” she said in mock annoyance.

Courts… Clients… and Cases!!! How could he find time?

“You are mistaken dear! Ask any of my clients how powerful my word is!” he said receiving the cup out of her hand.

He wins cases in courts with his arguments.

But wins the heart of his wife humoring her with his words!

“Lakshmi! Do you know how beautiful you look?… like a string of white clouds… a smooth rose… a glistening water drop! I don’t feel like looking at those palling faces on the silver screen after looking at this divine beauty!”

She was over thirty-five. But she blushed like a chrysanthemum knowing the import of his words.

“Sir! Someone has come for you,” announced his servant.

Sundara Ramayya put on his black coat and walked into the hall. The two visitors waiting in the hall stood up and greeted him. One of them was old.  The second one was on the first rung of his chewing-gum-like youth.  Looking at his chequered lungi, the red vest and the black belt round his waist and the sabre-sharp moustache, Sundara Ramayya smelt a first-rate villain in him.

“Picked a pocket, is it?” he asked the chequered lungi.

“No Sir!” His voice has the grating sound of an overused gramophone record.

“Severed a head, then?”

The chequered lungi  bent his head down silently. The older man demurred.

“remember! Never hide the disease from the doctor  and truth from the lawyer! If you do, you are out, and your case is lost! Come on… tell me the truth!”

“This is Simhadri… my som. I got him out… on bail. We belong to Yendada village…” the old man was speaking in broken words.

“Come to the point.”

“Rattalu runs  a country liquor shop in our village.  The boy fell in love with her daughter Varalu. But the girl did not like him. This fellow is short tempered. He asked her why she could not love him.  She replied in a very derogatory manner.  In a fit of anger he stabbed her. It’s all that had happened sir!”

“Very good! So it is a case of spirited love, then!”

Sundara Ramayya was not new to such cases. That is why it did not surprise him. For him, winning a murder case is as easy as burning a nylon thread with matchstick.

“Hmm! What is your name?” he asked the old man.

“Gangulu, Sir!”

“Listen, Gangulu! Was there any eyewitness when your son stabbed Varahalu?”

“Her mother Rattalu was there itself, sir!” Gangulu thought  it wise to place all the facts before the lawyer who gave such an assurance.

Sundara Ramayya spent thoughtfully five minutes of his invaluable time.

“Does Rattalu have any kith and kin, Gangulu?”

“No, Sir! She had only that Varalu… that too not her own… she adopted her.”

The eyebrows of Sundara Ramayya unknotted immediately.

“Gangulu, don’t worry about the boy.  We will win the case. Give all other details to my clerk… see me later,” he said stepping out.

“You are our only hope, sir! Only you can save his life.  But for his short temper, he is very innocent, sir! Take whatever fee you want, but we should win the case. He should not be convicted.” Gangulu wrung his hands in obedience. Simhadri was staring at him.  Sundara Ramayya  shot back a smile at them and got into his grey Impala.


Yendada is a small village about seven kilometers from the nearby town. Still, Rattalu and her country liquor shop were very famous. In fact, people believed that the success of her business  and her popularity were solely due to her daughter Varahalu. Her business picked up only after Varahalu started managing the affairs of the shop.

It is very difficult to describe her beauty.  She is whiter than the white cirrus clouds, smother than the smoothest rose, and brighter than the brightest dew drop.

Varahalu laughed seductively. Intoxicated by that, people took more and more draught. In their drinking spree, they paid all that they had on them. In a short span of time, Rattalu became one of the “Haves” of the village.

One day, Simhadri saw the aurelian hand of Varahalu as she was serving him arrack.  He looked up.  Varahalu smiled at him like a spotless full moon. His inane heart softened to a wick of wax.

“Isn’t she the daughter of aunt Rattalu? Isn’t she Varalu?”   he asked himself within.

Unable to endure anymore delay, he started loving her instantly.

“Rattalu! You are earning so much.  Why don’t you have a building of your own?” customer used to ask her every day.

“This hut brought us luck.  Why do I need another building? When Varahalu gets married, I shall construct a big building  and keep her and her husband there,” was her usual reply.

Combing his moustache and looking covetously at Varahalu, Simhadri sitting nearby used to say, “when I am here why need you to look for somebody else for Varahalu?”

Varahalu used to get furious at such remarks.

“Simhadri! You are no match for my child. She doesn’t like you in the first place.” Rattalu used to snub him.

He was unable to suffer the indignity and the insult.

Simhadri used all possible tricks at his command in his dull head to win over Varahalu. The more he tried, the more she despised him.  He wanted her at any cost and by any means. One such essay brought about Varahalu’s death and lodged Simhadri temporarily in jail.

That was summer evening. It was past eight.  Varahalu counted the collections for the day, gave money to Rattalu and sent her to town for replenishment of stocks. When Varahalu was changing into fresh clothes after a bath, Simhadri entered her room and closed it behind him.

Covering herself fully with her sari, she howled at him in uncontrollable fit of anger, “You!… will you get out of this room immediately or not?”

“Varalu! It’s me, Simhadri. Tell me why don’t you like me? Don’t I have money? Lands? Am I not handsome? Why don’t you marry me?” He was pleading and advancing towards her simultaneously.

“Ah! A handsome figure!” she sneered, “look at that face! A black polecat! Don’t you ever dream of marrying me! First get out of here!” she did not conceal her abhorrence.

Simhadri’s anger scorched him like acid. The beast in him was thoroughly aroused. With enraged eyes, he advanced towards her menacingly. Her heckling added fuel to his already volatile anger. His inebriated body leaped over her.

Varahalu deftly slipped away hissing like a she-cobra.  Commanding all the strength at her disposal, she bit him on his gullet. At that very moment a dagger pierced through her heart. Rattalu who entered the house at that very moment shrieked hysterically  in fear and anguish and fell over her daughter’s body.

Life left Varahalu’s body with rocket speed. Simhadri bolted from the scene.


God had only ten incarnations.  But the money created by man has infinite incarnations to date; and would assume as many in future. It lifts the “Haves” further up in the society and crushes the “Have nots” further down.

Gangulu’s money transformed itself into justice. It reached Sundara Ramayya wallet, stirred many brilliant  and fertile ideas in him, and prompted to rack his brain day and night with reference books on law. And, to his own amazement Sundara Ramayya argued the case as he had never done before!

Simhadri was innocent. It was only Rattalu who committed the murder. Varahalu was not her own daughter but an adopted one.  Rattalu proposed  Simhadri to Varahalu  and she flatly refused. There were heated exchanges and in a fit of anger unable to stand Varahalu’s refusal on one side and the love she bore for Simhadri on the other, Rattalu killed her… was Sundara Ramayya’s  line of argument.

His arguments were so foolproof  that even the Public Prosecutor was not able to counter. The judge asked Rattalu if she had anything to say in this matter.

“What have I to say, Sir? Justice or no justice, my daughter  can’t be brought back to life. Then, why should I be living? I cannot live without her. Please award the maximum punishment to me. Please hang me, I pray! I plead guilty. Please hang me!” Rattalu wept.

She did not say a word more. She did not  answer the questions put forward by the judge or the Public Prosecutor. In the withered old frame of Rattalu, there was no desire to live. Neither there was any vengeance against those who perpetrated the crime on her daughter. Nor there was any anguish that a crime she had never committed was slapped on her.

She thanked Sundara Ramayya with folded hands for giving a direction to her meaningless life.

The judge awarded her life term.

The police took her to jail.

Simhadri was acquitted. There was a glow of success in Sundara Ramayya’s eyes. Simhadri ran after Sundara Ramayya’s car up to Ganjipet junction. His ocean of happiness was on a high tide.


Sundara Ramayya was reading newspaper sitting in the hall. He looked up to Simhadri and asked, “What is the matter?”

“Nothing in particular, sir! I just wanted to give you a small present,” Simhadri demurred.

“What’s that?” Sundara Ramayya  asked curiously, putting the newspaper aside.

“Sir! You have saved my life. Had it been anybody else, it would have been gallows for me. Sir! Please keep this chain,” he took out a gold chain from his pocket.

Sundara Ramayya looked at the chain. He suddenly turned pale.

“Simhadri!… this locket…” he minced words.

“Belonged to that dead Varalu, sir!”

“You mean…!”

“I snatched it while running away.  She used to parade with this chain.  It is with this locket they say Rattalu found that winch near Seetamadhara, Sir!”

“Get out! Get out!” He wanted to roar at Simhadri,  but the words failed him. His face lost its color.

Simhadri kept the locket on the table and left.

Calendar pages reeled back swiftly in Sundara Ramayya memory quickly. Fourteen years!

That was last week of November . He and his wife Lakshmi went out for picnic with their only daughter and few neighbours to Seetamadhara. With the Bay of Bengal in the distance and Yarada hill in the neighborhood, the city was looking like a woman at an advanced stage of pregnancy. Everything looked pleasant, he took many photos, and they all walked up the hill racing, reached the picnic spot and lost completely absorbed in conversation. It was only later that they noticed the baby missing. Lakshmi shrieked in fear. He shuddered to think. They searched the entire area.  In a garden where about three thousand people were picnicking. A three-year baby went missing … never to be seen by the parents again!

“Baby!” he cried in anguish as his eyes rained tears. Image of the three-year-old baby was hammering the ‘man’ within him. He wept his heart out. Humaneness, love and all fine sentiments engulfed him from all corners and started heckling him.

Whom did he help to win?

Whom did he get convicted?

His head fell, like one from a noose.

He never entered the premises of a court room again!


Telugu Original:  Last Case Sriraj Ginne

Translators: RS Krishna Moorthy & NS Murty

From : The Palette, March 1997

(The translators changed the ‘Last’ in title to ‘Lost’ keeping the story in mind)


చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి…అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి.

చాలా కాలం క్రిందట ఒక కథ చదివేను. పేరు గుర్తు రావటం లేదు. అందులో కథానాయకుడికి ఒక అమ్మాయిమీద మనసుంటుంది. దగ్గర చుట్టం కూడా. అమ్మాయి వాళ్ల దగ్గరనుండి సంబంధం కలుపుకుందామని కబుర్లు వస్తుంటాయి. ఇష్టం లేనపుడు ‘నాకప్పుడే పెళ్లి వొద్దు అనడం ఒక ఆనవాయితీ’. అబ్బాయి వాళ్లింట్లో తల్లీ, వదినా, అన్నా ఒక్కొక్కరే కథానాయకుడి అభిప్రాయం కనుక్కుందికి ప్రయత్నిస్తారు వేర్వేరు సందర్భాలలో. సిగ్గుకొద్దీ ‘నాకప్పుడే పెళ్లి వొద్దు’ అని అనేవాడు వాళ్లతో. దానితో, చివరకి మన కథానాయకుడుకి ఆ అమ్మాయి అంటే ఇష్టంలేదేమోననుకుని విరమించుకుంటారు. చివరకి,  వాళ్ళెప్పుడు ఈ ప్రస్తావన తీసుకువస్తారా, ఒప్పుకుందామా అని అతను చూస్తుంటాడు.

దీనికే, ‘ఇష్టం ఉన్నా బెట్టు పోవడం’ అంటాం. దీన్నే జూలియస్ సీజర్ లో,  షేక్స్పియర్ Casca పాత్రద్వారా చాలా చక్కగా చెప్పిస్తాడు. Antony సీజర్ కి కిరీటాన్ని పెట్టజూసినపుడు he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other మూడూసార్లూ వద్దని నిరాకరించాడట.  కానీ, ‘మొదటిసారి కంటే రెండో సారి, రెండో సారి కంటే మూడవసారీ ఆ వద్దనడంలోని తీవ్రత తగ్గుతూ వచ్చింది’ అని అనిపిస్తాడు. 

ఒకోసారి ఈ బెట్టు పోవడం ఎలా పరిణమిస్తుందంటే, వద్దన్న వస్తువుకోసమే, తర్వాత కావాలని ప్రాకులాడవలసి వస్తుంది. ఈ మనస్తత్వాన్ని ఈ కవిత చాలా చక్కగా పట్టిస్తుంది.

* * *


చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి.

పదిలోనూ ఇంకా ఏడు మిగిలున్నాయి.

మీలో ఎవరైనా నన్ను పెళ్ళిచేసుకుందామనుకుంటే

యువకులూ, ఓ మంచిరోజు చూసుకుని రండి.

చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి.

పదిలోనూ ఇంకా మూడు మిగిలున్నాయి.

మీలో ఎవరైనా నన్ను పెళ్ళిచేసుకుందామనుకుంటే

యువకులూ, ఇవాళే మంచిరోజు.

చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి.

మీ బుట్టనిండా పళ్ళు నింపుకోవచ్చు.

మీలో ఎవరైనా నన్ను పెళ్ళిచేసుకుందామనుకుంటే

యువకులూ, ఆ మాట చెప్పండి చాలు!


అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి



Fruit Plummets from the Plum Tree


Fruit plummets from the plum tree

But seven of ten plums remain;

You gentlemen who would court me,

Come on a lucky day.

Fruit plummets  from the plum tree

But three of ten plums still remain;

You men who want to court me,

Come now, today is a lucky day!

Fruit plummets from the plum tree.

You can fill up your baskets.

Gentlemen if you want to court me,

Just say the word.



Translated by: Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping

Poem Courtesy:


World Poetry Anthology

Part I: Poets of The Bronze and Iron Ages.

China: The Chou Dynasty and Warring States Period

From  The Book of Songs (800- 500 BCE)

చుంగ్ జు… అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి

మనందరికీ కొన్ని భయాలుంటాయి. ముఖ్యంగా, చిన్నప్పుడు కొన్ని విషయాలన్నా, కొందరు వ్యక్తులు, వాళ్ళతో స్నేహం అన్నా మనకి ఇష్టం ఉంటుంది కానీ అమ్మానాన్నా, అన్నదమ్ములూ, లోకులూ ఏమంటారో అన్న భయంతో ఆ పనులూ, ఆ స్నేహాలూ చెయ్యలేకపోవడం బహుశా అందరికీ కాకపోయినా కొందరికి అనుభవమే. ఈ కవిత ఆ మానసిక స్థితిని బాగా పట్టి ఇస్తుంది. ఇది సుమారు 3 వేల ఏళ్ల క్రిందటి కవిత అంటే ఆశ్చర్యం వేస్తుంది.


చుంగ్ జూ, నిన్ను బతిమాలుకుంటాను

మా పెరట్లోకి దూకొద్దు,

దూకి, అక్కడ నాటిన మొక్కల్ని పాడు చెయ్యొద్దు.

నాకు ఆ మొక్కలు పాడయిపోతాయన్న చింత కాదు,

అమ్మా నాన్నా ఏమంటారో అని భయం.

చుంగ్ జూ నువ్వంటే నాకు చాలా ఇష్టం

కానీ అమ్మా నాన్నా ఏమంటారో అనే

నా భయం అంతా.

చుంగ్ జూ, నిన్ను బతిమాలుకుంటాను

మా గోడమీదకి ఎక్కొద్దు,

ఎక్కి, అక్కడ నాటిన మల్బరీ మొక్కల్ని పాడు చెయ్యొద్దు.

నాకు ఆ మల్బరీ మొక్కలు పాడయిపోతాయన్న చింత కాదు,

మా అన్నలు ఏమంటారో అని భయం.

చుంగ్ జూ నువ్వంటే నాకు చాలా ఇష్టం

కానీ మా అన్నలు ఏమంటారో అనే

నా భయం అంతా.

చుంగ్ జూ, నిన్ను బతిమాలుకుంటాను

మా తోటలోకి దూకొద్దు,

దూకి, అక్కడ నాటిన కలప మొక్కల్ని పాడు చెయ్యొద్దు.

నాకు ఆ కలప మొక్కలు పాడయిపోతాయన్న చింత కాదు,

నలుగురూ ఏమంటారో అని భయం.

చుంగ్ జూ నువ్వంటే నాకు చాలా ఇష్టం

కానీ నలుగురూ ఏమంటారో అనే

నా భయం అంతా.


అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి

క్రీ. పూ. 800- 500 మధ్య.


Chung Tzu


I beg of you, Chung Tzu,

Do not climb into homestead,

Do not break the willows we have planted

Not that I mind about the willows,

But I am afraid of my father and mother.

Chung Tzu I dearly love;

But of what my father and mother say

Indeed I am afraid.

I beg of you, Chung Tzu,

Do not climb over our wall,

Do not break the mulberry trees we have planted,

Not that I mind about the mulberry-trees,

But I am afraid of my brothers,

Chung Tzu I dearly love;

But of what my brothers say

Indeed I am afraid.

I beg of you Chung Tzu,

Do not climb into our garden,

Do not break the hard wood we have planted.

Not that I mind about hard wood,

But I am afraid of what people will say.

Chung Tzu I dearly love;

But of all that people say

Indeed I am afraid.



Translated by: Arthur Waley

Poem Courtesy:


World Poetry  An Anthology from Antiquity to Our Time

Katharene Washburn and John S Major  Editors,

Clifton  Fadiman, General Editor


Part I: Poets of The Bronze and Iron Ages.

China: The Chou Dynasty and Warring States Period

From  The Book of Songs (800- 500 BCE)

11 వ కవిత, తావొ తే చింగ్ నుండి…

ముప్ఫై చువ్వలు చక్రానికున్న కన్నాలకు బిగించినపుడు

శూన్యమూ, పదార్థమూ జతకలుస్తాయి.

బండి నడుస్తుంది.

మట్టిని ఒక కూజా ఆకారంలోకి మలిచినపుడు

శూన్యమూ పదార్థమూ జతకలుస్తాయి.

కూజా పనిచేస్తుంది.

తలుపులూ కిటికీలూ గదికి దారి చేసినపుడు

శూన్యమూ పదార్థమూ జతకలుస్తాయి.

గది పనిచేస్తుంది.

నిజంగా అదంతే!

పదార్థం లాభపడుతుంది

శూన్యం దన్నుగా పనిచేస్తుంటే.


లావొ జు

చీనీ కవి

తావొ తే చింగ్ 

చీనీ గ్రంధము నుండి.

క్రీ. పూ. 4వ శతాబ్ది.


Poem Eleven from The Tao Te Ching


When thirty spokes join the wheel-hole

A void to matter paired.

The carriage functions.

When clay is thrown to form a vase:

A void to matter paired,

The vessel functions.

When door and window vent a room

A void to matter paired,

The chamber functions.

Surely is this so:

Materials avail,

Having void for function.



Chinese Poet 

Poem Courtesy:  https://archive.org/details/worldpoetryantho0000wash/page/71/mode/1up

ప్రేమే సర్వస్వం కాదు (సానెట్ 30) … ఎడ్నా సెంట్ విన్సెంట్ మిలే, అమెరికను కవయిత్రి

ప్రేమే సర్వస్వం కాదు; తినేదీ తాగేదీ అసలు కాదు.

సుఖంగా నిద్రపుచ్చేదో, వాననుండి రక్షించే పైకప్పో కాదు.

అందులో పడి మునుగుతూ తేలుతూ, మునుగుతూ తేలుతూ,

మళ్ళీ ములిగే మగాళ్ళని రక్షించగల ‘తేలే కలపముక్కా’ కాదు.

ప్రేమ దాని ఊపిరితో ఆగిపోయిన గుండెను కొట్టుకునేలా చెయ్యలేదు

రక్తాన్ని శుభ్రపరచలేదు, విరిగిన ఎముకను అతకనూ లేదు.

నేను ఇలా చెబుతున్నప్పుడుకూడా, ఎంతో మంది పురుషులు

కేవలం ప్రేమలేకపోవడం వల్ల మృత్యువుతో చెలిమిచేస్తున్నారు.

హాఁ! ఒకటి నిజం. ఏదో ఒక బలహీన క్షణంలోనో

బాధలు అణగద్రొక్కి, తప్పించుకుందికి అల్లాడినపుడో,లేదా

లేమి వెంటాడుతూ, మనసును ఇక అదుపుచేయగల శక్తి లేనపుడో,

ఉపశమనం కోసం నీ ప్రేమని మార్పిడిచేసుకుందామనిపించవచ్చు

ఆకలితీర్చుకుందికి ఈ రేయి జ్ఞాపకాలని వినిమయం చెయ్యొచ్చు.

అది కేవలం ఊహ. అలా చెయ్యగలనని నే ననుకోను.


ఎడ్నా సెంట్ విన్సెంట్ మిలే

(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)

అమెరికను కవయిత్రి

Love is Not All

(Sonnet XXX)


Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink

And rise and sink and rise and sink again;

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;

Yet many a man is making friends with death

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,

Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,

I might be driven to sell your love for peace,

Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It well may be. I do not think I would.


Edna St. Vincent Millay



American Poet

Poem Courtesy: https://poets.org/poem/love-not-all-sonnet-xxx


Last Night’s Dream… Sowbhagya, Telugu, Indian

It was dark.

Up the sky, someone had dropped

a blue diaphanous veil over the earth.

buildings were asleep; hillocks were asleep

and forests were also in tranquil sleep.

The sppeding rivers slumbered

And the sea was actually snoring.

in the cradle of this somnolent world

just you and I were awake.

Even the flame on wax-wick was so drowsy

that our shadows on the wall were as somnolescent.

At the centre of an inexplicable magnetic bliss,

we were looking into one another’s eyes… awake.

As we looked like lightnings on the dark sleepy world

star-studded sky started looking at us

without battling its eyelids.

How long, or, for how many years, we were like this!

on a beautiful night spared of sunlight,

a silent night sans burden  of words

howlong had we been

pouring our hearts out!

Under that deep blue stretching to the horizon,

there was no room for gloom,

no chance of sunrise.

we were the delirious fragrances of Parijata

blossoming in the dark.

we were the secret dreams of yesternight. 



Telugu, Indian Poet

A Loyalist’s Reply to Aurangzeb… Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry, Telugu, Indian Poet

When the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb (31 July 1658 – 3 March 1707) tried to wean away the loyal soldier Abdur Razzak Khan Lari of Golkonda Nawab Abul Hasan Kutubshah (10 August 1600 – 1699)  by sending him a message: “You join my army. I will put you in the coveted post. Send your elder son Abdul Qadir and other sons to me. I will find suitable employment to them as well,” this is the reply he sends in return.


You saved my life for that you take my bow

You have won the war, take the Fort

did some great good in pre-life, enjoy the riches now,

Enough is enough; don’t stoop to conquer.

Don’t invite me tempting with jobs

only one tongue I have and my heart is one

If ever i should leave the Golkonda Fort

It’s either for battle or Allah’s abode.

Staking life, bracing streaming blood

I secured the court of my Lord Tan Shah

It is not to secure the Mughal empire

But to stall or cease it my sword shows up.

Tan Shah has treated me like his own son

with love, respect and providing every need.

wretched I am; could not fetch him a win

shouldn’t I bid this bod forever, as his Deed.

Instead of meeting force with force

The Sultan offered pelf; it’s a tribute to Golkonda.

Is life eternal? Go back to your City

Revel in your strange stories,it is your day today.


Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry,

(23 April, 1891 – 25th Feb, 1961)

Telugu, Indian Poet



“నీవు నా కొలువులో జేరుము. నీకు గొప్ప గొప్ప అధికారముల నిచ్చెదను. నీ పెద్దకుమారుడు అబ్దుల్ కాదిరును, మిగిలిన కుమారులను నా దగ్గఱకు బంపుము, వారికీ తగిన ఉద్యోగములేర్పాటు చేయుదు” నని గోల్కొండ చక్రవర్తి అబూహసన్ కుతుబ్ సాహ సర్దారైన అబ్దుర్ రజాక్ ఖాన్ లారీ అతన్ని ప్రలోభపెట్టినపుడు, అతను సమాధానంగా ఔరంగజేబుకు రాసిన ఉత్తరం. ఇది శ్రీ శ్రీపాద సుబ్రహ్మణ్యశాస్త్రి గారు ఒక చక్కని కథలో (క్రిందనిచ్చిన లింకులో) వ్రాసేరు.


ప్రాణములు నిల్పితివి నాదు ప్రణుతి గొనుము

గెల్చుకొంటివి రాజ్యలక్ష్మిని బడయుము

పెట్టిపుట్టినాడ వనుభవింపుము సిరి

కక్కురితిమాటలికజాలు కట్టిపెట్టు

పిలువకుము నన్ను నుద్యోగఫలము జూపి

నాల్కయొక్కటి నాకు డెందమ్ము నొకటి

విడిచి గోల్కొండ వేఱొకయెడకు జనుట

భండనమునకొ, కాకున్న స్వర్గమునకొ.

ప్రాణములనొడ్డి రక్తస్రవంతులీది

ప్రభువు తాన్ శాహకొలువున పడసినాడ:

మొగలుసామ్రాజ్య రక్షణమునకు గాదు

శిక్షణమునకు గాని నా చేతి కత్తి

సుతుని పోలిక జూచె తాన్ శాహ జూచె నన్ను

చనవొసగిగౌరవముచేసి ధనము గూర్చి:

క్షుద్రుడను నేను విజయమ్ము గూర్పనైతి

మీదుకట్టగవలదె యీ మేనినయిన.

కత్తి విడిచి ఢిల్లీశుడు కాసు విసరె

చాలు గోల్కొండకీ గొప్ప. శాశ్వతమ్మె

జీవనము? సొంతపురిజేరి చిత్రకథల

తేజరిలుమయ్య వేగ నీరోజు నేడు.  


శ్రీపాద సుబ్రహ్మణ్య శాస్త్రి గారు

(ఏప్రిల్ 23, 1891 – ఫిబ్రవరి 25, 1961)

తెలుగు, భారతీయ కవి

వేదవేదాంగాలు తరతరాలుగా అధ్యయనం చేసే కర్మిష్టులూ, పండితులూ అయిన కుటుంబంలో పుట్టి, సంస్కృతానికి స్వస్తి చెప్పి, తెలుగులో చిన్న కథలని రాయటం ప్రవృత్తిగా ఎన్నుకుని ఆ చిన్న కథకి కావ్యప్రతిపత్తి కలిగించిన సాహిత్య శిల్పి, సుబ్రహ్మణ్యశాస్త్రి. ఆయన ఆత్మకథ పేరు అనుభవాలూ-జ్ఞాపకాలూనూ. (wikipedia)


ఈ కవితలో సౌందర్యం “మీదుకట్టగ వలదె యీ మేని నయిన” అన్న మాటలో ఉంది. మీదుకట్టడం (ముడుపుకట్టడం) అన్నమాట. తమకోరికలు చెల్లించినందుకో, చెల్లిస్తాడన్న ఆశతోనో భగవంతుని నివేదనకి(చెల్లించడానికి) భక్తులు విడిగా ఉంచే వస్తువులు. కోరిక తీరిన తర్వాత ఆ దేవుని దర్శనం చేసుకుని మొక్కు చెల్లిస్తారు. అలా, అబ్దుర్ రజాక్ తన శరీరాన్ని రాజసేవకు మీదు కట్టెనని చెబుతున్నాడు. 

రజనీస్తుతి… ఋగ్వేదం నుండి

దిగంతపరీవ్యాప్తమై తమస్విని లేస్తుంటే 

చుక్కలు కళ్ళు మిటకరించి చూస్తున్నాయి;

ఆమె ఉడుపుల ఆడంబరం అంబరాన్ని తాకుతోంది.

చీకట్లను తరుముతూ అక్షయమైన తమస్సు 

భూమ్యాకాశాలను ఆవహిస్తోంది.

సోదరి అహస్సు అడుగులో అడుగులేస్తూ

పయనిస్తోంది. చీకట్లను వ్యాపించనీండి…

ఓ విభావరీ! పక్షులు గూళ్ళకి ఎగసినట్టు 

నీ ఆగమనతో మేము ఇంటిదారి పట్టుతాము.

మనిషీ, మెకమూ, విహంగమూ మొదలుగా

సమస్త జీవవ్యాపారాలూ సద్దుమణుగుతాయి.

విహాయస పథంలో నిర్విరామంగా ఎగిరే

డేగలు సైతం విశ్రాంతికై తిరోన్ముఖమౌతాయి.

ఓ రజనీ! మమ్మల్ని దొంగలూ, తోడేళ్ళబారినుండి కాపాడు.

నీ ఏలుబడి సమయమంతా ప్రశాంతత నెలకొనుగాక!

చిక్కనిచీకటి ఒక ముసుగులా నను కమ్ముకొంది.

ఓ ప్రభాతమా! నా ఋణాలతోబాటు దాన్నీ పారద్రోలు

ఓ దినకరుడా, ఆవు దూడకు మల్లే నీకు

నా కీర్తనాసవాన్ని సమర్పించుకుంటున్నాను.

దాన్ని ప్రభువుకు సమర్పించిన

స్తుతిగీతంగా స్వీకరించి అనుగ్రహించు.


ఋగ్వేదం నుండి

Hymn to Night


So vast, our Goddess Night, she rises,

Star-eyes gazing everywhere;

All her finery of dress displayed.

Space high and low she fills, Eternal Night,

Her beauty driving out dark.

Close on the heels of sister Day

She treads. Let darkness run…

As you draw near, we turn for home

Like birds that wing to nest.

Life everywhere retreats: man, beast

And bird. Even the soaring hawk

Returns to seek out rest.

Night, shield us from the wolf and thief.

Throughout your hours let there be calm.

Pitch dark has brought a shroud for me.

Dawn, drive it, like my debts, away.

Child of Day, to you, as to a calf,

My hymn is offered. Receive it now

As paean to a conqueror.

From Rig Veda

Translated by: Edwin Gerow and Peter Dent

Poem Courtesy:


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