అనువాదలహరి

Death Sentence… Viswanatha Satyanarayana , Telugu Indian Poet

(10 September 1895 – 18 October 1976)

***

 “You have sentenced me to death; and now ask me to say whatever I want to say. There would be some meaning if you had asked me before passing the sentence. Now, it makes no difference whether or not I say what I wanted to say. But there is some significance in your asking me. Having known that I will be dying anyway, and I can’t speak anything after that, you grant me that harmless luxury to speak. Once born human, we have some mundane pleasure in our speaking. It is characteristic of us wrapped up in Maya (illusion). You don’t respect my body, but respect my soul. Since you believe that my soul and your soul are alike, whether it is true or not, such thinking is but natural.

“There is nothing to lose by not speaking up or to gain otherwise. But some of you think that I should speak. So, I must speak, and speak at any cost. One must speak to his last. They are more enchanted by the words than you.

“You have awarded me the death sentence on the charge that I killed a man. I don’t know that. Neither you nor the people that have given witness here knew that. I have mother, wife and children. I struggled a lot to feed them. They never had two square meals; Nor I.  But by your grace, I have had food for the last two months in the jail. I don’t know what had happened to my people. They must have perished by now. I am more fortunate than them. They must have starved to death. I could at least eat something before I die.

“I had no employment. I could not find work for wages. I could not cheat. When I could somehow earn few coppers and wanted to buy rice, it was not available in the market. It was already four days since we had anything. My wife and I were able to stand it, but my emaciated children could not; they did not have the strength move from where they were sitting or cry. How to bear the agony when they lay down very much like cadavers?

“There was a long queue at the rice shop and I was standing at its end. It was the same story for four days and I returned unable to stand at the end of that queue every day. At last, out of pity, an old woman sold half of her at double the price to me. But the rice I brought was fit for animals and not men. Unless it was pounded and dehusked, it was not even fit for cooking. Neither my wife nor I had the strength since we were too weak from our four days of starvation. Still, unable to stand the agony of children my wife carried it in the hem of her ragged sari and roamed around some ten houses for help. One family shooed her away; another family was busy performing some rites in the household. All her efforts were in vain. She came back and put the same rice over the stone hearth. Where to get the fuel from? A neighbour had erected a kutcha fencing about his backyard but it lay damaged with donkeys, dogs and pigs trampling on and breaking through it. The wooden splints lay scattered and nobody needed them. When I tried to glean them for firewood, someone charged at me. “Fellow, whose father’s property you think this is?” saying so, he beat me with a stick.

“I returned home. One would laugh if I call it a home. It was just a wall of a dilapidated house where nobody lived. Collecting thatch and twigs, my woman somehow erected a roof … enough to hide our heads under. By the time I was home, she was using the same for firewood. Which was more important, the roof or attending to children’s hunger?

“The next day the children were writhing in pain from hunger contractions. The oldie had snatched the few coppers I had, to buy something to alleviate their pain. For the next four days we had nothing to eat. And the children’s tummy aches did not cease. My wife could not get up from her bed. I was somehow able to roam around.

“That afternoon, I saw people going in groups. I asked them where they were going. They said that Rice was being distributed for all and so they were going. I followed them. They were about hundred to two hundred. They collected at a place. People were shouting and slogans were raised. There was a lot of hubbub. They stopped in front of a house. As I was at the back of the crowd, I was not able to know what was happening there. I thought that the stampede was for the rice. People of the neighbouring houses had either shut their doors or were peeping through the windows.

“After a while police arrived at the place. “Thank god! Now that they have come, they shall distribute the rice evenly among people,” I said to myself.

“But slowly I realized that people were fighting with the police.

“Then, Police opened fire. The crowd retaliated by hurling stones at them.

“When the situation had turned for worse, I was no longer interested in staying there and wanted to leave the place. But how? It was almost a month since I had a good meal. Even if I had some odd mealy scrap once in a week, there was not the swiftness in my movement. Because I had a good physique once, I was still looking human in form.

“Some of the police were injured. One police died when a stone hit him on the temple. I don’t know who threw the stone.

“But then, why should there be any discrimination when it comes to killing? If a man dies when a stone hits him, will another survive if a bullet hits him? Why a man be punished for killing throwing a stone, while there is no punishment for killing firing a bullet?

“That blind god had decreed that I threw the stone. Forget about throwing, I was not even a position to lift the stone. When Police chased, everybody took to heels. I had also tried to run away.  But where was the strength in me? The last thing I remember was a hard blow that landed on my head from behind.

“I woke up in the middle of a night. I found myself enveloped in darkness. The next morning I came to know it was a prison.

“After a day or two they gave me food. When I saw food, life rekindled in my veins. Immediately, children came to my mind and I set aside some food for them. Next day I realized that they would never come to me.

“Who cares whatever had happened to them? And slowly, I got used to taking my meal regularly.

“I was enjoying royal treatment. I was getting two meals a day. They were taking me by motor vehicle, wherever they took me. Even in the higher courts, they give a special place for me to stand.  I had a turn of fortune in my last days; how nice it would be, if that devil of god had facilitated this much of comfort for few years before as well!

“What more can I say? I bless you long life for your benevolence. You fed a man starved for life, for the last two months. May you never want anything!

“I don’t know what has happened to my wife and children.  That is my only worry. If my children could grow up… somehow grow up … to adulthood, will they have the same good fortune at the fag end of their lives?

“I leave it to your kindness. If you can do me the favour of finding them out, I shall serve you in my coming life.”

.

Viswanatha Satyanarayana 

10 September 1895 – 18 October 1976

(Telugu Original: ఉరి …

(Published in Anandavani)

Death Sentence … Viswanatha Satyanarayana, Indian

Telugu Original: Uri 

(Published in Anandavani)

 “You have sentenced me to death; and now ask me to say whatever I want to say. There would be some meaning if you had asked me before passing the sentence. Now, it makes no difference whether or not I say what I wanted to say. But there is some significance in your asking me. Having known that I will be dying anyway, and I can’t speak anything after that, you grant me that harmless luxury to speak. Once born human, we have some mundane pleasure in our speaking. It is characteristic of us wrapped up in Maya (illusion). You don’t respect my body, but respect my soul. Since you believe that my soul and your soul are alike, whether it is true or not, such thinking is but natural.

“There is nothing to lose by not speaking up or to gain otherwise. But some of you think that I should speak. So, I must speak, and speak at any cost. One must speak to his last. They are more enchanted by the words than you.

“You have awarded me the death sentence on the charge that I killed a man. I don’t know that. Neither you nor the people that have given witness here knew that. I have mother, wife and children. I struggled a lot to feed them. They never had two square meals; Nor I.  But by your grace, I have had food for the last two months in the jail. I don’t know what had happened to my people. They must have perished by now. I am more fortunate than them. They must have starved to death. I could at least eat something before I die.

“I had no employment. I could not find work for wages. I could not cheat. When I could somehow earn few coppers and wanted to buy rice, it was not available in the market. It was already four days since we had anything. My wife and I were able to stand it, but my emaciated children could not; they did not have the strength move from where they were sitting or cry. How to bear the agony when they lay down very much like cadavers?

“There was a long queue at the rice shop and I was standing at its end. It was the same story for four days and I returned unable to stand at the end of that queue every day. At last, out of pity, an old woman sold half of her at double the price to me. But the rice I brought was fit for animals and not men. Unless it was pounded and dehusked, it was not even fit for cooking. Neither my wife nor I had the strength since we were too weak from our four days of starvation. Still, unable to stand the agony of children my wife carried it in the hem of her ragged sari and roamed around some ten houses for help. One family shooed her away; another family was busy performing some rites in the household. All her efforts were in vain. She came back and put the same rice over the stone hearth. Where to get the fuel from? A neighbour had erected a kutcha fencing about his backyard but it lay damaged with donkeys, dogs and pigs trampling on and breaking through it. The wooden splints lay scattered and nobody needed them. When I tried to glean them for firewood, someone charged at me. “Fellow, whose father’s property you think this is?” saying so, he beat me with a stick.

“I returned home. One would laugh if I call it a home. It was just a wall of a dilapidated house where nobody lived. Collecting thatch and twigs, my woman somehow erected a roof … enough to hide our heads under. By the time I was home, she was using the same for firewood. Which was more important, the roof or attending to children’s hunger?

“The next day the children were writhing in pain from hunger contractions. The oldie had snatched the few coppers I had, to buy something to alleviate their pain. For the next four days we had nothing to eat. And the children’s tummy aches did not cease. My wife could not get up from her bed. I was somehow able to roam around.

“That afternoon, I saw people going in groups. I asked them where they were going. They said that Rice was being distributed for all and so they were going. I followed them. They were about hundred to two hundred. They collected at a place. People were shouting and slogans were raised. There was a lot of hubbub. They stopped in front of a house. As I was at the back of the crowd, I was not able to know what was happening there. I thought that the stampede was for the rice. People of the neighboring houses had either shut their doors or were peeping through the windows.

“After a while police arrived at the place. “Thank god! Now that they have come, they shall distribute the rice evenly among people,” I said to myself.

“But slowly I realized that people were fighting with the police.

“Then, Police opened fire. The crowd retaliated by hurling stones at them.

“When the situation had turned for worse, I was no longer interested in staying there and wanted to leave the place. But how? It was almost a month since I had a good meal. Even if I had some odd mealy scrap once in a week, there was not the swiftness in my movement. Because I had a good physique once, I was still looking human in form.

“Some of the police were injured. One police died when a stone hit him on the temple. I don’t know who threw the stone.

“But then, why should there be any discrimination when it comes to killing? If a man dies when a stone hits him, will another survive if a bullet hits him? Why a man be punished for killing throwing a stone, while there is no punishment for killing firing a bullet?

“That blind god had decreed that I threw the stone. Forget about throwing, I was not even a position to lift the stone. When Police chased, everybody took to heels. I had also tried to run away.  But where was the strength in me? The last thing I remember was a hard blow that landed on my head from behind.

“I woke up in the middle of a night. I found myself enveloped in darkness. The next morning I came to know it was a prison.

“After a day or two they gave me food. When I saw food, life rekindled in my veins. Immediately, children came to my mind and I set aside some food for them. Next day I realized that they would never come to me.

“Who cares whatever had happened to them? And slowly, I got used to taking my meal regularly.

“I was enjoying royal treatment. I was getting two meals a day. They were taking me by motor vehicle, wherever they took me. Even in the higher courts, they give a special place for me to stand.  I had a turn of fortune in my last days; how nice it would be, if that devil of god had facilitated this much of comfort for few years before as well!

“What more can I say? I bless you long life for your benevolence. You fed a man starved for life, for the last two months. May you never want anything!

“I don’t know what has happened to my wife and children.  That is my only worry. If my children could grow up… somehow grow up … to adulthood, will they have the same good fortune at the fag end of their lives?

“I leave it to your kindness. If you can do me the favor of finding them out, I shall serve you in my coming life.”

.

Viswanatha Satyanarayana 

10 September 1895 – 18 October 1976

Telugu, Indian

Kavisamrat Viswanatha Satyanarayana

Telugu Poet, Novelist, Short Story Writer

***

1000th Post

Kapardi … Viswanatha Satyanarayana

Kapardi

(A dream turned into a story ) Andhra Patrika Ugadi Special 1949.

***

I knew Kapardi for the last two years. And that acquaintance developed into some kind of friendship. My respect for him was waxing by the day. He might be around thirty. He was a lawyer by profession. Though there was not much of an income from that, he was getting an annual income of about four thousand from his paternal property. Apart from Law, he was a graduate in English and was very good at Sanskrit and Telugu literatures. He had some initiation to music but was more reputed for his knowledge of both theory and practice of Bharatanatyam. So, when Kapardi, a legend in my view, invited me to his house, how could I refuse? Sure, one might say it was out of friendship, but the friendship was only namesake. Deep within my heart, I venerate Kapardi as my guru.

For long, a curiosity  “how his wife would be like” used to bother me. For such a Manmadha-like figure as him, a connoisseur of music and scholarship was she equally matching?… Was she as beautiful? Was she as literate? So when he invited, though for the sake of etiquette I first said, “I promise to come next time,” I deeply longed within to go. He then complained, “you gave me the same reply when I asked you last time.”  I needed no further excuse.

His was not a house … but a new palatial building. One would find all modern architectural nuances there. I stretched myself in the easy chair in the verandah. It was my long desire to hear him sing or perform a small abhinaya for my pleasure whenever he could. Hesitating for about half an hour, I was tempted to put forward my request. “Do you want that only I should perform?” he asked with a smile. I was start.”What? Will he ask his wife to perform? Does he feel so friendly for me at heart as to ask his wife to perform before me?” I wondered. He then replied, “Not me, but I ask my boy to perform” he said. I was reassured. I did not speak a word more. Kapardi called out his boy.  I was in doubt if he had really called out his son.  Because what he called out was neither a Telugu nor a Sanskrit name. It was a European name… Ronald.

He was a four-year child. He came to us. He had very white complexion, reddish hair and catty eyes. He looked a typical european. But his looks, his childish mien, and the sweetness of his smile reflected his Telugu bearing. I was unable to reconcile at the contradictions. Kapardi was watching the look of surprise in me.

“Child! Just enact a Muvva Gopala Padam” Kapardi said. The boy felt shy at first looking at me. That bashfulness revealed a typical Telugu upbringing.  Kapardi cuddled the boy, coaxing and reassuring him saying ‘Don’t be shy. He is our friend,’  and himself initiated by rendering the first few words of the burden of the song. The child slowly got over his initial diffidence, paced two steps, swung around stretching his hands babbling the rest of the burden of the song in his sweet little childy way, and seized with bashfulness suddenly, ran and jumped into Kapardi’s arms. Kapardi embraced him bursting with laughter, patted him on his back, kissed him and took him inside the house and left him there.  How I was all the while? I was still … like a statue. Bereft of any awareness without, my stream of thoughts was flowing like a boundless river within.

“Did he marry a european girl? But nobody had ever told me that he went abroad. If his wife were a european lady, why would she hide inside this long? She might have already been here on the verandah to discharge her hostly responsibilities. Then, how would he speak to her,  in Telugu? Perhaps, he would converse only in English…. There was no end to this train.

“You seem lost in thoughts. What are you thinking about,” Kapardi asked. I came out of my trance instantly, hearing him and spoke incoherently, “nothing… the boy…it’s good.” Did he laugh at me?  Was he overwhelmed with grief? Did he recollect his past?  Did he look at me pleasantly? Or, was he all at the same time?

He did not speak to me for ten minutes. It was ten at night.  I thought I might have blabbed something foolish. I felt very embarrassed and wanted to leave, but could not say that. Noting my disposition to leave the place, he said,”You are going to take your dinner here tonight”. His word was a statute. He was my lord and I was his subject.

By the time we finished our dinner it was eleven. We were sitting in the open and conversing. Kapardi got up and asked me to follow. We went inside the house. He took me to an adjacent room where Ronald was sleeping on a smooth high bed. Kapardi watched the boy closely for a while standing by the bed. I had also watched him. Then, Kapardi silently walked out and I followed him. We sat in our chairs in the open.  Kapardi began his story….

1

I was twenty-two then. I lost my parents in my childhood.  My maternal uncle who restored me all my property died when I was twenty. I was looking after my affairs myself for the past two years.  I was getting an annual income above five thousand. You might be aware… my uncle tried to get me married while he was alive. I said I would not marry till I passed my B.A. And, knowing my adamance, he turned down all proposals.  And after his death, people had to approach me directly for any proposal. Nobody dared to approach me directly, and the few that dared, I sent them off with some brusque replies.

However, it was not that I was not interested in marriage.  There was a story behind. listen.

Once I visited a village to attend the marriage of my friend. As was the custom those days, they arranged a dance programme of nauch-girls. As my friends were aware I had some knowledge of Bharatanatyam, they pushed me to the fore when they were dancing. There I saw a fourteen year old girl in that band.  Her complexion, her fine sharp nose and the setting of her eyes on the face, the confluence of lips, the lustre of the ends of her eyes spilling over her cheeks, and the peeping youth through her body like the glistening of the flowering banana, the innocence of her eyes, and her sly capering looks at me, whether advised or on her own, and the consequent bashfulness … was a singular experience.

We returned from marriage. I developed a distaste for food. I thought my thinking was going perverse because  there were no elders to censure. But, however rationally I reasoned, I did not find anything wrong with my thinking. I decided to marry her, if I were to marry.  But what was she to me?  I was not a social reformer.  Neither  had I ever had any sympathies for the reformist ideas earlier. Of course, I was not against them as well. My entertaining the idea of marrying her was not out of any spirit for reformation, but out of my belief that God had created her for me; And, me for her.

“Oh! How was I so infatuated of her?  She was a child of a harlot family. Would she remain chaste for me? Shall I remain her paramour?”

Tut! However hard I tried, I could not reconcile myself.

So I hurried up. I enquired my recently married friend and others where she hailed from. They laughed at me. I went to that village, located her house, and visited her house stealthily after fall of night.

Why should I bother you with all other details. They thought I came there to deflower her. I thought of informing the purpose of my coming to them gradually.  Her name was Mrinalini.

Mrinalini and I lived together for a year. Meanwhile, rumours started circulating among friends. I raised the issue before her mother any number of times, but every time she used to pacify me saying,”what is there? You can marry her later. Why do you hurry it up?”

However, Mrinalini and I lived like a married couple. I taught her Bharatanatyam. Her voice was a veritable treat to the ears.

In the bliss of her company I enjoyed, I never seriously entertained the idea of marrying her or to emancipate her from the vile environment she was locked up. As the year came to an end, I understood that her mother and sisters were in no mood to send her with me. Had I asked Mrinalini seriously to follow me, perhaps she might have.  She was only fifteen then.  They warned that they would file a suit against me if I made any attempts to take her away with me as she was still a minor then. I was perplexed. Mrinalini and I wept embracing each other. I had a feeling that Mrinalini was not mature enough to understand the nobility of our relationship. I gave them any amount for the past one year . From the day they refused to marry her to me, the flow of money ceased. And things took a strange turn all of a sudden. One day when I returned to their house Mrinalini was not at home and they said she went out to visit her relatives.  A week passed. But there was no trace of her. And my mind changed.

I was a bachelor of Arts by that time.  In my anger, and grief, one evening I left for Madras and joined the College of Law.  It was a two-year study. Every night I thought of her. During the day I could forget her. But, whenever I was lost in thoughts debating about my action late into the night, the conclusion was always remained the same. She’s my wife. I wont marry another.  I  feared that her mother and sisters might drag her into prostitution. Even if they did, I had decided to marry her. If she were to refuse me, I resolved to remain loyal to her and lead the rest of my life that way.

2

I passed my Law examinations.  I went directly from Madras to their place. My friends there invited me to their home. But I refused.

“Hey! It seems you did not lose hopes of her. let it be so.  But you must see her performing. These two years she became so famous.  They say there is no equal to her in Bharatanatyam these parts. She will  accept no invitation. And shall not perform in marriages. We are so eager to see her performance. And if you come along, it is very likely she might relent and we would be lucky,” they pleaded. They also told strange stories about her….that she had a son …  a european had kept her…that she had joined Congress as was a volunteer for last one year… that she always wore Khaddar…and, that it was suspected she was suffering from TB for the last six months. Not one… but in thousands. My head reeled. As much my hopes were dashed and dejection seized me, as much my interest in her doubled and the yearning to visit her instantly grew. My feet dragged me behind them to her house.

I sat in the verandah.  As I was sitting there, Mrinalini came there. She was wearing a white saree. She did not seem wizened. I looked at her in bewilderment. But there was no surprise in her look. Neither was she overjoyed. She showed no reservations either. She behaved just as she did two years ago when we lived  blissfully together. “Was it, what all these people had said, true Or false?

Then my friends said, “we came here to see your performance, Mrinalini.” She immediately came near me, and leaning and resting her bosom on my left shoulder as she would have done two years ago whenever I had asked her to perform,  she asked, “what do you want me to perform?” The moment I felt the touch of her body, I noticed she was running high temperature. But she did not seem to feel it.  I found it strange. How could I discuss it among so many people around. I asked her to perform one Keertana I taught her. It was about “a mother kissing her child.” Mrinalini acted that keertana. I never saw such divine performance before. I did not teach her. My God!  Those shades of affection in her eyes… and the curves the chin and the cheeks assumed as she bent her face to look at the child! It’s imprints were still green in my memory. I could not resist the mental tension. I was afraid that she might collapse under the burden of her performance. Unable to contain my emotional upsurge, I left the place without speaking a word to anybody .

  3

To the north of that town there was a stream. It was a perennial.  There was no bridge across that. People had to walk through the stream to cross it.  A new township had developed on the other side. Her house was in the old town, on this side of the stream.

The sun was about to set. I reached the stream steeped in my grief. I felt someone was walking beside me.  When I looked aside,  I saw Mrinalini. And this child was under her arm. He was one year old by then. She was wearing a chequered Pondur hand-loom saree with a Jari border. I did not ask her anything. Nor did she speak to me anything. I understood that she was coming with me without informing at home. Darkness fell by the time we reached the stream.  Yet, people could recognise each other in that darkness.  The water was knee-deep. If Mrinalini were to get into the water, her saree would get wet completely. So I crossed the stream holding her in my arms. People looked at me in wonder. In the new township a hotel was run in a big building. it was an Iyyar’s hotel. Where should I take her? I wanted to take a room for her for the night and bring her to my place the following day.  I asked Iyyar for a room but he said there was no room. After repeated requests he vacated a room in the terrace and accommodated her.

“What do people think of me if I take you with me now? You are not fit for me to marry you. You go and stay with your mother. And I remain a bachelor imagining you as my wife,” I said. By the time I returned taking dinner, her mother and sisters were there. They perhaps tried to persuade her to get back home. And seeing them all in her room, I left and did not return for the whole night. Neither  had I had any sleep that night.

I was sure that she might have left the place with her mother. But a ray of hope somewhere lingered that she might not have. A doubt.

When I visited her room the following morning, she and the child were sitting there in that room. “Didn’t you go home with your mother?” I asked her. She did not reply.  I had a strong urge to embrace and tell her, “let’s marry and live happily.” But strangely some vague a hay-thin reservation restrained the flood of emotion from expressing my love.

Perhaps, I might have entertained a thought to wait till evening and take her with me if she was still waiting for me there. I left.

Hardly two hours passed. There was a Satyagraha demonstration on the road. Some body informed me that police opened fire to disperse the Satyagrahis who defied law, and that  Mrinalini died of one bullet shot. I went there and found her dead.

Concerned about the child, I immediately ran to the hotel. The child was crying his eyes out. I thought of taking the child to Mrinalini’s mother. before that, Mrinalini’s mother and other relatives came there but did not speak anything about the care and custody of the boy.

I brought the boy with me. During their conversation I came to know his name was Ronald. The boy was thinking I was his father. In a way, I was.  What I failed to comprehend then was why  Mrinalini behaved the way she did. I came to know later… that her mother and sisters put her to lot of suffering and privation.  Unable to resist and put up with them and with nobody to fall back upon,  she had yielded…

  ***

The deep sigh of Kapardi struck me deep in my heart. I slept there in his house that night. Should I console Kapardi? Express my sympathies? Praise him that he was a great soul? Or, should I censure and blame him for his degeneracy? … I was not sure. But my respect for him had grown more than ever.

I could sleep in the wee hours of the day. Kapardi woke me up. He hurried me for taking coffee.  This Kapardi was not the same man who narrated his story the previous night. This man was bubbling with enthusiasm… was like a pleasant repartee. Before the moonlight of his smile every kind of gloom would melt away. This was the same Kapardi I knew for the last two years and whom I meet occasionally… a connoisseur of art,  a sweet conversationalist and a lifelong  artiste.

Original : Sri Viswanatha Satyanarayana

From: “Chinna Kathalu”…  ISBN: 81–47-1, pp 99-106.

(With apologies to the Viswanatha Family for not taking their permission as I am not aware who to contact in this regard)

My Lord ! … Viswanatha

Image Courtesy: http://smashingtips.com

.

My Lord! The abode you commit me to live…

Is an essence of intense darkness of the night,

A veritable trove of abject poverty, disconsolate,

And, dabbed with endless stream of tears.

.

And in that Stygian darkness my Lord! you once

Flourished, eons ago; And, that day my humble cot

was pervaded with a passel of  flowery perfumes

wafted around by the winds of ecstasy!

.

That’s all!  Darkness took over the reign again.

This endless enduring darkness and I

Have been locked up in a bear-hug ever since

Reminiscing you, and your profile of that moment.

.

Viswanatha Satyanarayana

.

స్వామి! పరిగాఢ శర్వరీఛ్ఛవి, దరిద్ర

తానిధానము, తేజోవిహీన, మనవ

రతపరిసృతభాష్పధారామిళితము

నన్ను నీ వుండుమన్నంగణంబు తండ్రి!

.

ఈ మహాంధకారంబున నెపుడొ యొక్క

సారి మెరిసితి, వానాడు సామి! నా కు

టీర మానందవాయుప్రచారశతస

హస్ర కుసుమపరీమళవ్యాపృతంబు!

.

దానితో సరి, మరల నాంధ్యమ్ము క్రమ్మె,

తొలి చివరలేని ఈ చీకటులును, నేను

ఒక్కరొక రప్పళించుకొంచుండినాము,

నిన్ను, నీ నాటి మెరుపు మన్నించుకొంచు!

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విశ్వనాధ సత్యనారాయణ

(10 September 1895 – 18 October 1976)

కవిసామ్రాట్ విశ్వనాథ సత్యనారాయణ గారు తిరుపతివేంకటకవుల శిష్యులు, తెలుగులో తొలి జ్ఞానపీఠ్ అవార్డు గ్రహీత, పద్మభూషణ్, అక్షరాలా శతాధికగ్రంథ కర్త. పరమ ఛాందసుడనీ, “పాషాణపాకప్రభో” అనీ సమకాలీనులలో కొందరు అతని భావజాలానికీ, రచన శైలికీ విమర్శించినా, తనదైన మార్గంలో,  అసమాన మేధాసంపత్తితో నిర్భయంగా సాగిన కవి. అయితే,  అద్భుతమైన కల్పనాశక్తితో పాటు,  అతని రచనలలో కొన్నిచోట్ల సరళతా, సమకాలీన ప్రతీకలూ కూడ కనిపిస్తాయి.

Your Chariot … Viswanatha Satyanarayana

http://www.harekrsna.de/surya/sun-chariot.jpg
Image Courtesy: http://www.harekrsna.de

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Your chariot, O my Lord!  is racing

with an ordained speed, uninterrupted.

This corp came under it, got crushed; spurting

blood streamed in pools and dried up.

.

That effulgent resplendent chariot divine

had not stopped a wee, cognizing any snag;

Neither it made a turn around, nor divine

the instant roaring screams I let out.

.

The charioteer shall wash my blood stains

off your carriage wheels tomorrow;

From the infinite sanguine stains pooled over there ,

How to make out mine? Tell me, my Master!

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Viswanatha Satyanarayana

(10 September 1895 – 18 October 1976)

A Padma Bhushan, First Telugu Jnana Peeth Award Winner  Sri Satyanarayana was a poet, translator, novelist, dramatist, essayist and a lyricist.

.

నీ రథము

.

ఓ ప్రభూ! నీ రథము దీక్షాప్రణీత

విధురవేగమ్ము పరువులు వెట్టుచుండె

నా శరీరమ్ము దానిక్రింద బడి నలిగి

నలిగి పోయినయది రక్త నదము లింకి. 

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దివ్యతేజోవిరాజత్త్వదీయ రథము

ఈ గతుకుడేమియనియైన  నాగలేదు

నా విరోధించిన హఠాన్నినాదమునకు

వెనుదిరిగియైన మరి జూచికొనగలేదు.

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నాదు రక్తము నీ రథచోదకుండు

కడిగివేయును రేపు చక్రములనుండి

అచట బహుజన రక్త చిహ్నములయందు

నాదియిదని గుర్తేమికన్పడును, సామి?

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విశ్వనాథ సత్యనారాయణ

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