Shailendra Sakar

Shailendra Sakar /(DOB-1947)/ Nepali poet/Currently resides in USA

Works:-

·         Shailendra Sakar Ka Kavita

·         Sarpaharu Geet Sundainan (Poetry Collection)

·         Collage, Kalpatra Ra Aru Katha (Story Collection)

·         Nango taar

·         Kabitaamaa America

·         America,Ramayan ra aru kathaa

Honours:-

·         Musyachu Puraskar

·         Yug Kavi Sidhicharan Kavya Puraskar

In 1979, Sakar initiated a movement of discarded communities to protest against the cruel formalities of the ruthless Panchayat system. At this phase of his life, he came under the influence of the Hungry Generation Poets and Beats poets. In 1988, Sakar joined the Boot Polish Movement to attain the freedom of Press from the clutches of the Establishment and to restore the dignity of the writer of the street. He also edited Mantra, a literary magazine.

In 1979, Sakar published Collage (Royal Nepal Academy, Kathmandu), a collection of short stories where he experimented with the traditional narrative mode and created an anti-hero persona to depict the agony of the Nepalese social milieu, and Shailendra Sakar Ka Kavita (Sajha Prakashan, Kathmandu) a collection of poems that established Sakar as a major poet who voiced the cause of the discarded communities, altering the elite definition of poetry. In 1991, Sakar published his second collection of poems, Sarpaharu Geet Sundainan (Nirala, New Delhi) that vehemently attacked the cruelties of the party, Panchayat regime.

________________

Shailendra Sakar's poems have the emotional gravity and intellectual weight- as well as elegance-to make us feel by turns unstrung and incensed about the rush of time that leaves us all behind.

'Nepali Times '09jan-2003

Vidya Kamat

Generation 


Wasting green years in the college
He became wise.
He dreamt, he wrote dreams
And in the evenings at New Road
With an English newspaper under his armpit
He became a civilized man.
And in an insignificant moment of an ordinary day
Falling in ideal love like in the Hindi films
He espoused a quarrelsome, practical woman.
Striving to fulfill all the desires of his wife
From the epic battlegrounds of overtime and part time
Wan and weary
He sacrificed all his own desires.
With a downcast face and under daily criticism of his boss
Without any decision
Without any future
Without any motivation
Without any interest
He is compelled to serve his country selflessly.
In the once jealously guarded books
Of philosophy, politics and history
In thought-provoking grand bundles of newspapers
Published with announcements of new sympathies
These days
It has been easy for him and for his skillful housewife
To allow their small boy to defecate.

City-1


Below a sky dirty as a galley proof

composing inverted letters on a dirty board

I am walking naked all over a city of mirrors

To read my name clearly.

The moon like an old wound scratched up with a pencil

Repeatedly attempts to hide her rough skin

Near the street light.

In the empty spaces of discarded newspapers

Sketching a traingular mirror image of my head

Vainly throughtout the night

I wander in this city.

City-2

A mad elephant is walking all over the city

He is not able to utter the name of his favourite flower

He cannot sing a piece of his favourite song

He cannot raise his eyes to the sky

He only mumbles,lifting hands tremulous with fear

He only greets

He cannot go anywhere and tell

Of what he has seen

Men shall accuse him of disturbing peace

A mad elephant is walking all over the city.

The sting of the past  [atit dansh]

                               

A song stops in the middle of singing

a reel snaps while being viewed

a failure turns back as it walks

a voice ends in the middle of speech

The ancient wary black cat

glaring at you in the dark is set to bounce

from the farsighted wall of the past

thera is a certain place to look

a corner to see oneself in

a picture album tossed away in some cup board

that keeps distracting the self

the past has a certain enclosure

yes and all around a smell

the smell of afamiliar crone-girl wife

maybe the smell of an  old newspaper

or the stench of an old vest

drenched  with sweat stuck to the skin

teeth clamping clown or ancient duskiness

breath moving up and down aged chests

the problem of old honour old warped glasses

old torpor old fear and blame

an aged newborn son peering into an ancient mirror.

       

Offcial 


At a quick glance apparently a detached tree,
But in the eyes wheel
A long reel of the decorated drawing room.
There is no sum that is harder for him
Than the problem of bread and butter,
No philosophy is greater than “report”,
No religion is greater than the file,
(That is why he has kept them with great care)
No god is greater than his boss.
He has the numbers of cars, houses and telpo9nes
Of the VIPS of the country on his finger tips.
However, he has never learnt by heart
The answer to ruthless letters of clarification
Written off-hand to fulfill regulations.



Serpents won't listen to your songs

It's a defeat
a loss perfect,
you do whatever you would,
stand intact against your gods
in the middle of sunny roads of reason
to cry aloud
your notes of rebellion
or sing songs
celebrating the spouts of life eternal;
It's a game futile
It's useless,an attempt vainglorious
Your storm of poems
Would n't rouse anyone from any sleep.
Those bejewelled serpents
charmed by the music of their own breath,,
thrilled by
the fumes of their own bodies,
Wouldn't care to listen to your songs,
wouldn't love your poems.........
Epics of your Age's despair
You have been reciting incessantly
and brandishing with their fires
the delicate flowers of your identity and faith.
You have been shaping verses
out from your heart's volcanic shrieks
and in your poems you have
hungered to locate the rhythms of life eternal
and all along hummed notes
of barbaric assaults and unjust plots.
But what can we do
my hero, my protagonist,
these serpents do not
want the throbbing beats of your footsteps.
No snake in this world
would love to listen to your recitals.
You shriek,
you cry aloudand lament,
these serpents engraved
on the damp walls of the temples are deaf.
Maddened by the music of adulation
on the eternally settled days of festivity
these serpents would engulf
the newly born babies of your future
and then stand proud,protective
and intact over Lord's sleeping head.
That's why,my hero,I GRIEVE,
the serpents do not want your poems.
They do not listen to your songs.

  

(Translated from Nepali by Manjushree thapa)

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Chandra Gurung

  

Chandra Gurung

5 august,1976

Poet (Nepali)

Graduation in Commerce BBS

First anthology titled उसको मुटुभित्र देशको नक्सा नै थिएन,  2007.

It is our pleasure to add an upcoming Nepali poet Chandra Gurung, to the Indian mainstream. The translation of a foreign language into English or Hindi helps us understand the different societal structure and prevailing conditions.  Being neighboring countries the amalgamation has brought forth beautiful results. Since our societies and cultures do not differ much, it feels as if we are reading, feeling, and understanding the essence and fragrance of our very own land.

Aparna Bhagwat

Chandra’s poetry depicts the politico-socio-economic conditions. Devoid of allusions his poems come direct from the core of his very being. The connotations and denotations are clear and reach out to the readers making them take a close look at the environment and society being created.  Despite all the achievements in life, the longing and yearning for ones own motherland, stands out prominently. The denouement of the poems is easy to understand, increasing the enjoyment manifold. The ensuing poems narrate the poet’s contemplation on issues close to his heart.

 MOUNTAIN, HILL AND TERAI 

Mountains that are injured
By the assault of innumerable Tenzings and Hillarys
Every time,
Trickling cold tears of snow!

Upon the order of some army officer
Adorned in green fitting combat dress,
And waiting for another command
Silently stands the soldier hills!

By the torrent blades of flood,
Terai with a clean-shaved head
Sits quietly
Basking the heat of poverty in winter!

                                   

THIS LIFE


This life,
From the cup of a tea early in the morning
Carrying desires of touching skies
Soars high in the form of steam.

After a while
Dashes here and there
Wanders around the world of fantasy.
And finally,
Dissolves into nowhere before realizing its dream.

Sometimes,
Standing on an estranged place
I slowly sip the tea of life
Prepared without sugar and tea leaves,
Neither any color,
Nor any taste,
And without any sweetness in it,
Only to subside the hunger of dreams
And to quench the flirty thirst of desires.

This life-
Starts every morning
With many thoughts boiling inside me,
But wears out
By everyday exhaustion and failures.
Every evening,
Stinks badly like the rotten dreams
And spreads the foul odor of
Bitter experiences
In every nook and corner of heart.

RULER AND SHOES


The rulers,
Covering their filthy feet
With different design of shoes
Feel secure.

The shoes also
Having got to live under the ruler’s feet

Regard themselves fortunate.

They attain great pleasure
In being at their boss’ service
And being their blind followers
Intone the names of their masters.

These rulers,
In assurance of the courtier shoes
Don’t pay heed to anyone.
In the hands of abettor shoes
Fear none.
And slam kick
Upon tender dreams.

These shoes,
Tread mercilessly
On innocent lives.
And trample
The beautiful flowers of garden.

But one thing-
Whatever transgression and oppressions
These rulers carry out,
They do it only after putting on their shoes.
Without shoes, their naked feet
Cannot even traverse a single step.

Rogue Rulers!

INFLATION 


Nowadays-
Every day,
Every moment,
At every junction,
And in every lane,
I encounter inflation.

I keep walking
On the road of life
And inflation keeps soaring up
To touch the skies.

The contorted face of inflation
Haunts me often
And how I always wish-
That I never confront it again.

Even then nowadays-
Every day,
Every moment,
At every junction,
And every street,
I encounter inflation.

And with every confrontation
My worldly desires -
Clothes for body,
Food for stomach
And a roof for shelter
Get buried in the graveyard of heart.

I always,
Try to walk, protecting myself
And staying safe from inflation
But every time
In the long queue of -
Ration Store,
Gas Station,
Drinking Water Office
And Electricity Board,
I encounter inflation.

FOREIGN LAND


In this alien land,
I have brought with me these two eyes
Always wanting to see the towering dreams.
Along with them
I also have with me my two hands that toil day and night
And, the legs that are measuring more journeys of life.
Coming till here,
I have with me a face that bears my own identity,
A face that has gleamed with every new victory
And, I also have my lips
That smile at every happiness here.

In this alien land-
Legs walk many desires,
Hands have accumulated much happiness,
Life has danced many joys,
Lips have bloomed many colorful smiles,
And much laughter sprouting over the cheeks.

I have everything with me

In this foreign land,

What I do not have here, is a heart-

That could fit all these,

Desires,

Joys,

Happiness,

Pleasures,

Laughter

And Smiles,

A heart that is left somewhere behind -

In my own land.

In my own land.

THE 

THE CITY THAT I’VE LIVED

All over the body of this city

The concrete buildings sprouting like wild mushrooms

All of them

-Stretching their life pooped spines

-Raising their honor stooped heads

-Broadening their dignity sunken bosoms

-Opening their dream captivated eyes

Over the smudged skies

Are humming in chorus- a hymn of their hollow heights.

Measuring the setting youth of life

I have witnessed

-Housing lands turning fat, devouring the green fields

-Water tanks taking height, swallowing the wells and springs

-Houses standing tall, barricading the hills on either side

-Walls erecting high, demolishing the splendor of trees

-Streets lying crushed, under millions of feet

Here- In the city that I’ve lived.

I have found

The advent of movie theatres chasing the Rodhis*

The germination of fast food cafes replacing the tea stalls

And-

On the either side of street

-Lifting heart-alluring showrooms with both hands

-Carrying colourful shops on shoulders

-Wearing artificial smile on faces

To attract the ‘time-pass’ throng of people

Standing swarming are shopping centers.

Here,

In the city that I’ve lived

-Peace prevails if voted to a specific political party
An election proclamation

-‘Buy two get one free’- birth of a new brand of soap

-Brash Ayurvedic medicines healing the most private diseases

Smearing lips with

Such multi-coloured lipsticks of advertisement

Standing are the fashionable walls

Chortling prostitute’s chic smiles.

Here-

Before the hungry huts

Without restraint, spit the star hotels uncouthly.

Making fun of the ill-clad feeble bodies

Time, in short skirts

Walks on the ramp- a modern catwalk.

And, the towering buildings here

Smelling of the chemical beauty of enamels

Stand fastened to one another

Giving home to multi-faceted creatures that never live in harmony.

The city that I’ve lived-

Where different unoccupied sculptures at every crossroad

Are standing quietly

Observing our life full of hustle and bustle.

Here,

Over the black-topped confused roads

Seen are grieving ambulances running.

And,

-Atop the overhead bridges

-At the corners of secluded parks

-On the footway of dark roads

Seen are flirtatious streetwalkers

Finding illicit business on the faces of crowd.

This is the city that I’ve lived

-Neither is covered by a mantilla of love

-Nor is tied by a thread of humanity

-And isn’t surrounded by walls of harmony either

Isolated from all sides… the city that I’ve lived.

Rodhis* -To the Gurung Community of Nepal, the “Rodhi Ghar” is a place for people to relax and enjoy themselves singing and dancing after the hardships of the day in the villages.

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 Translator

Jayant Sharma is a freelance translator and writer from Nepal. Having served in various national and international organizations as translator and writer, he contributes regular write-ups to major national dailies and South-Asian journals regarding arts, literature and culture, and has more than a dozen of books translated to his credit. His interviews on translation and writing have appeared in various journals. He also has worked as editor for different magazines and currently is the executive editor of ‘SATHI’, an English literary journal, a first of its kind in Nepal.

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Suman Keshri

Suman Keshri (15 July 1958), is an essential name of contemporary Hindi poetry. Her collection of poetry (YAGYAVALKYA SE BAHAS) is published by Rajkamal Prakashan, New Delhi ( 2008).

E mail : sumankeshari@gmail.com

Translator's Note :

Aparna Bhagwat

Suman Keshri, is an eminent name in the world of poetry. Not only are her poems contemporary but also speak of a profound study of human nature. While her mythical legendary characters narrate an incident they also display layers of turmoil inside establishing themselves as more human and hence, closer to us. Sumanji is equally proficient in expressing her thoughts on day to day matters, and nature. At times she is also found to be casting a question to the abyss of the unknown. The delicate balance then created, is intriguing, stimulating and enjoyable. It is a pleasure to read poems which do not over step the poetic license and simultaneously strike the deep rooted strings of the macrocosm and right into the female heart to bring forth a beautiful poem filled with the musical rhythm of just “being”.  The selected poems display her dexterity in the discipline.

Draupadi 

How do I introduce myself? 

Have you ever realized- 

Dropadi, Panchali, Krishna and Yagyaseny 

are all adjectives or conjunctions and not one of these is a  proper noun!

 

Father had rather wished for a warrior to avenge Dronacharya 

Astonishing/ surprising everyone I followed Drishtdunm  

all at once from the Yagya-agni
 

The one's who were not thought worthy of land measuring a niddle -point,  

 blame me for the death of millions  

they have spun several stories around me  

only because  never did I cry  

nor ever lamented 

 not even before Kunti –Ma  

who distributed me amongst her five sons 

nor in the Kurusabha 

where I was left alone  

inspite of my five husbands
 

 History is witness 

 That I only raised some questions and  

 You deprived me even of my name!

 

Tomorrow

Have you ever seen tomorrow ? 

I asked Tathagat
 

What else  have I known? 

answered He with a faint smile.

 

Woman 
  

(By) Spreading her Chunri on the hot burning sand in the desert 

placing a pot-full water with roties over it 

shadowing eyes  with her palm  

woman has built  

a home  

Just beneath the Sun.

 

A woman lives by excuses 

A woman lives by excuses.

When she’s tired, sewing or weaving is the excuse,

sorting grain, shelling peas is the excuse.

To close her eyes for a few minutes,

counting prayer-beads is the excuse,

listening to Ramayana or Bhagavata the excuse.

[or “listening to the holy scriptures”] 

To get out of the house, visiting the temple is her excuse,

buying vegetables, bangles or okra her excuse,

bringing the children to school her excuse,

taking the baby for a ride in the pram her excuse. 

To sleep, putting the child to bed is her excuse.

To sing, offering a lullaby is her excuse.

To cry, chopping onions is   her excuse .

To adorn herself, husband and relatives are her excuse.

To live, the needs of others are her excuse. 

A woman has to search

for her own existence.

Thus she lives her life.

a woman lives by excuses.
 

(Translated from Hindi by Linda Hess)

Linda Hess

Dr.Linda Hess is a scholar, writer,and a lover of Kabir. She began her travels to India in the 1960s and has been studying and translating the poetry of Kabir since the 1970s. She is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Religious Studies at Stanford University.

KRISHNAA-

I Paanchaali, depraved as they describe  me,
Call  myself  – Krishnaa, 
                   from the roof top!


I can never forget my woeful cries in the Kurusabha,
And  your yearning
To cover me up…


Ah! Those moments changed me!
Oh  Krishna, I have always loved you and only you,
And you are my sole friend!
You said -
“Arjun is my friend, my image, my devotee,
You be his."
And I became his. 


You told me - 
"The mother has divided you between her five sons,
You get divided"
I splitted myself amidst them all.


You stated -
"Subhadra is dear to Arjun,
Accept her.”
And I embraced her into our lives.


Dear, all this was done ….because,
You are my soul mate.
And to do so…
Is what love is all about!


Everybody talks of my love for Arjun 
Which gave me the frost bite,
But I know for sure, 
That you made me stay behind .


I still lie there, O Beloved!
Listening to your flute - the anhad naad* …
O my eternal love…


(* Anhad naad - It is an internal sound within the body, signifying the spiritual growth at that level(Anahata),there are ten types of sound a spiritual practitioner hears within him/herself known as Dashavida nada,such as the sound of a blowing of conch cell(shankha nada),of flute(venu nada),of bell(ghantha nada),of drums,of strings instrument(veena),of trumpet(shehanai),of thunder,of water flow and so on.Hearing such sounds are a sign of spiritual growth)

 AT A DEFINITE TIME.

She wakes up at a definite time,

Shirking the longing to turn over and wrap herself in a quilt,

She sits up, popping her knuckles.

Her feet feel for her slippers and find them,

and by the time she is up,

her accustomed fingers,

have already rolled her tresses into a neat bun.

Life runs like clockwork for her,

ceaselessly,

to heat the water for tea,

to cook the dal,

to toast a bread or a parantha,

everything is clearly defined,

and to be carried out punctually.

Having bathed at the fixed time

with flowers decked in her hair

bindi on her forehead

she flits about her door

like a restless bird

At a fixed time!

In this life of precise routine

the only uncertain thing is

talking with and listening to herself.

she does not even remember

the sound of her voice…

would she recognise

who this is

if confronted

with herself ?

IN AN UNKNOWN ANTICIPATION


It was a strange incident!
While passing by a hillock yesterday,
A droplet on a leaf,
Called out and accompanied me.
I wonder if it was a dewdrop,
Or a tear drop from someone’s eye?
Has it ceased existing or does it still survive?
Present in this constitution,
In an unknown form,


And in some un-apprehended hope……

IT WASN’T….

No! Not the piping!

How come the cuckoo,

Warbles so early in the morning!

Hidden among the mango leaves and blossoms,

It was neither an echoing,

Nor an alluring, lusty call.

It was infact, an edgy, uncomfortable cry,

Waiting,

Calling out,

To the unknown?

The serene skies,

And the quietude,

No birds twittering,

No wails of some distressed child.

Maybe it was a cuckoo obscured,

Concealed by the leaves and the blossoms,

Of a lonely tree,

And the way it screeched –

Neither was it piping…nor a tweeting!

LISTEN… MY DAUGHTER

Listen !,My daughter

 I fly across the window,

Like a bird…

You watch me –

Giggling and clapping 

The lights, in which,

The bird’s feathers would turn,

Into a rainbow

Just like it happens in the world of tales..

Listening to the tales, my daughter,

Just watch this bird

Flying in the sky.

Learn - to spread your arms wide apart,

And also to hop on your toes.

See how a bird is created .

Listen !,My daughter

 I fly across the window

You come…

(Translated from Hindi by Aparna Bhagwat)

Aparna Bhagwat is an ex-lecturer of Cytology. Deeply spiritual by nature, she is an avid  reader and indulges in her passion of writing and translating literature of both Marathi and Hindi languages.

Paintings  : Ramkumar

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