Skin Can’t Cover Everything

Translated by Santosh Bhoomkar

Skin can’t cover everything.
It only covers
the skeleton,
wrapped in flesh,
dangling even in a college laboratory.

It covers the molar teeth inside the jaw,
but it can’t cover
all the sharp intentions behind them.

It doesn’t allow the tumult within to speak out.
It can’t even cover
the terrible silence that spreads afterward.

Though it has no eyes,
it can make gestures.
It doesn’t have a voice but calls even from a distance.

Hundreds of flint stones
are hidden in it.
It is made of mica layers.

It is an alphabet scattered all over the world,
a mutual language
not confined to any single script.

Even after playing all games,
it remains aloof,
and is enthralled by itself.

It has many colours.
It balances shapes and defines beauty.
Its brilliance is both glittering and dull,
matured by the sun and rain.

It tries with all its strength to make us stand
as human beings.

But it can’t cover
the wild animals
hidden within us,
waiting to commit crimes.

The Silent Killer

Translated by Santosh Bhoomkar

He is the most vigilant in the crowd,
the most alert, the most disciplined man.
Stuffing all verbosity inside,
he zips it shut and remains silent.

He is always trying to change his appearance,
but he cannot change his eyes,
which even he cannot fully comprehend.
His determined steps tread the chartered path.

While the crowd busily forges bonds,
he alone flips through the pages of history.
A legion works silently behind him,
binding him with an unyielding rope of threat.

All around him, the restless present bubbles.
He is part of a headless beast,
a creature that has arrived here,
sniffing its way without eyes.

It is ensured that a killer instinct burns within him,
a flame that will never extinguish.
He has been immunised against humanity.

He wears a jacket that shields him
from the piercing touch of human connection.
His cold, disease-stricken eyes
see the human crowd as worms in sewage.

The whirlwind roaring through his ears
will soon penetrate his body.
And he will spring into action,
determined and unrelenting, at any moment.

I identified him unexpectedly amidst this jostle;
he is right next to me, brushing against my body,
gripping the overhead hook of the swaying local train.
Now, an explosion could happen at any moment.

A Little Mouse Entered Her Toys

Translated by Santosh Bhoomkar

She has played a lot,
and now, tired, she sleeps quietly.

Her toys are scattered all over the room,
perhaps even her toys have gone to sleep –
as the world slumbers at night.

Her school bag lies in the middle,
its contents spilled around.

In her compass box
are many broken pencils,
a scale, an eraser,
and a separate box of coloured pencils.

She doesn’t yet know the alphabet properly,
yet she has so many books filled with coloured pictures –
animals, numbers, and letters.

She has risen gently from this chaos,
and now sleeps peacefully.

I know the map of these scattered toys
is firmly impressed on her mind.

And when she awakes,
she will expect everything
to be exactly where it should be.

A little mouse has entered her toys.

Its glimmering eyes
gaze at the coloured toys,
wandering through the scattered world.

Though its softness,
its smallness,
is visible in the fur,
its eyes are sharp.

Its teeth, sharp and busy,
gnaw at the hardness of her bat.

It has sunk its teeth deep
into Barbie’s white shoe.

Even the well-shaped elephant’s trunk
seems an easy target.

The tiger’s tail, curled
against its hind legs,
is safe for now.

But the tire of the ambulance –
that will certainly be injured.

It ignores the small utensils,
slowly making its way toward the books.

Soon, it will gnaw at the alphabet in her book,
daring even to assault her language –
a language where words
are yet to be placed in the right order.

So far, she has seen animals (and even humans)
only in the coloured pictures of her books –
all dipped in hues,
veiled by the cloak of language.

She has yet to encounter real animals.
and so, with innocent confidence,

she sleeps carefree,
leaving her entire world open.

But a real mouse
has begun to gnaw at her toys –
the foundation of her small, magical world.

I Peeped Into the Novel

Translated by Dilip Chavan

I peeped into the novel.

The writer had spread a sparkling light
at the bottom of a cavern, like a deep well.
All the characters were shopping,
the water-wheel of incidents
turning in its customary rhythm.

The characters lived their lives so intensely –
far more intensely than we ever live our own.

Their language shimmered with brilliance,
even their frustrations carried a sharp edge.

Even the blades of grass
had incidents in their lives –
of sprouting, swelling, and excitement,
of being crushed, uprooted,
sometimes beneath someone’s back,
someone’s head,
someone’s delicate feet,
or heavy shoes.
So many events
shaped their tiny lives.

Even after devastation,
the green blade of grass held an arrogance –
the pride of raising its head again.
The yellow blade of grass, in contrast,
was desperate to merge into the soil.

I began to watch closely,
searching to see
if I, too,
had been crawling among the grass.

In my search,
I landed at the bottom
of the deep well.

From there,
I gazed at the sky
framed by the cavity of the high well.

I began to search for myself,
to see if I was flying
somewhere in that sky.

Translating Poetry

Translated by Vishnu Khare

To translate poetry–
as I enter a poem,
the poet leads me
along the zigzag trail of language,
across a bridge of sunshine,
to a misty mountain.
He carries me to such dizzying heights
that I can see all of humanity below.

Another poet takes me
to the very center of time,
where I hear
the gentle heartbeats of Kronos.

Yet another grabs my hand
and guides me through terror-stricken people.

One makes me learn
the language of poetry.

Another shows me how to wield language
in ways I can never imagine possible.

I see the blistering whip lashes of time
on yet another poet’s back.

Each poet opens
the unseen windows
of the world as I perceive it.

And finally, with
doors ajar,
they welcome me into their poetry
with open hearts –
though without guarantees
or obligations.

Taste of Water

Translated by Maya Pandit

The alphabet at the bottom
anchor the flow of language.
With just a few sips,
its taste intoxicates.

The flow from its origin
deepens into vast seas.
The soil, charged with seeds,
awakens to the meaning of water.

Scenes of radiant light
bloom in tiny droplets.
Flashes of smooth, glossy lightning
bridge the dots of gloom.

The flowing waters of language
bestow a vision so vivid.
A cool fragrance fills the chest,
and nature begins to thrive.

Excerpted with permission from Scratching the Silence: Selected Poems, Prafull Shiledar, translated from the Marathi by Santosh Bhoomkar, Vishnu Khare, Maya Pandit, and Dilip Chavan, Red River Press

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