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The Sea
and
the Rain
by
Ankur Betageri
final
No of copies: 2000
No of pages:
Price:
Published by:
Shrusti Prakashana
RBI Layout
Puttenahalli
Printed at:
Jwalamukhi Printers
#44/1, K R Road
Basavanagudi
He has been serving as editor, printer and publisher of the magazine Spardha
Prapancha for the past twelve years. His field of interest includes environment,
travel, reading, music, drama and short-film making. Considering his contribution
to the field of environment, the arts, literature and social work, the Government
of Karnataka honoured him with the Youth Award for the year 1988-89. For his
contribution to the field of environment, the Department of Forest, Environment
and Zoology has bestowed upon him the Environment Award for the year 2001-02. For
activities concerning environment, tourism development, culture and lifestyle he
has traveled to Srilanka, Maldives, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Hong Kong,
Nepal, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Dubai and Indonesia.
Books edited: Buddha Pragne, Maanavatavaadi Malliah. The Sea and the Rain (Samudra
Mattu Male) is his first collection of poems. You can reach him at:
nagatihalliramesh@gmail.com.
Ankur Betageri, born on the 18th of November 1983, is a bilingual poet based in
Bangalore. He has published a collection of poetry in English entitled The Sea of
Silence (2000) and two collections in Kannada entitled Hidida Usiru (2004) and
Idara Hesaru (2006).
of my grandmother
Nanjamma
of father Rangappa
which used to
cool me
of the house
'where is father?'
says
I say,
to the earth-heart
of my mother Kempakka.
Nagatihalli Ramesh
'My mother lived countless poems, but she never wrote one.' I for one, with my
poems, wrote hers as well.
'The song that sleeps silently in the mother's heart sings on the lips of the
child.'
-Khalil Gibran
I wrote
-Nagatihalli Ramesh
You talk
a relationship?
Body relationship
life relationship
praana relationship -
He who understands
is a relative, O Lord
of caves.
-Allama Prabhu
Mountain gooseberry
when
of caves?
-Devanooru Mahadeva
Contents
Preface
Translator's Note
My Mother
My Mother - 2
Father
My Grandmother
The Sea and the Rain
Woman
Avva's Words
Roots
Condition
Mother's Children
The Spark
Lots to do
Amoeba
On this Earth
Happiness
Natural Life
Denizens of Road
We are Tribal
World of Dew
Our Children
To Mother Earth
My People
You
Strategy
Song of Life
Power of Faith
Time
Root-word of Fulfillment
Mud Lamp
Jogi's Question
Wisdom
Generation
Kallu Baana
Reflection of Darkness
Prison Song
Afterword
Preface
The communicative skills of Nagatihalli Ramesh were proverbial during his student
days when he astounded everyone by winning more than a hundred prizes in open
debates in colleges in and outside Bangalore during just one year. That he also
pens poetry is, however, a happy revelation to me, having only now gone through
his anthology of poems, The Sea and the Rain. With humble beginnings in life as
can be made out from his simple and yet touching poems, he has scaled great
heights in more fields than one. The confidence that he exudes is quite contagious
as evidenced by the organizational successes he has achieved in quite a few
fields.
A majority of the poems included in this anthology are of a personal nature in the
same sense that the focal point in most of the poems is his mother, who in the
process becomes the mother, thanks to the archetypal images associated with her.
It was during the 18th century that William Cowper wrote his memorable sentimental
poem about his mother and the chair she sat on. Nothing in that poem affects the
reader more than the intimacy, comfort and honour in the context of the mother. It
is that same warmth and comfort that characterize Ramesh's poems centred round his
mother, father, grandmother and so on. It is an ever present mother that has
etched herself permanently on the sensitive mind of Ramesh who basks in the
sunshine of his native milieu. It is only occasionally that emptiness haunts him
and always the distress is followed by cosy thoughts about the mother.
Another noteworthy string of thought that runs through his poems is the edifying
nature of labour. This is a classical sentiment enshrined in folklore. It is also
central to every community for whom agriculture is mainstay. Coming from this
background Ramesh can jolly well declare that
is a billionaire
Hope in the midst of agony, a longing for a better and brighter future, are in the
ultimate analysis what the poet projects. He hopes to “make tomorrows our
pillows.” But the pillows might be elusive, considering that the predatory nature
of man might become manifest anytime. That is why the “underwater creatures” have
a precarious existence:
the tears
of underwater creatures?
today.
One only hopes that there shall be no more such homes either in Laos or elsewhere.
That is the humanistic feeling that thematically pervades the poems of Ramesh.
Equally vehement is the poet in Ramesh to chastise those whose indiscriminate
destruction of civilization in the name of a higher civilization. (See “Like Blood
Splashed” for instance). The net impact is that
It is not the tending of life but tormenting it. And that is what disturbs Ramesh.
Surely a healthy disturbance when one realizes that
is being doused
of a candle
Ramesh deserves our congratulations on exploring the conscience of man today and
the translator deserves it too for his creative endeavour.
G Ramakrishna
Translating a work of desi Kannada into contemporary English I have faced many
challenges, and these challenges I have overcome in my own ways. I could not do
without Indianisms, and I hope at least these usages will make the discerning
reader reach out to the social and cultural contexts of rural India which are the
well springs of many of the poems here.
The author Nagatihalli Ramesh has been very forthcoming in clarifying the meaning
of the idiomatic usages for which I have tried my best to find the closest English
equivalent.
I do not know to what extent I have been successful in acquainting the non-Indian
reader with the nuances and complexities of colloquial Kannada whose meanings
spring out of the deep relation that the people here share with the soil. But I
would like to believe that the concerns and conflicts expressed here are
universal, and, as such, it would be no surprise if the rich significance of these
poems flow unhampered through the deeper connectedness of humankind.
Ankur Betageri
Bengaluru
Author's Note
These are just questions that I have asked myself. Writing this down gives me
peace. Why does darkness and loneliness descend upon man? When does it dawn?
What are the effects of gaining and loosing relationships? What is the play of
light and darkness hiding in this? What kind of influence can this play of light
and darkness have on the success and failure of man?
What do relationships fill in a man? And why does he feel the emptiness when there
are no relationships? Is this state experienced only by a child? Does an old man
escape from this state?
This body which gets attached to things and burns, why does it feel futile? Why do
human beings love with a vengeance and remain attached to people? Which fear are
they haunted by? Whose crushing foot has made them immobile?
So, the foundation on which we have built our civilization, is it wrong? If we get
an answer to this question would the decadent path followed by civilization be
revealed?
Thinking about all this and not finding an answer, and stuffing all these thoughts
to a corner of the mind, and taking them out standing on some footpath, and
analyzing them with new thoughts... and still no answer.
The koel sings beautifully. Pulling some remote strings, a man sings. An old
woman, collecting torn clothes, stitches a quilt. What is the feeling behind the
crying of a little child? What is it that the child seeks? What is the mindset of
a soldier who has lost his hands in the war? Did his sword cheat him?
The flapping sound of the birds which are flying in their hearts, what does it
say?
Its realization
and a companion.
Like someone about to tell
a secret, he laughs,
My life is a road broken into many paths. Since the time I was born my eagerness,
failures, inferiority, despair, loneliness, orphan-ness and suicidal attempts had
made me so desperate that I had become like an ant sinking in the mud.
To what extent can the love and concern of people can flow? Is it true that only
those who have struggled and suffered get shelter among people? I am still haunted
by the memories of people who helped me. Does the pain that we experience leave
marks on our face? Did people see these marks and helped me, or was it the life
jumping in me which devised this elaborate game and pushed me into it? I completed
my Bachelors in Science and a correspondence course in journalism from Mysore
University and got a degree in Law from evening college. With this my college life
ended. I used feel that I was happy while at college.
When I had to leave college I was haunted by the big question of 'what next?' I
had a pair of trousers, a shirt and a bag full of prizes that I had won during my
college days in open debate competitions. With these I wandered the streets of
Bangalore. And while hunting for a job I sold these prize trophies one by one and
managed to drink tea three times a day.
Such being my condition one day I met my dear friend from college, Venkataranga.
As they say, 'by the time the grains and lentils finish, it rains.' This friend
took me to a hotel, brought me lunch and as though he was waiting to hear me all
this while, sat silently listening to me. Then he took me straight to his house
and explained my talent, helplessness and dreams to his parents Sri B Krishna and
Sharada B Krishna. His father had already helped me by providing scholarship
during my college days. He gave me an office and the required money to start the
magazine Spardha Prapancha. And there were people like P Lankesh who didn't want
their name mentioned for help like these; I got a lot of encouragement from all
these people. Lankesh, the honest and irreverent man, who wrote with an innate
knowledge of those who had struggled and suffered, learning about me starting a
magazine, encouraged me with a fund of three thousand rupees in 1993. When I
returned the money in 1994, 'Not bad… you proved that even shudras return the
money lent,' he said with a smile. Lankesh, gave the solace of a mother, made the
lives of many like me, without recording them anywhere.
Even in this time when everybody is sinking into a state of two-facedness I see
people who still have faith and love in man. I have realised that there are
thousands of hands in this society which have real concern and love. Isn't this
enough to boost our confidence to realize all our big dreams, and to ignite the
determination of becoming one among those thousand hands!
Dear friend and poet Ankur Betageri who translated this book into English,
renowned thinker and the editor of Hosatu magazine Dr G Ramakrishna who wrote the
preface, my friend-poet Phoenix Ravi who wrote the Afterword and friend and
painter Vishnu who designed the cover and did the illustrations, all those who
helped in bringing out this book, all the people who saved my life with their
love, I cannot repay them with anything but my life.
Nagatihalli Ramesh
My Mother
have opened
remained a well.
you became
in my eyes.
O everyone's mother
who is she?
O everyone's village
which is it?
My Mother - 2
for mother
Why darkness?
I called mother
to my lively home.
I wake up as usual
Electric wires
as if
have fallen.
Is she a goddess
to the darkness,
a singular hurry,
To some village
her foot
which Pushpaka Vimana2 she's hiding
As I think thus
and bow.
I am a-thrill within.
like a pawn.
and call
'mother,'
My extreme belief
a bamboo vase
My mother is a
lullaby-singing bird
After sometime
and shrivelled;
that well
he prayed.
he became a coolie
in a broken cycle
he remained a well
Again,
a scared-eyed 10-year-old
he picked me up unawares
In that darkness
stammering
he was rubbing
peeled off;
at my father who
like a peacock
of my mother
The truth of
father passing away
without remarrying
clouds forming
in father's eyes
as he remembers
I swell in happiness
looking at birds
to the beak
Budding again,
and bearing fruits and flowers.
My Grandmother
in the mind
-she said.
falling at night
Every Saturday
The memory of
to black coffee
Everything changes
Looking at people
in the village
only we two
remained lonely.
had died,
to village
of the soil.
my grandmother disappeared
Dusk
In the field
mother like a lamp
in one sight,
My child
I run to mother
is moving ahead
know
stickiness of heart.
2.
She walks
I somehow decide
Avva,
I'm reminded of
haunt me.
He is not ready,
He is not ready
hidden in heart
The woman
is very picky
man
who licks
everything he gets.
Civilizations drowned
because of this
sensuousness.
in her nirvana
as the sun
blazed on my head
hungry,
I opened
fingerprints on them.
Mother's memory
easy.
This is Just a Line
that night.
I who did,
into grandmother?
seeps in,
How to transform
to be sister
into mother?
for meditation.
As I thought
my sister was
when lit,
like a perfume
she stood,
O my brothers.
This poem is
just a line
colourful flowers
Children,
Avva's Words
Heavy rains
at once.
The charm of the blue sky
feeling sorry
act like
on their heads.
He who climbs
No part of earth
is a billionaire
Your life,
in cold water.
is clawed open
the termite
Roots
The depth
length
breadth
and height
of orphans
is more,
is more.
large.
We spread the question
the tears
of underwater creatures?
Word history
into a river.
A phony poem
was washing
the dirt.
The cobbler
taking you
Condition
today.
burning meteors
hanging ropes.
which begin,
'One day
America,
is a mystery of life.
A Journey through the Desert
We Indians
In the desert
of burnt prey.
oil spurted,
became a well,
seeking minerals
the village,
everything changed.
of Maari festival;
stand faded,
all red,
Everything's red,
is red.
are passing.
to dig life-pits.
Paddy,
which is money.
it dies.
Farmer
and waits
everyday
as if meditating;
sprouting in rain,
The Spark
barren,
luxurious apartments of
crazy kings,
false crimes
is being doused
of a candle.
Lots To Do
Amoeba
No male
till date
has understood
he simply pretends -
in her eyes
crying rooms
Happiness
swells;
shrinks.
Natural life
In devotion
thought,
Jogi said
is better than an
The mountain
the cloud
the cloud
which
descended
slo-
wly
Patent Notice
and flew
is still growing
We till at night
we planted
solace them,
the waves
flying above
We Are Tribal
We are tribal
we neither sweat
nor shudder
at the hunters
we are used to
feeding arrows
ever since.
Fruit Fallen to the Ground
walked off.
began to bloom
In the verandah
politics -
till sunset.
by the intellectuals -
to be what he was.
And some others still called him
someone else's…
World of Dew
and yet.'11
burns:
one moment
like a millennium.
tied underneath
the Kengeri bridge of Bangalore
If remembered
Many nights
of civilization, there
I was
swinging off-balance.
Even now
is playing there!
in every village
of building a house
wheel of time
but what to do
In those stories
tying mango-leaf-hangings
'come in mother!'
they said.
every night,
in the morning
on the plate
in a single glance
behind,
in front
beside
above
below
inside, outside
keeps flowing.
it won't bow.
Criticize it,
it smiles.
Our Children
From city
'Save forest!'
'Save city!'
became orphans.
To Mother Earth
I am not
mother
My People
Rain-
clouds
which
appeared
in
summer heat.
You
If
I go on despising everyone
what am I?
Strategy
A slave there
saved
a handful of grains;
Their strategy
song of life.
to each tree
things follow us
It is not
that it is mine
Time
Source of Fulfilment
If people
have faith
in us
A student goes
to his guru
guru says:
Mud Lamp
while sprouting
and growing
stare at heaven;
gathering the
golden crown
of harvest
How to catch
A child
shines in it
drinks
curly hair
around it
a fair of onlookers
Jogi's Question
'hoy!' I cried.
enter my field?
asked a question:
Standing in my field,
he asks me a question!
saying 'female.'
an answer came,
He screamed back:
the sound
of any woman
speaking aloud
in any epic
or religion.
The words
of woman characters
of Mahabharata
I understood Draupadi12
towards villages,
If we search history
But still
of religion.
Between cultures
histories
objects
letters
religions
parties
politics
which stand,
In its shadow
of a poster
to safeguard people?
King means
light in front
darkness behind
people who
if you can't
by talking about your mother
victory is yours!
I stretch my hands,
Oh God
make my hands longer.
To carry orphans
lot of strength
lot of life-force
is needed.
Lift a grain
Generation
Why are wandering paths forked into a thousand?
Desert
Birth,
faded colours;
this poetry
is their first child.
Politics is an art
politician is a poet
drunkenness of pride
Centuries passing
death is hiding
Afterword
Kempavva
Avva
Kempavva
parrot flutters.
2
flying in flocks,
a handful of water.
My avva
Nagatihalli Ramesh
a reason.
he is now at peace,
relaxed beyond
One day in May 2006, I saw Nagatihalli Ramesh's mother. Till then he had created
his mother's world in me through his talk, songs and crying, and like unravelling
all those pictures he showed her to me.
There are very few people in this world who have hated women as much as I have
done. Even as I sought them for consolation, love and tenderness, seeing their
narrowness, guile and selfishness I have recoiled in horror. Ramesh's mother
Kempavva is someone who has reached a saintly state and has forgotten all sense of
this and the other world. Giving off rice, clothes, jewellery, money for those in
need and then standing with her hands outstretched, her figure has reminded me of
Jesus Christ. Christ said, 'let the wealth flow down from above.' Avva, like
Christ, is both a giver as well as a bhikshu. That she stands here as the very
earth is a testament to man's capacity to be transformed. From the time I have
seen her, my old pictures have started blurring and my hate related diseases have
started disappearing.
With the above kind of diseases becoming common, the magical touch of mother's
fingers is the only cure for the modern world.
A child who has lost mother's love, even in the cosy confines of his house feels
like one lost in a forest. In my journey from such a state towards one which
promises love and tenderness, avva has haunted me like a huge explosion of
awareness; to her, and to Rameshanna and Shobhaakka who opened up these
possibilities, I am forever grateful.
Phoenix Ravi
Nagatihalli Ramesh is a proper village lad. About two decades back he lost his way
into the city of Bangalore like an orphaned calf. Though born into a well-to-do
family, throughout his childhood he had to experience humiliation, inferiority and
ridicule of people. He lost his father's support even before he could come of age,
and was shaped by the otherworldly-motherhood of his mother. Though initially
neglected for his stammering, he overcame that through sheer effort and innate
talent. He's someone who has mastered the art of spell bounding people with
speech. During the 80's he won almost all the debating competitions in which he
participated with the help of his exact logic and eloquent speech, tempered with
great presence of mind. On the streets of the rich city he sold fruits and
vegetables, and distributing newspaper to households, he built his life through
his own efforts. In moments of great despair he slept on railway tracks to find
the ultimate solace. As trains do not arrive on their scheduled time in our
country, he survived.
K Y Narayanaswamy