N. Kalyan Raman 

Translator

Darkness had begun
to decend on the sky
like pallor spreads
on the skin of a girl
come of age.

Shutting the street door
I sat inside, alone
in the yellow light of candles.

It was then that the daily
-unwelcome- visit
came to pass.
Even I was watching
it stripped me away
and brought forth
another version of myself.

Before I could feel astonished,
I had finished reading
the book that bore
the imprint of intimacy.

Light rays from my eyes
settled on the loose folds
of the man’s clothes
as he slept in the front room.
As one drunk on wine cup
brimming,
my body swam 
and rose to the surface.

While I was absorbed
in pleasuring myself, muttering
obscenities in a low moan, hearing
the rustle of bird wings,
the night beast fled, returning
me to myself.

As the darkness of penury 
spreads all over 
the body of my village, 
the night burns bright 
like a fearsome traitor’s knife. 
The sky was blue that day 
and the stars were glittering 
like fresh milk from a cow. 
In my home’s courtyard 
from which light’s been scooped 
up in a cane basket, I’m stretched 
on the floor, naked, and 
my legs are tied up too. 
As the perverse call to fuck 
one’s brother sounds like 
the night’s ritual chant in my ear, 
louts drunk on hegemnony’s black 
fluids dig a pit in my vagina 
and erect a fat pole in it. 
A dance of caste frenzy gets 
under way as I howl in pain. 
My body is flung in the stream 
of hate flowing out of the penises 
of the exhausted dancers. 
In a country not yet free 
of the mantle of deafness 
and the sleep of the blind, 
I sink into earth with the fervour 
of a serpent shedding its skin. 
At the top of the pole 
planted in my vagina, 
the flag of our freedom shall fly, 
painted in the colour of blood. 
(In memory of Khairlanji)

As they skinned a dead cow
I stood guard,
chasing the crows away.

The leftover rice
gathered as alms
from sundry village homes
after long waits
turned piping hot in
my bragging.

Seeing my father
down the street
with a tell-tale drum 
slung around the neck,
I passed quickly
face averted.
Unable to state 
In the classroom
my father;s vocation
or his annual pay,
I fell victim 
to the teacher’s cane.
Sitting friendless
in the back row,
I broke down and cried, 
my grief invisible to
the world’s gaze.

But now,
Should anyone happen to ask,
I tell them readily:
Yes, I am a pariah girl.