YUMA VASUKI'S POEM (In English Translation)

YUMA VASUKI'S POEM

rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan(from his poem-collectionSAATHAANUM SIRUMIYUM)

(YUMA VASUKI IS A POIGNANT TAMIL POET. A SOFT-SPOKEN FRIENDLY PERSON. I HAVE TRANSLATED HIS WHOLE POEM-COLLECTION ‘SAATHAANUM SIRUMIYUM’ AS PART OF MY ASSIGNED AND DULY PAID WORK. HOPE IT GETS PUBLISHED SOME DAY. THE POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION AND ALSO OTHER POEMS OF YUMA VASUKI WOULD CLEANSE OUR HEARTS, TO SAY THE LEAST.

UNFORTUNATELY I AM NOT ABLE TO GET THE ORIGINAL. IF ANYONE CAN SEND IT, I WILL UPLOAD IT HERE. – latha Ramakrishnan )

POEM  NO.5
[page 8]

Meena, barely ten years old
slogs as the servant-maid in the household
next door.

When she carries along
from somewhere
bucket full of flour
proving unbearably heavy-
visualizing her as my
dear little sister
revelling in a festival
and returning with hands full of gifts -
I would try to console myself.

Oh, did she exclaim in all happiness
asking me to get her back
the balloons slipping through her fingers
and flying high….?

She, keeping awake so late and
dragging along an all too long and wide
tarpaulin sheet
to cover her master’s wagon
transformed into my
precious little daughter
carrying a plate full of delicious food
to relish it all
in the glowing moonlight.

She having been fed with all my
affection and support
feeling luxuriously fatigued
falling asleep in my lap…

Oh, did I hold her
With all the love in the world
Making her lie in my bed and
Remained by her side, fanning her…?

The way she would come out
To dump the garbage in the dustbin
She would be seen in a
Great grand auditorium
As an achiever-par-excellence
Amidst thunderous applause.

Oh, did I as her lone pal
carry her shields, cups and all
and walk behind her…?

Whenever she would come
Carrying the big brass water-pot
Placing it on the floor
Every now and then
And moving it forward
Inch by inch –
She would turn into a wanderer
In jungles
Having me as her guide.

Those times, when placing her
in the gigantic roots
I swung her high
Oh, did she bless me,
transferring the dampness of her hand
touching the clouds,
to mine….?

In the sound of her
washing the clothes
with her weak and vulnerable hands
slowly –
both of us were climbing
aloft the tallest tower
from where
our eyes could feast on the entire world.

Oh, did she with a soft smile
show me from that splendid freedom
the household where she had
toiled, long long ago…?

Meena, whom, retrieving from the voices
that were forever commanding her
I have safeguarded inside my heart,
with entry denied
god knows for what,
stood there in the night
weeping beside the bolted door.
Away from imagination
in stark reality
All I could do was
to jot down in my diary
that night-
‘Of you, Meena, sometime I would surely write’.