Yendluri Sudhakar 2002.
‘Look at what he has done. He is one of those Pochampalli weavers - most evocative motifs, elaborate artistry and if there is a grammar to weaving (and not technique) Sudhakar is an exquisite weaver. His seemingly straight style has a special charm and his cunning employment of metaphors, though not unfamiliar, sound fresh and untouched. Sudhakar does not care for brevity. Any number of his poems - on his widowed mother, Shakeela, his own diabetes, Godavari et al pitchforked him to the front of leading Telugu poets. But as I have been saying he has a niche as a different dalit poet. In saying this I also refer to his prose work though technically I am out of bounds.’
An Autobiography My autobiography was released in the palace of wonders. Felicitations on the open stage. As garlands fall on my neck Wounds of yester years startle. When flowers are showered on my head Deep inside thorny whips flail. As felicitation addresses are read out Inside my intestines knives of humiliation pierce. As incantations ring behind me In my ears are spread the flaming cries of smoking lead. When they sat me on the dais I recollect the face of my grand father Made to stand at the outskirts of the village. When glasses full with water are put before me Scenes of kneeling and drinking water Touch me as hot deserts. As a shawl is spread around my shoulders The vague figure of my blouseless Grand mother cuts my heart. As silk clothes are presented to me The coarse rags of my grand father Hang on the clothesline of my eyes. When I am invited to festival feasts Nights of cast away food In the cattle sheds come to memory. As time prostrates at my feet Clay feet of my shoeless great grand fathers Move in my mind. If my childhood teachers are seen on any road My thumb hides itself in the fist As a hen encountered by a hawk. When parrot like, admirers of Rama Appreciate my poetry in exclamations The poetry of my race sunk in the soil Accosts me cruelly. When colourful cross roads waiting Invite me with festoons Golden swans are all too eager to Take just five steps with me instead of the seven. The dust of my forefathers' bodies Breathes anew from their undergrounds. When women unseen by the sun Compete in their choice of marriage for me - Heads struck, limbs cut flare up in me still. When temples and the new gods Wait patiently to pay tributes, Temple bells laugh ironically in semi-darkness. I have risen as a fifth sun. Tearing the dark clouds of the four walls. My rays of blood today Reflect on the face of the moon. In the light of the new sun Time will read my autobiography As a text book (1993) - Translated by ‘MO’ [p.31] A New Dream You - Skinning the five elements, Once nailing the sky Once nailing the under world Soaking skin on the Seven seas. For you The sun and the moon should Become a pair of shoes ! Head lowered, may be with Hunger or is it insult - Making shoes with your own skin, Grand Father ! (4-10-96) - Translated by ‘MO’
Dakkali Girl Believe it or not! Really that young Dakkali girl Weaving a date mat Is a Queen! As her mother follows her like Renuka Devi, And father with trap ropes on his shoulder, Singing Jambu Purana, playing on the solo string, A bunch of hounds around him - The earth, a spinning nomadic top Around their stomachs. That untouchable girl Used to move in my tender heart like a puppet. As the girl entered our ghetto Riding a donkey It looked as if Jesus entered Jerusalem. As winged white ants hovered over her like Three crore deities She came tugging up a rainbow to the donkey's tail. In the whiteness of her calf eyes Sticky moon shone like red meat. Her smile with tartar of teeth Was beyond all measures of beauty. For that lass's non-Brahmin slang Even Saraswati can't write the music key. In childhood I used to drink Donkey milk as well as mother's milk. I saw my mother in the donkey the lass used to bring along. I felt as though a season of milk set foot in my stomach. Donkey Milk! Donkey Milk!! At her call The face of our street shone like Arundhati star Becoming braying donkeys, we gathered round. With one look at us - There floated the bliss of a mother breast - feeding In the maternal eyes of that donkey. The lass looked like a Buddhist beggar girl Before our huts for a mouthful of rice or gruel Of a cupful of hands. Even the four faced God looking at her Forehead couldn't tell Whether her guts are crying or her lips smiling. If only rice had eyes Every dry particle would have cried. The girl wriggled between Untouchability and hunger Like a fish in a dried up tank. We had at least a hut for our heads The girl wandered like a nomad. In a nation where the foul urine of cows Becomes pious libation The untouchable girl had faith only in the donkey. I always think of that girl. I talk even in sleep, giving her a morsel Taking it out from my own stomach. I dream of her being a step higher than mine. That Dakkali girl is not seen any more, Nor my childhood donkey mother! Both move round inside me. She stands at the junction of reservations Demanding her share. I hear the horn of a buffalo blowing inside me I see soft grains of rice as knives sharpening within me Waging a new war against my own ‘higher than thou.’
- Translated by ‘MO’ Dakkali : Those born of Jambavant's flank. Sub caste of Madiga, a fifth caste. Nomads. Jambu Pura : A very ancient myth, tribal in character. Her coarse blue saree An apron-like cloth with checks across A broom like the waist of a python A dot on the forehead like a red signal in darkness, Our Mysamma Looked like a Municipality Mother. Menstrual cloths, and dirty linen All collected And carried off in a push cart She looked like Mother Ganges Washing away all pollution. Waking up with the morning star I still remember the strange sound of sweeping. I who wasn't even as tall as Her broom stick can never forget our Mysamma. Mysamma ! Mysamma ! I see a mother in you, Mysamma For cleaning my own dirt just for love Though not related by blood. Coming as yourself a gift, Asking for a few coins to buy a cup of tea, At Christmas or the morning after Diwali night - Is a never fading memory. 'Don't throw rubbish at door steps,' Mysamma, Whoever listened to your lessons of cleanliness? Like the cine actor's black money Dirt grew by the day, foul smell spread Through the rotten dustbin. I thought you had fever and so didn't come. Never thought you would go away leaving no trace Letting loads of dust remain in our unchanging lives. Mysamma ! Mysamma!! As I ride my bicycle Through the lane of the grave yard Your memory touches me like a fragrance. The lane that looked like a washed dhoti Now hangs its head with the crown of pollution. Our black dog wails at nights Rolling in the dust heap - Maybe remembering you. (1985) (An elegy to our Municipal Sweeper) - Translated by ‘MO’ | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
మహాధిగా మహా ప్రవక్తా శ్రీ గురు రవి దాస్ మరియు మాదిగ జాతి చరిత్ర మన మాదిగల మనుగడ కోసం యి వెబ్ సైట్
Literature: Madigas writing
