BANARAS
Banaras
Kedarnath Singh
- Lalith S
Banaras – Kedarnath Singh
(Translated from Hindi by Nidhi Singh)
Spring descends on this city
suddenly
and when it does
a whirl of dust rises from Lehartara
or Manduadih
and coats the tongue
of this ancient place.
That which exists quivers with life
while that which doesn’t
sprouts and grows
and at the Dashashwamedh
the last stone on the riverbank
softens even more.
There is a strange glow
in the eyes of the monkeys
crouching on the stairs
and a strange sheen fills
the emptiness of the beggars’ bowls.
Have you ever seen
spring descending on empty bowls!
that is how the city opens
fills up
empties
and day after day
shoulders carry the weight of an eternal corpse
through its dark and winding streets
toward the shimmering Ganges.
Dust kicks up
slowly, so slowly
bells ring
slowly, so slowly
dusk sets in
and people trudge the lanes of the city
slowly, so slowly.
This slowness
this rhythm
binds the city
and for hundreds of years
nothing falls off
nothing shakes
nothing moves
the Ganges remains
the boat stays
tied to a spot
and for hundreds of years
at the same place
the sabot of Tulsidas remains.
If you look at the city
from the riverbank
one evening
by the light of the aarti
it has a strange shape
it is submerged
half in water
half in flowers
half in mantra.
Half in death
half in sleep
half in conch shell.
If you look again
it half remains
and half does not.
What remains
stands on its own
and what does not
stands on columns
of ashes and light
columns of fire
of water
of smoke
of scent
of the raised arms of man.
And for centuries now
praying to the unseen sun
the city has stood
in the water
on one leg
completely oblivious
to the other.
Explanation
Spring descends on this city
suddenly
and when it does
a whirl of dust rises from Lehartara
or Manduadih
and coats the tongue
of this ancient place.
इस शहर में वसंत
अचानक आता है
और जब आता है तो मैंने देखा है
लहरतारा या मडुवाडीह की तरफ़ से
उठता है धूल का एक बवंडर
और इस महान पुराने शहर की जीभ
किरकिराने लगती है
Place is of paramount importance in this poem. The title itself alludes to a place, Banaras. Though it is a city scape, it does not have all the trappings we normally associate with a city. It is an ancient place which has associations with Buddha, Tulsidas and Kabirdas. ‘Spring descends on this city like a flash, with no hint, no warning’, as the translation by H S Komalesha goes. It indicates the sudden transformation of the city changing its hues. Even in this ancient abode, nothing is permanent, when change happens it catches everyone unawares, off guard. It springs surprises! Instead of the high rises, the poet sees a whirl of dust rising from Lehartara or Manduadih.
‘and when it does, I’ve seen,
a whirlwind of dust kicks up
from the lanes of
Lahartara and Madvadeel
and the tongue of this grand old city
starts clicking’ - As translated by H S komalesha
The spring ridden Banaras here is enwrapped and shrouded by dust from the lanes of Lehartara and Manduadih. Banaras does not have an independent existence outside of its history, its rich legacy. The dust of memory settles on this grand old city awakening its daily rhythms to the remembrance of things past. Lehartara happens to be the place near Banaras where according to the lore, the great Saint Kabir was found floating in a river. He was brought up by a family of weavers who were recently converted Muslims. Kabir was against the extremist tenets of both Hinduism and Islam and was critical of both the religions. Manduadih is also a town near Banaras. The influence of his legacy still permeates the city.
That which exists quivers with life
While that which doesn’t
sprouts and grows
and at the Dashashwamedh
the last stone on the riverbank
softens even more.
जो है वह सुगबुगाता है
जो नहीं है वह फेंकने लगता है पचखियाँ
आदमी दशाश्वमेध पर जाता है
और पाता है घाट का आखिरी पत्थर
कुछ और मुलायम हो गया है
These lines are a paean to the eternal flow of time, of the image of movement in time. Life goes on, spring or no spring. Whatever is and whatever is not undergo changes. Signs of life are everywhere, be it quivering with life of the living or sprouting to life of the yet to be born. Man (the poet) is there to bear witness. The last stone in the Dashashwamedh Ghat has softened a bit more. Time leaves its traces, wears down or smoothens surfaces, having its imprint on things which otherwise seem constant.
There is a strange glow
in the eyes of the monkeys
crouching on the stairs
and a strange sheen fills
the emptiness of the beggars’ bowls.
सीढि़यों पर बैठे बंदरों की आँखों में
एक अजीब सी नमी है
और एक अजीब सी चमक से भर उठा है
भिखारियों के कटरों का निचाट खालीपन
Banaras is home to non-human species too. The visible presence of monkeys is pretty obvious. There’s some strange warmth in the eyes of monkeys sitting on stairs. They also seem to take in the atmosphere. The bowls of beggars are not always full. They too have to deal with the vicissitudes of life. Their empty bowls have a strange glow emanating from them as if to celebrate their next to nothing existence. Banaras gives them a tinge of its erstwhile glory.
Have you ever seen
spring descending on empty bowls!
that is how the city opens
fills up
empties
and day after day
shoulders carry the weight of an eternal corpse
through its dark and winding streets
toward the shimmering Ganges.
तुमने कभी देखा है
खाली कटोरों में वसंत का उतरना!
यह शहर इसी तरह खुलता है
इसी तरह भरता
और खाली होता है यह शहर
इसी तरह रोज़ रोज़ एक अनंत शव
ले जाते हैं कंधे
अँधेरी गली से
चमकती हुई गंगा की तरफ़
Spring cannot but visit these empty bowls. It does not distinguish between the haves and have nots. It touches every aspect of life, every nerve of the city. The city opens to all life forms, be it rich or poor, empty or full. It empties that which is full and fills that which is empty. It reminds one of the eternal cycles of life and death in the procession of dead bodies through the dark lanes going towards the Ganges in the search of salvation. It bears witness to the ebb and flow of life and for a change of death as well.
Dust kicks up
slowly, so slowly
bells ring
slowly, so slowly
dusk sets in
and people trudge the lanes of the city
slowly, so slowly.
इस शहर में धूल
धीरे-धीरे उड़ती है
धीरे-धीरे चलते हैं लोग
धीरे-धीरे बजते हैं घनटे
शाम धीरे-धीरे होती है
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, so says the Bible. But here the dust rises ever so slowly. People also move along very slowly. Nobody is in a hurry as everyone knows they have to finally settle into dust. Even the clock chimes in slowly echoing the same sentiment. The day journeys into night ever so slowly that the dusk too sets in late. The breakneck speed and the hustle and bustle we normally associate with cities is an exception for Banaras. It moves at its own pace which is no pace at all. Slowness and quietude is the rhythm of its life.
This slowness
this rhythm
binds the city
and for hundreds of years
nothing falls off
nothing shakes
nothing moves
the Ganges remains
the boat stays
tied to a spot
and for hundreds of years
at the same place
the sabot of Tulsidas remains.
यह धीरे-धीरे होना
धीरे-धीरे होने की सामूहिक लय
दृढ़ता से बाँधे है समूचे शहर को
इस तरह कि कुछ भी गिरता नहीं है
कि हिलता नहीं है कुछ भी
कि जो चीज़ जहाँ थी
वहीं पर रखी है
कि गंगा वहीं है
कि वहीं पर बंधी है नाव
कि वहीं पर रखी है तुलसीदास की खड़ाऊं
सैकड़ों बरस से
Here the city is bound by the slowness which is also a picture of stillness, of still life. The slowness, its rhythm encapsulates everything. It is as if not only the frame through which we view the city is still but also the objects of our gaze. It is as if the city is captured in a freeze frame. There is a sense of timelessness and a measure of eternity rooted in the description of the city. A part of this city refuses to be swept over by the wings of change that are constant in the life of every other city. Nothing moves, nothing falls from its fixed constant base, for hundreds of years what once was is what there is. The Ganges remains the same, the same is the post where the boat is tied, and the sabot, the shoes of Tulsidas lies where it had been all these years.
If you look at the city
from the riverbank
one evening
by the light of the aarti
it has a strange shape
it is submerged
half in water
half in flowers
half in mantra.
Half in death
half in sleep
half in conch shell.
If you look again
it half remains
and half does not.
कभी सई-सांझ
बिना किसी सूचना के
घुस जाओ इस शहर में
कभी आरती के आलोक में
इसे अचानक देखो
अद्भुत है इसकी बनावट
यह आधा जल में है
आधा मंत्र में
आधा फूल में है
आधा शव में
आधा नींद में है
आधा शंख में
अगर ध्यान से देखो
तो यह आधा है
और आधा नहीं भी है
H S Komalesha translates this segment as follows
“Any late afternoon,
with no planning, no warning,
walk into this city,
casually, not like a tourist;
watch it in the light of the aarti;
what beauty! what splendor!
You’ll find the city
half in water, half
in incantations;
half in fragrant flowers
and half in death;
half in sleep,
and half in the conch
that sounds the final call
If you look carefully,
The city lives in the half,
and in the other it doesn’t!”
The ethereal light of the aarti alone can reveal the secrets of Banaras in its resplendent avatar, but you should have an uncontaminated mind devoid of any plan or purpose to appreciate it. It would show itself in divine light. The city reveals itself in every bit of its fragments. It contains multitudes, whether it is water, the mantras, flowers, death, sleep or conch shell, one could experience one half of the city in any of its hues. But if you look close enough, half of it alone exists. The other half does not exist at all. It remains to be filled. It is left open. It is open to fill itself into what yet is not. It is unknown, unknowable perhaps. It is open to experiences. It is open to uncertainties, ambiguities. It awaits its other (half).
What remains
stands on its own
and what does not
stands on columns
of ashes and light
columns of fire
of water
of smoke
of scent
of the raised arms of man.
जो है वह खड़ा है
बिना किसी स्तंभ के
जो नहीं है उसे थामे है
राख और रोशनी के ऊंचे-ऊंचे स्तंभ
आग के स्तंभ
और पानी के स्तंभ
धुएं के
खुशबू के
आदमी के उठे हुए हाथों के स्तंभ
H S Komalesha translates this segment thus
“Whatever that lives here
needs no pillar to survive;
And whatever that doesn’t,
lives on the pillar of
dry ash and high light
of fire and water,
of fragrance, and
of man with his hands
folded up to the sky.”
Whatever exists, exists without any foundation, any base. It hangs in the air. It is transient. Still it stands. Whatever is unknown exists on huge columns of ashes and light, fire, water, smoke, scent and the raised arms of man. Perhaps it is the spirit of the place, or the spiritual principle, the very soul of Banaras which is unfathomable or intangible.
And for centuries now
praying to the unseen sun
the city has stood
in the water
on one leg
completely oblivious
to the other.
किसी अलक्षित सूर्य को
देता हुआ अर्घ्य
शताब्दियों से इसी तरह
गंगा के जल में
अपनी एक टांग पर खड़ा है यह शहर
अपनी दूसरी टांग से
बिलकुल बेखबर!
Like a saint on one leg praying to appease Gods, this city has been standing on one foot planted on the Ganges trying to propitiate the sun God which is either unseen or neglected or unheeding. It has almost forgotten about the existence of its other leg. Maybe in its endeavour to put its feet firmly on either material or spiritual plane, it has somewhat lost its bearings. But still it stands oblivious to its other feet.
Appendix 1
Banaras- Kedarnath Singh
बनारस
इस शहर में वसंत
अचानक आता है
और जब आता है तो मैंने देखा है
लहरतारा या मडुवाडीह की तरफ से
उठता है धूल का एक बवंडर
और इस महान पुराने शहर की जीभ
किरकिराने लगती है
जो है वह सुगबुगाता है
जो नहीं है वह फेंकने लगता है पचखियां
आदमी दशाश्वमेध पर जाता है
और पाता है घाट का आखिरी पत्थर
कुछ और मुलायम हो गया है
सीढि़यों पर बैठे बंदरों की आंखों में
एक अजीब-सी नमी है
और एक अजीब-सी चमक से भर उठा है
भिखारियों के कटोरों का निचाट खालीपन
तुमने कभी देखा है
खाली कटोरों में वसंत का उतरना!
यह शहर इसी तरह खुलता है
इसी तरह भरता
और खाली होता है यह शहर
इसी तरह रोज-रोज एक अनंत शव
ले जाते हैं कंधे
अंधेरी गली से
चमकती हुई गंगा की तरफ
इस शहर में धूल
धीरे-धीरे उड़ती है
धीरे-धीरे चलते हैं लोग
धीरे-धीरे बजते हैं घंटे
शाम धीरे-धीरे होती है
यह धीरे-धीरे होना
धीरे-धीरे होने की सामूहिक लय
दृढ़ता से बांधे है समूचे शहर को
इस तरह कि कुछ भी गिरता नहीं है
कि हिलता नहीं है कुछ भी
कि जो चीज जहां थी
वहीं पर रखी है
कि गंगा वहीं है
कि वहीं पर बंधी है नाव
कि वहीं पर रखी है तुलसीदास की खड़ाऊं
सैकड़ों बरस से
कभी सई-सांझ
बिना किसी सूचना के
घुस जाओ इस शहर में
कभी आरती के आलोक में
इसे अचानक देखो
अद्भुत है इसकी बनावट
यह आधा जल में है
आधा मंत्र में
आधा फूल में है
आधा शव में
आधा नींद में है
आधा शंख में
अगर ध्यान से देखो
तो यह आधा है
और आधा नहीं भी है
जो है वह खड़ा है
बिना किसी स्तंभ के
जो नहीं है उसे थामे है
राख और रोशनी के ऊंचे-ऊंचे स्तंभ
आग के स्तंभ
और पानी के स्तंभ
धुएं के
खुशबू के
आदमी के उठे हुए हाथों के स्तंभ
किसी अलक्षित सूर्य को
देता हुआ अर्घ्य
शताब्दियों से इसी तरह
गंगा के जल में
अपनी एक टांग पर खड़ा है यह शहर
अपनी दूसरी टांग से
बिलकुल बेखबर!
Appendix 2
Priyanka Tripathi writes The Wire (16 March 2019)
“The city of Banaras – now called Varanasi – is constructed and activated by Singh in a way which reminds me of Henry Lefebvre’s concept of spatial triad. Contextualising this hypothesis, one can infer that the ‘space’ for a poet represents the emotional, mental and physical being that is sometimes constant but mostly prone to change. Therefore, in the creative oeuvre of the poet or an author, people and places change and so do their impressions and expressions.
With all its fervour, the poem brings to life the city of the dead – not by positing its singularities but by underscoring its pluralities. In its solitude, it recreates the city by taking recourse to the poet’s memory and imagination.
In ‘Banaras‘, Singh implies that there is perhaps no other city so firmly rooted in its touch with nature and nurture:
It isn’t one of those cities where the ‘sun doesn’t set’ or the ‘places never sleep’. Instead, the pace of Banaras is slow enough for people to face the realities of life and death every day. The funeral pyre, the corpse being carried and the scattering of ashes in the Ganga never fail to remind its inhabitants that material accomplishments are futile in the absence of generosity and goodness.
To bring the city to life, Kedarnath Singh uses visual imagery; he finds it “half in water”. He feels its reverberations “in incantations” and olfactory insinuations through “fragrant flowers”. In the constant rigamarole of life, death and rebirth, this city ensures salvation – in the lure of which people wish to die in Kashi.
A poem is often obliged to align itself to the physical or emotional rhythms of its subject. When that subject is an ancient city, practically a civilisation, as in Kedarnath Singh’s ‘Banaras,’ the task of sonic and semantic representation is especially challenging. The lyric speaker floats through space and time, searching for details that reveal the pulse of the city. His Banaras is something that anyone who has been to the city will recognise, but there also emerges from the verse—slowly, very slowly—a Banaras of imagination and memory.”
Appendix 3
Banaras
by Kedarnath Singh
(translated from Hindi by HS Komalesha (The Caravan July 2015)
Like a flash,
with no hint, no warning
spring visits the city;
and when it does, I’ve seen,
a whirlwind of dust kicks up
from the lanes of
Lahartara and Madvadeel
and the tongue of this grand old city
starts clicking
That which is living
shakes up and starts wiggling,
and that which is not
shoots up and begins sprouting;
people move towards Dashashvamedh
to find the last stone on the ghat;
meanwhile, things turn misty,
in the eyes of monkeys sitting on stairs
there’s some strange warmth;
and the bowls of beggars
exude a strange glow of emptiness.
Have you ever seen
spring dawning in empty vessels!
Like the spring-touched vessels
this city opens up, fills,
and empties too
Every night, the shoulders
lift up an eternal dead body
from dark, nondescript streets
and take it slowly towards
the ever-flowing Ganga
Dust in this city
flies up slowly, very slowly;
and people too, move
slowly, very slowly;
slowly, very slowly,
the bells start ringing;
evenings too, shuffle past
slowly, very slowly
This slow rhythm
of the collective
binds the city, such that
nothing falls here, nothing moves,
nothing budges an inch
from wherever it is;
Ganga flows where she’s been,
the boats are tied to the same spot;
kept in the same place is
the sabot of Tulsidas;
all tied to the same post
for centuries now.
Any late afternoon,
with no planning, no warning,
walk into this city,
casually, not like a tourist;
watch it in the light of the aarti;
what beauty! what splendor!
You’ll find the city
half in water, half
in incantations;
half in fragrant flowers
and half in death;
half in sleep,
and half in the conch
that sounds the final call
If you look carefully,
The city lives in the half,
and in the other it doesn’t!
Whatever that lives here
needs no pillar to survive;
And whatever that doesn’t,
lives on the pillar of
dry ash and high light
of fire and water,
of fragrance, and
of man with his hands
folded up to the sky.
Offering its arghya
to the neglected sun god,
in the waters of Ganga
has stood this city, on one leg
for centuries now;
and on the other it’s
completely oblivious!
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