In a Time of Burning Read online

  ¶Jô£¶, Þ‰î ܬôè¬óJ™

  G¡Á

  M‡e¡ CîP‚ è콜

  M¿Aø¬îŠ 𣘈FóƒAò 弈FJ¡

  Ü™ô¶

  ªî£´õ£¡ ªõO H÷‰¶

  è¬ó «ê¼‹ ï£õ£Œ‚°‚

  裈F¼‰î Þ¡ªù£¼ˆFJ¡

  ªõÁ‹ ñ£˜H™ ¹ó‡ì ñE å¡P™

  H¡ñ£¬ô, ܉FŠ ªð£¿¶

  ¹ìI†ì

  ªî¡«ù£¬ô 裟ø£´‹ ªõOJ¡

  ñ‡ Í®ò ²õ´èO™,

  â¡

  º¡«ù£˜

  M†´Š «ð£»œ÷£˜èœ

  âù‚ªè£¼ ªêŒF

  ËÁËø£Jó‹ «î£œèO¡e¶

  ãP G¡Á,

  âù¶ Gô‹ âù à󈶄 ªê£™A«ø¡.

  㿠꺈Fó ªõOè¬÷ˆ ®

  Üî¡ «ñ™ â¿Aø ܬôè¬÷ eP

  Üî¬ù‚ ªè£‡´ «ð£Œ,

  ⃰‹ åL‚Aø¶ 裟Á

  ‘âù¶ Gô‹

  âù¶ Gô‹.’

  MY LAND [1981]

  (âù¶ Gô‹)

  Nets spread like wings across the wide sea.

  Above, the fierce breath of the wind.

  From the sea, looking up,

  fingers pressed against your flying hair,

  you can see the shore,

  palmyra palms, and tiled roofs here and there.

  The waves, the sea-spray

  as the engine roars!

  How did such an hour and a half

  come to an end?

  Later, the wide expanse

  with palmyras planted there,

  each rising to a man’s height

  from the virgin sands.

  As for the sand,

  it is all golden specks,

  seeded mirrors, inhabited by the sun.

  Beneath the sand, the land extends

  where, two thousand years ago,

  my ancestors walked.

  Our roots go deep:

  one footstep, a thousand years.

  Upon the jewels of bare-breasted women –

  one, perhaps, standing sleepless by this shore,

  watching and lamenting as stars scatter

  and fall into the sea –

  or another, waiting for a boat

  to plunge through the horizon

  and come safe ashore –

  or upon footsteps buried deep in the sand

  one late evening, perhaps, under cover of dusk,

  here where the coconut-fronds sway –

  my ancestors have left me a message.

  I stand on a hundred thousand shoulders

  and proclaim aloud: This is my land.

  Across the seven seas,

  overcoming the rising waves,

  the wind shouts it everywhere:

  My land

  My land.

  Þó‡ì£õ¶ ÅKò àîò‹

  (A SECOND SUNRISE)

  Ü¡¬ø‚°‚ 裟«ø Þ™¬ô;

  ܬôèÀ‹ âö£¶ ªêˆ¶Š «ð£JŸÁ

  èì™.

  ñíL™ 裙 ¹¬îî™ âù

  ï쉶 õ¼¬èJ™

  ñÁð®»‹ å¼ ÅKò àîò‹.

  Þ‹º¬ø ªîŸA«ô

  â¡ù G蛉î¶?

  âù¶ ïèó‹ âK‚èŠð†ì¶;

  âù¶ ñ‚èœ ºèƒè¬÷ Þö‰îù˜,

  âù¶ Gô‹, âù¶ 裟Á

  â™ô£õŸP½‹

  ܉GòŠ ðF¾.

  ¬èè¬÷Š H¡¹ø‹ ÞÁè‚ è†®

  ò£¼‚è£è‚ 裈F¼‰b˜èœ?

  ºA™èO¡e¶

  ªï¼Š¹,

  î¡ «êF¬ò â¿Fò£JŸÁ

  ÞQ»‹ ò£˜ 裈¶œ÷ù˜?

  ꣋ð™ Ìˆî ªî¼‚èOL¼‰¶

  ⿉¶ õ¼è.

  A SECOND SUNRISE [1981]

  (Þó‡ì£õ¶ ÅKò àîò‹)

  No wind that day;

  even the sea was dead,

  no waves rising.

  As I walked along,

  feet burrowing deep in the sand,

  I saw another sunrise.

  In the south, this time.

  What happened?

  My town was set on fire,

  my people lost their faces;

  upon our land,

  upon the wind that blows upon it,

  an alien stamp.

  Who were you waiting for,

  your hands tied behind your backs?

  The fire has written its message

  upon the clouds.

  Who waits, even now?

  From the streets upon which

  the embers still bloom,

  rise, march forward.

  Üõ˜èœ Üõ¬ù„ ²†´‚ ªè£¡ø«ð£¶

  (WHEN THEY SHOT HIM DEAD)

  Üõ˜èœ Üõ¬ù„

  ²†´‚ ªè£¡ø«ð£¶

  ♫ô£¼«ñ 𣘈¶‚ªè£‡´

  G¡ø£˜èœ

  Þ¡‹ êKò£è„ ªê£™õî£ù£™

  Üõ¡ ²ìŠð´õ¬î‚ 裇ðîŸè£è«õ

  Üõ˜èœ G¡øù˜

  Üõ¬ìò i†¬ì‚

  ªè£Àˆî õ‰îõ˜èœ,

  ªð†®‚ è¬ìJ™

  𣇠õ£ƒèõ‰î Þó‡´ AöMèœ

  ¬èJ™ èŸèÀì¡

  ãó£÷ñ£ù CÁõ˜èœ

  ñŸÁ‹,

  Ü¡Á «õ¬ô‚°Š «ð£è£î

  ñQî˜èœ, ªð‡èœ

  Þõ˜èœ ܬùõK¡ º¡Q¬ôJ™

  Gî£ùñ£è

  Üõ¡ Þø‰¶«ð£ù£¡.

  Üõ¡ ªêŒîªî™ô£‹

  ÜFèñ£è å¡ÁI™¬ô;

  Üõ¬ìò i†®½‹

  ÜFèñ£è å¡Á‹ Þ¼‰îF™¬ô.

  Ýù£™,

  îIö˜èÀ¬ìò i†¬ì‚ ªè£œ¬÷J´õ¬î

  ò£˜î£¡ î´‚è º®Aø¶?

  Ü¡Á 裬ô»‹ ܶ ïì‰î¶.

  ä‹ð¶ «ð˜,

  Üõ¬ìò i†¬ì à¬ì‚è õ‰îù˜.

  õùˆ F¬í‚è÷ ÜFè£Kò£ù

  Üõ¬ìò ÜŠð£M¡ ¶õ‚°

  c‡ì è£ôñ£Œ

  º¡ù¬øŠ ðóE¡ «ñ«ô Þ¼‰î¶.

  ¶õ‚¬è Þò‚è Üõ‹ ÜPõ£¡.

  ªè£œ¬÷ò®‚è õ‰î

  Cƒè÷õ˜e¶ ¶õ‚裙 ²´õ¬îŠ

  ¹ˆî˜Ãì ÜñF‚è ñ£†ì£˜

  â¡ð¬î

  Üó² ÜP»‹

  ܬñ„ê˜èœ ÜPõ£˜

  Üõ¡ âŠð® ÜPõ£¡?

  ó£µõ‹, èìŸð¬ì, Mñ£ùŠð¬ì

  âù,

  ♫ô£¼ñ£è ºŸÁ¬èJ†´

  Üõ¬ìò i´ âK‰¶õ¼Aø

  ¹¬èJ¡ H¡ùEJ™

  Üõ¬ù‚ ªè£™õ º¡,

  Üõ¡ ªêŒîªî™ô£‹

  ÜFè‹ å¡ÁI™¬ô

  Þó‡´ °‡´èœ

  å¡Á Ýè£òˆFŸ°

  Ü´ˆî¶ ÌI‚°.

  WHEN THEY SHOT HIM DEAD [1983]

  (Üõ˜èœ Üõ¬ù„ ²†´‚ ªè£¡ø«ð£¶)

  When they shot him dead

  everyone stood around, watching.

  To tell the tale more truthfully,

  they stood about

  for the sole purpose of watching him

  shot dead:

  those who came

  to set fire to his house,

  two old ladies buying betel leaves

  from the local kiosk,

  any number of small boys

  with stones clutched in their hands,

  men and women

  who didn’t go to work that day.

  In front of all these spectators

  he died

  quietly.

  What he did was nothing much.

  There wasn’t a lot

  in his house, either.


  But

  who can prevent

  the looting of Tamil houses?

  That was all that happened

  that morning.

  Fifty people came

  to break down his house.

  His father was an official

  in the forestry department;

  his gun stored in the loft

  for many years.

  He knew well enough how to use it.

  The Buddha himself would not permit

  the shooting of Sinhala soldiers:

  the government knew this,

  the ministers knew this.

  But how was he to know?

  Before they all turned up

  – army, navy and air force –

  laid siege to the house

  and shot him against the background

  of the rising smoke-plumes,

  before all that happened,

  what he did was nothing much:

  two bullets,

  one fired into the air,

  the other into the earth.

  ó£µõ ºè£IL¼‰¶ è®îƒèœ

  (LETTERS FROM AN ARMY CAMP)

  1

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  °‡´èœ;

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  6

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  º¡¹ «ð£ô¾‹

  ⋬ñŠ 𣘊ð«îJ™¬ô.

  LETTERS FROM AN ARMY CAMP [1983]

  (ó£µõ ºè£IL¼‰¶ è®îƒèœ)
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br />   1

  Dearest Nanda,

  Arrived just this morning,

  with no problems at all.

  Couldn’t sleep

  for clutching the rifle

  tightly on my lap.

  Frightful nightmare;

  woke up with a start.

  At the station

  when you and your mother wept

  I was scared, too.

  But, just as everyone reassured me,

  the north

  doesn’t seem so frightening, after all.

  Just the same shops, streets,

  traffic-jams as elsewhere.

  Only, the people never look at us.

  Even if our eyes meet by chance,

  there’s something odd

  in that stare –

  an emotion I can’t place.

  Can’t make it out.

  You know, don’t you,

  it isn’t possible

  for us to travel singly.

  We are a battalion of about fifty

  in two armoured tanks,

  two – or maybe three – jeeps

  and a truck, besides.

  Actually, it’s like a parade,

  just like the one you saw

  on Independence Day.

  There’s one difference, though –

  at the Independence Day parade