mungi udali aakashi tine gilile suryashi

thor navlav zahala vanzhe putra prasavla

vinchu patalashi zay shesh matha vandi pay

mashi vyali ghar zhali dekhon muktai hasali

(An ant flew into the sky, she swallowed the sun

Surprise! Surprise! A barren woman gave birth to a child

A scorpion burrows into the underworld, Shesh bows his head down to its feet

A fly gave birth to a hawk

Muktabai watched

Muktabai laughed)

– Muktabai, 14th century warikari poet and philosopher

 

I FEEL very much like an ant in the world of translation. I walk the path of giants who have come before me, and I don’t know if I can ever claim to be an authority in language or bhakti poetry. What I do know is that bhakti, nirguni, and sufi poetry has been my sun, my light, and it has illuminated and devoured me, transforming me in the process.

I am primarily a musician. Song makes me truly come alive in all of my senses. I studied the classical sensibilities for almost two decades, before I realized I did not fully relate to the Carnatic idiom or structure. It was then the 15th century Kabir who ‘wounded me with the word’, sending me on a journey of folk sounds, mysticism and poetry. And as I dug deeper, I realised that there were striking parallels in the nirguni tradition of Kabir and the Naths, and the warikari tradition of Maharashtra.

The warikari tradition (I say warikari, not varkari – because I enjoy the symmetry of the spelling, and how it celebrates the etymology of the word better – wari meaning journey or pilgrimage and kari meaning to undertake) is one that I have been immersed in since I was a young child. My mother took me to a women’s group, which I later discovered was an abhang mandali, where we learnt abhangs together. I was the only seven year old among others who were at least three decades older than me, but I enjoyed it thoroughly, learning to play the taal, and singing popular and not-so-popular abhangs. Luckily, teenage rebellion had not yet set in, and I continued for almost seven years. The idea that the words that I was singing meant something had not set in either, I just sang because I could and was good at it.

That I am now a translator seems strange to me because of the history of my relationship with words. Foraying into translation took a lot of shedding of notions for me. As a young person entering the world of mystic music, I am used to encountering questions of why I do what I do. Bhakti struck me when I was at my most vulnerable state, questioning my practice Strangely, these wounds heal and then get deeper over time, healing and opening repeatedly, intensifying with every performance. For the longest time though, I did not actually pay much attention to the words of what I was singing.

abeer gulaal udhalit rang

natha ghari nache mazha sakha pandurang

umbarthyasi kaise shivu, amhi zati hin

roop tuzhe kaise pahu tyat amhi deen

payarishi hou dang gauni abhang

natha ghari nache mazha sakha pandurang.

 

As a musician, it often only mattered that I was singing in tune and enjoying myself. One of the earliest pieces of music I remember learning was the mystic Chokhamela’s well known abhang ‘Abeer Gulaal’. When I learnt and heard this abhang as a child, I was told the generic meaning. ‘Vitthal is dancing with his devotees throwing coloured powder into the air.’ I did not question it. Years later, when it started becoming one of my most requested songs in concert, I got to know that Chokhamela was from the Mahar caste, one of the most oppressed communities, and that he may have been a bonded labourer. I found myself questioning why it was so uniformly happy.

But it is not. I suspect it is the nature of human beings to sugar-coat things and see one side of it. Often, music becomes a relief from the grind of everyday existence, and therefore one does not want to be confronted with the politics and realities of the world. It is certainly the case in mystic poetry to take what are seen as the ‘happy’ aspects of human life and its description and paint the poetic canvas with one brush.

 

In this case, the most poignant aspect of the poetry, Chokhamela’s tussle with not being allowed into the temple due to his caste, plays up in the first verse. When English translations were needed for a production, dancer Sanjukta Wagh and I translated the verse as the following:

How can I touch the threshold?

I am but an outcaste

We, the lowly

How do we see you?

On the step, we stand

And sing!

While you dance my friend, my sakha Pandurang.

Finally, I had begun connecting to the music at the level of words. I soon discovered that I needed to translate the poets that I sang in my own way, fully embracing my identities as a woman, and an intersectional feminist, interested in social justice and bringing out the women’s voices in what I believed was the way they might have spoken them in English. It wasn’t born out of the need to become a translator, but the need to speak to my listeners in a language that they understood, and tell them what I was hearing in the music and words. Most importantly, it sprang out of the need to articulate that which could not be articulated, a visceral energy space that had made me relate to these traditions and embrace them as my own.

tulashiche bani zani ukalit veni

hati gheuniya loni doi choli chakrapani

mazhe zanila nahin koni mhanuni dev ghali pani

zani sange sarv loka nhau ghali mazha sakha

(in the forests of tulasi, Jani unravels her plaits.

butter in hand, Chakrapani massages her head

‘my Jani has no one’ Having said that, God pours the water

Jani tells everybody ‘My dear friend is bathing me’)

Janabai, the 14th century wari-kari poet, is a woman who speaks straight to my heart. The multiplicity of the voices that she writes with is truly astonishing. As a servant in Namdev’s house, we know that she was from an oppressed caste, and was also used to doing tedious labour for a family that did not have very much to begin with. Scholars who have worked on attribution say that there may have been multiple poets writing as Janabai, but questions of attribution and related notions about originality and authenticity do not interest me. What does interest me is the female voice that has survived across several centuries, telling the story of seeking, defiance and desire that is very much relevant today.

 

At first glance, this is a poem that is as tender and intimate as it gets. The lord Vitthal comes in as the sakha, the male friend. He is named differently, as Chakrapani. There is a deep bond between Janabai and Chakrapani, shared while she is bathing. When we get deeper into the words and the crevices between the words, we see that she is bathing not next to the tulasi plants, but in forests of tulasi. That is perhaps an indication of her caste – she cannot bathe with the others in the village, and has to go out deep into the forests.

This is an indication of the terrible ostracization that the oppressed castes had to face. In fact, all the mystics who were from marginalised castes – Janabai, Soyrabai, Sakhubai, Chokhamela and many more – would likely have never been allowed inside the temple, and perhaps not even near it. Dalit communities were not officially allowed in the temple till as recently as 1947, and to this day we hear of stories of discriminatory practices related to both gender and caste around places of worship.

With this social context in mind, how does one make a translation that embodies a voice that has endured unspeakable oppression, but goes beyond the realm of suffering and human experience to express in a very different dimension? For me, the answer seems to come not through words but through the musical rendering of the piece. And then, if the poet decides they want me to find words in English – in a different idiom, culture and energy space – then I find some words for it. Other times, I use more literal translations in order to arrive at a somewhat satisfactory English expression.

 

In most cases in warikari poetry, one has to look very closely and read between lines to see markers of caste and injustice. Often the hints are subtle, because one of the features of this school of mystic poetry seems to be that often, poets do not directly talk about their suffering or protest against injustice directly faced by them. Rather, they seem to look at it from a bigger lens, and offer new ways of challenging norms.

yogi pavan manach sahi apradh zanacha

vishwa rage zhale vanhi santi sukhe vhave pani

shabdashastre zhale klesh santi manava updesh

vishwapash brahma dora tati ughda gyaneshwara

(a yogi is of clear mind and bears the faults of humankind

the world may rage, but a saint douses these fires with love

words can be hurtful weapons, but a saint uses words in teachings

the world’s a cloth and brahma the thread. Open the door gyaneshwara!)

 

The tatiche abhang – abhangs of the door – by Muktabai are a very interesting exercise in translation. When the words are translated into English, there is a grandeur about the philosophy being expressed. It tends to happen when I translate Nivruttinath or Gyaneshwar – her brothers as well. Their 13th century Marathi has a lot of influences of Sanskrit, perhaps because their parents were Brahmins. The philosophy is expressed elegantly in this Marathi, and expresses ideas from Nath philosophy in a more direct manner than in later centuries of the warikari movement. When translated to English, these ideas can manifest in a grandiose fashion.

But grandiose ways of expression are in direct contradiction to the basic tennets of the bhakti movement – to be of the people and reach people of all sections of being. And then comes the story of the poets themselves.

Muktabai, Gyaneshwar, Nivruttinath and Sopan were young children when they were orphaned. Their parents ended their lives because they had been ostracized by the Brahmin community for coming out of sanyaas and then bearing children. Although their parents had hoped that by ending their own lives, their children would not be discriminated against anymore, they were wrong. The four children endured taunts, abuse and hunger at the hands of the Brahmin community. But within this suffering, they wrote some of the most profound verse of the warikari sampradaya, and laid the foundation for other poets too.

And they wrote when they were very young children. Most of Muktabai and Gyaneshwar’s verse is said to have been written when they were in their teenage years or younger, as both left their worldly bodies not long after. There is often playfulness in the verse, and deep meanings are clothed in the simplest of expressions when read in Marathi.

 

In the tatiche abhang Muktabai seems to be addressing her brother and guru Gyaneshwar. In my early days of understanding the text, I saw the door as the metaphorical portal to wisdom and enlightenment. When I met Jacqui Daukes, a scholar who did her doctorate on the women warikari poets and in many ways inspired my work and set the basis of my translations, she had a slightly different perspective.

‘Muktabai was a child. So was Gyaneshwar. He was this highly learned being who was drawing hundreds of people to his sermons, interpreting the Bhagwat Gita in Marathi and challenging many more notions. But he was also a child. So imagine a little girl standing at the door of the hut where her brother has locked himself in, imploring him to understand her perspective.’ In many ways, this hit me. Is she teaching the teacher, thereby challenging the duality of student and teacher to a whole new level? After all, one of the basic principles of bhakti is that of advaita – that the human and the divine are not separate – that the divine is within the human. The principle is used to shed all kinds of divisions. In that light, the following abhang changed radically.

aho krodh yave kothe avaghe apan nighote

aise kalale uttam jan techi janardhan

breed bandhile charani na ye davita karani

vel krodhacha ugavla avgha yog phol zhala

aisi thor drushti dhara tati ughda gyaneshwara

(listen, where has this anger come from? you are enlightened 

you know well people are themselves the divine

we have pledged to serve, and cannot get distracted from that path

when anger erupts, all yoga is wasted

so enlarge your vision, open the door gyaneshwara!)

 

Some of the simplest words are often the hardest to translate. One of the uses of the very first word – Aho – in the modern day context is used by wives to address their husbands, often when social protocol dictates that they cannot take their name directly. In fact, a lot of men who are roughly the same age or a little older than the woman are addressed that way. It is also informal and said with endearment. But Muktabai takes Gyaneshwar’s name at the very end. It is the signature with which she signs all tatiche abhang – open the door Gyaneshwara. So what is the meaning of this mode of addressing him? It is clear that there is an informality in the siblings’ relationship. So Aho, becomes ‘listen’, weaving into the whole sentence in the hope that it conveys a sense of their relation while conveying the philosophy.

I believe my translations are more for speaking, as a part of my performances, than for reading. I vary the tempo and change the tone according to how I want my audience to perceive it. In Gonabai, the 14th century poet and Namdev’s mother, there is a very real connect to the worldliness and immediacy of the problems she is facing.

Namdev, you are no longer a child! At least think of your worldly affairs a little. You’ve ignored

tailoring.

You don’t look back

towards your home.

How is your devotion alone divorced

from this existence?

You’ve made this world into dust, Namya!

I’ve seen countless devotees.

How is it that you alone don’t care about yourself?

Nineteen people sit

starving here

what scraps will that Vitthal feed us?

He is with Pundalik there, it is useless to try and win Him over here

He feeds Himself by stealing in Gokul, what will he give you then?

You’re unabashed, without shame; what is the point in repeatedly telling you the same? You have renounced your family along with your worldly life; you dance around without a thought. You have abandoned all work, so who will worry about our worldly affairs?

Gonai says

‘Namya, this isn’t good.

The name of Vitthal has done this to us.’

 

I arrange this translation like I do my singing. Her woes start out slow, clear. By the end it becomes an exasperated mass of words, coming together faster and more forcefully. She ends with the line – Vitthala namein kele aapanaa aise. At first glance, it might seem like she is blaming Vitthal for all her troubles, thereby also lending the abhang to easy classification as a ninda stuti – an abhang critiquing the divine. But on looking closer at the words, one sees that she has put the word – namein. That changes the meaning and tone of the entire abhang, changing it from blaming Vitthal to blaming ‘the name of Vitthal’. To me, this is a critique of the externalities of the tradition – the name, chanting of the name and the need for Namdev to distance himself from his worldly duties when most of the women did not have the luxury of doing that. The warikari tradition, unlike older ways of seeking, did not dictate that people – men – had to take sanyaas before they could attain enlightenment. It was a householder tradition. However, as is seen in stories of Namdev and Tukaram, and the reaction of their wives and family, it was often women who carried the burden of the household.

That may explain Gonabai’s laugh in the second abhang of hers that I sing and translate.

Sukh Pandharis pahu ale bhimatiri bahu

preme garzati hariche das mage pandhari nivas

moksha payi lolan ghali dekhoni muktai nivali

gyanadev sadadit dekhoni gonai hasat

(Happiness in Pandhari! To see this many have gathered on the banks of the Bhima

The servants of Hari shout out with love, behind them stands the house of Pandhari

They roll over to attain bliss; seeing them Muktabai is calmed

Gyandev is touched, Gonai looks on and laughs!)

 

There is very little known about Namdev’s sister, Aubai. The Sakala Sant Gatha, the main reference for the warikari texts has only one abhang of hers, and no life story. In fact this is the only abhang we have of Aubai’s. But in it, there’s a whole world.

shoonya sakarale sadhant dise

aakar nase tethe shoonyakar dise

shoonya te saar shoonya te saar

shoonyi charachar samavale

namayachi bahin aubai shoonyi samalavali

vithali rahili chittvrutti

(the universal zero has been realised

i see the edge

of possibility

where there is no form

i see

formlessness

this emptiness

this infinite

is the essence

every atom

becomes one

with it

nama’s sister aubai

has merged

with this emptiness

her consciousness and actions

are one

with vitthal)

 

There are several things about this abhang that make it tricky for translation. For me this is one of the finest expressions of nirgun, the formlessness that I have ever read. Composing it and finding voice for it was hard enough in my primary idiom of music, let alone in the language of words full of form. Then I had to deal with the fact that it is her only remaining work, perhaps her only work. Third was the philosophical context of shoonyata, which doesn’t quite translate to western philosophy, neither does it correspond exactly to any Buddhist, Zen or other eastern philosophy.

The fact that she repeats the line – shoonya te saar – twice gave me a hint of how to go about it. Shoonya the infinite, shoonya the infinitesimal. It led me to English words to describe the philosophy. I chose to remove all capitalisation to erase any hierarchies. Finally, the idea of shoonya needs a certain quality of minimalism. In directly translating, in written form, the words looked clunky and patchy. Like with the Gonabai abhang, I spaced the words out.

As I walk this path, more poems will come and pierce me like arrows. English seems more and more inadequate to express what the words say. But one has to try, and try again. Because as Tuka says,

Worship the word

It is divine

I find my god in the word

And the word in god.

 

kakad arati karavaya kamalpati

bhakt milale sakal rite vekhile deul

gyaneshwar bole aata dev kathe gele

thave zahale antari dev dali zani ghari

(Dawn. Let us perform the arati to revere the Lotus-Lord

All the devotees gather like they do, they see the temple is empty

Gyaneshwar says. ‘Now where has God gone?’

In his mind’s eye, he sees God grinding at Jani’s house)

 

dalnyacha mishe vitthal savakashe

deh buddhiche vairan dvait khada re nisun

eklich gata duja sad umatata

kon tujhe barobar sad deto nirantari

khoon kalali namdeva vitthal shrota zanicha bhava

(with the excuse of grinding, Vitthal comes in softly

body and soul as the handful of feed, all duality is erased

i sing alone, but another voice responds

‘who are you with?’ ‘He always gives me company’

‘Namdev, I know the sign. Vitthal hears Jani’s feelings’)

 

doicha padar aala khandyavari bharalya bazari zain mi

hati ghein taal khandyavari veena aata maz mana kon kari

pandharichya pethe mandiyale pal mangatavar tel ghala tumhi

zani mhane deva mi zhale yesava nighale keshava ghar tuzhe

(The padar has slipped onto my shoulder. I don’t give a damn I’ll go to the bazaar.

I’ll take the taal in my hand, the veena on my shoulder. Who can stop me now?

In the market of Pandharpur I will decide my price. Pour oil on this managat!*

Jani – ‘I have become your whore Keshava. I am coming now to wreck your home’)

 

* managat – wrist, also a derogatory term for a person of low caste.