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प्राथमिक पाठशाला / रॉबिन ङाणोम / अनिल जनविजय

Kavita Kosh से
यहाँ जाएँ: भ्रमण, खोज

मुझे अपने स्कूलों की याद है कतरा-कतरा
जिन्होंने मुझे डरना सिखाया
जहाँ साध्वियाँ सिर्फ़ विश्वास करती थीं
लिखित शब्दों और सज़ा की ताक़त में ।

सब बातों के बीच वहाँ एक लड़का था
जिसने अपने पिता के नक़ली हस्ताक्षर बना लिए थे
गणित के टेस्ट को चकमा देने के लिए
और पूरा दिन द्वितीय विश्वयुद्ध के एक क़ब्रिस्तान में बिताया था
समाधि-लेखों और फूलों के बीच सोते हुए ।

ग्लैसगो से आने वालॊ किताबों के सन्त्रास में
उसने अपने पिता की जेब से कुछ नोट और सिक्के चुराए
और पहुँच गया वयस्कों की कहानियों, आदमख़ोरों
और मीठी कहानियों के रहस्यमय चक्र में

अँग्रेज़ी से अनुवाद : अनिल जनविजय

लीजिए, अब यही कविता अँग्रेज़ी में पढ़िए
           Robin S Ngangom
               Primary Schools

I remember only the detritus of schools
which taught fear,
where only nuns seemed to believe
in the power of the written word and punishment.

 
There was a boy in the middle of it all
who once forged his father’s signature
in order to dodge a maths test
and spent the whole day in a World War II cemetery
sleeping between roses and epitaphs.

The intimidation of books from Glasgow
made him steal small notes and coins from his father
which admitted him to a mystic circle
of titbits, cannabis, and adult tales
far away from pink rooms and uniform handwriting
or ‘eena meena maina mo’ by rote
after clambering walls that grow glass-creepers
to the freedom of cork trees and frogs and egrets,
a stinking marshy world of catapults and running noses
which grappled with black polished shoes
and moral science, to return home
on cloudy evenings brewing storm-fuelled nights
exiled on a reed mat and only a hurricane lamp
with slate, chalk, and as the years grew up
inkwell and bamboo-pulp paper
were the keepsakes of his childhood.

There were mosquito storms and
cool dirt floors polished with cowdung and clay,
ruined walls and lizard myrtles and moss
which reminded elders of neglect
near a big water tank left behind by British soldiers
where vipers came to drink, and
gaudy walls of goddesses.

I can see the naïve boy
who couldn’t read the dirty word
spelt on the ground by his older friends
in the calligraphy of randy boyhood,
and, later, obsessed with that moist idea
explored his girl cousins fervently.

There were long delightful, convalescent afternoons
of illustrated classics without
the stress of the school bus when he heard
only the sleepy clang of hammers
in the nearby smithy, when life burnt slowly
like calories even when he was sleeping,
without the solemnity of anyone’s life
coming to an end.

Robin S Ngangom