Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 56

The former Indian capital

has no splendor.

Shabby walls of the palaces —

a long-time misery —

mumble about the past greatness.

The ulcer of utter poverty

gnaws, bothers the city

who moans and groans

nightly not to allow

wounds and problems

to destroy its heart.

On the shoulders

is a load

of millions

of people,

and beggars

who continue to get in

escaping

from worse beggary.

At night, the city grieves.

Oh, Calcutta!

Daytime anew.

People must remain

alive, work for rice.

They

encourage

each other

saying cheerful words —

the language is still rich.

The city bawls

at the top of the voice

about its superiority

to the whole of India.

Oh, Calcutta!

On the streets,

is unceasing noise:

the uproar of cars,

the screech of brakes,

the squeak of rattling carts,

carriages,

the squeal of rubber klaxons

of never-ending rickshaws,

the popping of motorcycles,

the ringing of bicycles.

A stream moves at a slow speed.

At the center of the street

a cow begins to moo —

somebody took liberty

to drive into it.

No respect at all!

On the pavement

passersby

converse,

laugh,

whistle in every way,

struggle forward

through barricades

of peddlers, vendors

who praise without a stop

their watches,

flowers,

semiprecious stones,

what’s only not there.

A crowd around fakir:

all right, very well,

is that so? Oh, yes,

yes, yes, yes,

come on, go ahead.

In a heap of stinking garbage

pleased crows caw.

All pay no heed to beggars.

Pans and plates clank:

patties are fresh, aromatic,

and the dishes

are being washed

in the puddle.

Oh, Calcutta!

At a cleaner district are

notorious Calcutta brothels.

Kids of the prostitutes

live in the same place.

Scream of a sex broker,

bass voice of a preacher,

the groan of fighting wrestlers,

the flow of urine passed

on the wall – men’s privilege.

A dreadful swearing —

that is a drunkard stumbled

over a dead dog.

Out of a loudspeaker

all over the quarter

strikes up a Hindi song.

Bengali songs are here,

there and everywhere:

on the radio, at home, weddings,

thousands of concerts, only

in contrast to the cheerful Hindi

they are mainly philosophical.

Suddenly, the music breaks off —

Buuuuh-uh, power is shut down.

For a long time.

For hours.

Oh, Calcutta!

Playing went on by musicians

singing to the accompaniment

of a barber’s scissors clang,

ductile grinding of a whetstone,

howl of a sullen cattle.

However hard you may try,

you can’t hear rustling

pleats of sari of women

walking by.

Listen to it!

Better look —

then this sound would be

more graceful.

In the park, are

the fragrance of flowers,

the grumbling of pigeons.

Boys set up a clamor

and drove them away.

Pairs of lovers

on the benches

are not entirely as before:

not quite – emancipated.

Their kisses smell of jasmine.

Now, it is an echo

of the long-drawn-out

hooting of a ship

on the Hoogly river,

a branch

of the sacred

Ganges.

The railway station Howrah

and the half kilometer bridge

are Calcutta inside Calcutta —

you want to cast a glance

at the apparition town,

come as a tourist,

you want to see its beauty,

live there for a short while.

You cannot feel it right away.

Oh, Calcutta!

The rain

is a chronic

phenomenon:

splash-gargle of the drops,

squelch-squish of sandals.

What if it pours heavily!

At once, a babbling current

will wash off the sidewalk folks.

As so often is the case,

it’s bucketing down

or raining days and nights.

Be careful then!

Inundation!

A car is half sunk

in the middle of the flood.

A man,

an idiot in looks,

strikes the trunk

with a hammer —

Bang! Bang! Bang! —

what a jubilant revelry

of the elements

and raving madness!

Earthquakes happen.

One was from Burma-Myanmar.

A perambulator on the balcony

started to roll by itself,

ooh! It beats the left wall,

plonk! It beats the right one.

Oh, Calcutta!

Natural disasters. However

social calamities also

take place, say, “bandh” —

an all-out strike —

everybody must close

everything:

you don’t close your store,

it is broken to pieces,

or if you drive,

your car is toppled over.

A million-strong meeting.

Loudspeakers deafen:

“Long live the revolution!”

The Leftists are powerful.

Yelping-yapping of the dogs

brought to the dog show.

The Leftists prohibited it – “bourgeois.”

Oh, Calcutta!

Life resumes its normal

course:

stir of the trade

at the markets,

whistle

of the ships at the port,

knocking tapping

of the cranes,

muffled crackle

of burning corpses

near the Hoogly river.

Botanical Garden.

Wild horses could not

drag you away

from there.

You’ll be all ears:

not abating bird melodies,

chime, tapping, whistling,

parts, tunes, tones.

Different quarters of the city

have their accent:

Armenian,

Sikh…

Some streets are unique:

contraband —

smuggled goods

are from everywhere —

no ifs or buts about it:

monkey – noisy – where

impudent cadgers live,

book —

with the rapture of finding —

amid cultural centers.

Anywhere,

high and low

on the walls

are slogans,

slogans.

Oh, Calcutta!

Temples, mosques, churches.

Ting-a-ling

of the bell

and the bleat

of the goat being

sacrificed to the gods

in the Hindu temple,

recitation of muezzin

from the minaret.

choir singing

at the Cathedral,

water splashes

and the rustle of flowers

falling

on the stone phallus

in the Shiva temple

from the hands

of girls and women

seeking advice and blessing.

Mother Teresa —

in the halo of only

local glory —

loudly gives orders

to the sisters of Divine Love

who sell wicker baskets

and embroidery

in the shop of the Mission.

In the Kali Temple is a feast

of the light and, sure, of the sound.

In honor of the bellicose goddess

is a clatter of fireworks

and machine-gun-like firecrackers,

skyrockets fly up,

bombs blow up,

a drummer beats feverishly.

A war

loved by everyone

goes on and on.

No one vanishes in the battle.

Oh, Calcutta!

They speak

nothing and never

change in Calcutta.

Well, partly true.

Beggars are not few

after Mother Teresa

has reached the world glory

and deification.

Decades of the Leftists rule

passed through without

revolutions of any kind.

Subway hasn’t brought a relief —

The jams are still there.

The sounds of everyday life —

for some, they are cacophony,

for some, oriental symphony —

are unique and will not vary

in the nearest future in Calcutta.

For the time being

sorrow and joy

go holding

each other by the hand.

Look —

joy smiles and winks.

You also give a wink at it.

Oh, Calcutta!