Jerry Pinto

Jerry Pinto is a poet, writer and translator who lives in Mumbai-Bombay-Bombaim-Momoi-Mhamai-Bambai, which is a translational act rather than a city.

Poet’s Note

This book began when I was walking on a treadmill in the gym to which I go in a vain attempt at keeping my weight down. It was a mercifully quiet day; the music system had conked and so we were not being subjected to the relentless percussion that most health clubs think will encourage fitness. And on the next treadmill, Neela Bhagwat began to sing ‘MungiUdaaliAakaashi’. The wonderful thing about Indian classical music is the exploration of a phrase; the singer does not move on but returns to it again and again and this allows you to return to it in similar fashion. So here was an ant who was flying into the sky; now she had swallowed the sun. What could this mean? As the exponent of the Gwalior gharana rang out these phrases, I saw Muktabai as a little girl picking up an ant, delicately with her fingers, closing one eye and watching as the thin black figure eclipsed the sun. Yes, it is a miracle of perspective. The very small can eclipse the inhumanly large and if this sounds as much like zen as physics, so be it. Neela sang on and I moved on. What happens when an ant swallows the sun? I thought of the relationship between God and Woman; what does God feel like but a meltdown of gold and lava? Then we were done and I lingered to talk.

“That was a beautiful poem,” I said. “Where can I read translations?”

“I don’t think they have been translated,” said Neela.

“Then let’s do them,” I said. “Choose fifty of the best and let’s translate them together.”

I have said this often and generally, the person I’m talking to sounds very excited by the project but then they go away and the world swallows them up. But this was Neela Bhagwat and three weeks later, she appeared on my doorstep. She had made her selection from Muktabai, Janabai, Soyarabai, Kanhopatra, Bahinabai, Bhagu and Nirmala.

I was delighted and we got to work. Where Neela had composed the poem musically speaking, she would sing it to me so that I got a sense of what it could mean, what its underlying rasa was. Then I went away and did my work. I would bring the poem back and she would tell me where I had gone wrong or what I had done right (rarely) and we would work on them again. Our court of last resort was Shanta Gokhale to whom I would read my translations. I cannot thank her enough; but then none of us can.