Rajiv Mohabir
The king and the Koyal
A long time ago a king was unable to sleep at night. Outside of the royal window a koyal bird sat on a tree branch and serenaded the king throughout the night with its song.
The poor king—he was so disturbed by having no peace at night that he could no longer bear the koyal’s song. From that night he began to fear. Despite the king’s distress the queen was able to fall asleep quickly after lying down, and of this the king was jealous.
The king thought, “I am the king, I get every single thing that I want, by right. And this queen—this evil woman sleeps so peacefully in front of me. The very diamond I desire is beyond my reach.”
Again the koyal began to voice its night song. It sang that, aloft in the air, it felt so free that words failed to describe it.
That every night the sky becomes an ocean and his feathers become the boards that make a boat, and having set course on the midnight waves, there was no telling just where it would sail.
Raja Aur Kokila
bahut pahile ke baat hai. ekgo raja rahe aur ratiya mein oke nindiya nahin awat rahe. raja ke kamra ke baahar ekgo briks rahe. perdwa ke sakha par
baitke ekgo kokila jaun raat bhar aapan gaana gawe rahe.
bechara raja—okar jiw jard gayal etna ki raat mein oke kuchu bhi saanti na pa sake aur uu kokila ke awaaj nahin sahen saka rahe. uuhi raat se dare lagal. raja ke ghabardaye ke baujud, rani aaraam se letke jaldi so pard rahe
aur ii baat se raja naraaj bhaile.
sochis raja, “ham hai raja, sab chijwa jaun ham khojela hamke milejai, ii hamaar hak hai. aur ii rani le—uu aapan samne letke so gayal, dust nariya.
uu hirwa je ham khojeli haat mein nahin awe.”
phir koyal ke ratiya ke gaana shuru lagal. uu gawat rahe ke asmanwa mein
urdat urdat kitne ajaadi aaye ki bata na saka rahe.
ke har raat ke aasmaan samundar ban jaila aur unkar pankha nauwa ke lakrdi ban jaila, aur na jane adhiraat ke laher par baitke kaha tak pahuchawela.
ke ajaadi kitne mitta hai ki ekgo bar chatke rajkumara aur kisaan sab jingi bhar unkar khoj mein aapan sari jiw gawat deila.
lekin raja koi kokila ke boli ke samajh nahin aaile. uu gussa khake baja tak
bhagat khol deis aur dhyan se sunis baki baja ke khole par kokila ke gaana
gaayab bhaile.
That the freedom was so sweet. That having tasted it once, princes and peasants alike waste their whole lives searching for it.
But the king didn’t understand the ramblings of the koyal bird. Vexed, he
ran to the door and threw it open, yet as soon as he opened it the song
disappeared.
The king tore his raiment and swore, “One day I will drink this demonic,
tyrannical koyal’s blood!”
The king decreed:
Whoever kills this evil koyal and presents it to my court will receive my
entire wealth.
A sure-shot archer sharpened his blade. He had been cutting cane when he heard the royal challenge. He would take a shot, but it would mean exile from a favorable rebirth.
His baby rice, his babies and wife, his father, mother, brother, would all disappear into diasporic mythology.
raja aapan bes tordke ii kasam khayal ke, “ekgo din uu julum rakshas-sa
kokila ke rahuwa ham pi jaib!”
raja bolis:
jaun ii dust kokilwa ke mar dalke hamke dew uuhike hamaar sare dhanwa
mil jai.
dhanurdari aapan cutlass taja karela. uu ganna ke kate rahe jab uu rajah ke
baat sunis. uu kosis ta karbe baki ii ke matlab bhaiye ke agle janam aacha
na hoijai.
unkar khet, bacche, stri, mai-baap, bhai-bahin sab gayab hoijai.
ii kare ke baad ghare nahin laut saki.
uu aapan pariwar ke sab naam ke yaad hirday mein rakhke aur naya bacche
jab paida hoi oisan nam debe.
After this, he would not be able to remain in his hometown.
He would remember their names and name his new children after ghosts
roaming the paddy fields.
But the raja wasn’t the only raja. His balls had already been stolen by the
British.
His golden mahel was a cage. He began plucking his own feathers.
In the daylight the raja slept in ten-minute intervals and always in his brief
dreams he was flying through the air.
And always he was flying until the biting cry of the koyal.
lekin ii raja eklauta raja na rahe. unkar ande angrej raja dwara chora gaile.
unkar sona mahel pinjara rahe. uu aapan pankh kinchke nikalis.
din mein raja khali das das minit khatir so sakal aur sapna mein hamesa
hawa mein urat rahe.
aur oise uu rahe tabtak kokila ke awaaj sunai deis.
raja ii sapana dekhis:
jangal mein akela akela uu nadiya ke dikhai dela uu jab nadiya ke uupar urdela. koi baat se darela baki na janile ke, uu mani jaise hai hawa jab oke le jaila—nadiya ke pani jaise koi nauwa ke le jaila laheriya par. unkar pankha lakdri jaise bhaile aur raja kuch dekhela: ekgo pahar jaun par himalaya chitaan aur barf se banayis mandir hai.
uu surya mantra pardhat urdela.
uu aapan muh kholela aur aditya-bhagwan ke namaskar karela.
The king dreams:
Alone in the forest and jungles he sees the snaking rivers as he soars, and thinks the fear is in fact an emerald as the air gusts, pushing his wings along a ghostly current—urgently ferreting his boat-like body of feathers away to see something grave and important: a mountain covered in temples—some hewn of the very rock and ice of the Himalayas.
He flies amongst the mantras recited at sunrise.
He parts his lips and bows to Aditya, the sun god.
The king dreams:
He flies above wooden ships with dark hulls like dusk, and sees the puffs of
cannon fire. He flies with the wailing songs of people trapped in the ships’
bellies.
Songs that ask the gods, what have we done in this life to be trapped so?
raja ii sapna dekhis:
jahaaj se uupar urdela aur goli chalayat dekhela. log jaun jahaj ke andar bandhe ke gaane je hawa mein phelat hai uu urdela.
uu gaana bhagwan se puchela, ham ka karis ke ham oise bandhe hai?
koi nahin kokila ke hatya kare mangela.
dwijah ke mare sabse barka paap mane jaila.
aur dwijah ke matlab: dui—second jah—born.
aur dwijah ke matlab: uu jaun ke janeu bhaile.
aur dwijah ke matlab: pesaab kare khatir janeo kaan me bandhela.
aur koi nahin oise daag aapan pe lage mangela.
No one wanted to kill the songbird.
Killing a bird that is twice born is the greatest sin.
And dwijah means: one who wears the cotton thread.
And dwijah means: one who ties it around his ear as he squats to piss.
And nobody wanted such a stain.
The king dreams:
In a metal box he jumps to the clouds and below the night and sparkle of
cities, or towns spattered like bird shit or blood on the earth, which crusts
over in cement scabs.
He flies north to the frozen island.
He flies west to the country where his kin will bury his bones in the ground.
He flies south to the island, he dreams in English only of cane and Creole—
he could be anywhere, it’s true.
raja ii sapna dekhela:
pital ke dabbe mein uu badariya mein kudela aur oke niche raat aur saheriya
chamkela. andhera mein lagela ke koi pachhi ke mul, je kukariya jaise jamin
par lagela.
uutar ke oriya urdela, barf ke dwip tak.
purab ke oriya urdela jehar unkar santan aapan haddiya jamin mein rakhbe.
dakshin ke oriya urdela oise dwip tak jehar uu oise sapwa dekhila je khali
angreji ganna aur creolese bhasa ho. sach mein jeharbhi kahin hosakela.
He flies east, forward in time but backward to see if he will fit back—the continental stone cleft in two, tumbles into the sea, its edges no longer retroflexed and cerebral, and his poetry alveolar.
He is gone so long that his return is not a return.
Outside the window in his regulation-sized space, the dark clouds glow from
the city lights beneath.
The archer sharpens his arrow with a sundried brick. It sails through the air and strikes a song. With one arrow lined in feathers the koyal’s heart ruptures. With one arrow shot the archer must leave and never return. With one arrow and a fingerprint he signs his terms of indenture.
The archer plucks the bird, skins it. The disemboweled carcass he stabs with a spit and roasts it at high heat to keep the tenderness that he let die for money. Rubbed in cumin, chilies, and yogurt, encrusted in anise and black peppercorns. He roasts it until it’s golden brown.
samay mein purab aage urdela baki paachhe bhi jaila ii dekhe khatir ke agar
mahades ke tukrde ekgo hi tukrda jord sakela dubara, aur agar unkar simiya
ke kabitiya angreji mein hoijai
.
chalal gayal jamana se ohe oke vapsi kare nai na sakela.
daftar ke khirdkiya ke baahar, badariya aapan sawan ke git saher ke roshni
je niche hoy, uu gaaye lagela.
dhanusdari aapan baan iikwa par tej karela. hawa mein se urdela aur ekgo gayak ke marela. ekgo hi tir se kokila ke hirday tardakela. ekgo hi tir se dhanudari ke yahso chorde ke hai aur kabhi nahin laut sakbe. ekgo hi tir aur
anguri chhap uu kantrak manjur karela.
dhanudari pachhi ke panka nochela, aur chamri nikaalela. aante nikaalke
uu dhard ke pakayela tej aag se taaki unkar mans mein nami rahe jai. jeera,
mirch, dahi, saunph, aur kala mirch ke chaunk. uu aag mein rakhe tabtak
laal na hoye.
jhola mein saman rakhela baki unkar kapra, murtiya, aur masala aapan saath
na la sake. angrej wale oke station mein bandhela aur chini ke deswa tak
le jaibe kaheki uu anguri chhap lagal dhanus uthaiye ke samay. angrej oke
batiawela ke chinta na kare, raja tohar sange jaibe.
He packs his duffle, but is stripped of his clothing and supplies, his pictures
of the gods and all of his spices. The English guards at the docks chain him
onto a ship bound for the sugar country, for he signed this contract when he
raised the arrow to his eye line. They tell him not to worry, the raja is sure to
follow.
The king, served from a silver thali, raises the first morsel to his lips, bites
and chews up the koyal’s dusk and dawn music. With the raising of his royal
tongue and soft palate he swallows the birdsong whole.
He gasps for air in sheer delight for such delicious opulence. At this exact
moment, his memories all fly from him, free birds of flight and wind, seeking
a new home across the sea.
He no longer knows who he is or where he is going. He looks in the mirror
at his brown nose and dark eyes, but all he sees is a face. There is no I, no
stories or songs of his own.
chandi ke thaariya par rakhal gayal, raja pahile tukrda khaye ke ii koyaliya
ke raat-git khayela. uu kokila ke gaana nigalela.
hawa leila etna pura khusi se. ehi samay oke sab ke sab yaad unkar khopariya se urd chordela, pachhiya jaise naya ghosalwa ke khoj mein.
na janela ke kaun hai aur kehar jaila. darpanwa mein naak aur aakhiya
dikhayal deila baki uu khali ekgo chehera dekhela, koi aapan ke pehechan,
koi kahaniya, koi gaana nahin rahela.
Rajiv Mohabir is the author of The Cowherd’s Son (Tupelo, 2017) and The Taxidermist’s Cut (Four Way, 2016), and translator of I Even Regret Night: Holi Songs of Demerara (Kaya Press, 2019). Currently he is assistant professor of poetry at Emerson College and translations editor at Waxwing. The King and the Koyal is written in English and also in a reconstructed Guyanese Bhojpuri—a uniquely Caribbean Indian language whose usage is in decline.