Toya Gurung
Deep
Terraces down the hill,
A couple of shapely damsels
From Bhirbote
Diverting water into the canal
Turn by turn in a mutual exchange of labour
With the boys of Kotedanda
Of almost the same age
Running across quickly
The damp leveled ground
Hi, Who wins?
You or me?
In a cultured language to mean
This is a race competitive
Between young boys and girls of marriageable age
In the market.
At the height of their civilization
They sing in chorus
Vying with the voice of the cuckoo
The words meaning,
“Whereto I’m heading
Clouds happen to be.”
Thatched huts are all over
The damp ground
Built of bamboo strips
Resound wish the flattering calls
Of traders, seeking profuse gain.
Shoulder upon shoulder move
Freely in the market
With amulets over the chests
Gold ornaments on heads
Silver rings round anklets
Rings and plates hanging
From the nose
The murchunga1 and bitter-leaf tips
Hanging from bodice strings
Fittingly, tied
To the apron – like a covering
A little below the neck
In an the orderly way
The market is agog
With atmosphere all warm.
Bread is there in the bamboo basket
And wine in the wooden flask
All excited and frolicsome
The market is all lively
Throwing a spell on us all.
With heaps of cotton-bedding in front
Of two-fold and four-fold varieties
There the Gurung ladies sell
Haggling over the price.
Smiling, showing their golden teeth,
While the Bhotes from Solukhumbu
Drawing attention to their horses and artistic cushions
Make a brisk sale
This – the market being held
Once in the whole year
The mandal drum is sounding
All through the night
The music resounding
And the market getting more exciting.
This is an opera
Or an annual market
That comes every year
Spacious enough for people
Many more than in a rodi house
Set apart for the harvest festival
Where dancing and singing take place
With greater license
Allowing men to choose their life partners.
This indeed is a grand market
Patterned in the latest plan
That evolves and develops
In every age
Making history
Most unforgettable
And creating a world
For centuries long
Original in its way
Casting aside
Modernity.
- A small mouth organ held between the teeth and played with the fore finger.
Open Market
Toya Gurung
Deep
Terraces down the hill,
A couple of shapely damsels
From Bhirbote
Diverting water into the canal
Turn by turn in a mutual exchange of labour
With the boys of Kotedanda
Of almost the same age
Running across quickly
The damp leveled ground
Hi, Who wins?
You or me?
In a cultured language to mean
This is a race competitive
Between young boys and girls of marriageable age
In the market.
At the height of their civilization
They sing in chorus
Vying with the voice of the cuckoo
The words meaning,
“Whereto I’m heading
Clouds happen to be.”
Thatched huts are all over
The damp ground
Built of bamboo strips
Resound wish the flattering calls
Of traders, seeking profuse gain.
Shoulder upon shoulder move
Freely in the market
With amulets over the chests
Gold ornaments on heads
Silver rings round anklets
Rings and plates hanging
From the nose
The murchunga1 and bitter-leaf tips
Hanging from bodice strings
Fittingly, tied
To the apron – like a covering
A little below the neck
In an the orderly way
The market is agog
With atmosphere all warm.
Bread is there in the bamboo basket
And wine in the wooden flask
All excited and frolicsome
The market is all lively
Throwing a spell on us all.
With heaps of cotton-bedding in front
Of two-fold and four-fold varieties
There the Gurung ladies sell
Haggling over the price.
Smiling, showing their golden teeth,
While the Bhotes from Solukhumbu
Drawing attention to their horses and artistic cushions
Make a brisk sale
This – the market being held
Once in the whole year
The mandal drum is sounding
All through the night
The music resounding
And the market getting more exciting.
This is an opera
Or an annual market
That comes every year
Spacious enough for people
Many more than in a rodi house
Set apart for the harvest festival
Where dancing and singing take place
With greater license
Allowing men to choose their life partners.
This indeed is a grand market
Patterned in the latest plan
That evolves and develops
In every age
Making history
Most unforgettable
And creating a world
For centuries long
Original in its way
Casting aside
Modernity.
- A small mouth organ held between the teeth and played with the fore finger.
Translated by Madhav Lal Karmacharya
Translated by Madhav Lal Karmacharya