The Photographer
Kannada poem by B.R. Lakshmana Rao
Translated by C.P. Ravikumar
My job is to click wedding pictures,
But I often mix pleasure with business.
I am so used to all this now,
The din and the zeal
The ruffle of crisp silk sarees
Drums. aroma of coffee,
Snacks served on plantain leaves.
I slip in, uninvited,
Seat myself in a corner,
Listen to old men chat,
Young girls cackling,
Men marching in anxiety.
In a matter of hours
I am old hat -
Their faces are now familiar.
A few pretty women
Have given me furtive glances
And blushed -
A few bold ones have winked.
People notice my side whiskers and goggles,
My silk shirt and tight pants
My pointed shoes and Tony Curtis smile:
Girls with curiosity and secret admiration
Men with envy and overt suspicion.
My camera chances upon a girl
Leaning on the balcony railing
Unmindful of her legs
Plainly visible through her dress:
But I do not click.
They invite me for lunch
But I decline out of pride.
During the evening reception
Songs blare on the gramophone.
And I see them everywhere
Pretty maidens:
Chirpping, flirting, laughing without reason,
Showing off, flashing smiles, batting their eyelids.
My life has found some meaning.
In my flash lights I devour their beauty
And so does my camera.
In the night before I fall asleep
Their faces parade before my eyes.
Radha, Padma, Pankaja.
Mala, Vishala, Sunitha.
I dream.
I return the next evening with pictures.
They nod in appreciation,
Tease one another, weep,
Laugh looking at the pictures.
And they depart to their hometowns.
What remain with me
Are their blurred images,
Their negatives.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem