Ibopishak’s Hayingkhongyambi: Of the Housefly

A translation of Thangjam Ibopishak’s Manipuri poem, Hayingkhongyambi

             Creeping on the faeces-filled chamber pot
       The housefly, she figures out:

—Lord Gobinda is made of dry wood
All the artificial colours
All the man-made matters build him
How he is made out ‘is’ what he is.

Oh! Jesus!
In these days when the machine reigns
What can you do from the crucifix?
What do you want to show?

‘Truth’ is a flower made of paper
Yesterday, with the tidings of truth
It was found—all’s too bare to benefit; life and all

And the housefly, with shits still scattered all across,
With shits sprinkled on her thorax
Charmed, for a moment she palls in a trance

The Earth’s journey has ceased
In the hellhole, they thrive
The one hundred and eight lotuses*.

        Again the wasted housefly,
        She continues:

—Yes it is
The answer to the ceaseless questions
Of this age, it is
That moment of high and intoxicated, life is.

—Concluded.

PS

*This is related to a shitty Hindu belief, most closely related to Krishna (/ˈkrɪʃnə/), who had as many names and wives as the number of lotuses; and subsequently, the ritual of offering the same number of flowers. In our hometown, there is also a shittier tradition of offering and piggish indulgence of having one hundred and eight different dishes in specific rituals.

Translated on 4 April 2015
From the anthology Apaiba Thawai
(The Wandering Soul) by Thangjam Ibopishak (I have translated the title poem as The Flying Soul [see below])
Raj Publications; first ed. 1969, second ed. 1997