Image 01

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

I must have a word with you

Wednesday, June 8th, 2011

I must have a word with you
O cactuses and thorny plants;
I must put a question to the moon who borrows his light :
I should free the beautiful rose from thorns.

Wells are waterless and ministers speechless
Constables move about like thorny bushes,
O world, I must have a word with you.

From the white clouds which crowd like political speeches
Streams are not swelled
And green is not nourished.

Who has stopped the timely rain ?
Who has slashed the stars with rainbow ?
Who is hiding the sun so that darkness may bloat and bulge ?

Mango and jackfruit have been robbed
By those who are delivering souls
Which are neither male nor female.
O world, I must get to know you
And so I must have a word with you.

Siddalingaiah's  Kannada poem translated by Sumatheendra Nadig 

Siddalingaiah is a rare figure in contemporary India. A writer, poet, folklorist, academic, founder of Dalit Sangarsha Samhiti and former member of the Karnataka Legislative Council, Siddalingaiah is an exemplary public intellectual.. (read rest of the article here)

Untouchable’s Complaint

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011

 

Day and night we are suffering,

We will share our grief with the ruler.

Even god is not listening to our problems

Don’t know how long will we suffer.

 

We go to churchman’s court and

Become English after conversion.

Oh lord, conversion doesn’t work

How to show our face, we impious.

 

Broke the pillar and saved Prahlada,

Rescued Gajraj from the clutches of Graha.

Where Duryodhna’s brother pulled Sari,

Appeared there and provided clothing.

Killed Ravan and supported Vibhishna,

Raised the mountain on finger tip.

Don’t know where, now you sleep,

You have become heedless to our pain.

It appears you dislike our contact

As you know that we are Dom.

 

We do labor day and night,

And earn two rupees for that.

Thakurs have comfort sleep at their home,

We plough fields then pay we get.

 

The ruler’s battalion is deployed and

We get caught to serve them unpaid.

Such job we do with closed mouth,

To the government, this will be said.

 

We won’t beg like Brahmin begs

Won’t stir lathi like Thakur stirs

Won’t cheat like Sahu does while measuring

Won’t steal cow like Ahir gets away with

Won’t write poems like a bard

Won’t go to Court wearing turban

We’ll shed sweat to live our life,

Together at home we share our food.

Our body is made of flesh and bone,

Similar body the Brahmin has got.

He is worshipped in every house,

As the whole region has become his host.

We do not go close to well,

We get drinking water from mud.

—————–

One of the early poems on Dalits was composed by Heera Dom. It was titled ‘Achhut Kee Shikayat’ (Untouchable’s Complaint).  The poem was written in Bhojpuri language.  It got published in ‘Saraswati’ in the year 1914. This is my translation of the poem. The Bhojpuri text can be accessed here.  

Mother (ai)

Sunday, May 8th, 2011

 

I have never seen you

Wearing one of those gold-bordered saris

With a gold necklace

With gold bangles

With fancy sandals

Mother! I have seen you

Burning the soles of your feet in the harsh summer sun

Hanging your little ones in a cradle on an acacia tree

Carrying barrels of tar

Working on a road construction crew…………

 

I have seen you

With a basket of earth on your head

Rags bound on your feet

Giving a sweaty kiss to the naked child

Who came tottering over to you

Working for your daily wage, working, working………

 

I have seen you

Turning back the tide of tears

Trying to ignore your stomach's growl

Suffering parched throat and lips

Building a dam on a lake………

 

I have seen you

For a dream of four mud walls

Stepping carefully, pregnant

On the scaffolding of a sky scraper

Carrying a hod of wet cement on your head………..

 

I have seen you

In evening, untying the end of your sari

For the coins to buy salt and oil,

Putting a five paise coin

On a little hand

Saying 'go eat candy'

Taking the little bundle from the cradle to your breast

Saying "Study, become an Ambedkar"

And let the baskets fall from my hands…………

 

I have seen you

Sitting in front of the stove

Burning your very bones

To make coarse bread and a little something

To feed everybody, but half-fed yourself

So there'd would a bit in the morning………..

 

I have seen you

Washing clothes and cleaning pots

In different households

Rejecting the scraps of food offered to you

With pride

Covering yourself with a sari

That had been mended so many times

Saying "Don't you have a mother or a sister?"

To anyone who looked at you with lust in his eyes……….

 

I have seen you

On a crowded street with a market basket on your head

Trying always to keep your head covered with the end of your sari

Chasing anyone who nudged you deliberately

With your sandal in your hand…………

 

I have seen you working until sunset

Piercing the darkness to turn toward home,

Then forcing from the door

That man who staggered in from the hooch hut……..

 

I have seen you

At the front of the Long March

The end of your sari tucked tightly at the waist

Shouting "Change the name"

Taking the blow of the police stick on your upraised hands

Going to jail with head held high………

 

I have seen you

Saying when your only son

Fell martyr to police bullets

"You died for Bhim, your death means something"

saying boldly to the police

"If I had two or three sons, I would be fortunate.

They would fight on."

 

I have seen you on your deathbed

Giving that money you earned

Rag-picking to the diksha bhumi

Saying with your dying breadth

"Live in unity……. fight for Baba………. don't forget him……….

And with your very last breadth

"Jai Bhim."

I have seen you……..

 

I have never seen you

Even wanting a new broad-bordered sari

 

Mother, I have seen you………..

 

Jyoti Lanjewar's Marathi poem ai translated by Sylvie Martinez, Rujita Pathre, S. K. Thorat, Vimal Thorat, and Eleanor Zelliot. Asmitadars, Divali Issue, 1981.

 

Source: Images of women in Maharashtrian Literature and Religion.

Sounds (be avaj)

Thursday, April 21st, 2011

What sounds are these?

Do fish in water weep

or waves sob?

We lost the way

but kept on, hoping

the way would end

but it's we who will end…

Look at the trees on the shore

lip to lip, whispering 

about us, but the birds

have closed their eyes

with the sun.

The sky garbed

in dark,

searching stars

heart swayed

by swaying waves

now aflame.

Let's plunge in 

and drown then.

 

Jyoti Lanjewar's poem 'be avaj' translated by Gauri Deshpande. Source: Stri Dalit Sahitya: The new voice of women poets. Images of women in Maharashtrian literature and religion. 

If you were not there…

Thursday, April 14th, 2011

If you were not there..

Those who stitched chappals

would never even have ascended the steps of parliament

Janeu-wearing universities

wouldn't have trembled while grudgingly giving us some space,

Buckets filled with excreta

would never have descended from our head

a Narayanan would never have been crowned president

 

For this sovereign, democratic republic

you effortlessly wrote a constitution

and as adroitly gave it a direction,

but like no one noticing

the elephant standing in the drawing room

some blind elements still don't seem to have understood you:

as glibly as if he was chanting 'India Shining',

look, how a villain declared

that cows are more sacred

than the lives of Dalits in Gohana..

Look, how in this great civilized nation,

where in Khairlanji 

even Priyanka's corpse was raped,

citizens have become so uncivilized!

 

Like the Pharaohs of Egypt

supervising, personally, the building of the pyramids

look, how this nation,

speeding ahead with shopping malls and express highways

has risen to the racist status 

of overseeing the rape of a Dalit woman every half-hour

and the murder of a Dalit every three days!

 

Like the sulking wife who refused food

because she wasn't gifted a sari, when a half-naked fakir

went on an indefinite fast

to oppose separate electorates for Dalits

you consoled him with orange juice,

but  how cleverly you managed to tell the whole country

that what he had drunk was the blood of millions of lower jatis…

Like he had isolated Subhas Chandra Bose

he tried to drive you away from our hearts,

but what did the khaddar old man know

about how you flowed in our veins like good blood

like the perennial rivers flowing across the country,

about how you had built a nest in every Dalit's heart!

Don't understand why people of this country,

who so eagerly try to find out 

why we lost in a cricket match

or when certain Bollywood stars are getting married,

don't wish to know why the Dalits of Nagpur got angry…

The same TV anchors who shut their mouths tight

when crazed goons supervised the burning of Bombay

because Meena Thackeray's statue had been desecrated,

complain loudly that

the Dalits' self-respect movement

over Khairlanji

was unruly…

Why are those who can't distinguish between Lal Salaam and Jai Bhim,

the Janeu skeins wearing Dalit garments,

posing as bearers of the Dalit rath

and cycling around Dalit wadas..

You also know

that just as a warning sign bearing skull and bones stops no one

this war is not going to end with Buddhism;

You might have become the first citizen of Cuba

if you had undertaken this struggle there

In Phillipines

your movement might have inspired many more people's revolts..!

Even in South Africa,

in the race for human rights,

Mandela might probably have trailed behind you..!

 

Sigh.. you were born in our land..

how could you have bagged the peace prize..

Isn't it because you're a Dalit

that an earthworm called Arun Shourie

can spit venom at you like a serpent..

 

Ambedkaranna!

Now when I look at your statue

standing upright in the Dalitwada

I see a Dalit Messiah

who gathers the lost sheep

Or as the simhaswapnam

who haunts them 

and turns their sacrificial buffaloes and sheep into tigers and lions;

Or you look like you're issuing directions,

like the baptised Christian,

to journey from freedom to freedom

Your index finger seems

like a compass that shows us the way

like a double barreled gun

like an assurance

that we can sleep peacefully

Like Macaulay

who caned brahminical education into discipline

you seem like

you're slapping the grocery-store religion into restraint

Breathing into our ears

the message that education is a weapon

you seem to tell us: it's the Dalit era that shall follow the Christian era.

 

My effort to translate the Telugu poem 'nuvvE lEkapOtE' by Tullimalli Wilson Sudhakar (from his collection of poetry 'daLita vyAkaraNam').

 

The Shared Mirror gratefully remembers Babasaheb Ambedkar on his 120th birth anniversary. Also very happy that our 101th post, at the end of the first year of our exciting journey of self-discovery, pays such a fitting tribute to Babasaheb. Jai Bhim to all!

 

* simhaswapnam: 'lit. the elephant's dream of his mortal foe the lion' (C.P.Brown's Telugu-English dictionary).  

The Existence

Tuesday, March 29th, 2011

You fix our feet
With iron chains
And ask:
‘Fly, fly
The whole sky is yours, isn’t it!’

But this unjust atrocity
Itself will light
The fire of revolt.

Taking together
Earth with our feet,
We will soar the high skies
Like a hawk
One day.

Our answer shall be
Nothing but
Our graceful existence,
Riches full of pride and
Unmatched ability. 

 

G K Vankar's translation of B N Vankar's Gujarati poem 'The Existence

Operation equality

Friday, March 25th, 2011

 

Without seeing and knowing

Without reading or thinking

Without understanding

You attacked like stupid.

 

O brother so innocent,

Like this, would communism come?

Water in place of land

Land where there is water

Pit where there is hill

And mountain where there is valley

Only by making such drastic changes

Will there be revolution/?

 

It is none of your business to be a comrade

You are so sentimental

Leave alone Marx and Mao,

Had you played with a tribal boy in Nuxalbari school

You would do some good.

 

You are becoming anarchist uncontrolled and

Burn dry and wet indiscriminately.

You devour good along with bad,

In a sentiment if you break everything

Will it make Nav Nirman?

May be you can make every thing a level,

You cannot make every thing equal.

Yes, you chose an auspicious day,

26th January,

the republic day of the nation.

 

The innocent children of Anjar  were

Unfurling the fake flags of freedom, equality and fraternity

And like an anarchist you attacked them at random.

 

You were so mad with rage that you could not even find a correct epicenter.

Kutch is a land of saints and donors,

There may be rare outlaws like Jeasal too

O good brother,

For you Delhi or Gandhinagar were not so far.

 

Yes, you are right.

The time is such that you burn with rage

You may wish to break to pieces the God

Who had promised to reincarnate himself

but has hidden himself

Instead in the idols.

 

Without seeing and knowing

Without reading or thinking

Without understanding

 

Some hang around for a drop of water

Some have highjacked the lakes and lakes to their terraces

Some crave for a ray of moonlight

While some have hidden entire sun behind their skyscraper.

Some have dried riverbed springs

And some have controlled Narmda and brought to their village.

 

Eager we too are

Doing all the bonded labor since centuries.

We made them netizens from citizens

And in return we wander exiled

But we are humane:

Our one eye weeps the other is red with rage

We do not wish to make this culture mohenjodaro.

we do not believe like mad Parsuram in the bloody revolution,

We are the followers of compassionate Buddha.

 

Come, see the effects of your aftershocks.

And repent like the King of Kalinga.

No one appeared when the cyclone blew on Orissa.

With their NRI connections

The series of overseas flights arrives

And white dogs identify the stench of their corpses earlier.

Rescue relief rehabilitation everything occurs here as per

The hierarchy of varnasham dharma

Government theirs, swaymsewakas theirs

For them at the maternal uncle’s place mother serves the food

And we are the helpless ones!

The rich Swiss tents were taken away by the leaders and officers

Pyjamas from Pakistan were taken away by the chaddi-banian- dharis.

We hardly had a share of a piece of tin or tarpaulin

Their vastushastris said

‘as per their caste, allot them the plots.

We were given the wastelands of the village ponds.

Come, get early salvation by drowning in the ponds!

 

O kind brother earthquake,

Your operation equality is a failure.

Even if you strike at a Richter scale

of whatever magnitude

You will not be able to remove

India’s social nature and environment.

You may have limitless kindness

And yet you will not be able to realize

Baba’s dream written in

the preface of Indian constitution.

 

Of course, they will remember

The nights lighted by the stars

though under the shadow of fear.

 

Hence please do not strike again

Without seeing and knowing

Without reading or thinking

Without understanding anything.

 

G K Vankar's translation of Neerav Patel's Gujarati poem "Operation equality". On 26 January 2001 Kutch, Gujarat was affected by a massive earthquake. Nav Nirman refers to a Youth agitation against corruption.  

 

Neerav Patel  holds a Ph.D. in English literature, born 2 December,1950. He is a well-known Dalit poet and editor. He edits Swaman, a journal of dalit writings, notably pieces of autobiographical prose. Along with Dalpat Chauhan and Praveen Gadhavi, he initiated Gujarati dalit literature with publication of Dalit Panthers’ 'Kalo Suraj' (The Black Sun). A bi-lingual writer, his collections of poetry are 'Baghishkrut Phulo '(2006), 'Burning from both the ends' (1980, in English), and 'What did I do to be black and blue' (1987 in English). He served as a Bank Officer, after his retirement he devotes his entire time to Dalit literature and activity.

When I was born

Monday, March 21st, 2011

When I was born I was not a child
I was a dream, a dream of revolt
that my mother, oppressed for thousands of years ,
dreamt.

Still it is untouched in my eyes
Covered with wrinkles of thousand years, her face
her eyes, two lakes overflowing with tears
have watered my body
I remember she went for water at your well
a mile away scorched by the summer sun
breathless she returned home and what she offered me,
was not water
but her sweat.
You taught her respect:
‘brother, sir, father, mother, we are your children, let us live, father”
I remember
You allowed her not near the village well
You allowed her not near the village hall
You allowed her not near the letters
In the marshland of your cunningness
You trapped my mother and she struggled.
In your empire so violent
every moment my mother was slaughtered.
She will now breathe in a free air
Her body scorched by sun will get cool shade of neem
Your well will wash her feet and
Your village office will be her throne.
Your letters will become her weapons
Look, I am the lord of Saraswati who was thus far yours and yours alone.
I am the lord of Lakshmi who was thus far yours and yours only
My daughter pulls ears of Ganpati considering him an animal
I do not decorate her eyes with lampblack, but with defiance.
Now they will burn and burn
Your flats and tenements, your schools and your offices
Your chains and your police stations, your village offices and your temples.
I am the live coal , the coal that burns
In the hut that you set ablaze.
I have some wind of the freedom
Now I am the fire.
I remember
When I was born I was not a child
I was a dream,
A dream of revolt
That my mother ,
Oppressed for thousands of years dreamt. 

 

G K Vankar's translation of Sahil Parmar's Gujarati poem "When I was born" from his poetry collection Mathaman.

Sahil Parmar, born 1 October 1958, is a Government employee. His collections of poetry are Vyatha Pachisi (1984), Ek rakabi futi (1991), and Mathaman (2006). 

The nameless ones (anamikas)

Thursday, March 17th, 2011

Begging won't get anything here

            not sympathy, not love

A suit in court wins injustice,

Tears are of no value,

Getting water is a struggle,

Wrapping yourself in smoke from a dead fire won't work

You have to plant the cinder of revolt in your own body.

At times there is a firefly of revolt flickering -maybe

    counterfeit –

But at those times give it outside air to see if it glows.

"The revolution will come through poetry"

Once I accepted that.

But poetry does not live by making revolution.

The same faithless faces of yesterday

        extend the hand of friendship

        while wounding with a sword…….. and

        in their struggle with the enemy were

       made impotent.

They burned houses down with words

But after the house burned, the words died.

For the sake of the poetry of humanity

      one must be so very human,

But they change with the wind…….

And these green parrots of the dry desert turn out to be 

       a mirage.

They turn their eyes where they wish, according to their 

      own convenience.

When there is no strength

      in their own wings

They find the convenient words

      to cut the wings of others.

They make palaces of words!

But I have seen them crumble.

"Kala Ram" and "Chawdar Tank" –

         the history of pain

         is carved on each of our hearts

But even if they could carve words on water

The Indrayani will not save them.

 

Eleanor Zelliot's translation of Jyoti Lanjewar's poem 'anamikas'.  Jyoti Lanjewar is a professor of Marathi in Nagpur university. "The nameless ones" is a criticism of those within the Ambedkar movement itself. Kala Ram and Chawdar Tank are places that witnessed Satyagraha between 1930-1935. The last line of the poem refers to the poet saint Tukaram who threw his poems into the Indrayani river at the behest of critical brahmins. 

Source: Images of women in Maharashtrian literature and religion

         

The dalit ghetto

Monday, March 14th, 2011

Under your* fascist sky
Slowly pants the terrified dalit ghetto.
Under your fascist sky
Slowly pants the terrified dalit ghetto.
Call it a fungus or a stale bread
Or an oasis in a desert
It drinks all similes
In a single breath
like lattha.
Sometimes it laughs loudly
And the Savarna sky shivers.
Making existence a float
It flows in the fall of pain
In its arms
Torn papers, broken glasses
Plastic and iron junk.
It creates arms of new creation,
The eager and lonesome army,
the dalit ghetto
The small string cots snugly arranged
One on the other.
On the stack of quilt,
Wearing thin towel, time screams.
In its borders mannerly
It rapes so-called civility unknowingly.
Its equations about relations are unique.
Behind unseen walls pine so silent the dalit ghetto.

*Caste Hindu 

G K Vankar's translation of Raju Solanki's Gujarati poem 'The Dalit Ghetto', from his forthcoming poetry collection. 

Raju Solanki, born on 18 August 1961, is a leading dalit poet and activist, and a freelance journalist. He is the President of Jati Nirmulan Sangh. As an activist, has made important contribution towards dalit solidarity with women and minority groups. His collection of poetry is Mashal (1986), and his street play, Bamanvadni Barakhdi (c.1986). His new collection of poetry is under preparation. He regularly recites poetry with writers from other marginalized groups in slums for social change. His poetry is versatile with powerful depiction of caste, gender, and politics of religion.

Welcome The Shared Mirror

Log in

Lost your password?