You won't believe us
but no one's talking about our problems
now, again, it's the tenth or eleventh generation scions
of those who lost glories
who are speaking for all of us.
Is this what they call the loot of experience?!
In reality, Nawab, Muslim, Saaheb, Turk-
whoever's called by those names belongs to those classes-
those who lost power, jagirs, nawabi and patel splendours
they have retained, at least, traces of those honours
while our lives have always been caged between our limbs and our bellies.
We never had anything to save.
What would we have to recount….?
We who called our mothers 'amma'
never knew she was to be called 'Ammijaan'.
Abba, Abbajaan, Papa- that's how fathers are to be called, we're told
How would we know- our ayyas never taught us that.
Haveli, chardiwar, khilwat, purdah-
how could we of the thatched palaces know about them?
To perform Namaaz is to bow and rise, my grandfather said!
The language of Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem, Allahu Akbar, Roza-
we never learnt all that.
A festival meant rice and pickle for us
Biryanis, fried meats, pilaus and sheer khormas for you
You in Sherwanis, Rumi topis, Salim Shahi shoes
and dresses soaked in itr
We, resplendent in our old rags.
You won't believe us if we tell you
and we might end up only embarrassing ourselves.
Scentusaabu, Uddandu, Dastagiri, Naagulu, China Adaam,
Laaloo, Pedamaula, Chinamaula, Sheik Srinivasu,
Bethamcharla Moinu, Paatikatta Malsooru- aren't these our names.
Sheikh, Syed, Pathan- flaunting the glories of your khandaans
did you ever let us come closer to you!
Laddaf, Dudekula, Kasab, Pinjari…
we remained relics of the time when our work bit us as caste.
We became 'Binishtis' carrying water to your homes
and 'Dhobis' and 'Dhobans' who washed your clothes,
'Hajaams' when we cut your hair
and 'Mehtars, Mehtaranis' when we cleaned your toilets
as relics of the age when our work bit us as caste
As you say, we're all 'Mussalmans'!
We don't disagree- but what about this discrimination?
We like it too- if these excavations will unearth those accounts
which had remained buried for long, why would we object!
What more do we need to know about the common enemy,
we need to discover the secret of this common friendship now!
We agree: all those who are oppressed are Dalits,
but we need to define what's oppression now!
Surprise- the language we know isn't ours, we're told!
We don't know the language you call ours
We've ended up as a people without a mother tongue.
Cast out for speaking Telugu.
'You speak good Telugu despite being a Mussalman'
Should I laugh or cry!
All our dreams are Telugu, our tears are Telugu too
when we cry out in hunger, or in pain
all our expression is Telugu!
We stood clueless when asked to perform Namaaz
jumped up in surprise when we heard the Azaans.
We searched for only ragas in the Suras.
When told to worship in a language we didn't know
we lost the right to the bliss of worship.
You won't believe us,
no one's talking about our problems.
Self respect is a 'dastarkhan' spread before everyone.
It isn't a privilege that belongs only to the high born.
No matter who belittles a fellow man's honour, betrayal's betrayal
the loot of experience is a bigger betrayal.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'Awwal Kalima' by Yakoob (from his 2002 book of poetry 'sarihaddu rEkha')