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Coaching centre

July 20th, 2011 by admin

Oh learned men!

You surely know

that impurities of touch

completely dissolve

when a high caste man

takes a dip in water

and changes his clothes

 

But look at the untouchable hordes!

Howsoever much

they rub themselves

with soap and water

and splash and dip

and scrub and polish,

they cannot shake off ‘untouchability’,

which clings to their bodies.

 

That is how and why

they have remained untouchables

over the millennia.

No-one has been able to decide

if untouchability

is a colour or a touch,

a feeling or an ideal;

whether it resides

in the one who touches,

or the one who is touched.

 

A learned high caste man

could start a coaching center

and make good money

if he could simply teach untouchables

how to shake off untouchability

with a single dip in water

and a change of clothes.

 

Basudev Sunani is an Oriya poet; his poems have been translated by Rabindra K Swain and  J P Das. His poetry collections include Asprushya (Untouchable), Karadi Haata (Bamboo Shoots Market) and Chhi (Sneer), and several critical essays and short stories. He is a veterinarian by training, and blogs here.

Courtesy: The Poem Hunter

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Fragrance of peace

July 15th, 2011 by admin

When life comes to its end
You, please transport
My lifeless body
Place it on the soil of Father Koubru

To reduce my dead body
To cinders amidst the flames
Chopping it with axe and spade
Fills my mind with revulsion

The outer cover is sure to dry out
Let it rot under the ground
Let it be of some use to future generations
Let it transform into ore in the mine

I'll spread the fragrance of peace
From Kanglei, my birthplace
In the ages to come
It will spread all over the world.

Irom Sharmila Chanu's Manipuri poem was contributed by Mayanglambam Merina Leimarenbi.
 
Irom Sharmila, Manipuri poet and War Resistor,  is in the 11th year of her fast protesting against the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) in Manipur.
 
Sharmila began her protest after the Malom massacre where 10 civilians were gunned down by the Armed Forces on 2 November 2000. AFSPA provides special powers to arrest, detain and even kill civilians on suspicion. The power to search and destroy properties on mere suspicion is granted to the Armed Forces of the Union in the 'disturbed areas' of the North East (and subsequently in Kashmir). Where ever AFSPA is in operation, enforced 'disappearances', extra-judicial killings, torture, rape and arbitrary detention have been routinely reported. In 1958 when the Union Home Minster introduced the law in the Parliament, he assured that the Act will be in operation for only 6 months. But it has dragged on for more than 52 years now! Read More
 
Please visit Manipur Freedom for more information.

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Consciousness of the age

July 9th, 2011 by naren bedide

My land's not mine, they said,

I became a revolutionary

 

My body's not mine, they said,

I became a feminist

 

My village is not mine, they said,

I became a Dalitist

 

My nation is not mine, they said,

I became a minorityist

 

My region is not mine, they said,

I became a separatist

 

Finally,

I am not even human, they said,

Step away 

I've become a human bomb.

 

My attempt to translate Satish Chandar's Telugu poem 'yuga spruha' (''yuga spRha'). It can be found in his collection of poetry, 'aadiparvam', published in 2008. You can also read the original Telugu poem at Satish Chandar's blog here.  

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Siva-vakkiyar’s Padal

June 28th, 2011 by admin

48

 

Why, honey is the bee's saliva;

the beetle's saliva is on the flower,

the cow's milk itself is mixed with the saliva of the calf!

why should there be so much fuss over it? 

 

36

 

 Milk does not return to the udder, nor butter to the butter-milk;

Nor the life within the sea-shell, if it breaks, to its body;

The blown flower, the fallen fruit, do not return to the tree;

The dead are not born, never, never, never, never! 

 

Sivavakkaiyar, known to laugh at those who bathe for cleanliness' sake and yet are unclean at heart, comments on pollution associated with human saliva. It is considered terribly unclean and forms a core ritual avoidance in brahmanism. Sivavakkiyar refuses to consider saliva unclean in itself in the above excerpt (48) from one of his padal (songs). In the next padal (36), Sivavakkiyar refutes another central tenet of brahmanism, the theory of transmigration. 

Source: A history of Tamil literature. C Jesudasan and Hephzibah Jesudasan.

—

Read Sivavakkiyar's anti-caste poem here. 

Sivavakkiyar the Siddha poet, belonged to the cult of Tamil Siddhas which dates back to the 8th century. The Siddha teachings are often excluded and made obscure as heresy. These poet saints were radicals.

Because Siddhas scoff at the Vedic sacrifices and rituals and all forms of worship of icons they were considered to be iconoclasts. They are constantly at war with the upholders of the caste system and violently oppose the practice of untouchability. A tamil Siddha scoffs at untouchability by raising a pertinent question whether the bones, flesh and skin of an upper caste woman (brahman) and a lower caste woman (paraiya) are distinguishable on the basis of caste. He asks: are they numbered on the basis of caste? 

The above reference is attributed to Sivavakkiyar. His heretical approach of opposing any kind of orthodoxy particularly that of the brahmanical order, caste system and idol worship, ensured the exclusion of his work from the Saiva canonical literature. Some of his poems though have survived. 

Source: a) Hindu Spirituality: Postclassical and modern. K.R. Sundarajan, Bithika Mukerji. b) The poets of the powers. Kamil Zvelebil.

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Smell of untouchability

June 21st, 2011 by admin

It is just as well
that I got to know 
your blindness
from the very start.

Simply because my feet
touched the ground
you are seeking to purify it, 
sprinkling holy cowdung water.

Had I requested 
your house on rent
you would have been enraged
and driven me out
like a pariah dog.

Perhaps you do not know
that the land your house stands on
is surrounded by air
suffused with my dirty breath.
The bricks of your house
have been made from clay
from the river bed
where my humble hut stands, 
moulded by the supple hands
of men whom you have discarded, 
calling them untouchable.

Now you have moved
into your beautiful house
you preach that untouchables
are not human beings, 
that they are worse than animals, 
to be despised.

Dear sir, 
if you have the moral courage, 
strip open the walls
and look at the rubble 
and see, 
how each atom of brick and sand
bears the sweet smell
of untouchability.  

 

Basudev Sunani is an Oriya poet, his poems have been translated by Rabindra K Swain and  J P Das. His poetry collections include Asprushya (Untouchable), Karadi Haata (Bamboo Shoots Market) and Chhi (Sneer), and several critical essays and short stories. He is a veterinarian by training, his blogposts can be found here.

Courtesy: The Poem Hunter

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I must have a word with you

June 8th, 2011 by anuradha

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)

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Akkarmashi, an excerpt

June 3rd, 2011 by anuradha

…….. from author's note.

My mother is an untouchable, while my father is a high caste from one of the privileged classes of India. Mother lives in a hut, father lives in a mansion. Father is a landlord; mother, landless. I am akkarmashi  (half-caste). I am condemned, branded illegitimate. 

I regarded the immorality of my father and mother as a metaphor for rape. My father had privileges by virtue of his birth granted to him by the caste system. His relationship with my mother was respected by society, whereas my mother is untouchable and poor. Had she been born into the high caste or were she rich, would she have submitted to his appropriation of her? It is through the Dalit movement and Dalit literature that I understood that my mother was not an adulteress but a victim of a social system. I grow restless whenever I read about a rape in the newspaper. A violation anywhere in the country, I feel, is a violation of my mother.

I have put in words the life I have lived as an untouchable, as a half caste, and as an impoverished man. There is a Patil in every village who is also a landowner. He invariably has a whore. I have written this so that readers will learn the woes of the son of a whore. High-caste people look upon my community as untouchable, while my own community humiliated me, calling me 'akkarmashi'. This humiliation was like being stabbed over and over again. [….] 

……… The Outcaste

[….] Dada was the first son of the first wife of Dastagir Jamadar. Dada was married to a woman from Barhanpur, but they were childless, so his wife deserted him. Since then Dada has been living with Santamai. He has groomed me with great affection, as if I were his own child. Neither his religion nor my caste was a hinderance to us. Is it man who is a hinderance to religion or is it the other way around? Is the premise of religion greater than man's? Is religion made for man or man made for religion? Does man cause religion to degenerate, or is it religion that degenerates man? Can't man exist without religion and caste?

 

[…] Once, we had a guest and no money to pay even for his tea. Kashinath, the tea-stall owner was away. So we couldn't ask for credit. Old man Ghenappa who looked after the tea-stall in Kashinath's absence would not give us credit. We were in a fix and felt helpless. I sat in a corner like a barren hen trying to hatch an egg. Dada was waiting for a bus. Santamai's face looked like a cave discovered during excavation, while the guest sat like a refugee.

 

Source: The Outcaste Akkarmashi Sharankumar Limbale. Translated from Marathi by Santosh Bhoomkar 

 

Note: Sharankumar Limbale is the Regional Director (Pune Division) of the Yashwantrao Chavan Maharashtra Open University, Nashik. A well-known Dalit activist, writer, editor, and critic, he is the author of 24 books. 

Santosh Bhoomkar (Translator) Reader and Head, Department of English,and In-charge, Postgraduate Faculty of Arts, Shri Saraswati Bhuwan Arts and Commerce College, Aurangabad.

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Untouchable’s Complaint

June 1st, 2011 by admin

 

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.  

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Mother (ai)

May 8th, 2011 by anuradha

 

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.

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Sounds (be avaj)

April 21st, 2011 by anuradha

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. 

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