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If you were not there…

April 14th, 2011 by naren bedide

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).  

An excerpt from Karukku

April 13th, 2011 by anuradha

Bama 

Nowadays, now that I have left the order, I am angry when I see priests and nuns. Until I actually entered the convent, I truly did not understand their approach nor any of their procedures. It was only after my sojourn with them that I understood the lack of humanity in their piety. They speak in an empty way of devotion, renunciation, the Holy Spirit, God's vocation, poverty, chastity and obedience; they lead lives which remind me only of Pharisees, Sadducees and High Priests who appear in the Bible. If Jesus were to appear today he would question them much more sharply and severely than he did before. And even if he were to do so, I am not sure whether they will understand. 

When I look at the Church today, it seems to be a Church made up of the priests and nuns and their kith and kin. And when you consider who they are, it is clear that they are all from upper castes. They are the ones who are in the positions of power. Yet when you consider the Christian people as a whole, most of them are lowly people, and Dalits. These few assume power, control the dispossessed and the poor by thrusting a blind belief and devotion upon them by turning them into slaves in the name of God, while they themselves live in comfort. […..]

What kind of piety can this be? They make themselves into gods so that they can exploit others. So where has God gone? The so-called gods walking about here are the priests and nuns and their relations; no other.

How long will they deceive us, as if we are innocent children, with their Pusai and their Holy Communion, their rosary and their novena? Children, growing up, will no longer listen to everything they are told, open mouthed, nodding their heads. Dalits have begun to realize the truth. [….]

Dalits have learnt that these others have never respected them as human beings, but bent the religion to their benefit, to maintain their own falsehoods. But Dalits have also understood that God is not like this, has not spoken like this. They have become aware that they too were created in the likeness of God. There is a new strength within them, urging them to reclaim that likeness which has been so far repressed, ruined, obliterated; and to begin to live again with honour, self-respect and with love towards all humankind. To my mind, this alone is true devotion. 

 

—-

Source: Karukku. Translated from the Tamil original by Lakshmi Holmstrom. Karukku is the autobiography of the Tamil writer, Bama.

Letter to the Conference of Marathi Authors

April 11th, 2011 by anuradha

11 June 1885

 

 

Dear Sir,

I acknowledge the receipt of your letter regarding the proposed conference of the (Marathi) authors and I was delighted to receive your request that I should participate in this conference. But then esteemed sir, the conferences and the books of those who refuse to think of human rights generally, who do not concede them to others and going by their behavior are unlikely to concede them in future, cannot make sense to us, they cannot concur with what we are trying to say in our books. The reason is that their ancestors, with the view to taking revenge on us, included in their pseudo-religious texts an account of how they turned us into slaves and thus gave our enslavement religious authority. Their dated and decadent texts are witness to this phenomenon. These upper-caste authors who are forever miles away from reality and who can only make ceremonial and meaningless speeches in big meetings can never understand what we the shudras and atishudras have to suffer and what calamities we have to undergo. All this is not entirely unknown to the high-caste founders of various conferences and organizations. They pretend to be modernists as long as they are in the service of the British government. The moment they retire and claim their pensions, they get into their brahmanical touch-me-not attire, become caste chauvinists, incorrigible idol worshippers and, what is worse, treat the shudras and atishudras as lowly and contemptible. If they happen to be in their touch-me-not ritual dress they would not even touch paper notes as if that were a blasphemy! How can these Arya brahmans improve the lot of this unfortunate land? Be that as it may. We shudras do not any longer wish to trust these people and their specious and dishonest stories, for they cheat us and eat off our labor. In a word, we shudras have nothing to gain by mixing with such people. We must think about our situation and how we should relate to these upper-caste people. If these leaders of men are genuinely interested in unifying all people they must address themselves to the discovery of the root of eternal love of all human beings. Let them discover it and may be formulate and publish it as a text. Otherwise to turn a blind eye to the divisions among the human beings at this hour is simply futile. Of course, they are free to do what they like. I would nevertheless be thankful if my short letter is placed before your conference for consideration. In any case accept the salute of this old man.

 

Your friend

Jotirao. G. Phule.  

 

Note: The Conference of Marathi Authors was founded in 1878. Its second plenary session was organized by Justice M.G. Ranade on 24th May 1885. Ranade wrote to Phule requesting him to participate in the plenary session. Phule did not. But he sent a reply to Ranade, which was published in the 11th June issue of the journal Dnyanodaya. This is another example of how Phule always related to all problems keeping in mind what in his view was the main contradiction in contemporary society.

An interesting thing about this letter is the last sentence, which is written in a dialect which the Muslims of the western Maharashtra use in their speech:  “Sadhe hoke buddheka yeh pahla salaam lev’. It sounds like Urdu or Hindustani but does not follow the syntax of Urdu and Hindustani. It is Marathi for all practical purposes. His use of this kind of language would certainly have shocked the contemporary brahmans. But Phule clearly seems to emphasize that this ‘Mussalmani’ or ‘Bagwani’ speech is as much Marathi as brahmanical speech!

 

Translated by G P Deshpande.

Source: Selected writings of Jotirao Phule. Edited, with annotations and introduction, by G P Despande. 

 

The Shared Mirror celebrates Jyotiba Phule's 184th Birthday. 

Vulture-Roosting

April 2nd, 2011 by anuradha

by Dashrath Parmar

 

All of a sudden, I felt as if a thorn was pricking my eye or as if someone was digging a pit with a sharp crowbar…

I stirred a little. I opened my eyes to the horrendous sight of a vulture perched on my chest, with its massive wings spread out, its beak stuck into my right eye….

I shrieked in terror, but the vulture continued to pick at my eye unperturbedly. Using all my force, I tried with both my hands to take it off my chest, but I failed. It had firmly fixed its talons in the gaps between my ribs. All my efforts were in vain.

I began to shout with more intensity, but no one responded. Where had my family members gone? Where were my loved ones? Look how this vulture tortures me!

Blood streamed down my eye into tributaries. One ran down my ear. The warmth…! Another reached down to my lips and into my mouth. The warm salty touch… taste…!

Gradually, my pillow, my quilt, was drenched…. If I bled further, the blood would seep through the quilt on to the floor…

With renewed strength I tried to push the vulture away, but it too resisted with doubled force and began to drink my blood with gulping sounds…

I looked outside with one eye, but its open, monstrous wings obstructed my sight. I lay in wait helplessly, for my eye to be scraped out. There would be no trace of the eye after a while, only a deep, valley-like opening….

Pain crept through every vein of my body. I sprang up from the cot when I could bear it no longer. The cot shook as I got up, it tilted to one side, the vulture lost its grip over my ribs, it fell and I fled.

The door was open. I tripped over the threshold and tumbled. However, I broke into a run again. I ran across the courtyard and came to a stop under the neem tree. There was a deadly silence in the vas, not a soul in sight, except a dog who sat chewing a bone… its mouth smeared with blood. [….]

The blood from my eye just refused to clot; I could hear it falling on the ground as I stood beneath the neem tree…… tip….tap…..tip……tap…… I felt something dangling from my eye-cavity… Oh! It was a lump of flesh! Could it be a severed ligament perhaps some vein or nerve leading to the brain or…

I put the lump back carefully back into the hollow. My hands were covered with blood, my clothes drenched red. I was tempted to kill the vulture with the kitchen knife. Would the taste of its blood be like mine?

I looked at my house from where I stood. The vulture was following the trail of my blood, licking the blood drops as it advanced towards me. For a moment I thought […..]

At the Fuldevi Temple:

I looked all round for a rag to stuff the hollow of my eye with. Perhaps, then the bleeding would cease….

Mataji’s idol caught my sight at that moment and I eyed the bright red chundadi wrapped around the idol, in the faint light of the lamp. Yes. I thought, this is it. The stone idol could do without any covering! […]

What would I ask her (Mataji)? Money… wealth… or a seven-storied mansion, as the greedy merchant had, where on the seventh floor, the son of his seventh son could sleep in a cradle of gold. No, no. I checked myself. Money and wealth would not serve my purpose. I decided I would ask for a ‘a gleaming, pointed, sharp trishul…..!

I rehearsed my request: “Hey ma! If you really want to grant me a boon, give me a trishul, your trishul! You have slain demons with it, I will use it to slay the vulture who is after my life…. and all its heirs… and redeem my…..”

——-

Source: Tongues of Fire: a selection of Gujarati Dalit short stories. Translated and edited by Darshana Trivedi and Rupalee Burke. Dalit Sahitya Publication Series: Book IV.

The Existence

March 29th, 2011 by admin

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

March 25th, 2011 by admin

 

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

March 21st, 2011 by admin

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)

March 17th, 2011 by anuradha

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

March 14th, 2011 by admin

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.

You write

March 11th, 2011 by admin

For the first time, you write the twang of existence
For the first time, you write the struggle in words.

It should not become an occasion of commotion
Write in words the interaction of silence.

The pains of the era would arrive in the words
You write the screams coming from all directions.

Some moment will catch its meanings
Write the shapes emerging on the walls.

The caravans will move towards the sun
You write such a thought piercing the night.

Our sufferings have remained unwritten
Write, do write all the incidents in detail.

The eye that discriminates between man and man
Write the scorn of the whole human race. 

 

G K Vankar's translation of A K Dodiya's Gujarati poem "You write"  from the poetry collection "Suryonmukha".

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