‘Fearless, You Cannot Be My Prey’
Savithri Rajeevan As You Bathe Your Mother As you bathe your mother be mindful as with a child. Let the body not slip from your hands let the water be mildly warm Do not lather that body softened by time with the heady fragrance of soaps. Nor let the eyes hurt. On her arms Which bathed and beautified you You won’t find the bangles you played with Nor will you hear their tinkling laugh. That old ring which bore your tender bites will have slipped off her finger long long ago. But Now, on mother’s arms Countless pleats bangles of wrinkles shine with remembrance Seven or seventy or seven thousand, the colours on them? Don’t trouble to count Just close your eyes touch, gently caress that tender body soft smooth in water’s mild warm flow. Then those wrinkles memory-filled will unfold Mother will slowly stretch her arms and bathe you again Steeped in oil and cleansing herbs you will keep emerging washed limpid, clean. Then in return give your mother one of the kisses she gave you. As you bathe your mother, as with a child… (Translated from Malayalam by P. Udaya Kumar) *** In the Lion’s Cage (In memory of Kamala Das- Madhavikkutty) Today is the exam day: the day when questions line up in uniform and stare at you. The cheerless girl told her friend : “Let us go to the zoo.” They erased the question paper from their mind and went straight to the zoo. Deer, peacock, hare, camel, leopard, donkey, rhino, tiger : none asked them questions, not even the ant-eater or the horn-bill. So the girl and her friend regained their cheer. At last they reached the cage of the king of animals. The lion was resting, its mane loose, its fiery eyes aglow, a plate of red meat before him. “His majesty is not a veggie,” said the girl, “The Lord seems to love you so much as to gobble you up at one go: see, he is looking at you.” “ Can I open this unlocked door?” asked the little friend, “Will you enter the cage?” The girl agreed. “He will put you on that plate and eat you.” “The lion has already had his lunch and is taking rest ; he won’t eat me”, the girl was confident. She then entered the cage interrupting the lion’s post-lunch repose. Fear, afraid, stood outside. It locked the door of the cage. The lion with his unkempt mane moved towards the girl gently like a hermit woken from his meditation. He stopped to gather the swooning child in his paws and touched her softly. Then he tenderly licked the girl’s cheeks, her nose and her back, caressed her long on her ears with his nose and went back to his plate as if to continue his broken meditation. The girl came out of the cage and began walking to her school. Her friend, trembling, asked her: “What did the lion whisper in your ears?” “ ‘Fearless, you cannot be my prey’, that is what the lion said, and that it likes the fearless child.” The girl smiled. The questions for the coming exam, and their answers, opened before her one by one like the golden hairs on the lion’s mane. ( Translated from Malayalam by K. Satchidanandan) *** The Lone Wound He just called her ‘moonface’; she pressed her cheeks to his shoulders And there, she tripped and fell straight into the stream, not even a screw-pine’s prickle or stem to entangle her. to see him on the tree with her undone robes, gone in a single dip, that decade when she was born. winking and smiling and coquetting sweetly : She went down and came up fast playing that famous flute. She was sad the sixties were gone, For now she no more remembered how to hide her breasts in her hair, to be thrilled by his flute song , a hymn to her full breasts , to swim as if in River Kalindi, and to stand under the tree, ‘Give me back my robes…’ No; instead there she goes refusing to cringe and flirt for her robes, or to hear his tempting song, stark naked, her shame covered only by the bruises like a tree in autumn, the screw-pine had made and the blood oozing from them, scarlet like Durga’s silken vest. There she goes, nude, split right in the middle, a solitary wound. (Translated from Malayalam by K. Satchidanandan ) *** Skin Disease Your body looks like an ancient wall painting, burnt and peeled off : the mirror told her. There is light in the pink and pale brown, and shade in the bluish blister Which country’s secret picture-code has been painted on you- Altamira, Egypt, Greco-Roman, could be of any land, so ancient is your body, thin, peeled off. A deer writhes on a spear behind your scaly palm and on your shoulder, a wild buffalo, grey, shot down by an arrow. Don’t erase them: researchers will need to discover them in future. That Greek beauty on your thigh, filling her basket with flowers: her arms reach your knee her fingers holding a pale white flower. She wants nothing short of a bison to ride, that pitch black beast bellowing on your breast. Nourish it with grass and hay: don’t undo it with your steroids. Stand straight, don’t bend, the mirror told her. Let your arms dangle in front, but tilt your face a little. Chest, belly, the whole brownish trunk , let all of them face me . But tilt the legs and the feet a little. If you can, look at me with both your eyes. Keep close to the wall. Now this is no more your body, its skin peeled off : you have turned into a painting , a pre-historic mural. (Translated from Malayalam by K. Satchidanandan) *** Leaving Home Leaving my home, I must have walked barely sixteen yards, and there, my home comes chasing
The Twilight Tavern
Suranjana Choudhury/Amitabha Dev Choudhury Ordinarily I sit here. The road on the right hand side of Devdoot Cinema hall approaching Circuit House progressively culminates towards this bar. It is a small bar with eight tables. Each table has four chairs. I sit here when the sun retires down the horizon. Generally during this hour the bar is relatively unoccupied. At least it is not choked with frivolous youth crowd. So it is quiet and restful. I abhor any kind of noise and clamour in the bar. The western side of the bar is enclosed with wall. The entrance through the glass door is on the same side of the wall. I gaze at the reflection of the waning sun on the door and leisurely sip on my drink and wonder, “Do I drink or do I savour life itself?” I was deeply engaged with myself. So in response to the question, “may I sit here?” I delivered a nod of consent out of courtesy without even noting the person who asked this. Then I looked around with a tinge of surprise. All the remaining seven tables were vacant. So why did he have to sit here? I glanced towards room. He appeared handsome, tall, and fair with grey beard, a mix of black and white hair and glasses on. Remnants of a charming youth in its course of retreat lingered on his bearing. He would be around twenty-twenty two years older than me. But why does he drink so fast? I have not yet finished half of my served drink. He has already gulped down more than one pint. “Do you remember your previous life?” I was startled at this question, however, I soon realised that this notion of mine that insane people never needed any liquor was thoroughly wrong. I took around five seconds to transform my sense of wonder into a sardonic edge, “Why would I think of my previous life when I don’t see myself being a man of any consequence in this present life of mine?” and then added, “Do you remember your previous life?” He replied clearly, “Yes I do. There was nothing here where you see this bar now. There used to be tennis hard court where you see Devdoot Cinema Hall now. Sahibs played there. There was a grass court a few yards ahead. Cachar Club housed a bar and library on its ground floor. The first floor had a ball dance room. There was an abundance of trees here. Can you imagine the varieties of birds present during that time? There were many, plenty of them. All varieties comprising birds like Indian starlings, robin, parrot, mynah, munias, bulbuli,wagtails, …. Those white men and women would come every morning and evening to view the birds. Sometimes they would watch bare-eyed and sometimes with binoculars. “What were you then?” “I was a revolutionary then, a freedom fighter. My father ran a huge business in Tulapatty. He dealt in bronze and copper utensils. But I had come under the powerful grip of the revolutionaries connected with Mahaprabhu temple and Saraswat society.” Is he mad? Does a mad person narrate a story so comprehendingly? I asked, “Then?” “I used to look at those Sahibs and Memsahibs. It is quite natural to experience a compelling attraction towards those who we wish to drive away or destroy. During Christmas huge tents were installed surrounding the entire neighbourhood. Those high society white men and women from all nearby tea gardens grouped together to arrive here. The tents were completely inaccessible. We natives were never allowed entry there. If we were ever spotted in the vicinity, they would firmly order us in English to leave the place immediately. We knew their language though it was difficult to negotiate with their accent. However in tennis grass court whenever these people came for bird watching we looked at them clandestinely. One day a little white girl came. She was probably three years younger than me. She looked disarmingly beautiful. She inspected me as if she was watching a species of male hornbill. Then she smiled fixing her eyes on me. “ “What happened then?” “What do you expect to happen after that? Does Christmas last throughout the year? It ends, the celebration too fades away. The Sahibs dislodged the tents and went away. I never saw her again.” “Please tell what happened after that?” “What else could happen dear brother? I got married within a few days. My wife was twelve years old. She was a pretty and petit girl. I grew close to her in no time. But I disliked watching her clad in a sari, especially during nights. One day I gave in to a peculiar fancy of mine. Money was never a problem for me. I bought a very expensive piece of dress material and got it stitched by a Muslim tailor applying my own sense of measurement. The tailor was a skilled professional. He was a specialist in stitching foreign attires. After receiving the stitched dress, I gave it to my wife as a surprise gift just as any Sahib would have done. I assumed my wife would jump with joy at this. But it never happened. Rather she stared at me, her eyes wide open, as though she was witnessing a mad person. Then she opened the door and raced out of the room.” I sat there mesmerised. The inebriation was not induced by any liquor; it was the sheer effect of his story telling. I have only drunk one and half glass, the remaining half is still floating on my glass. The story teller has started his fourth drink. The sun has dwindled away. A semi darkened ambience prevails in the room. It looked as if an artist after having painted the room in water colours has layered it with a single stroke of black shade. The light is not lit yet. “She went straight to my mother’s refuge. My mother didn’t let her come
Fake Tree, Real Death
Anil Kumar Yadav [The original Hindi version of this essay appeared in Tehelka yesterday, May 1, 2015. Translation: HUG] —————————————– Among the things with which the future shall take stock of and measure our times, surely facebook will be one.Events used to be enacted twice even in the earlier times. The first time in real terms; and the second, within the inner retreats of human beings. But this occurrence of the second time often gets manifested now in the form of a many-hued poetry of diverse emotions on the pages of facebook. If we refrain from getting judgmental, it can be assumed that the poems that used to die within our selves can now see the light of the day; how long such flickers stay alive would depend on their internal fibre though. After that many-textured incident took place among the crowds, in full glare of the camera, a poem by Krishna Kalpit came into being: एक नकली किसान/एक नकली मुख्यमंत्री के सामने/एक नकली पेड़ से लटककर मर गया/और नकली पुलिस और नकली जनता देखती रही/सब नकली थे/लेकिन मृत्यु असली थी! A fake farmer/in front of a fake chief-minister/died hanging on a fake tree/and fake police and fake crowd kept watching/everything was fake/but death was real! One needs to have some courage in order to pen the very first line of this poem. For this is being penned after a death has just occurred, amidst a countrywide spell of fake outcry on the issue of farmer-suicides. The poet can be easily pulverized.Pilloried.But if you could imagine yourself standing beside that bearded dead-body among the clapping throng at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar, then you would know that a whole fake people has not only been manufactured, but this condition has become complicated to such an extent that it is impossible to get back the very idea of people—janta— in the old sense anymore. This throng, having exorcised all its feelings and occupying that hazy zone between truth and falsehood, is ever-ready to be shoved and propelled in any direction. An unsurpassed example of this predicament is the deceased Gajendra Singh himself. He was aware of the ruined realities of the farmers. Having been a regular in quite a few political parties, he had mastered the finer art of attracting the attention of the leaders. Contrary to the farmer sensibility, he had also chosen a kind of work for himself for which he would be rewarded with tipping—बख्शीश, rather than caring to earn an honest workman’s wages—मजदूरी. Literally mounting slices of amusing spectacles, he would tie turbans onto the heads of the political leaders. He would be tipped by those kinds of people who, aided by turbans, swords, crown and butter, would help the political leaders play-act the game of being maharajas for those daily brief moments of harlequinry that caricatures our times. And hope to climb up a few rungs themselves in the wake. Actually he wished to follow the successful mercenary imprints of those leaders who were singing paeans to a pedigreed clan or stoking the self-conceit of a single arrogant man. Pity, in this pursuit, he could only become an attention seeking pawn—in life and in death. In this multi-textured event that testifies to a retrogressive political culture, much more staggering than the death of this mercenary farmer is the death of a party and a man who, people had once thought, wanted to establish the aam admi (common man) at the front and centre of the political arena. The last time, having sacrificed the 47 days government in an ambition to proliferate across the nation, Arvind Kejrwal was slapped by an auto-wallah. Arvind went to his place after paying homage at Rajghat. At that point people suffered from the crazy hope that perhaps our lost ideals and political embodiments could be reinstated by this man. The same Arvind went ahead with his political speech even after the death of a man, as if a hovering insect got scorched in the glamour of his blazing petromax. From the rapidly unscaling layers of his persona this time, it is evident that the lessons of humility, idealism, mercy and piety, his readings from the Hind Swaraj, were all but mere rites of passage to power—well thought out and practiced. Not unlike those against whom he had come out in war in the first place. Now,at some point if he implores the people of Delhi, citing humanism, to transport maimed and dying people from the streets to the hospitals, he will surely be asked in reply whether he is the same man who can stop a meeting in deference to azaan emanating from a mosque but cannot do so when a man dies. More fraudulent is that dissonant and hoarse clamour for the farmers from people who actually make policies for the rich and the influential and who are, every passing day, enclosing the spaces of all resistance. In modes of pure farce, the symbols, allegories and the metaphors of language are all lurching towards the villages. In order to conceal one’s true aims, a whole alternative cosmos has been created, where everything is illusive. And every bit delusory, non-existent. Recall that the poet had also spoken of a fake tree in which the man had hanged himself. *** adminhumanitiesunderground.org
Gathering Shadows, Shamsher Bahadur Singh
Lakshmidhar Malviya (Gathering Shadows, Shamsher Bahadur Singh. Years covered: 1961-1975) __________________________________________________ ईमान गड़बड़ी में है दिल के हिसाब में लिक्खा हुआ कुछ और मिला है किताब में (Top Floor, Just Fit, 1961) *** कठिन प्रस्तर में अगिन सूराख। मौन पर्तों में हिला मैं कीट। (Shamsher, the tenant, peeping: barsati above Just Fit Tailors, Allahabad, 1961] *** आज फिर काम से लौटा हूँ बड़ी रात गए ताक़ पर ही मेरे हिस्से की धरी है शायद (Just Fit Tailors, Bahadurganj, Allahabad, 1961 ) *** उसे बदलियों में भी पहचान लोगे कि उस चांद-से मुँह पे’ हाला पड़ा पड़ा है वो जुल्फ़ों में सब कुछ छुपाए हुए हैं अंधेरा लपेटे उजाला पड़ा है (Premlata Verma and Shamsher, 1961) *** मेरी बाँसुरी है एक नाव की पतवार – जिसके स्वर गीले हो गये हैं, छप्-छप्-छप् मेरा हृदय कर रहा है… छप् छप् छप्व (Neighbourhood, Just Fit, 1961) *** तू मेरे एकान्त का एकान्त है मैं समझता था कि मेरा तू नहीं । (Shamsher, Sketch : Malayaj, 1961) *** जी को लगती है तेरी बात खरी है शायद वही शमशेर मुज़फ़्फ़रनगरी है शायद (Allahabad, 1962) *** सूरज उगाया जाता फूलों में: यदि हम एक साथ हँस पड़ते। (With Shrimati and Shri Naresh Mehta, their year old son Babul, an unnamed person and Shamsher, 1961) *** वरूणा के किनारे एक चक्रस्तूप है शायद वहीं विश्व का केंद्र है वहीं कहीं ऐसा सुनते हैं। (Sarnath: the dharmshala where Shamsher often lived during the first half of the 1960s) *** मैं समाज तो नहीं; न मैं कुल जीवन; कण-समूह में हूँ मैं केवल एक कण । (Delhi, 1971) *** दिल्ली बस-स्टैंड से ही कार्ड मिला था मुझको। काश फिर लिखते – ‘वही है जो गिला था मुझको1।’ ताकि हम कहते कि ‘है जुल्म सरासर अब तो!’ (Delhi, 1971) *** काल, तुझसे होड़ है मेरी: अपराजित तू- तुझमें अपराजित मैं वास करूं । (Delhi, 1961) *** कहाँ है वो किताबें, दीवारें, चेहरे, वो बादलों की इन्द्रधनुषाकार लहरीली लाल हँसियाँ कहाँ है ? (Delhi 1971) *** हम अपने खयाल को सनम समझे थे, अपने को खयाल से भी कम समझे थे! होना था- समझना न था कुछ भी, शमशेर, होना भी कहाँ था वह जो हम समझे थे! (Delhi, 1971) *** वाम वाम वाम दिशा, समय साम्यवादी। (With dear friend Mugisuddin Faridi and Shobha Singh, Delhi 1971) *** एक नीला आईना बेठोस-सी यह चाँदनी और अंदर चल रहा हूँ मैं उसी के महातल के मौन में । (Delhi, 1975) *** [This set of photographs were first published in Jalsa, 2011. HUG is grateful to Asad Zaidi for making the volume available.] adminhumanitiesunderground.org