I don’t see a way God can exist and yet be good.
Does God exist and watch his children slaughter each other?
Does he stand beside them and watch as they fall into despair so deep that they take their own life?
Does he watch the infinite pain they feel and the infinite violence they inflict and have inflicted on them and does he stand idly by and do nothing?
Does he watch a little baby, with the widest eyes and the smallest hands die at the hands of disease or worse, another human its cries echoing till heaven?
Does He watch his parents bury him in the tiniest coffin and give away all the clothes they bought him and the dreams they saw for him miserable until the day they die?
Does God stand by when I writhe in pain and do nothing to alleviate my suffering?
Did God see me pray and hear me beg in the hospital that morning and refuse to save her?
Does God, who is omniscient and omnipotent create His children and then leave them on God’s green earth to break and suffer?
Does he see us as children, note the dreams and wishes in our eyes, the lightness of our heart and then watch the world he created rob us of it?
If I go to heaven, how will He look me in the eye and tell me He is the one true all-powerful all-knowing god whose will we are all following?
If this is His will isn’t He worse than any other human being we may know?
Does he slaughter children, watch us lose faith in him and then pull a rabbit out of a hat, a cheap trick to restore faith in “miracles”?
Do one in a million get miracles and the rest of us must bear the brunt of what reality is?

Or is God powerless, watching as his children maim and kill each other?
Does He sob when a wide eyed baby dies after being shot in its head?
Does He scream and try to stop them when He watches His children lose the light behind their eyes and take their own life?
Did He pray with me that day, and did it break his heart as much as mine to see his prayers turned down?
Does the One I pray to also beg someone else for mercy? For His world, His children and their rotten fate?
Does he sit by the child’s tiny grave or sort through his never-before used clothes and break down into them?
Does he welcome into heaven those with these fates with tearful eyes and a broken smile, offering them solace from pain?
Because if there is a God, I would rather he be weak and loving than be cruel and loveless.

(The author is a student of law in Mumbai and can be contacted at parulekarpriyanka02@gmail.com)

Related:

Shh..Silence is golden and violence is platinum…shh

The post Does God exist or am I screaming into an empty sky? appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The police in Faridpur, Bareilly booked the school principal and a para teacher of government higher primary school, after the local unit of Vishwa Hindu Parishad accused Siddiqui and Waziruddin of hurting “religious sentiments” of people in “a Hindu-dominated area by reciting madrassa-type prayers in the school”. The poem also known as Bachche ki Dua, was composed by Muhammad Iqbal in 1902 and its first verse has also been used in a song in a Hindi movie called ‘Raazi’.

The VHP raised objection on the line: mere allah burai se bachaana mujhko’. (O God! protect me from the evil ways). The VHP’s city president Sompal Rathore on whose instance the FIR was filed, alleged that school principal Nahid Siddiqui and Shiksha Mitra (teacher) Waziruddin were trying to convert the students and that students who protested against such prayers were threatened.

2 teachers in UP’s Bareilly booked — for ‘causing riot’ — and suspended after video of school children singing a song from their Urdu syllabus goes viral.
Objectionable part is: Mere Allah burai se bachana mujhko (O Allah! protect me from the evil ways) pic.twitter.com/xBePwhS1q4

— Kanwardeep singh (@KanwardeepsTOI) December 22, 2022

In an opinion piece in Indian Express, Devyani Onial wrote that the Urdu poem talks about a child’s wish for a life like a candle (shama), that banishes darkness from the world (door duniya ka mere dum se andhera ho jaye) and brings light to all corners (har jagah mere chamakne se ujala ho jai). It talks about protecting the poor (garibon ki himayat karna) and loving the weak (dard mandon se zaifon se mohabbat karna). She wrote,

“Before this, no one who had sung it had thought of it as a religious prayer. Children who followed faiths other than Islam neither paused nor stopped at the word “Allah”; everyone sang along, praying to God, asking him to keep us on the right path (nek jo raah ho us raah pe chalana mujhko). But in times when Urdu, the language, has become Muslim and the colour orange Hindu, what chance does a line like that have in an orange-lit India?”

The entire poem written by Mohammad Iqbal reads as follows:

lab pe aatī hai duā ban ke tamannā merī

zindagī sham.a kī sūrat ho ḳhudāyā merī!

duur duniyā kā mire dam se añdherā ho jaa.e!

har jagah mere chamakne se ujālā ho jaa.e!

ho mire dam se yūñhī mere vatan kī zīnat

jis tarah phuul se hotī hai chaman kī zīnat

zindagī ho mirī parvāne kī sūrat yā-rab

ilm kī sham.a se ho mujh ko mohabbat yā-rab

ho mirā kaam ġharīboñ kī himāyat karnā

dard-mandoñ se za.īfoñ se mohabbat karnā

mire allāh! burā.ī se bachānā mujh ko

nek jo raah ho us rah pe chalānā mujh ko

Related:

Behind one of UP’s biggest ‘anti-conversion’ case; 54 persons booked

Was the murder of Abdul Jaleel a hate crime driven by ‘moral policing’ by Hindutva outfits?

Church vandalised in Karnataka’s Mysuru, statue of Baby Jesus damaged

The post UP: Teacher booked for making students recite “madrassa type prayer” appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The military lockdown and communications blackout imposed by the Government following the abrogation of Article 370 last month seems unending. Seeking solace, many Kashmiris in different parts of India have turned to social media. An account on Instagram (@alleyeson.kashmir) carriesa series of posts on voices and stories from the people of Kashmir, their pain, their poetry, their strength and resilience. One such post encouraged a conversation about the woman poets of Kashmir. Kashmiris fondly recalled rich stories of their poets, the most revered being Lal Ded. Born in Kashmir in the early 1300s, her verses are remembered more as oral tradition in the form of “vaakhs” than the written word. Married off as a child, she renounced her marital home in her mid-twenties and became a disciple of the Shaiva saint Siddha Srikanta, and her verses reflect her spirituality of Shaivism and eventually Yogacara Buddhism, and her experiences with Sufism. At one point in time, her popularity reached a level where people started considering her an incarnation. Also known as Lalleshwari, Lal Ded practised Shaivism throughout her life and was revered by Hindus and Muslims alike as “Mother Lalla”. She bridged the various religious and spiritual beliefs of her time with her poetry. An excerpt from one of her poems reads (translation):

As one of her contemporary translators, renowned poet Ranjith Hoskote says, “She represents ‘a Kashmiri identity’ if not ‘the Kashmiri identity’ characterised as an instrument of mobilisation and consolidation (as Benedict Anderson put it)”.

Syncretism has been an essential part of spirituality practised in Kashmir for centuries. The Sufi tradition which came to be known as “Kashmiriyat” lies in the philosophy of brotherhood, mutual love and respect, as propagated by one of the valley’s Sufi pioneers, Bulbul Shah, commonly known as Bulbul-e-Kashmir. During the time of Bulbul Shah three distinguished religions Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam were being practised in South East Asia and he propagated the synthesis of all three faiths and introduced the message of peace acceptable to all, signalling an era of peace enshrined in Sufism.

The presence of coexisting spiritual traditions and religions particularly influenced the unique style of Kashmiri Sufis. Sufism- all over the world- is real, individual, and unorthodox, claiming for the individual the rich power of faith with the Sublime and Only One, unrestricted by agency or definition of which form of divinity is the sublime One. So too was the case of Kashmiri Sufis, thusfor some, they are “Muslim rishis”, a rich manifestation of the “Sufi Bhakti” tradition in the Valley. Nund Rishi (aka. Sheikh ul Alam) is considered to be the founder of the Rishi order of Sufi saints which influenced mystics like Hamza Makhdoom, Resh Mir Sàeb, and Shamas Faqir. Lal Ded was his contemporary and had a great impact on his spiritual growth. He has in one of his poems prayed to God to grant him the same level of spiritual achievement as God had bestowed on Lal Ded. His poetry preached a message of peace and tolerance. One of his famous poems begins with,

Persia, Kashmir, Sufism inter-meshed and interacted for centuries, and we have the Kashmiri weaves and designs of the exclusive Kashmiri carpets. During the 14^th century, Mir Sayyed Ali Hamadani visited Kashmir multiple times travelling back and forth to Iran. It was Hamadani who brought various crafts and industries from Iran into Kashmir; it is said that he brought with him 700 followers, including some weavers of carpets and shawls, who taught the craft of Pashmina textile and carpet-making to the local population. The contribution of Mir Sayyed Ali Hamadani to Kashmiri society is everlasting and infinite. He not only brought a social revolution by preaching the tenets of Islamic social justice, fraternity, love, and equality but also wrote a political treatise Zakhiratul Maluk for the guidance of kings about how to rule. His literary works and teachings showed his connection to both the Quran and Hindu-Buddhist thoughts thus promoting the universal language of love that preached how people of different faiths could live peacefully together.

The traditions of Sufism andsyncretic poetry continued through the years to come. Poetry, after all, is the focal point of the message of love throughout the world. A popular story refers to a poem written by a Kurdish governor Ali Mardan Khan in the 17^th century, about his sighting of God Shiva. It is believed that as the Governor was strolling in Shalimar Garden, he caught sight of Mahadeo peak and felt that he had seen God Shiva. He went on to describe this experience in a poem (originally in Persian), excerpts of which remain popular as songs in present day Kashmir:
 

 
Poetry still thrives in the present-day Kashmir with young poets at the helm, creating powerful verses of love, loss, peace, and resistance. The team behind Instagram account @alleyeson.kashmir told Sabrang India, “Even under curfew and lockdown, words flow and inspiration comes from scant food, black balloons, blood on the streets, burning tyres, and even just the lack of milk.The poetry emerging from Kashmir is also an archive of an enormous sadness manifest in news of blinding of children, the wailing of mothers who have lost their sons, unexplained disappearances, and the madness of frustration of not being able to counter the media narrative of the state of things on the ground as can be seen in the current situation.
 
They say that it is the poet’s burden to fight against forgetfulness. That’s what Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian poet of resistance argued.The new generation of poets in the Valley say the same. From Sheikh ul Alam to Lal Ded to Habba Khatoon to Samad Mir to Rasul Mir, the folk Ladisha (satirical ballads), Chakar (Kashmiri folk music), to the slogans and songs and elegies that echo in the streets of Kashmir, the history of poetry in Kashmir is long and reflective of Kashmir’s journey.
 
As Nobel laureate poet Seamus Heaney said in his acceptance speech- To begin with, I wanted that truth to life to possess a concrete reliability, and rejoiced most when the poem seemed most direct, an upfront representation of the world it stood in for, or stood up for, or stood its ground against. This is the principle contemporary Kashmiri poets like Uzma Falak, Mohammad Tabish, Omair Bhat, Huzaifa Pandit,Ather Zia and more, are taking forward. They are bearing witness.”
 
An excerpt from Uzma Falak’s poem Echoes of a strangled song reflects the same sentiment-
 

 
Mohammad Tabish writes these gut-wrenching and distinctly Sufilines in his poem Stone–
 

It is heart-breaking to read some of these poems, which is why it is even more pertinent that we do. As Kashmir lies silent entering the second month of its communication blackout, we hope poetry is still being written and spoken in the valley. We hope the Kashmiris are still singing Lal Ded’s vaakhs sitting with their grandmothers, we hope Kashmiriyat still breathes, and always will.

But when will the Indian dispensation recognise the true spirit of Kashmiriyat? In the words of poet Nidhi Saxena (translated):

Related Articles:
1. Communications Blockade Creates New Mental Health Challenges In Kashmir
2. News Behind the Barbed Wire – Voices From Behind Kashmir’s Information Blockade
3. The Mental Health of Kashmiris is Everybody’s concern: Dr Kala
 

The post Remembering Kashmiriyat, One Month, Eight Days after a Clampdown appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Image Courtesy: Neville Harson

No rain, Junaid will fill
this empty cup of grief thirst,
even though this is more June rain
than we want, 
and elsewhere, boys like you,
with other names,
live and float paper boats,
and scavenge for fish
is unlikely, sudden street-pools, 
food on their mind all the time.

The post No Rain, Junaid: A Poem by K Srilata appeared first on SabrangIndia.

 
Mumbai: It is the year of Kaifi Azmi. His birth centenary was celebrated earlier this year and today is his 17^th death anniversary.
 
He was a gifted poet and lyricist. His first film as a lyricist in Hindi cinema was Buzdil followed by Kaagaz Ke Phool, Anupama, Hanste Zakhm and Arth. Azmi is also remembered for his screenplay – dialogues in M S Sathyu’s Garam Hawa and Chetan Anand’s Heer Ranjha in verse.
 
The celebrated poet-lyricist, who passed away on May 10, 2002, due to a prolonged illness, gave Bollywood some of its most stunning classics, tapping his Urdu prowess to celebrate emotions as diverse as romantic love and patriotism. ‘Waqt Ne Kiya Kya Haseen Sitam‘ (Kaagaz ke Phool, 1959) to ‘Tum Itna Jo Muskura Rahe Ho‘ (Arth, 1983), are some of his most celebrated works.
 
In 1975, he won the National Award and Filmfare Award for screenplay and dialogues in M.S. Sathyu’s Garm Hava.
 
Born Athar Husain Rizvi on January 14, 1919, in Mijwan, near Azamgarh, present-day UP, to a zamindar family, Azmi wrote his first ghazal when he was 11 years old:
 
“Itna to zindagi mein kisi ki khalal pade
Hansne sey ho sukoon na roney sey kal pade
Jis tarah hans raha hoon main pii pii ke ashk-e-gham
Yun doosra hanse to kaleja nikal pade”
 
It was later sung by legendary ghazal singer Begum Akhtar.
 
Azmi was initially educated in Islamic seminaries, but eventually became a true adherent of Marxism, dedicating his life to the service of the Communist Party of India. He joined the Communist Party at 19 and turned columnist for Qaumi Jung when he shifted from Azamgarh to Mumbai. He wrote Aavara Sajde (Vagabond Obeisances) when the CPI and CPM split in the 1960s.
 
He was married to actor Shaukat Azmi and had two children, actor Shabana Azmi and cinematographer Baba Azmi.
 
In the last 20 years of his life, he returned to his home in Mijwan and transformed it into a model village. In recognition of his efforts, the UP government named the road leading to Mijwan, as well as the Sultanpur-Phulpur highway after him. A train from Delhi to Azamgarh is also named after him, the Kaifiyaat Express.
 
In 1993, he set up Mijwan Welfare Society for the girl child and women in rural India, and made education and skill training its fulcrum. Namrata Joshi wrote for The Hindu that Kaifi had once told his son in passing that it would be nice if a film were made in his birthplace, Mijwan. “This week, Baba begins shooting Mee Raqsam (I Want To Dance), the story of a father and daughter, in the U.P. village. It stars Aditi Sharma, a 14-year-old Mijwan resident, in the lead and is expected to be ready for release by the year end, in a fitting finale to the Kaifi year,” she wrote.
 
“An interesting story about my father: He was always different. His mother used to recall that, in spite of being born to a zamindar family in the village of Mijwan in Eastern UP, Athar (he took on the pseudonym Kaifi much later) would refuse to wear new clothes on Eid because the kisan’s children who tilled their land could not afford to do so. His father Fateh Hussain was very fond of Urdu poetry and his two elder brothers also wrote poetry,” Shabana Azmi, the celebrated actress wrote for The Print.
 
“He was sent to the Sultanul Madaris in Lucknow for religious learning. Within weeks, he formed a union and rallied the students to go on strike against the institution. He was thrown out,” she wrote.
 
“From there, he went on to Kanpur and started working with factory workers, took on the pseudonym Kaifi, and began writing revolutionary poetry. This caught the attention of Communist leader Sajjad Zaheer, and he was invited to Bombay to write for the paper Qaumi Jung. He joined the Communist Party formally and found the path on which he was to traverse the rest of his life,” she added.
 
He joined the Progressive Writers Association in 1936 where he wrote about social justice, communal harmony, gender justice, and the plight of farmers. Along with other writers of the Progressive Writers Association, he believed in using writing as an instrument for social change, she wrote.
 
“Remembering her growing up years in the Red Flag Hall in Mumbai, Shabana says her father, born in ‘ghulam’ India, was confident he would die in socialist India. But the violence in independent India shook him. She describes how shattered he was by the Gujarat carnage in 2002. “I would watch him as he looked at the television coverage, face frozen in pain. But, he would say that the common man craves roti, kapda aur makaan, irrespective of the faith he follows, and that this madness will pass,” The Indian Express reported.
 
The report added that a decade ago, it was the sadness at the demolition of the Babri Masjid on December 6, 1992, that had made him write his seminal poem, Doosra Banbas. He wrote: …Paanv Sarju mein abhi Ram ne dhoe bhi na the/Ki nazar aae wahan khoon ke gahre dhabbe/Paanv dhoe bina Sarju ke kinare se uthe/Ram ye kehte hue apne dware se uthe/Rajdhani ki faza aai nahin raas mujhe/Chhe December ko mila doosra banbas mujhe (Ram had not even washed his feet in the Saryu river/When he spotted blots of blood/He got up saying/The capital’s ambience doesn’t appeal to me/I was exiled a second time on 6th December). Kaifi also played a role in Saeed Mirza’s Naseem in 1995, a poignant film on the fissures that surfaced in India after 1992.
 
Kaifi Azmi was a romantic, revolutionary, contrarian and rebel. The report added, “a poet who often brought together disparate themes in his works, Kaifi, who died in May 2002, is best summed up in a tribute by his son-in-law and and poet Javed Akhtar. In his poem Ajeeb Aadmi Tha Woh, a tribute to Kaifi, he writes: Woh aankhein jinmein hai sakat/Woh hont jin pe lafz hain/Rahunga inke darmiyaan/Ki jab main beet jaaunga/Ajeeb aadmi tha woh (The eyes that have power and strength/And the lips that have the words/I will remain, between the two/ Even when I shall pass/What a strange man he was).”
 

The post Ajeeb Aadmi Tha Woh: Remembering Kaifi Azmi on his 17th death anniversary appeared first on SabrangIndia.

From lyrics of the film ‘ Taj Mahal(1963)

Even after more than half a century, this masterpiece is relevant to this day. It not only expresses anti- war sentiments but also asks disturbing questions to aggressive and relentless warmongers. This lyric is rated as one of the best lyrics of Sahir Ludhianvi. His writings on communal harmony, love and compassion, the differences between rich and poor and patriarchy in society are cited as popular quotations by many urdu and hindi critics even in modern times.

Brief history
Abdul Hayee ( 8 March 1921- 25 October 1980) – pen name Sahir Ludhianvi – is a famous poet in Hindi and Urdu. He was born in a Punjabi Muslim family in Karimpura, Ludhiana, Punjab. (en.m.wikipedia.org). Sahir mother Sardar Begum, left her husband and forfeited claim to financial assets. In 1934, his father sued unsuccessfully for the custody of his son. Sardar Begum required protection from his father and she suffered financial deprivation. His place of birth is marked with a plaque on the building’s arched entrance.

Sahir was educated at Khalsa high school and Government College, Ludhiana( there the auditorium is named after him). Since his student days, he was popular with his ‘ nazm and ghazals’ (Urdu poetry and speeches). In 1943, he went to Lahore and completed his work in Urdu’ Talkhiyaan’ ( Bitterness) which appeared in 1945. He edited Urdu magazine ‘Adab-e-Lateef’ , ‘Shahakaar’ ,’ Prithlari’ and ‘Savera’. He became a member of Progressive Writers’ Association. After a controversial statement promoting communism, a warrant was issued by the Government of Pakistan. In 1949 he fled from Lahore to Delhi and then to Mumbai (suburb- Andheri) where he lived with neighbors like Gulzar and Krishan Chander, urdu writers. In 1970s, he built his own bungalow and named it after one of his works ‘ Parchaiyaan’ (shadows). He lived till he died. Though he had love affairs with Sudha Malhotra (singer) and Amrita Pritam ( writer) , he never married.

Social problems in lyrics
For financial stability, he became a lyricist in hindi films. He wrote four songs in his debut film ‘ Azadi Ke Raah Par (1949) but both the film and songs went unnoticed. He gained recognition from the film ‘Naujavaan’ (1951). From then on, he worked with famous artists like Guru Dutt and produced some of the finest lyrics with socio- political message and moral values. His lyrics in Pyasaa, Bazzi, Naya Daur , Dharamputra, till his last film Trishul and Aas Paas.

Works
Sahir did not praise khuda(God), husn (beauty) or jaam(wine). He wrote bitterly about declining values of society, the poor and unemployed, the pathetic state of girls and women, joys and sorrows of life,etc. His works have been translated into English by K. A. Abbas ‘ Shadows Speak ( Parchaiyaan) in 1958, Mahmood K.T(2000) ‘ Kalaam-i- sahir ludhiyanvi’, a collection of Ludhianvi’s poetry with English translation, Hassan R (1977) ‘A Bitter Harvest: selections from Sahir Ludhianvi’s verse, etc.

Awards
Sahir won filmfare award for his lyrics in the film ‘Taj Mahal'(1963) and again in 1976 for the film ‘Kabhie Kabhie’. He was awarded with ‘ Padma Shri’ in 1971. On March 8, 2013, a commemorative stamp was issued in his honour.

Poetic values
Sahir poems have immense social value and they reflect the declining human rights in the present society. In a poem ‘ Blood is but Blood’ he says,
‘ Repression is still repression
Rising, it must flop
Blood is still blood
Spilling, it must clot

Whether it clots on desert sands
Or upon assassin’s hands
On justice’s head or around shackled feet
On injustice’s sword or on the wounded corpse
Blood is still blood
Spilling, it must clot .
…….
…….
(PoemHunter.com) .

One of his famous lyrics is ‘Taj Mahal’ : in this poem, he expresses how poor peoples love is undermined by Royal Love:

‘The Taj, mayhap, to you may seem, a mark of love supreme
You may hold this beauteous vale in great esteem :
Yet my love, meet me hence at some other place!
How odd for the poor folk to frequent royal resorts:
Tis strange that the amorous souls should tread the regal paths
Trodden once by mighty kings and their proud consorts.
Behind the facade of love my dear, you had better seen,
The marks of imperial might that herein lie screen’d
You who take delight in the tombs of kings deceased,
Should have seen the hutments dark where you and I did wean .
Countless men in this world must have loved and gone.
Who would say their loves weren’t truthful or strong?’ ….
…….
( Poemhunter.com)

Sahir was a great visionary. He yearned for a world where there would not be sorrow, or greed or betrayal of love or hanging people by the state and so on. In his nazm ( lyric) in a film ‘Phir Subah Hogi’ (1958) he ardently expressed:
……
” Jab amber jhoom ke nachega aur dharti nagme gayegi
Woh subah kabhi to ayegi …. Woh subah kabhi toe ayegi” …..
( When the sky dances with joy and the Earth sings beautiful lyrics
That dawn will certainly come! That morn will definitely come)

The writer from anywhere and everywhere is an ardent admirer of Sahir and his works along with lyricists like Gadar, Gulzar and Vangapandu Prasada Rao

Courtesy: Counter currents

The post Social Conflicts And Sahir Ludhianvi’s Thoughts appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The Warrior’s Resting Place

The dead are getting more restless each day.

They used to be easy
we’d put on stiff collars flowers
praised their names on long lists
shrines of the homeland
remarkable shadows
monstrous marble.

The corpses signed away for posterity
returned to formation
and marched to the beat of our old music.

But not anymore
the dead
have changed.

They get all ironic
they ask questions.

It seems to me they’ve started to realise
they’re becoming the majority!

On Headaches

It’s great being a communist
although it gives you many headaches.

Because communists’ headaches
are historical, that is
they won’t go away with painkillers
only with the realisation of Paradise on Earth.
That’s how it is.

Under capitalism our heads hurt
and our heads are ripped off.
In the struggle for Revolution the head is a delayed-action bomb.
In the construction of socialism
we plan for the headache
which doesn’t alleviate it – quite the contrary.

Communism will be, among other things,
an aspirin the size of the sun.

The post Poems of Our Times: Roque Dalton appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Only for three days live a woman’s life from dawn to dusk
Only for three days be a Dalit, moving and living near a temple
Only for three days be a tribal and live that life in a remote village
Only for three days be an urban or rural displaced and visit government offices
Only for three days be a Muslim and try buying a home in the city’s general neighbourhood
 

Only for three days, live the life of a city slum dweller
Only for three days, sleep on a hungry stomach
Only for three days, live in Kutch’s desert, the life of a salt worker
Only for three days, be a patient in a government hospital
Only for three days, be a student in a government school
Only for three days, be a river that flows through cities and industries
 
 
Only for three days, oppose the errant governments, politicians, the strong and rich freely
Only for three days, talk to oneself, switch off the phone
Only for three days, spend time with books
Only for three days, live a gender equal life
Try living the contrary, just for 45 days
And, then, discuss the prevalent growth model…

The post A 45-day growth model appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee translates Paash’s unforgettable poem “Sabh Ton Khatarnak”

 

Lucas Samaras, “Photo-Transformation”, 1973/ Image Courtesy: metmuseum.org

In 2006, the Hindi translation of Paash’s famous poem “Sabh Ton Khatarnak” (The Most Dangerous) was included in the Class XI Hindi textbook. Now, in one of its periodic blows to education and culture, the RSS affiliated Shiksha Sanskriti Utthan Nyas has recommended that the NCERT (National Council of Educational Research and Training) remove a poem by the poet Paash from textbooks. Paash (Avtar Sandhu) is in good company. Dinanath Batra of the Shiksha Sanskriti Utthan Nyas also wants to keep students from reading the works of Rabindranath, Mirza Ghalib and MF Husain. 

What would our students learn from Paash’s work and his life? That we have poets who opposed any kind of religious fanaticism; poets who believed in a secular, progressive India, and were willing to die for their dream. A poet like Paash, who wrote for the people, and against any form of repressing the popular voice, whether it was through censorship, the Emergency, or the Khalistani separatists. 

The Greatest Danger
The plunder of labour isn’t so dangerous
The police baton isn’t so dangerous
The fist of a swindler’s greed isn’t so dangerous
To be caught without a fuss is awful
To be caught in timid silence is awful 
But they aren’t so dangerous
Amidst the noise of deceit
To bow down when one is right is awful 
To read in the light of fireflies is awful
But they aren’t so dangerous 
The greatest danger of all is
To be filled up with the corpse’s silence
To not feel stirred and gulp down everything
To leave home for work and return home again
The greatest danger of all 
Is the death of our dreams
The most dangerous time
Is what runs in your wrist
But stays fixed in your glance
The most dangerous eyes 
Are those which see everything
But remain frozen like ice
Those eyes which forget to kiss
The world with love
Turned into ashes by the 
Blind fire emanating from things
Losing itself drunk by daily work
In the twists of a futureless dilemma 
The most dangerous moon 
Is one rising in the ruins 
But which doesn’t needle your eyes 
After a murder is done
The most dangerous song
Is one rendering an obituary
So your ears might hear as they
Stubbornly stick like rogues
Before the doors of frightened people
The most dangerous night
Is one descending into the sky of
Living spirits where only owls
Screech and where the howls of jackals
Are glued to the forever dark doorways. 
The most dangerous horizon
Is where the spirit’s sun descends
And broken pieces of its dead light 
Pierce the souring part of your body.
The plunder of labour isn’t so dangerous…
 

Paash recites his poem. Courtesy https://paash.wordpress.com/
 
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕ
ਕਿਰਤਦੀਲੁੱਟਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦੀ
ਪੁਲਸਦੀਕੁੱਟਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦੀ
ਗੱਦਾਰੀ-ਲੋਭਦੀਮੁੱਠਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦੀ
ਬੈਠੇਸੁੱਤਿਆਂਫੜੇਜਾਣਾ-ਬੁਰਾਤਾਂਹੈ
ਡਰੂਜਿਹੀਚੁੱਪਵਿੱਚਮੜ੍ਹੇਜਾਣਾ -ਬੁਰਾਤਾਂਹੈ
ਸਭਤੋਂਖਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦਾ
ਕਪਟਦੇਸ਼ੋਰਵਿਚ
ਸਹੀਹੁੰਦਿਆਂਵੀਦਬਜਾਣਾ, ਬੁਰਾਤਾਂਹੈ
ਕਿਸੇਜੁਗਨੂੰਦੀਲੋਅਵਿਚਪੜ੍ਹਨਲੱਗਜਾਣਾ -ਬੁਰਾਤਾਂਹੈ
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦਾ।
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਹੁੰਦਾਹੈ
ਮੁਰਦਾਸਾਂਤੀਨਾਲਭਰਜਾਣਾ,
ਨਾਹੋਣਾਤੜਪਦਾ, ਸਭਸਹਿਣਕਰਜਾਣਾ
ਘਰਾਂਤੋਂਨਿਕਲਣਾਕੰਮਤੇ
ਤੇਕੰਮਤੋਂਘਰਜਾਣਾ,
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਹੁੰਦਾਹੈ
ਸਾਡੇਸੁਪਨਿਆਂਦਾਮਰਜਾਣਾ।
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਉਹਘੜੀਹੁੰਦੀਹੈ
ਤੁਹਾਡੇਗੁੱਟ ‘ਤੇਚਲਦੀਹੋਈਵੀਜੋ
ਤੁਹਾਡੀਨਜ਼ਰਦੇਲਈਖੜ੍ਹੀਹੁੰਦੀਹੈ।
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਉਹਅੱਖਹੁੰਦੀਹੈ
ਜੋਸਭਦੇਖਦੀਹੋਈਵੀਠੰਢੀਯੱਖ਼ਹੁੰਦੀਹੈ
ਜਿਸਦੀਨਜ਼ਰਦੁਨੀਆਨੂੰਮੁਹੱਬਤਨਾਲਚੁੰਮਣਾਭੁੱਲਜਾਂਦੀਹੈ
ਜੋਚੀਜ਼ਾਂ ‘ਚੋਂਉਠਦੀਅੰਨ੍ਹੇਪਣਦੀਭਾਫ਼ਉੱਤੇਡੁਲ੍ਹਜਾਂਦੀਹੈ
ਜੋਨਿੱਤਦਿਸਦੇਦੀਸਾਧਾਰਣਤਾਨੂੰਪੀਂਦੀਹੋਈ
ਇਕਮੰਤਕਹੀਣਦੁਹਰਾਅਦੇਗਧੀ-ਗੇੜਵਿਚਹੀਰੁਲਜਾਂਦੀਹੈ।
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਉਹਚੰਨਹੁੰਦਾਹੈ
ਜੋਹਰਕਤਲਕਾਂਡਦੇਬਾਅਦ
ਸੁੰਨਹੋਏਵਿਹੜਿਆਂਵਿੱਚਚੜ੍ਹਦਾਹੈ
ਪਰਤੁਹਾਡੀਆਂਅੱਖਾਂਨੂੰਮਿਰਚਾਂਵਾਂਗਨਹੀਂਲੜਦਾਹੈ।
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਉਹਗੀਤਹੁੰਦਾਹੈ
ਤੁਹਾਡੇਕੰਨਾਂਤੱਕਪਹੁੰਚਣਲਈ
ਜਿਹੜਾਕੀਰਨਾਉਲੰਘਦਾਹੈ
ਡਰੇਹੋਏਲੋਕਾਂਦੇਬਾਰਮੂਹਰੇ-
ਜੋਵੈਲੀਦੀਖੰਘਖੰਘਦਾਹੈ।
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਉਹਰਾਤਹੁੰਦੀਹੈ
ਜੋਪੈਂਦੀਹੈਜੀਊਂਦੀਰੂਹਦਿਆਂਆਕਾਸ਼ਾਂ ‘ਤੇ
ਜਿਹਦੇਵਿਚਸਿਰਫ਼ਉੱਲੂਬੋਲਦੇਗਿੱਦੜਹਵਾਂਕਦੇ
ਚਿਪਟਜਾਂਦੇਸਦੀਵੀਨ੍ਹੇਰਬੰਦਬੂਹਿਆਂਚੁਗਾਠਾਂ ‘ਤੇ
ਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਉਹਦਿਸ਼ਾਹੁੰਦੀਹੈ
ਜਿਹਦੇਵਿੱਚਆਤਮਾਦਾਸੂਰਜਡੁੱਬਜਾਵੇ
ਤੇਉਸਦੀਮਰੀਹੋਈਧੁੱਪਦੀਕੋਈਛਿਲਤਰ
ਤੁਹਾਡੇਜਿਸਮਦੇਪੂਰਬ ‘ਚਖੁੱਭਜਾਵੇ।
ਕਿਰਤਦੀਲੁੱਟਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦੀ
ਪੁਲਸਦੀਕੁੱਟਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦੀ
ਗੱਦਾਰੀ-ਲੋਭਦੀਮੁੱਠਸਭਤੋਂਖ਼ਤਰਨਾਕਨਹੀਂਹੁੰਦੀ।
 

---

Pash or Paash (September 9, 1950 – March 23, 1988) was the pen name of Avtar Singh Sandhu, one of the major poets of the Naxalite movement in the Punjabi literature of the 1970s. He was killed by Khalistani extremists on March 23, 1988.
 

Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee is a poet, writer, occasional translator and political science scholar. His writings have appeared in The New York Times, Los Angeles Review of Books, Guernica, The London Magazine, New Welsh Review, Rattle, 3:AM Magazine, Mudlark, MPT, Outlook, The Hindu, The Wire, etc. He teaches poetry at Ambedkar University, New Delhi.

Courtesy: Indian Cultural Forum
 

The post Warning: Dangerous Poet! appeared first on SabrangIndia.

(Of real people, real narratives and real lives. In my neighbourhood and city, Hyderabad.)
 

Bajji seller Hanumanthu
Mestri Yadgiri
Bangle seller Mohammad Laeeq
Earth-worker, brick layer, matti pani Ramachander
Footwear seller Lakshmamma
Shaadi-khana labour Najeeb
Coolie, cook, etc Jahangir
Miscellaneous labour: Suryanarayana, Baburao, Nagaraju… 
Srikakulam, Mahbubnagar, Nalgonda, Hyderabad, Kurnul
North Andhra, Telangana, Rayalaseema
(Region / State)
India
SC, BC, Muslim.
Illiterates; school drop-outs.
Dalit Bahujan, the "Common" Ones
Delinked from banking systems, 
Yet, struck by it, in one blow
Delinked from the Nation’s economy
Yet, paying the price for it 
 
"This is anyaayam amma", says Hanumanthu
Wondering, what happened to all his giraaki, to whom he served 
Hot, delicious mirchi bajjis and vadas, with a benign smile, writ large on his face
His oil-pan now gone cold for days now
The TRS party guy came by, the other day, telling him not to worry
And gave him a 500 rupee note, as a gesture of protection
Another guy on a bike stopped by, ate bajjis, gave another 500 
Adding, "Keep the change" (while a third wasn’t that generous and demanded change!)
Hanumanthu was 1000-rupee rich, suddenly!
Yet 1000-rupee poor, and in a dilemma 
Should he take the money,
That might buy him nothing today?
Or, should he refuse, and go home, empty-handed?
He kept it — a paper without value, begging for change from any kind soul
Hanumanthu has no bank account
He asks, how do people like me use cards, amma? 
Hanumanthu never stepped into an ATM in his 70-year-old life
Banks don’t exist in Hanumanthu’s world, 
Just as Hanumanthu doesn’t, in the Nation’s GDP
Hanumanthu didn’t know (since he watches no TV) 
That the Finance Minister promises a "cashless" economy
Hanumanthu only understands "cash"; the few hundreds he earns each day, 
Cash that he can hold in his hands, coming from a livelihood, honest, simple, pure
Not enough. Hardly so. But pure. 
Not bloodied with farmers’ dislocations, displacements, deaths and impoverishment.
What colour, money?                                                                      
Blood and Sweat and Tears of Hanumanthu, and his Benign Smile, Now Stolen.

Mestri Yadagiri, by the Gandhi Statue, Sitaphalmandi, says —   
"More than a week now; no work, no money; we spend hours here
Waiting; we drink tea and leave. Where do we go? What do we eat?
Sometimes a contractor arrives, and, handing us a 500 note, demands 50, or 100, back.
The note buys us nothing; not food, not milk.
Why did he do this? He says it will benefit our desam, amma
But I don’t know those big things; we have no food, no work, no money."
But, in his amazing honesty, Yadagiri adds, "At least my wife works in people’s homes; I am managing
What about the rest of us? There are hundreds of us here."
What colour, money? 
Yadagiri’s honesty, in face of hunger, desperation, and loss of a million workers. 
By the Subhas Bose statue, Jahangir (not the king), part-time auto driver, labourer, cleaner, cook asks —
"Will he just close it all down all at once, this man? Just like that (aiseheech?)
How do we live? My children need milk in the morning. How do I buy it?
They dump 500 notes on us poor people
They have black money; we don’t!
He is the central government guy; happy. What about us?
Do I have a tree growing 100 rupee notes? 
Money can come back, madam, not a human being.
Do you remember the old man who died in a bank queue the other day? 
And the old woman who committed suicide after selling the only land she had? 
What was their crime?’
What colour, money?
Jahangir (not the king)’s question, and anger, and pain.

 

Coolie pani Ramachandar, by the Bose statue, cries out,
"We are poor people; we will all slowly just die
This is a wound they inflicted on us poor.
By chance if we get a 500 note, seeking change, they give us 300 
And take 200 as their share. We shall go hungry, were we to lose that money…"
What colour, money?
Ramachandar’s cry
"Upavasam has been forced on me since a week now", says Lakshmamma 
Selling footwear since last thirty years by the street junction at Sultan Bazar, once the shopping paradise (for cheaper things, of course!)
Once busy, now pining for busy-ness
Shunned and stumped by the Metro-rail, yet-to-realise.
"People give me a 500 note for a slipper costing 100.
Is there a solution to all this? 
Why did they do this to the poor? 
How do I pay my rent?
Nobody cares for us", says she.
What colour, money?
A Table and cardboard panel of shiny, snazzy footwear, gathering street dust; a lone woman waiting they would be picked up, but not for 500.
 
 

 
By the historic Charminar, Najeeb — with a pretty little daughter with a broken toy, 
Hungry, and a bewitching, momentary, smile — says, "We have no work."
They used to call him for work, any work, in normal times, in the shaadi khana (wedding hall). 
Now "sab kaamaan cancil hain" (all works have stopped)
"It's been a week", says he. 
"I have no work, no money; we just sit here, sleep on the streets."
"Don’t talk much’, friends tell him; they are scared
Of the media, perhaps, or of the government, or both (remember, they are Muslims)?
Says Najeeb, "What will they do? What can a poor man do to them?"
What colour, money?
Silent whispers, muted cries by Charminar
Suryanarayana, landless, mestri (mason), by the Skandagiri temple, says,
"Had no work, no land; had a house, but do I eat it? I came here
Why would I, if I had work in the village? 
Now there is no work here either."
Colour of money? A blank look, a bleak future in a hyper city.
Koti, daily wage earner (painter),
Tells me, "I saved every penny; not a single day I miss at work
For a whole year, 
To bring in our second child into the world, 
The TV shook me up, one day,
Scared, I put all my money in the bank.
What do I do now, amma? The baby is due, anytime now.
The hospital demands advance."
What colour, money? 
The future, of an unborn child.
What colour, money?
Senior citizens’ deaths in bank queues
What of the Constitution?    Who knows?
Right to Livelihood?             What’s that?
Right to Life?                        Who cares?
Who cares, for the right of the people to their money?
For those that pay taxes, without question? 
And stand in long queues, without question, like puppets in a puppetry show?
Who do not question; who believe, almost always; who pay bills on time 
Who do not assert for their "hard-earned" money to come by with human dignity 
Who do not question the inking of their fingers 
Nor the general distrust that governments in power always have, for their ilk (except once in five years)? 
 
Meanwhile, Simhachalam (doesn’t tell me his true name, others call him Reddy), the contractor, shows me a thick bundle of 500 notes 
Says he is "managing" it; paying the labourers this money or putting them into "zero accounts". "It is now allowed", he quips. 
(I forget to ask, though, what does zero account really mean?)
The construction of the city must go on
For the nation’s good.
The daily wagers stare in silence, as he talks, 
Pain in their eyes, stomachs rumbling from a few days’ hunger.
Another builder, elsewhere, someone tells me, has deposited money 
Into accounts newly created, of daily wage labourers,
To make the "black" legally "white".
They feel rich for a while, the daily wagers; the "ommoners"
"Notionally", at least,
But, of course, he tells them, he will take the cash back
And he gives them a couple of 1000 notes, in return for a vow of silence!
What colour, money? 

 

R. Umamaheshwari, who also uses the pen name Veena, is a well-known social activist.

This article was first published on indianculturalforum.in
 

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