Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Translated by Chayanika Shah and Shals Mahajan
Not a single leaf on the branch
This body, leafless, torrential
densely packed
susurrating
Rains of the past
lashed me,
straight – slanting
violent.
Those that were trying to ask – their
fingers
lips
marked
fiercely
lacerated
The moon was almost gone
by the time it reached me!
Weak
fading
dying
……………
Pash1 said:
“The most dangerous is
the dying of our dreams.”
Is this a lie, Bhima2,
that I speak your name?
In that moment
innumerable lotuses bloom
skin smooth as marble
Is this a lie
that I speak your name?
History comes alive
like menstruation.
In the global market
my grandmother sits, selling
scythe and sickle
bundles of grass
a chisel tongue
and language, a sharp weapon
How large is her hunger
and how long has she been thirsty
craving for a bhakri
I have never seen her.
She wanted to be human.
In
every war
every conflict
every riot
in the hidden anarchy of violence
in Khairlanji3
and
after Khairlanji
I keened, ululated
The whole house wailed
Objects wept tears
The sobbing would not stop
So those who were not objects thrust
their faces into walls
At that time too, I cried
A hundred years ago
a thousand years ago too
I was crying.
I’ve been crying all these years.
Why am I crying like this?
After all this crying, I still do not feel
free
What Aristotle proclaimed:
Catharsis!
I do not experience/
How many more tragedies do I have to witness?
I do not see a future
in which I can believe
I see Priyanka Bhotmange’s4
chopped, soft breasts,
the sticks they shoved in her private parts
them taking turns at raping mother and daughter
brutally brutally
husbands brothers fathers sons cousins nephews
and encouraging them by clapping
the mothers and sisters of Khairlanji!
This,
the loud beatings of drums of sisterhood
This,
This, utterly dismayed
somnambulant sixth floor of the Mantralaya5:
These are your daughters, Bhima
these tigresses, rising wild.
I feel ashamed
of those who say rape has no caste.
I feel pity
for those who forced brother to have intercourse with sister–
these perverse inheritors of Yama and Yami6.
Reality of caste
Reality of class
Reality of gender
The Potraj pulls
the painful whip of karma vipaka7
on his own body parts.
“Throw some money, watch the show!
Come on children, clap, clap,
clap some more.”
False bubble of global prosperity fly
in Bhaiyyalal Bhotmange’s8 eyes
that have turned to stone
Just as scabs of deprivation
were beginning to soften and fall
just as the age-old knots of darkness
had begun to unravel
Just as calm voices
were beginning to be
in tranquil times
It seemed
the past had shed
its tattered skin
and this ancient sob
we swallowed down our throats —
this cup of poison.
. . . still, it kept coming
the nightmare of disillusionment
again again again, countless times.
At any time of the day
At any time of the night
In every climate
In every season
the calendar keeps fluttering
backward — forward – forward – backward.
This country lost its original people
but this country was not lost to us –
you did not let us be so deprived
You gave us this vision, Bhima —
so we have not yet taken
a single grenade in our hands
You gave us this vision, Bhima–
so we kept alive through time
the predominance of karuna
We do not fly
doves of peace!
We do not have leisure
for we are fighting for our existence
Yet we kept shouting
in voices from our gut
live, let live, keep alive
absolutely without gain
And absolutely without gain, love too happened
in the midst of Khairlanji
This sparkling white cloud that is running free
he sat me on it
this beloved of mine, with eyes
completely naked
where, anyone can see
love
and Khairlanji
Go back to your husband,
to your husband!
Many voices rose
from lofty, secure rooftops
I refuse to become anyone’s object
I refuse to make an object of anyone
Can a woman laugh?
From her intellect, heart, and womb
loud, free and unpredictable!
Surekha Bhotmange9 should be asked this once
in public
in the middle of the town square.
How far is it still
the struggle for the annihilation of caste…
How far is he
the last man
standing in the queue
How far is she
the woman who is not yet in the queue
At this point
we have jumped into
the resistance with the same ineffective measures
“There is no difference between
living and dying, in love!”
In the inevitable struggle to change the world
when will the difference
between living and dying be erased, Bhima?
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