Saturday, March 28, 2020

Poetry in the Times of COVID-19 Lock-down

                                         COVID-19


red and blue hearts illustrationred and white flower petals

person in white and black stethoscope









2 men in white karate gi standing




Thousands of daily wager migrant workers to take to the streets on foot to return home as the coronavirus lockdown brougt public transport and employment to a halt | Image credit: Reuters


Daily wage workers and homeless people eat food inside a government-run night shelter in the old quarters of Delhi.

Friends, We are all overwhelmed by the threat posed by COVID-19. We are all trying to make sense of it all, wondering what is in store for us, with over half a million already in its thrall struggling for survival. Millions in our country have lost their livelihoods and  have fled from their work places chased by the spectre of  the virus and confronted by hunger and starvation on the roads. And thousands of doctors, nurses and supportive staff and many others are heroically risking their own lives to save other lives.  So many of us are, however, secure in our homes confined, anxious though safe and facing no real hardship, each engrossed in their own way to make sense of this unprecedented calamity. 

I being one of those fortunate ones, so far, have tried to understand it in my own way and here is the result: a poem; rather two versions of one poem, in English and Hindi. 

Here they are.

                  The Avenger ? 

A report says: Pollution is down to zero
in cities that are locked down
where humans in fright of extinction
have retreated to hide in their holes

Earth, water and air are clean now
For how long? No one knows
Yet birds and animals are returning
to reclaim the spaces usurped by humans

Is this Nature’s revenge?
An existential alarm bell: Beware
The eco-imbalance created by them
can wipe them out too, despite their hubris

A grim reminder: there are no borders
The planet belongs to all, equally

---

                 प्रतिशोध?

ख़बर आई हैः प्रदूशन  शून्य पर पहुंच  गया है
उन शहरों में जहां तालाबन्दी है
जहाँ महांप्रलय से भयभीत मानवजात
अपनी-अपनी बिलों में जा छुपी है

धरती जलाशय और वायु  स्वछ हैं  अब
कब तक?  कौन जाने
पर पशु-पक्षी लौट रहे हैं उन स्थानों पर
जो मानव-जात ने हथिया रखे  हैं

क्या यह प्रकृति का प्रतिशोध है ?
एक भयावह चेतावनी: सावधान!
अहंकारी मानव का रचाया पर्यावरण-असंतुलन
उस के लिये भी विनाशकारी सिद्ध हो सकता है

एक कटु संदेश: हम अति संबद्ध, अविभाजित
इस पृथवी पर सभी जीवों का अधिकार एक समान
                       ---
                     

The  un-examined life is not worth living.         
  - Socrates     

Take care of yourselves and people close to you and think of  how we can contribute to help those who are totally down and out.

T C Ghai 


Monday, March 23, 2020

Pash in the Times of COVID-19


Reading Pash in the Times of COVID-19

Friends,  
The whole world is in a fright because of COVID-19. Rightly so. We have forgotten everything else in the face of this existential threat to us humans, so it seems. No one knows how long it will take to get past this threat from this microscopic yet deadly enemy. But we know it will take a long time and with catastrophic consequences, which are already manifest and will unfold over time.We must, while taking care of ourselves and those close to us, always keep in our minds thousands of doctors, nurses and supporting staff  who are doing a heroic job in  this fight against COVID-19. They are our real war heroes, staking their lives not to kill but save lives.

But should we forget everything else in this crisis? May be not.

   It is 23 March,  the day on which Pash (1950-88), the most dominant Punjabi revolutionary poet, was shot dead by Khalistani militants in 1988. And importantly, it was also the day on which Bhagat Singh, the iconic hero, and his two comrades, Rajguru and Sukhdev,  were hanged in 1931 at Lahore jail. Pash was a great admirer of Bhagat Singh, who was his role model. 

Perhaps the best way to remember Pash is to read a few of his best poems relevant to our times, COVID-19 notwithstanding.   
These are out of my book of translations of his poetry, Pash: A Poet of Impossible Dreams (2010). In contrast to the threat posed by a non-human agent, COVID-19, the poems below talk of the threat posed by human being to human beings, and their resilience to fight back and a dream to return to happy times.


Remembering Pash (9 September 1950- 23 March 1988)






A SUPPLICATION FOR INITIATION 

Dharam Guru, I have but one son -
my man and bread-earner is dead.
After your thunderous roar
no men survive far and wide.
Now there are only women,
or herbivorous bipeds
who earn bread for them.
You, Dharam Guru, are skilled in all the sixteen arts.
The faintest fold on your brow
can transform happy families into a homeless herd.
Everybody, after aligning with someone,
tries to ram his head into another,
but I have only one head, Dharam Guru,
my son’s – and my man and bread-earner is dead.

I shall worship only the gods prescribed by you
I shall sing only the hymns sanctified by you.
I shall despise all other faiths as worthless.
but I have only one voice, Dharam Guru
my son’s – and my man and bread-earner is dead.

All these days I have been a dimwit
paying no attention to the faith
professed even by my own family.
I have been committing the sin
of regarding the family as my faith.
Foolishly, on hearsay, I have regarded my husband as God.
The joys and sorrows of my family
have been my only heaven and hell.
Perhaps I was the bird-shit of Kalyug, Dharam Guru.
But now in the resounding bugle of faith blown by you
the fog of apostasy has disappeared from my eyes.
From now on this foolish woman shall hold back her own truth
and display your truth
as the only possible truth.

After all, just a woman, what am I
before your daredevil warriors?
At any time of my life,
I have always been less beautiful than your sword.
In my most shining moments,
I have been colourless before your refulgence.
I was ever non-existent.
It’s only you, and you, O Dharam Guru

Dharam Guru, I have only one son.
Had I seven
they would have been no match to you.
Your dynamite has Godly fragrance.
It lights up the night skies
and drives the heretics back on the righteous path.
I shall offer holy water to your sacred bullet.
I have only one son, Dharam Guru,
and my man and bread earner is dead
---



WHEN REVOLT RAGES 

When in the pitch-dark nights
moments recoil
and stand in terror of each other
the light in the attics
jumps from the windows
and commits suicide

When revolt rages
in the womb of such peaceful nights
I can be done to death any time
in the broad daylight
in the thick of the night
---

GRASS    
I’m grass
I shall green-wash all your misdeeds.
You may bomb the university
reduce every hostel to a heap of rubble
raze all our jhuggis to the ground …
How will you deal with me?
I’m grass, and I shall cover everything
rise from every heap.
You may flatten Banga,
decimate Sangrur,
pulverize Ludhiana into a heap of dust 
my greenness will do its act
and two or ten years hence
passengers will ask the bus conductor:
‘Where are we?
Drop us at Barnala,
where green grass grows thick like a jungle.’
I’m grass, I’ll do my act:
green-wash all your misdeeds.
----


 MA, YOU ARE WEARING OUT 

Ma, you stop worrying.
I have bid goodbye to my friends.
Do you know what they said:
Now your going back is impossible.
They are lying, ma.
Now don’t let me go back there.
And we won’t let Babloo also go.
They are the people
who took away your elder one from you.
Ma, you stop worrying,
I shall catch hold of that rascal Ashim Chatterjee
by his moustache and throw him at your feet
and you ask him to hand over your elder son’s corpse.
They spellbind young boys
using father’s bones as a magic wand.
Why do you cry, ma?
I’ll make even my elder sister
retrace her steps
and then we all, brothers and sister,
shall sit together and laugh and laugh
as in our childhood days
when we, blindfolding you,
would hide ourselves under the cot
and you groped for us spreading your arms.
Or, exactly like that
when I used to run away
after pinching your back
and you would hurl the rolling pin after me
and I used wave the broken pin
to make fun of you.

I know father’s memory still rankles in your heart.
He was very gentle – don’t you remember -
how once, having fallen off the tree
while axing a branch, and broken his arm
he had kept laughing
lest you should faint with shock.
And how very small was sister
just like a doll
who, now living in the city, has become so clever.
But ma, you stop worrying.
We shall daub her hands with the bridal paste
and then I and Babloo
shall lie in your lap and
listen to the fairy tales
and talk about that Tamluk
which was once Tamralipti

Ma, we shall go far away
where there are only birds
and the sky is not small like a tent’s roof,
where trees are like human beings
and not human beings like trees.
Ma, you stop worrying.
We shall go back to the days
when the way to the city
led through a huge forest.
---