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.

---