On the city streets
Roam strange creatures,
Human-like, yet, not quite human,
Cruel caricatures of humanity!
Yet they move and speak,
Like debris they pile up by the road,
Sit, foraging food, on piles of garbage
Weary
Samvat 1662.
Came the month of Kartik and the end of the rainy season.
The great Emperor Akbar
Died in the city of Agra.
The news of his death reached Jaunpur.
The people, bereft of their emperor, felt orphaned and helpless.
The townsfolk were afraid,
Their hearts troubled, their faces pale with fear.
Banarasi suddenly
Heard of Akbar’s death.
He had been sitting on the stairs,
The news struck him like a blow upon the heart.
He swooned and fell,
He could not help himself.
He cracked his head and began bleeding profusely.
The word ‘God’ slipped from his mouth.
He had hurt his head on the stone floor
Of the courtyard, which turned red with his blood.
Everyone began making a great fuss;
His mother and father were frantic.
His mother held him in her arms,
Applied a piece of burnt cloth to his wound.
Then, making up a bed, she laid her son upon it
His mother wept unceasingly.
Meanwhile there was chaos in the city,
Riots broke out everywhere.
People sealed shut the doors of their houses,
Shopkeepers would not sit in their shops.
Fine clothes and expensive jewellery–
These, people buried underground.
Books recording their business transactions they buried somewhere else,
And hid their cash and other goods in safe and secure places.
In every house, weapons were gathered.
Men began to wear plain clothes
And casting off fine shawls, wrapped themselves in rough blankets.
The women too began to dress plainly.
No one could tell the difference between the high and the low.
The rich and the poor were alike.
No thieves or robbers were to be seen anywhere,
People were needlessly afraid.
The chaos and confusion continued for ten days.
Then peace returned:
A letter came from Agra saying that all was well.
This was what the letter said–
“The great Akbar was emperor
For fifty-two years.
Now in Samvat 1662,
He died in the month of Kartik.”
“Akbar’s oldest son
Sahib Shah Salim,
Has, in the city of Agra, assumed the throne
In Akbar’s palace.”
“He has taken the name of Nuruddin
Jahangir Sultan.
This news is being given all over the kingdom,
In every place where the emperor’s authority holds sway.”
This was the news contained in the letter
Which was read from house to house
And spread around Jaunpur
Causing the people to give thanks in relief.
There was joy in Kharagsen’s house
A state of well-being prevailed, gone were sorrow and strife;
Banarasi recovered, and bathed;
The family rejoiced and gave alms generously in their joy.
We present this work in honor of Indian Independence Day.
Altaf Hussain Hali Indian 1837 – 1914
A house in which all the hearts are united
In misery and joy all of them beat as one
If one is elated all the rest are delighted
If one is in sorrow, all others are saddened
That humblest of dwellings is surely more blessed
Than that royal castle where one soul is depressed.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 60th birthday.
Vijayalakshmi Indian b. 1960
The insulted corpse spoke to me at night:
Can’t you see what’s planted in my hands?
Definitely, this gun isn’t mine.
I do not recognize bullets,
except the one that pierced me.
Those diary entries aren’t mine,
the hitlists were appended later.
Though murdered, I’m not a dimwit.
If so,
even I want to see the hellish diary
that added our names into the hit list,
a diary that vanished
because it was never written.
After death,
I came to know from the rotten,
decaying, withered,
powdered and wounded corpses
about the guns that were planted
between their dead fingers,
about the insult thrust upon them
by exhibiting their gun wielding pictures,
about romantic diary notes
that were written in their names.
Corpses don’t lie.
We are the truth, the sole truth.
But what can corpses do?
We can.
Even if we are erased from days
and appended to newspapers,
bulletin boards and
lazy after-dinner miniscreens,
even if our lifeless recline
is repeatedly insulted,
our blood silently appears
in honest mirrors at night.
Pressing the lips
against every ear that is awake,
It will chant this till sunrise: Do not sleep. What dawns is your turn.
I am mad with love
And no one understands my plight.
Only the wounded
Understand the agonies of the wounded,
When the fire rages in the heart.
Only the jeweller knows the value of the jewel,
Not the one who lets it go.
In pain I wander from door to door,
But could not find a doctor.
Says Mira: Harken, my Master,
Mira’s pain will subside
When Shyam comes as the doctor.
The train hadn’t stopped yet
I stood in the open doorway,
hoping you to come to the railway station
to await my arrival…
Like unknown places,
I saw many faces running backwards
Yet I couldn’t find
the sea of sweetness personified as your face
among them…
Nor the sunflower fields…
nor any trace of Mahendragiri,
that hallowed hill we knew so well.
Thinking
that you hadn’t come to receive me,
or that this wasn’t my destination
doubting… nervous,
I began to quietly get out of the way.
Suddenly,
from behind,
two strong hands — as if with a prankish intent,
entwined me, along with a loud chant
of the mantra of my name ‘Jaya!’
and covered me,
closing in on me like an opaque dark cloud
and turned me into a shower of rain.
We present this work in honor of the Day of Dr. Ambdekar Jayanti.
Suryakant Tripathi Nirala Indian 1896 – 1961
He comes.
Making us repentant with remorseful remarks,
He comes on path.
His stomach and back seems one,
A stick in hand,
Asking for alms and grain,
To satisfy his hunger.
He spreads forward
His torn satchel,
Making us repentant with remorseful remarks,
He comes on path.
Two children with him always,
With one hand on their starved belly
Other hand raised
to attract some merciful sight,
Lips and mouth parched.
Receiving no mercy from the Maker,
Starving, can’t sob and shed tears
Busy eating decayed leftover by a roadside
Competing with stray dogs
To satiate their hunger.
