For many days, the hearth wept – the millstone lay, forlorn
For many days, the one-eyed dog slept beside them
For many days, the lizards kept vigil on the wall
For many days, even the mice were as if defeated
For many days, even the mice were as if defeated
Smoke billowed above the courtyard, after many days
The eyes of the household shone again, after many days
The black crow cleaned its feathers, after many days.
In honor of Diwali, we present this work by one of contemporary India’s most visionary poets.
People say that
I excel in making wine.
I can turn the wine
which is brewed today
a hundred years old.
It can make people frenzied and wild
wine that I brew, drinking
I too am constantly intoxicated.
My fleshy breasts
Now sleeps like a dead river.
Intoxicated.
I now can turn this river into a sharp weapon.
The wine I brew
knows how to make
songs from stone, songs from ashes.
People despair to discover my mystery,
they smash their heads
against walls, iron pillars.
They scream, Ah! What is this boon
the heavens bestow upon her path.
How do I say
the way I have brewed
this mellow wine?
I have lain fainted
In the dark hall of sorrow!
In agony
I have whipped my own flesh
and have drunk my own blood.
I couldn’t
take off my clothes
in front of my lovers.
And I had a hundred lovers.
yet, I remained a virgin.
The women from the other
Bank of the river, scream
You are a sinner
You will earn a leper’s death!
My body, which is like
the supple bodies of barali-fish
that dance with the waves of the Red River!
My breasts—the Saramati Peak
in the Tuensang valley.
My mekhela is like
those branches of Rhododendron
which bloom in the Satoi Ranges!
The women from the
other bank of the river –
spit their venom
Oh hunted woman! Let your body
become a feast for
worms!
The Ladies with white hair
from the other bank of the river
Cry out with many voices!
Oh women, don’t gouge at her flesh!
Who knows, those men who
remain like your immediate shadow
would have tried the silky
skin of their own daughters!
Who knows, who knows!
Wise men say, whores are the generals
of the Wars!
Like rivers they lay their traps
Like mountains they protect
the innocent souls!
Oh women, abide by the
Songs of the monk!
Don’t gouge at the flesh of whores!
They know unknown
travelers and murky hunters!
Yes, wise men say, that whores are
the weary generals of the Wars!
My body turned into a skeleton;
my skin swung
loosely on the bones
like the hide of a beast
strung up by a butcher
on a long post
to dry!
The demon of misery
and sorrow
looking for my heart
raked my body with its nails!
Suddenly, I discovered the art of
making wine.
I could ford this
river of separation
which flows in the
guise of human life!
which has kept in its bosom
those ancient maps
of the kingdoms burnt into ashes.
Came floating the golden pitcher from the pages of Samhitas
and from the wombs of the Upanishadas
a heavenly voice cries out
Oh Lady, with the heavy breasts
Open! Open the Lid!…
Many days and many nights
I brewed wine—to open the lids of the golden pitcher
which came from the womb of the Upanishads
Alas, I failed!
drinking made me wild,
only failures drink like a fish!
Suddenly, the lid
opened.
Standing on the other side of
the river—
I saw the glittering
shards of my wine glasses
scattered in a thousand pieces.
We present this work in honor of Durga Puja.
To the right
of our hill
there’s a shining well
full of water.
Last year
summer covered it
with green mango blossom.
The green tempted
a calf,
which fell in
and drowned.
Since then
people have stopped
drinking from that well.
Now, like a thief,
I bathe in it
at night.
I cup my hands
and drink from it
at night.
But the water
doesn’t quench
my thirst, my desire.
In the dark depths
of the well
there are shadows
still waiting for
the girls
who’d slung a rope
on its hook
but never came back
to draw water.
The well’s darkness
is waiting
for the moment
when I’ll have
the courage
to stretch out my hands
and drink its water
in broad daylight.
We present this work in honor of Gandhi Jayanti.
Awaken them; they are knobs of sound
that seem to melt and crumple up
like some jellyfish of tropical seas,
torn from sleep with a hand lined by prophecies.
Listen hard; their male, gaunt world sprawls the page
like rows of tree trunks reeking in the smoke
of ages, the branches glazed and dead
as though longing to make up with the sky,
but having lost touch with themselves
were unable to find themselves, hold meaning.
And yet, down the steps into the water at Varanasi,
where the lifeless bodies seem to grow human,
the shaggy heads of word-buds move back and forth
between the harsh castanets of the rain
and the noiseless feathers of summer –
aware that their syllables’ overwhelming silence
would not escape the hearers now, and which
must remain that mysterious divine path
guarded by drifts of queer, quivering banyans:
a language of clogs over cobbles, casting
its uncertain spell, trembling sadly into mist.
We present this work in honor of Ganesh Chaturthi.
Rain-at-night,
Like some young mad woman
For nothing
Weeping, laughing, whimpering,
Muttering without a stop,
And sitting huddled up,
Tossing her long hair.
In honor of Janmashtami, we present this work by one of contemporary India’s great poets.
Blue is not the colour, nor is snowy- white or sun-licked grey.
I paint the sky with water.
The tear.
The colour of solitude brewing in the eyes of a half-dead widow
The outcast.
The color of fear stuck in the eyes of fish lings abandoned by the oceans
The homeless.
The color of quivering silence screaming in the veins of trees uprooted
The wingless.
The color of screams rolling down from the eyes of new-borns denied air
The neglected.
The color of fear boiling under the nerves of those who venture out in the dark
The powerless.
I paint the earth too with water.
The color is tear.
Mind you
If love has a hue, it’s not rose-pink or blood-red
If hope has a hue, it’s not lemon-yellow or chilli-red
If happiness has a hue, it’s not leaf-green or sea-blue If grief has a hue, it’s not black as you
thought
Let me tell you, everything in the world is tinted with a tear-hue
The watery hue
For, rain is a painting perfect for a world soaked in sorrow.
For, sky is a canvas
Painted with grief.
In honor of Parsi New Year, we present this work by one of India’s great 20th century poets.
Mercy, resolve, tact, tolerance
You’ve tried everything and some
But o my king of men
When did Suyodhan succumb?
The more forgiving you were
In your humane compassion
The more these rouge Kauravas
Pegged you as cowardly ashen
This is the consequence
Of tolerating atrocities
The awe of machismo is lost
When one’s gentle n kindly
Forgiveness is becoming of
The serpent that’s got venom
None cares for the toothless,
Poisonless, kind, gentle one
For three days Lord Raam kept
Asking the ocean for a passage
Sitting there he petitioned
Using the sweetest words to engage
When in response there was
Not a whisper from the sea
A raging fire of endeavor
Rose from Raam’s body
The ocean took human-form
‘N supplicated to Raam
Touched his feet, was subservient
A slave he had become
ruth be told, it’s in the quiver
That lies the gleam of modesty
Only his peace-talk is reputable
Who is capable of victory
Tolerance, forgiveness and clemency
Are respected by the world
Only when the glow of strength
From behind them is unfurled
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
The throne was shaken and tensions rose among the Raajvanshs, the royal heirs,
In aged India, new ideas were taking hold,
The people of all India lamented their lost freedom,
And decided to cast off British rule,
Old swords glittered anew as the freedom movement of 1857 started.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
She was as dear to the Nana (Nana Ghunghupant) of Kanpur as his real sister,
Laxmibai was her name, her parents only daughter
She’d been with Nana since her schoolgirl days
The spear, knife, sword, and axe were her constant companions.
She knew by heart the tales of valor of Shivaji
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
None were sure, was she Laxmi or Durga devi or Devi durga reincarnate?
The people of Marathward were awed by her (expertise) skill with the sword,
They learned from her how to fight, the strategy of war,
To attack and humiliate the enemy were her favorite sports.
Her love for Maharashatra-kul-Devi was equaled only by her love for Bhavani.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Laxmibai was married in Jhansi, with great jubilation
Entering the joyous city as Queen,
Grand celebrations were held in the palace in Jhansi, in honor of her coming.
Just as when Chitra met Arjun or Shiv had found his beloved Bhavani.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Her presence was a blessing at the palace of Jhansi and candles of celebration burned long
But as days passed the dark clouds of misfortune overshadowed the royal palace.
She put aside her bangles and prepared for battle
For fate was unkind and made her a widow
Grief stricken she was, with no heir for her king,
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The candlelit hope of Jhansi had died and Dalhousie was overjoyed at his luck.
He’d long awaited the time to usurp this kingdom
He sent his solders to Citadel and raised the flag of Britain on the royal palace,
British rule came to Jhansi as a guardian comes to an orphan,
While with tear filled eyes the Rani watched as her city became deserted.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Despotic kings used flattery and lies
And came to India disguised as poor merchants
Dalhousi exerted his power, ill-gotten, and changed the fate of India,
Insulting all of India’s leaders, without exception.
The Queen played the part of a maidservant, but truly she was still the Queen,
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The capital Delhi fell, followed by the fall of Lucknow,
Peshwa was imprisoned in Bithur and the Nagpur tragedy occurred.
And after the fall of Nagpur, Udaipur, Tanjore satara, and Karnatak fell quickly at the hands of the intruders.
The British already had control of Sindh, Punjab and Assam.
It was the same sad tale for Bengal,Madras and many other states.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Feeling sick with helplessness the Rani wept bitterly for her beloved India.
Her royal ornaments and clothes were being sold in the markets of Calcutta.
This humiliation was published in the British daily papers:
“Buy the ornaments of Nagpur, buy the Naulakha locket of Lucknow” were the highlights of this loss of honor.
This is how the honor of the royal ladies of India was sold to foreigners.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Both the poor and the royals suffered insult and atrocity at the hands of the British rulers.
Brave soldiers of India recalled the honor of their ancestors,
The lost treasures, the names and titles of great warriors and leaders, like Ghunghupant, and Nana,
The beloved sister of Nana, Rani, the Queen, invited him to Ran-Chandi,
To awaken the sleeping, divine spirit of the Indian people, the holy war had already begun.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen od Jhnasi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The desire for freedom was as a burning fire of revolt, from the royal palace to the poor and common folk,
This spark, which was born in the inner soul of the people.
It consumed Jhansi first, then spread in Delhi and engulfed even Lucknow,
In Merat, Kanpur and Patna, the struggle for freedom raged strong,
Which inspired the peoples of Jabalpur and Kolhapur
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
In that great freedom struggle, many brave brothers lost their lives.
Among them: Nana Ghunghupant, Tantya, great Azeemullah,
And many more: Ahmedshah Moulvi, Thakur Kunwar singh, Sainik Abhiram.
Though by the British, they were considered rebels and their sacrifices a crime,
Their names will always shine in the heavens of the ancient history of India.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Well, leave the tale of the bravery of those great men, and back to the battlefield of Jhansi
Where Laxmibai stands boldly like a man among other brave men,
Lt. Walker met her in battle, and pushed back this brave army of men,
But as Rani drew her sword, drums thundered in Heaven,
Walker retreated after Rani wounded him, astonished at her skill and agility.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Rani pursued Walker for hundreds of miles to the (city) of Kalpi,
Where his horse was exhausted and fell to the ground, Walker was thrown off as well.
In the field of Yamuna, Rani was defeating the British once more,
Rani pushed back the British and took control of the state of Gawalior,
The British soon left and ended their rule of Vsindia of Gawalior,
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The British army reorganized, under the command of General Smith,
And still the freedom fighters prevailed.
Rani was joined in the battle by Kaana and Mandra, and all together they fought furiously,
But, alas, when Commander Hughrose came with reinforcements,
The Rani was completely surrounded on the field.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Though deeply wounded, Rani still fought her way through the British army,
But alas! Rani’s horse became mired in a canal at the edge of the field of battle,
And while she struggled with the untrained animal, the British caught up with her there,
Like a lioness she fought, all alone while being attacked from all sides,
She fell mortally wounded, the glorious death of a martyr.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
A battlefield martyr was Rani. Her departed soul was then riding a divine vehicle, moving towards heavens
Her light enjoined to the Divine, as a true heir of divinity
Only 30 years of age, she was a superhuman, she was a holy being.
In the form of a freedom fighter, she came to give us light and a noble life,
She showed us the path of freedom and taught us the lesson of courage
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once agina of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Oh Rani Laxmibai, India will remember you forever, Blessed Rani,
Your life’s sacrifice awakens an Eternal freedom in the soul of India’s people,
History may forget, Jhansi may be destroyed,
But your name Rani, Queen of Jhansi, will be an eternal memorial of courage
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
In honor of Mihavir Jayanti, we present this work by one of India’s greatest 20th century poets.
My father travels on the late evening train
Standing among silent commuters in the yellow light
Suburbs slide past his unseeing eyes
His shirt and pants are soggy and his black raincoat
Stained with mud and his bag stuffed with books
Is falling apart. His eyes dimmed by age
fade homeward through the humid monsoon night.
Now I can see him getting off the train
Like a word dropped from a long sentence.
He hurries across the length of the grey platform,
Crosses the railway line, enters the lane,
His chappals are sticky with mud, but he hurries onward.
Home again, I see him drinking weak tea,
Eating a stale chapati, reading a book.
He goes into the toilet to contemplate
Man’s estrangement from a man-made world.
Coming out he trembles at the sink,
The cold water running over his brown hands,
A few droplets cling to the greying hairs on his wrists.
His sullen children have often refused to share
Jokes and secrets with him. He will now go to sleep
Listening to the static on the radio, dreaming
Of his ancestors and grandchildren, thinking
Of nomads entering a subcontinent through a narrow pass.
In honor of the festival of Dr. Amdekar Jayanti, we present this work by a great 20th century Indian poet.
At sunset, on the river ban, Krishna
Loved her for the last time and left…
That night in her husband’s arms, Radha felt
So dead that he asked, What is wrong,
Do you mind my kisses, love? And she said,
No, not at all, but thought, What is
It to the corpse if the maggots nip?
Poets Corner 