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Jan 17, 2022
Bijay Kant Dubey: The Poet as a Faded Romantic and his poetry
Aug 11, 2021
Creative Poetry, How To be Poetical? How To Write Poetry And Contribute To?
By Bijay Kant Dubey
It is a fact that one cannot discern and
dislodge the cultural stuff, so is the case, as because even if we want to be
impersonal, it is bound to reflect the racial, archetypal and territorial
stuffs. Myths and motifs are a part of our life. One cannot so easily the
legacy of thought and idea, the historical past and the hinge of the cultural
heritage. The psyche is composed of the consciousness layers. Time, Western and Eastern, mechanical and
cosmic, how to put in? How to tell about samay, kaal, bela, prahar and danda,
which is what? How the vidhan, code of danda? The jurisprudence of punishment?
Here time has been deliberated upon mythically and archetypally. Cutting the
space of Indian manna, I am trying to take it out what it our psyche, manna.
Main samay hun,/ Akshay samay hun,/ Akshay aur amar samay,/
Samay, kaal, gati/ Jiski koi sima nahi
hoti hain,/ Main samay hun,/ Samay ka chakka/ Jo ghumata rahata hun,/ Sab kucch
mere under .( I am Time,/ Indestructible Time,/Indestructible and immortal,/Time,
tense, movement which have no limit,/ I am Time,/ The Wheel of Time/ Which
keeps it rotating,/ Everything but under me.)
Samay Ki Mutthi Mei, Everything But Under
The Clutch of Time can be a subordinate title. If you want to title the poem
simply, you may call it, Mai Samay Hun, I Am Time. The other option for it may
be Akshay Samay, Indestructible time which is but a suggestion. Mai Akashay,
Akshay Samay Hun, I Am Indestructible, Indestructible Time may add to rhyming it
more as a title suggested again.
To see the flower and to imagine
romantically is but the European way of deliberation which but the romantics
can think of taking the flight of imagination, gliding in their way. Here the
picture of a dream girl conjures upon, a romantic girl standing with a bouquet
of flowers. A flower princess she herself presents it the bouquet. Can the lady
love be as such? Here Rajanaigandha has been personified. Sometimes a beautiful
girl, strangely fair and white stands before you unawares and you on looking
her seek to scribble and jot down spontaneously.
Rajanigandha mere ghar ki dahaliz ke paas/
Phulon ka guccha liyei huyi khadi dene ke liye/ Kucch khamosh, kucch sahami
huyi/ Apnei aanshuyon ko poncchatin huyi/ Oshabhari raat kahi jaati huyi,/ Kya
yahi pyaar hai? (Rajanigandha at my doorstep/ Standing with a bouquet of
flowers to gift/Somewhat silent, somewhat stricken/ Wiping the tears of hers/
Leaving under the misty night for somewhere,/ Is this love?)
Wei pucchatei hain,/ Kavita kya hoti hain?,/
Kaisei batayun,/ Kavita kya cheez hoti hain?,/ Kavita kavita ke liyei. (They
ask it, / What is poetry?,/ But how to say,/ What is it poetry?,/ Poetry is for
poetry.)
What is poetry?
It is really very difficult to define it. Poetry is poetry, as take you, take
I. Poetry is a flow of emotions and feelings. Sometimes one feels it within to
express the inexpressible, the unputdownable on paper.
Poetry writing
is an art and the poetry-writer as an artist tries to convert his experiences
and memories into that art, transfusing it all. A poem is but an idea, a
reflection, a symbol, a motif, a myth, a dream, and an imagination. A poem is but a photograph hanging on the
wall. When we were children, we used to see the photograph of Abraham Lincoln.
Bapu’s smile, have you forgotten it? How sweet is it even now! The old man
smiling sweetly and innocently.
To be a poet is
to be a man of emotion and feeling, to be sentimental and sensitive. To be a
poet is to be sensuous, a lover of beauty, truth and goodness, always in search
of beauty.
The sentimental
heart is the origin of poetry and here from poetry originates it, as the mind perceives,
observes and restores the images.
Chandni raaton
mei/ Mei tumhei khojata hun,/ Meri ruha tumhari ruha se/Baatei karti hai,/ Tum
kahan ho,/ Tum kahan ho? (In the moonlit nights/ I search you,/ My soul with
your soul/ Holds the talks,/ Where are you,/ Where are you?) (Title: Pyaar Ka Geet,
The Song of Love)
Pyaar ka geet
eisa hi hota. (The song of love is as such.) The other thing, Bhagwan ka ghar
kahan, hriday hi hota hai, where the house of God, it is but human heart.
Mandir kahan
hain?,/ Wah to manna mei hai,/ Mann ko cchodkar,/Tum khoj rahe ho unko kahan?
(Where is the temple?,/That is in the manna,/ Leaving you manna,/ Where do you
keep searching Him?) (Title: Manna
Mandir, The Temple of Heart)
Akeli ladaki,/
Jaayegi kahan,/ Jivan ke shua path par? (All alone girl,/ Where will she go,/
On the lonely path of life?)
Shuna
Jeevan-path, Lonely Life-path may be a title suggested for it. The poems could
have been titled right from the start, but these have been at last and the
titles too have been coming to rhythmically.
Seva se
badhakar,/ Koi dharma nahi,/ Lekin koi jo karte nahi/ Ab. (There is nothing as
greater,/ Religion than service,/But nobody does it/ Now-a-days.)
Seva, Service is
the title that I cannot suggest it here. Mera Dharam-karam, My Religion-duty
can be another option for it.
Kaisa jo wah hoga,/ Ram ka geet ga raha,/
Krishan ka geet ga raha,/ Kaisa jo wah Rama-bhakta,/ Krishna-bhakta? ( How will
he be,/ Singing the song of Rama,/
Singing the song of Krishna,/ How that
Ram-bhakta,/ Krishna-bhakta?)
Apnei aanshuyon ko ponnccha,/ Rama ka geet
ga raha,/ Krishna ka geet ga raha. (Wiping tears of his eyes,/ Singing the song
of Rama,/ Singing the song of Krishna.)
Waha kahi dur khada,/ Dur khada,/ Dur desh
ka yaatri. (He standing somewhere far,/ Standing
far,/ The traveller from far off land.)
How to title it? What should it be? The
matter is one from Strange Singer of Rama. A poem of three stanzas here we want
to title it, Kaisa Jo Wah Ram Ka Bhakta, Krishna Ka Bhakta? (How That Rama’s Bhakta,
Krishna’s Bhakta?) And in addition to the title, we seem to be questioning even
that additionally, Kaisi Jo Usaki Bhakti? (How Is That His Devotion?).
Jab apanei log parayei ho jatei hain/ To
usase badhakar/ Dukha hi kya? (When the own people turn they into others/ Then
what it is bigger than/ That of sorrow and suffering?) Title: Kaisa Lagaa,
Boliyei?, How Did You Feel That, Speak You?
‘Kaisa Lagaa, Boliyei?, How Did You Feel
That, Speak You?’ is but a life-experience, what this life has given to me and
what have I got from it. As these are bilingual poems, so the tiles and their
versions exist side by side. Try to choose one.
Devadasi, kya yogan bana,/ Gujar
jaayengi,/Tumhari raatei? (Devadasi, will becoming a yogan,/ Pass it on/Your
nights?)
Yaha kiski sajish,/ Ab to bata,/ O,
Devadasi,/ Rahana nahi mandiron mei? (Whose is this conspiracy,/ Now say you,/
O, Devadasi,/ Need not live in temples?)
Devadasi or Kiski Saajish may be the title
of the poem. One may also title it, Devadasi, Yah Kiski Sajish? (Devadasi,
Whose Is This Conspiracy?). Generally, oracle-makers, soothsayers, astrologers,
palmists, florists and other middle men would have brought her here. The first
late child may have been coaxed to be here. The astrologers and fortune-tellers
would have persuaded the parents to gift the first new-born to be consecrated
to Divine services rendered in the form of temple-serving maids which but I resisted
it on seeing them for the first time in rock-built temples. Now say you, how
will she live in the company of stone gods and goddesses? How will she pass her
nights? It is definitely good to serve the gods and goddesses, but not to be by
being there. The temples may be classical, the priests may be too, but their
hearts not reasonable and logical at all. The whispering villagers and
conspiring Brahmins have I never admired them in life.
Vishwanath ke mandir mei,/ Mera manna,/
Shahanai bajata huya. (In the temple of Vishwanath,/ My manna/ Playing the shehnoi.)
Main nahi janata,/ Wah raag-bhairavi yaa
kaushiki? (I do not know,/ If that raag-bhairavi or kaushiki?)
Dhanyavad, dhanyavad/ Shir jhukakar thoda,
haath uthakar abhivadan mei.(Thank you, thank you,/ Bowing the head a bit,
raising the hand in greeting.)
A poem of three small stanzas, Baba Ke
Mandir Mei Ek Shehnoi-vadak, A Shehnoi-player In The Temple of Baba is the
title I seem to be suggesting to you. One line which came to me later on is
‘Shuniyei’ (Listen you) from, but I did not like it to be included in as one
more stanza interrupting the design of the poem. Baba Ke Mandir Mei here
indicates Vishwanath Ke Sang, In The Company of Vishwanath. It may be the main
pagoda or the courtyard, be it anywhere.
Mere manna mandir mei,/ Wah kaun shi
pujaran/ Phul chadhanei aatin hain? (In my temple of manna,/ Who is the
worshipper/ Coming with flowers to offer?)
Should I title it, Prem-pratigya, Love-oath
or Prem-pujaran, A Love-worshipper, now say you to me?
Sometimes sadness overtakes us and we seem
to be possessed of, grappling to come out emotionally. The repentance, struggle
and suffering of life, how to put in? How have sorrows raked us? How have we
mourned and wept inconsolably? God even did not come in to wipe them out, the
tears trickling down the cheeks.
Kitanei badal jo gayei,/ Log jo yahan/ Jo
panei thei! (How have they changed,/ The people/ Who were so much own!) Ttile:
Badalatei Log, Badaletei Samay, Changing Men, Changing Times
Badalatei Log, Badaletei Samay, Changing
Men, Changing Times hints towards a change in our attitude and thinking. Things
do not remain the same. Everything changes with time.
Teri aankhon se bahatei,/ Aanshuyon
ko/Ponccha jo/Shaka nahi,/ Mera dard, mera dukha!(The tears/ Flowing from your
eyes/ Could not/Wipe them,/ My pain, my sorrow!)
Sometimes one fails to render into line by
line, just the meaning is converted into so is the case with the poem written in the memory of my
youngest brother. Mera Dard, My Pain I would like to title it. There are two
titles, one for the Hindi version another for the English version.
Shraddha ke phul jo bikhar gayei,/ Kaisei
karu jo puja-upashana? (Scattered it the flowers of reverence,/ How to worship
with the sacred heart?)
Here there is a variation from in the second
English line of the poem. It should have been, how to do worship, prayer?, but
here the other thing has been attached to instead of. How to title it? If you
do not, let me, Shraddha Ke Suman, Flowers of Reverence and this is but faith
and its flickering.
Roshani chali gayi,/ Andhera hain,/ Ghup
andhera. (Light has gone out,/ There is darkness,/ Deep darkness.)
Kshin Hota Prakash, Diminishing Light may
be the title suggested here in an experimental way.
Ek madhyaraatri/ Jab mainei apna darwaza
khola/ Bahar baansa ke pole se jhulata/Mitti ke asthi-kalasha ko dekha/ Maan
nahi/ Uski naabhi aur bhashma mitti ke
paatra mei. (One midnight/ When opened I the door/ Outside by the bamboo pole
found I hanging/ An earthen small asthi-kalasha/ Mother not/ But her navel and
ashes in a clay pot.) Title: Asthi-kalasha
Asthi-kalasha, I want to keep it in Hindi
and English as well and I think the meaning is quite clear as for the images,
thoughts and ideas it carries with along.
Pinda-dana,/ Bhuta ke liye,/ Diwnagagata
atma ki/ Shanti ke liyei. (Pinda-dana,/ For the spirit,/ The dead soul/ The
peace of it.) Title: Pinda-dana
Pinda-dana is actually a journey of the
soul, from earth to earth, wind to wind, spirit to spirit, water to water and
fire to fire. The soul has merged into the Supreme Soul and what more to say
to? The path of life is almost the same. Everyone has to go bare-footed,
empty-handed. Let Buddha be our guide. Om shantih shantih shantih.
Mera kucch bhi nahi yahan,/ Khali haath
yaya hun,/ Khali haath chala jaayunga/ Yahan se.(I have nothing my own here,/ I
have come empty-handed,/ Empty-handed
shall I go away/ From here.) Title: Khali Haath, Empty-handed
Pehle bhi akela thaa,/ Abhi bhi hun/
Akelapan cchodata jo nahi. (In the beginning had been all alone,/ Even now am
alone,/ Loneliness leaves me it not.) Title: Main Aur Mera Sathi, I And My
Companion
Khali Haath, Empty-handed, Main Aur Mera
Sathi, I And My Companion, are the poems which I do not want to say it about.
Now it is your turn to say.
Aug 5, 2021
Freedom by Jayanta Mahapatra
By: Bijay Kant Dubey
What the others have left he seems to be describing, taking up for an evaluation, a re-evaluation as for what did we promise at the time of the attainment of freedom and what we got, how have we stood up to the promises made and pledged? Now the time for realization has come, the time for re-assessment. The tales of freedom, who to tell it? The situation is just like the radio talk of George Bernard Shaw broadcast over the BBC, London in which the dramatist seeks to know what it is freedom, who a freeman and how the types of freedom. Are we free really? Who can be free? So is the case herein. To see it in other words, it is but Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. It is not the talk of Jayanta Mahapatra, but of every conscious human being, what have we for the widows, daughters and poor people? What have for the hopeless and the helpless? What have we for the desperate and the devastated? The answer which but every conscious being will say, we have done nothing for them. We have done nothing for those who expect it from. We do not think the women are in a better state even now. Many live below the poverty line. Still now many go half-fed, half-clothed. Many do not have the cots to sleep on. The small hutments, mud houses, they leak it badly during the rainy days, so shivering with cold during the wintry days and so full of humidity during the summertime.
The poet starting the poem in the likewise manner says it that he feels it at times his country’s body floats it into the river. He just imagines about to suppose that if sinks down or keeps floating the river, what will it happen? Just like a boat it will keep floating. The things will remain half-submerged, hidden from wide view as it happens during the rainy days with the flood warning when the villages go under water and the people run for rescue centres if any in the suburbs
Left alone, he grows into a half-disembodied bamboo whose lower part is sunk into the bank. In this context we may hear the Tennysonian lines as said in The Brook,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
From the river-bank the poet notices it all, the river and the people, the boats and the boatmen floating on the waters.
Here old widows and dying men cherish for to be free from. But the body does not freed so easily. Only prayers cannot give them all. What will a life of inaction give to? Does God hear the prayers of the inactive? God is in action. Blind faith cannot lead us far. Blind faith cannot give us food. God helps those who help themselves, is the thing of reckoning.
Children too talk of freedom nurturing and nourishing the dreams of it in an ideal way, thinking highly of it, upholding noble ideas. But they know it not what it is freedom. What the meaning of freedom? Freedom is just an imagination, a thought and an idea. Can you say, what do you understand by it? What do I? Are you free? Am I free? Do you not encroach or infringe upon someone’s rights? Practically we are not free. Theoretically and idealistically we are free. Freedom is that which one feels it after reading ‘Where the mind is without fear’. Khushwant Singh’s columns too speak of freedom and liberty even though does he mazak with us, comic, caricature and joke.
At times, as I watch,
it seems as though my country's body
floats down somewhere on the river.
Left alone, I grow into
a half-disembodied bamboo,
its lower part sunk
into itself on the bank.
Here, old widows and dying men
cherish their freedom,
bowing time after time in obstinate prayers.
While children scream
with this desire for freedom
to transform the world
without even laying hands on it.
In my blindness, at times I fear
I'd wander back to either of them.
In order for me not to lose face,
it is necessary for me to be alone.
Not to meet the woman and her child
in that remote village in the hills
who never had even a little rice
for their one daily meal these fifty years.
And not to see the uncaught, bloodied light
of sunsets cling to the tall white columns
of Parliament House.
In the new temple man has built nearby,
the priest is the one who knows freedom,
while God hides in the dark like an alien.
And each day I keep looking for the light
shadows find excuses to keep.
Trying to find the only freedom I know,
the freedom of the body when it's alone.
The freedom of the silent shale, the moonless coal,
the beds of streams of the sleeping god.
I keep the ashes away,
try not to wear them on my forehead.
On the one hand the pontifical and hypocritical ones talk of being over religious, but while on the other the people lie underdeveloped, hungry and distraught, so devastated in their life. The hamlets tell of their poverty, illiteracy, underdevelopment, living below the poverty line under miserable conditions. What does freedom mean to them?
But the sunsets glowing around the white pillars of Parliament House tell it otherwise taking to different panorama of life. Who are sitting therein? Who not? How the stories of it? The stories of people and the lands? How the story of the house? Who made it and when? And who leased it? Is it of the architects and masons? Or, of time? Is it of lawmakers or of people and their representatives? Who represents whom? How direct narration, indirect narration? Their voices sometimes echo and re-echo it in the house, but the people fail to hear it. The voices of agony, anguish, distress, bruise, distress, trouble, tribulation, struggle, suffering, pity, pathos and loss, a few can hear and overhear it.
In the new temple built near it, the priest knows what freedom is, but God seems to be hiding as an alien. How peculiar is the concept? How the oblique approach of the poet? What is religion? Where is God? Which is what and what is whose? Is God Daridranarayana or in kangal-bhojana? This too is a point of deliberation which but Adi Shankaracharya felt it once as Shiva showed him in the form of.
Each day he thinks of being light, hopes to be enlightened with, but darkness seems to be enveloping in. Darkness leaves him not alone and with the excuses it seems to be escaping each and every time.
An idea, a thought has both negative and positive aspects. The Gita too says it, ‘Annad bhavanti bhutani’, ‘The world is created from food or the things from food’, translate you as thus.
Do you want to see the land with the eyes of the unfed and the uncovered people? Try to know from them who have not been fed well. The eyes will tell a saga of life. The hungry stomach and the thirsty lips will tell the story of life as felt and experienced, trouble and tribulation faced and borne.
It is a different poem so indifferent in thought and idea, image and reflection. To quote in the words of William Wordsworth, we have grown too much worldly as the world is too much with us. But apart from all this, nothing can cut the base of existentialism, nothingness and nihilism. What are our institutions for? What is our purpose? What do we want? Do the humans not err? Are we sincere? What is the thing that is not intentional? The every work that do we is but self-tending.
Have we not heard, ‘To err is human, to forgive divine’?
The only freedom he has known it in life is but the freedom of the body. Putting the anti-thesis the poet says in the manner of G.B.Shaw, but Donne too says it but in a metaphysical way in Death, Be Not Proud.
To be religious is not to be blind to logic and reason. To be metaphysical is not to too much superstitious, mythical and mystical, unnecessarily supernatural. Along with karma, dharma too is important. To be a karmayogin too is a thing to be reckoned with. Only to talk about the sleeping gods is not good at all. Smearing the forehead with the ash, he does not want to look over religious and mystical. Rather than being hypocritical and pontifical, he wants to go in his own way.
To talk to, revert to freedom and its tale is to be back to the children, widows and poor people and to hear from them the tales of their hard life. So, rather than losing one’s face one needs to be silent. Why to say them all? Why to critique in a discerning way if the people like it not to hear the candid stories of freedom, liberty and independence?
Who is a legislator, who a lawmaker? What was he? What had he been when he was not? We do not want to discuss these. Who knows rule and regulation in what way we cannot say it. Something one learns from the chair. After all we are human beings full of errors and omissions, failures and foibles. Are we for law? If we are asked to say keeping the hands on the Gita, can we?
Law and justice? Are these the voice of the heart? Is law not a document? Say, who is for justice? Is justice not compassion? Who is a judge? Is he not a man? Who is whose? Who a criminal? Why is he a criminal? Is he a man or not? We do not understand. How the Jurisprudence of God we do not know it, it is beyond the comprehension of human mind!
Is the court for litigation or reconciliation? Or should, there be some acquittals? The lapses of law, how to compromise with? Something needs to be borrowed from dhamma.
I too thought it similarly while celebrating the fifty years of India with some thinking which I kept ruminating. What have we for the widows, women and children? For the poor daughters of India? What did we for the old men? For the addicts? Did we ever think of making rehabilitation centres? Did we ever about the making of the old man houses? Could we eradicate poverty? Could we do away with hunger?
Such a thing it is in political science and its theories and the consequences of historical movements. Democracy, equality and fraternity, good is the message of the French revolution, but what did we do to the king’s family, the Bolshevik revolution, the Russian revolution, we appreciate it for socialism, uniting the labourers of the world, admiring the dignity of labour, but what did we do the Czar family? Democracy turned into a chaos and socialism in proletariat dictatorship.
The jurisprudence of law is something different, is but the metaphysical side of it. Situations, circumstances and times keep changing. Everything does not remain the same. The chariot of time keeps it rotating. What we see it today will not be tomorrow. What it seems to be is nothing and nothing is what it seems to be. The charkha of fate too keeps spinning. What one will become none can predict it. Not even the astrologers and palmists. Do they know their fate? The history of land, the history of time, the history of man, we know it not. The history of the house the house-builders know it well, but we take it not their version, we just enter into, take the version of the kings and their people, we mean the courtiers. Such an anti-thesis it is in George Bernard Shaw even though he may be a propagandist, a monotonous talker. Such an aspect it is in George Orwell’s Gandhi and elephant shooting essays. Such a thing it is in John Galsworthy. Read them and say you. The British historians of constitutional history will enlighten upon the topic in hand.
But there is something to learn from R.K.Narayan’s An Astrologer’s Day, Oscar Wilde’s The Model Millionaire, O.Henry’s The Last Leaf, Leo Tolstoy’s Three Questions, A.L. Tennyson’s Ulysses, Samuel Brecht’s Life of Galileo, K.A Abbas’ The Refugee, Lady Gregory’s Rising of The Moon and so on. Freedom is not of human rights activists or freedom fighters. Freedom is not in charters. Freedom is in the sense of being free; freedom is in the understanding of mass and matter. How to take liberty with the idea is the main. Nissim Ezekiel’s The Patriot and Night of the Scorpion too teach about the clarity of thought and idea.
It is better to be alone and to confide in reckoning. The flight of imagination has always lured us and has a charm of its own. To confute and contradict is not at all good all the times. But the thoughts keep swaying and images swapping positions and places. Allen Ginsberg too lessons it otherwise as for what the digressed and lost generations have given in as for spiritual thirst and search for knowledge abandoning material pleasure. Freedom is not what you think, what I think. Freedom is an experimentation with liberty and while experimenting with, if one fails, the other may make a way for. It will right to conclude the poem with Rousseau’s line:
“Man is born free but everywhere is in chains.”
What the others have left he seems to be describing, taking up for an evaluation, a re-evaluation as for what did we promise at the time of the attainment of freedom and what we got, how have we stood up to the promises made and pledged? Now the time for realization has come, the time for re-assessment. The tales of freedom, who to tell it? The situation is just like the radio talk of George Bernard Shaw broadcast over the BBC, London in which the dramatist seeks to know what it is freedom, who a freeman and how the types of freedom. Are we free really? Who can be free? So is the case herein. To see it in other words, it is but Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. It is not the talk of Jayanta Mahapatra, but of every conscious human being, what have we for the widows, daughters and poor people? What have for the hopeless and the helpless? What have we for the desperate and the devastated? The answer which but every conscious being will say, we have done nothing for them. We have done nothing for those who expect it from. We do not think the women are in a better state even now. Many live below the poverty line. Still now many go half-fed, half-clothed. Many do not have the cots to sleep on. The small hutments, mud houses, they leak it badly during the rainy days, so shivering with cold during the wintry days and so full of humidity during the summertime.
The poet starting the poem in the likewise manner says it that he feels it at times his country’s body floats it into the river. He just imagines about to suppose that if sinks down or keeps floating the river, what will it happen? Just like a boat it will keep floating. The things will remain half-submerged, hidden from wide view as it happens during the rainy days with the flood warning when the villages go under water and the people run for rescue centres if any in the suburbs. Left alone, he grows into a half-disembodied bamboo whose lower part is sunk into the bank. In this context we may hear the Tennysonian lines as said in The Brook,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
From the river-bank the poet notices it all, the river and the people, the boats and the boatmen floating on the waters. Here old widows and dying men cherish for to be free from. But the body does not freed so easily. Only prayers cannot give them all. What will a life of inaction give to? Does God hear the prayers of the inactive? God is in action. Blind faith cannot lead us far. Blind faith cannot give us food. God helps those who help themselves, is the thing of reckoning.
Children too talk of freedom nurturing and nourishing the dreams of it in an ideal way, thinking highly of it, upholding noble ideas. But they know it not what it is freedom. What the meaning of freedom? Freedom is just an imagination, a thought and an idea. Can you say, what do you understand by it? What do I? Are you free? Am I free? Do you not encroach or infringe upon someone’s rights? Practically we are not free. Theoretically and idealistically we are free. Freedom is that which one feels it after reading ‘Where the mind is without fear’. Khushwant Singh’s columns too speak of freedom and liberty even though does he mazak with us, comic, caricature and joke.
At times, as I watch,
it seems as though my country's body
floats down somewhere on the river.
Left alone, I grow into
a half-disembodied bamboo,
its lower part sunk
into itself on the bank.
Here, old widows and dying men
cherish their freedom,
bowing time after time in obstinate prayers.
While children scream
with this desire for freedom
to transform the world
without even laying hands on it.
In my blindness, at times I fear
I'd wander back to either of them.
In order for me not to lose face,
it is necessary for me to be alone.
Not to meet the woman and her child
in that remote village in the hills
who never had even a little rice
for their one daily meal these fifty years.
And not to see the uncaught, bloodied light
of sunsets cling to the tall white columns
of Parliament House.
In the new temple man has built nearby,
the priest is the one who knows freedom,
while God hides in the dark like an alien.
And each day I keep looking for the light
shadows find excuses to keep.
Trying to find the only freedom I know,
the freedom of the body when it's alone.
The freedom of the silent shale, the moonless coal,
the beds of streams of the sleeping god.
I keep the ashes away,
try not to wear them on my forehead.
On the one hand the pontifical and hypocritical ones talk of being over religious, but while on the other the people lie underdeveloped, hungry and distraught, so devastated in their life. The hamlets tell of their poverty, illiteracy, underdevelopment, living below the poverty line under miserable conditions. What does freedom mean to them?
But the sunsets glowing around the white pillars of Parliament House tell it otherwise taking to different panorama of life. Who are sitting therein? Who not? How the stories of it? The stories of people and the lands? How the story of the house? Who made it and when? And who leased it? Is it of the architects and masons? Or, of time? Is it of lawmakers or of people and their representatives? Who represents whom? How direct narration, indirect narration? Their voices sometimes echo and re-echo it in the house, but the people fail to hear it. The voices of agony, anguish, distress, bruise, distress, trouble, tribulation, struggle, suffering, pity, pathos and loss, a few can hear and overhear it. In the new temple built near it, the priest knows what freedom is, but God seems to be hiding as an alien. How peculiar is the concept? How the oblique approach of the poet? What is religion? Where is God? Which is what and what is whose? Is God Daridranarayana or in kangal-bhojana? This too is a point of deliberation which but Adi Shankaracharya felt it once as Shiva showed him in the form of.
Each day he thinks of being light, hopes to be enlightened with, but darkness seems to be enveloping in. Darkness leaves him not alone and with the excuses it seems to be escaping each and every time. An idea, a thought has both negative and positive aspects. The Gita too says it, ‘Annad bhavanti bhutani’, ‘The world is created from food or the things from food’, translate you as thus. Do you want to see the land with the eyes of the unfed and the uncovered people? Try to know from them who have not been fed well. The eyes will tell a saga of life. The hungry stomach and the thirsty lips will tell the story of life as felt and experienced, trouble and tribulation faced and borne. It is a different poem so indifferent in thought and idea, image and reflection. To quote in the words of William Wordsworth, we have grown too much worldly as the world is too much with us. But apart from all this, nothing can cut the base of existentialism, nothingness and nihilism. What are our institutions for? What is our purpose? What do we want? Do the humans not err? Are we sincere? What is the thing that is not intentional? The every work that do we is but self-tending.
Have we not heard, ‘To err is human, to forgive divine’?
The only freedom he has known it in life is but the freedom of the body. Putting the anti-thesis the poet says in the manner of G.B.Shaw, but Donne too says it but in a metaphysical way in Death, Be Not Proud.
To be religious is not to be blind to logic and reason. To be metaphysical is not to too much superstitious, mythical and mystical, unnecessarily supernatural. Along with karma, dharma too is important. To be a karmayogin too is a thing to be reckoned with. Only to talk about the sleeping gods is not good at all. Smearing the forehead with the ash, he does not want to look over religious and mystical. Rather than being hypocritical and pontifical, he wants to go in his own way. To talk to, revert to freedom and its tale is to be back to the children, widows and poor people and to hear from them the tales of their hard life. So, rather than losing one’s face one needs to be silent. Why to say them all? Why to critique in a discerning way if the people like it not to hear the candid stories of freedom, liberty and independence?
Who is a legislator, who a lawmaker? What was he? What had he been when he was not? We do not want to discuss these. Who knows rule and regulation in what way we cannot say it. Something one learns from the chair. After all we are human beings full of errors and omissions, failures and foibles. Are we for law? If we are asked to say keeping the hands on the Gita, can we? Law and justice? Are these the voice of the heart? Is law not a document? Say, who is for justice? Is justice not compassion? Who is a judge? Is he not a man? Who is whose? Who a criminal? Why is he a criminal? Is he a man or not? We do not understand. How the Jurisprudence of God we do not know it, it is beyond the comprehension of human mind! Is the court for litigation or reconciliation? Or should, there be some acquittals? The lapses of law, how to compromise with? Something needs to be borrowed from dhamma.
I too thought it similarly while celebrating the fifty years of India with some thinking which I kept ruminating. What have we for the widows, women and children? For the poor daughters of India? What did we for the old men? For the addicts? Did we ever think of making rehabilitation centres? Did we ever about the making of the old man houses? Could we eradicate poverty? Could we do away with hunger? Such a thing it is in political science and its theories and the consequences of historical movements. Democracy, equality and fraternity, good is the message of the French revolution, but what did we do to the king’s family, the Bolshevik revolution, the Russian revolution, we appreciate it for socialism, uniting the labourers of the world, admiring the dignity of labour, but what did we do the Czar family? Democracy turned into a chaos and socialism in proletariat dictatorship.
The jurisprudence of law is something different, is but the metaphysical side of it. Situations, circumstances and times keep changing. Everything does not remain the same. The chariot of time keeps it rotating. What we see it today will not be tomorrow. What it seems to be is nothing and nothing is what it seems to be. The charkha of fate too keeps spinning. What one will become none can predict it. Not even the astrologers and palmists. Do they know their fate? The history of land, the history of time, the history of man, we know it not. The history of the house the house-builders know it well, but we take it not their version, we just enter into, take the version of the kings and their people, we mean the courtiers. Such an anti-thesis it is in George Bernard Shaw even though he may be a propagandist, a monotonous talker. Such an aspect it is in George Orwell’s Gandhi and elephant shooting essays. Such a thing it is in John Galsworthy. Read them and say you. The British historians of constitutional history will enlighten upon the topic in hand.
But there is something to learn from R.K.Narayan’s An Astrologer’s Day, Oscar Wilde’s The Model Millionaire, O.Henry’s The Last Leaf, Leo Tolstoy’s Three Questions, A.L. Tennyson’s Ulysses, Samuel Brecht’s Life of Galileo, K.A Abbas’ The Refugee, Lady Gregory’s Rising of The Moon and so on. Freedom is not of human rights activists or freedom fighters. Freedom is not in charters. Freedom is in the sense of being free; freedom is in the understanding of mass and matter. How to take liberty with the idea is the main? Nissim Ezekiel’s The Patriot and Night of the Scorpion too teach about the clarity of thought and idea. It is better to be alone and to confide in reckoning. The flight of imagination has always lured us and has a charm of its own. To confute and contradict is not at all good all the times. But the thoughts keep swaying and images swapping positions and places. Allen Ginsberg too lessons it otherwise as for what the digressed and lost generations have given in as for spiritual thirst and search for knowledge abandoning material pleasure. Freedom is not what you think, what I think. Freedom is an experimentation with liberty and while experimenting with, if one fails, the other may make a way for. It will right to conclude the poem with Rousseau’s line:
“Man is born free but everywhere is in chains.”
Aug 1, 2021
Small Towns and the River: Mamang Dai
By: Bijay Kant Dubey
Small Towns And The River by
Mamang Dai is a poem of Arunchal pradesh where she was born, of Shillong,
Meghalaya where she read it, did her schooloing from, of Assam where her
graduation with English Honours from Gauhati Universty and it all telling of
the cartography and topgraphy of the Northeast of India indirectly, how it was
in the past, how it is now, how the indigenous tribes and cultures of it in
contrast to as well as taking us far for an ethnogrphic, socio-linguistical study.
A poetess from Pasighat, East Siang District, Arunachal Pradesh is first an
IAS, but for devoting more time to journalism and literature she chose it
otherwise. A recipient of Padma Shri
from the Govt. of India and Sahitya Akademi Award, she comes from the Adi tribe
with a folk base of her own deeply rooted into the soil of her land. To read
her is to be reminded of Verrier Elwin and George Grierson and Jim Corbett.
In the poem, one can mark the history and growth of towns, Indian towns, hilly towns and the history of struggling folks trying to shed ignorance as well as underdevelopment, moving out for job and better opprtunites and also he feels towards the pull of the tradition of patriarchs or tribal chieftains seeing with the hawkish eye. But at the first instance it is a poem of the river and the small town. But mythically it is a song of man and Nature, how the conncetion is in between. The second thing is experience, the experience of life, the world, as seen and experienced and viewed. How the contrasts between society and development? How to clutch them along? How to myth and tradition with the stride?
Small towns always remind
me of death.
My hometown lies calmly
amidst the trees,
it is always the same,
in summer or winter,
with the dust flying,
or the wind howling down
the gorge.
The poetess while starting the narrative says what she has come to feel it personally as an inhabitant, as an in-dweller what the town meant to her, how the history of their, how the trends and traditions of them doing the rounds, beleifs and faiths whch but sustaining them so far. To read the poem is to come to feel the history of Assam and the frontiers, the history of the ethnographic tribes and tribesmen, the opening of colleges and schools. How was it Pasighat in the past? How is it now? Does development take a toll upon nature? And if not developed, can man be man? Let us study it the relationship between man and nature, the relationship between the town and the river.
The small towns remind her of death, what she has seen, come to feel it, how the communities have been living, burying their dead, carrying on with rituals and beliefs and in the midst of all, she lies with her divided self, split personality in choosing in between the two as for where to go, what it to opt for. Her hometown lies it calmly in the midst of trees and hills. It is almost the same, the same archetypal village; the same hutment she sees it over the years coming down to as an image and if to see it otherwise, ‘Home, home, there is no place like home.’
Just the other day someone
died.
In the dreadful silence we
wept
looking at the sad wreath
of tuberoses.
Life and death, life and
death,
only the rituals are
permanent.
How life goes on, keeps on moving she narrates it here in this poem. How did happen it one day when soemone of her close died and she kept weeping, mourning the loss in silence placed with a sad wreath of tuberorses? Life and death, death and life, it will continue unto the last as long as man is on earth. But it is the rituals which some may confide in for a repose.
Here identifying herself with the river the poetess tells the archetypal stories of life and death. How do they bury their dead? How do they do away with? The scene is one of silence and mourning; man coming and going whcih is but never-ending story. The lines remind us of Tennyson’s Tears, Idle Tears, Break, Break, Break, Crossing the Bar, The Brook and In Memoriam.
The river has a soul.
In the summer it cuts
through the land
like a torrent of grief.
Sometimes,
sometimes, I think it
holds its breath
seeking a land of fish and
stars
The river has a soul whcih she has come to feel it and it is also true that without the river, the forest, the hill and the land man cannot live. The river is a source of life-giving water as well as for agriculture and she has seen the river in different seasons. During the rainy days, it has a tale of own to tell about the babble and murmur by and during the summertime so different.
The river has a soul.
It knows, stretching past
the town,
from the first drop of
rain to dry earth
and mist on the
mountaintops,
the river knows
the immortality of water.
Water, water, water, the drop of water for the thirsty, on the barren earth parching and dried, burning with heat and dust swirling, how to pray for to be blessed with a cold shower, the clouds gatehring over Himavant for a cloudburst. No life without water is the thing. Water for fertility, vegetation, how to explain it, for the seeds to germinate? But Coleridge describes it with the sighting of the scenery and the return of the ship when retribution for the guilt is done.
To read the lines here is to be reminded of The Waste Land, Kailasha and Mansarovar, Meru and Vaigai river, the Ghagra which but Eliot, Yeats, Ramanujan, Daruwalla refer to into their poems. It is the river on whose banks lie it the settlements of the indigenous people. It is water for which the saints prayed to Shiva for emanting the Ganges from his matted locks to the earth. The tale of the Neelachal hills and the Brahmaputra of Kamakhya, how to allude to?
A shrine of happy pictures
marks the days of
childhood.
Small towns grow with
anxiety
for the future.
The dead are placed
pointing west.
When the soul rises
it will walk into the
golden east,
into the house of the sun.
What golden dreams does
she dream? Where her Konark Sun Temple? How her land of the rising sun? Does
she mean to hint towards the Tawang monastery too?
Life, what was it during childhood? How had it been the times? How did the huts after the growth of towns? There is something of Hood’s My Chldhood and the loss of innocence. There is something of Lamb’s chimney-sweepers.The sun has been used in as a myth and a motif too as Lawrence refers to in his travelogues, novels and short stories. There is something of Sea and Sardinia, The Lost Girl, Etruscan Places and Apocalypse; there is something of The Ship of Death, Bavarian Gantians and Shadows. Resurrection stories of Lawrence too can be referred to. The Mexican backgrounds which Lawrence refers to too take us to a different world of native myth and mysticism. What more do we know about the Mayan civilization?
In the cool bamboo,
restored in sunlight,
life matters, like this.
Life matters, as the bamboos keep murmuring in the wind adding to greenery and vegetation. The word bamboo has a mythical text. How do we use, wehn do we and for what purposes? Bamboos are needed for huts. Bamboos are needed for making the bier. Even for making baskets, cots, mud houses and for fences it is needed. This is how life goes in the forest ranges, the hilly terrains where there is life too and it pulsates with. Here we can hear the mystic drums of Nigeria not, but Arunachal.
In small towns by the
river
we all want to walk with
the gods.
The small towns dotting the river banks have a tale of ther own to tell, the folks have a mythical base of their own to share with. The river is essential for every purpose. Even in the past the ciivilizations grew up on the river banks. Even now the Hindu people need them for pinda-dana on the ghat and asthi-kalasha to keep it hanging by the tree of to be immersed in.
To read the poems is read the alternative version of history; is to know history through folk mediums and local sources. It is also true we have neglected regional history so much in attaching imporatnce to the war, loot and plunder.To read is to be remembered of the poems of Wole Soyinka, Gabriel Okara, Ben Okri and so on. To read the poem is to know the history of the seven sisterly states and to relate to and align it with otherwise to the main story. While reading the poem, the mind gets lifted to Nagaland and the Naga sadhus; their rigorous and austere sadhna and hathayoga which but few know it. What more do we abut the Ahom dynasty and the Sikkimese kings?
Her theme is one of A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal where Wordsworth talks of the insensitive body of Lucy Gray turned into the rocks, stones and trees. Is it a poem of the Siang river or the Siyom river? As Mahapatra talks of the river Daya so does she here in this poem. Has Wordsworth not written about Tintern Abbey and the Wye river and London 1802?
The
river of Time, the hutment of Nature, the presence of Man, the history of
Earth, what to say it about? What it in race and ethnicity? What it in myth and
mysticism? Where do they lead to ultimately? Should we not ask our own
conscience to deliberate? Who can but about the pathway of life? But there must
be something to confide in, repose in as for temporary solace.