Two of my favourite poems

I turn Vikal into a sparrow and Alok into a woodpecker

Sparrow

It is not easy to write
A poem on a sparrow
To write poems on birds
It is best to meet
Salim Ali or at least
Read his books
For only he can tell you
Which sparrow is a foe
And which one a friend
Otherwise an ordinary
Person may
Spend a lifetime
Just figuring out
Which sparrow is a foe
And which one a friend.
_Kumar Vikal

Theatre

There is no end to
A park’s bench
It just rests in a park
But is present even outside
The city
There is no end to
Lights on the bridge
My night is full of them
Even in the face of death
I will recall them
Have seen the long beaked
Wood-pecking bird
Just twice or thrice
In the past ten years
May see it again
This time in a theatre
There is no end to
Theatre Theatre is not the
Name of just one building.
_Alok Dhanva

Poems translated from the Hindi by Nirupama Dutt

An interview with Nirupama Dutt

Nirupama Dutt with Manjit Tiwana, Pal Kaur and Manju

"Successor of Manjit, Daughter of Amrita"

September 1, 2006

Nirupama Dutt on poetry and prejudice, Partition and Punjab – and the charge of being a poet of experience rather than the imagination. In conversation with Arundhathi Subramaniam

AS: “Such are the constraints of/ poetesses of Amrita Pritam’s age/ A cigarette is their only solace!” I’m thinking of that line from your poem, ‘Laughing Sorrow’. What are the challenges, in your opinion, of belonging to a generation of post-Independence Punjabi women poets? Have you had to consciously carve out a creative space for yourself in the mainstream?

ND: The curious scenario of Punjabi literature (and this would apply to other Indian languages too) was very male-dominated, with one major exception – that of Amrita Pritam. Otherwise, men would only promote mediocre writing by women and these women would be part of their camp – and very often their bedmates! A woman writing on her own, publishing and getting recognition was not something they could digest. A major talent like Amrita Pritam had to suffer many prejudices. After her, one major poet that Punjabi has had is Manjit Tiwana, now 62, and she was always a target of male wrath – largely for speaking out as a woman. In the world of Punjabi letters I see myself as a successor of Manjit and a daughter of Amrita… .
I started publishing in Punjabi, the first break coming in Amrita Pritam’s Nagmani magazine in 1980. Before that I wrote and published in English.
I came from a world that was larger than Amrita or Manjit’s. Being some kind of a ‘star’ journalist, I was ‘empowered’ and had tremendous support from my mother and other members of the family, and was also a beneficiary of a western education. Yet what I shared with Amrita and Manjit was the ‘pain’ of being a woman and constantly struggling in a hostile world.
My poetry was thus more open, fearless, and I was conscious not to see myself as a ‘victim’. I wrote less [than they did] with much of my energy being taken up by journalism. I published my book in 1995 – Ik Nadi Sanwali Jahi. This collection of poetry made an impact. Seminars were organised by different groups (to which I was invited) and a new voice was welcomed. It also got me the Delhi Punjabi Akademi award. In poetry, I feel the poet just has to write and if the poems have power, the mainstream will come to you. And if it doesn’t in your lifetime, never mind. For literature is a long process. The most important thing is that it be written.
Consciously, I tried to move into spaces left untouched by those who came before me – both male and female. In fact, I wormed my way into Punjabi literature. And now I am there to stay, with a lot of love coming my way. A letter by some student of an obscure village about my poem makes my day.

AS: You are working on a book on the post-Partition social history of Punjab. How do you think the geo-politics of the region has shaped your poetry?
ND: The geo-politics of the region have shaped my destiny as they did that of many others. Partition becomes a major point of reference. And I was the daughter of a family that had migrated from Lahore. Much was lost (during the trauma of Partition) so education for the daughters became important, as well as economic independence. During my recent visits to Pakistan, I found out that the ‘Dutts’ were the original inhabitants of Lahore – and felt happy that I was an original Lahoran. Literature is all about roots and wings.

AS: Would you like to say something about literary influences that have been important to you? Have there been any specific writers — Punjabi, or otherwise — who have moulded your poetic practice?

ND: I love reading poetry. And my youth was steeped in poetry – English, Urdu, Hindi and later Punjabi. As for the structure of my poems, I have been influenced by two male poets – Kumar Vikal of Hindi and Surjit Patar of Punjabi – but the thoughts and experiences (that my poetry expresses) have been entirely my own. Punjabi critics say that I am a poet not so much of imagination as of experience.

AS: Your poetry seems to combine a note of elegy with a strong sense of female agency and empowerment.

ND: Yes, I am proud of being a woman and I have always tried to write like a woman.

AS: How do you see the role of the personal in poetry? Would you consider your work to be consciously confessional?

ND: The personal is an important part of my politics and my literature. Confessional? Here I’m tempted to copy Oscar Wilde and say that I have nothing but my originality to confess! AS: You practise both poetry and short fiction. What for you are the challenges and rewards of each genre? ND: Short fiction and personal prose have brought me a larger audience and appreciation but it is penning a poem, and penning it well, that gives me joy.

June, 2006

For Better or Verse!

Poems by Nirupama Dutt

(Translated from the Punjabi by the poet)

Wicked Woman

If you come to my city
You are bound to find
my name in the roster
of wicked women
I have all that it takes
to be as wicked
as they come
I have a goblet
brimming over
in my hand
My laughter is known
for its abandon
Flames find a home
in my mouth
My hear beats and
every nerve does
a little dance
The road is at my feet
And just the sky above
I have the courage to bear
and express myself sans fear


Before parting

Come let’s forget the storm
that tore us from our
respective caravans
and brought us
together for the night
And to please a
fussy hotel manager
made us write
Mr. & Mrs.
before our names
Let’s forget that
tomorrow
we will
tread separate paths
in search of
yet another mirage
Tonight let’s become
babes lost in the woods
wear garlands of
wild flowers
and lose ourselves forever
in the fragrance of musk

Love

Those whom we want to love
But never get to love
We love always

Those letters

Where must those letters be?
Letters written on stormy nights
I sent to many a destination
But never got an reply
or even a confirmation…
The twelve-page-long letter
I sent to that tall giraffe-like boy
Who would sit with me till
past midnight talking much
of celibacy and D.H. Lawrence
in the same breath yet he
was afraid of the balm of touch…

So many letters after that
Some harsh some soft
In one there would be
banishment from my life
in another things
would be made all right
One letter would want
that my books be sent back
The other one would
follow a different track…

Perhaps these letters
I sent after stormy nights
to many a destination
were written to myself
Why then did I look
for a reply
or a confirmation…

5.Friends & Lovers

When friends become lovers
The friend deep down
In the heart
Gets forever lost
Look long, look hard
But the friend you knew
Is now far apart

Laughing sorrow

I will not let sorrow sit still
today in my home
Pushing it into my jhola
I will take it along
to the city streets
Today I will steal a bright red
gulmohar bloom and put it
in my hair
Borrowing smiles from the
Coffee House waiter
A little joke with the
library caretaker I will share

When all these tricks
to cheer a sorrowing day fail
I will sit on the slope
outside the girls’ hostel
and light my cigarette
the ashes will mix for sure
in my poem today
and readers will get a chance
to say I am all wrong_
“Such are the constraints of
poetesses of Amrita Pritam’s age
A cigarette is their only solace!”

Thinking of my constraints
I will be ever so pained
blaming it all on my wretched
two affairs and a half
I will go to the poet of the city
looking for life sans restraint
He will have half a bottle of rum
in one pocket and a freshly
written poem in the other
He will teach me a mantra
or two of life and reading
his new poem promise to
leave drinking for all times
I too will make a list of
good resolutions and seeking
time for just one more love
I will turn myself into words

The drifting sorrowful day will stop
look back at us and laugh
I will become a part of the magic
of making a sad day snigger
Scattering lines of sorrowing laughter
I will come away

7.Passing century

In the last few years of the century
the poem will find itself
beneath the moon of the second night
beyond the grove of the trees
sitting on a bench in the
dark corner of the park
in your fond embrace
and thus forgive the passing century
many of its sins

Keepsakes

Go away if you must
for you have
given me so much
I will have forever
this dark night
and its song
the cool water
touching our feet
as the stream moves along
Among my keepsakes
is your laughter, your words
the twittering of some
sweet and unknown birds
Your fingers will play
softly on a
melody on my dusky flesh
I will cherish every caress
With me will remain
the unanswered prayer
lying at the feet of the
grave of the
nine-yard pir-faqir
As I tread forever on
in an endless journey
on this empty path…

9. Moving city

Nothing changes really
on changing a city
Neither the empty noise of the day
Nor the screaming silence of the day
The same grey sky peeps
through the small rectangle
of the window
The blessing mumbled
in mother’s trembling voice
does not change
What changes perhaps
is the name of the lover

City to city

I have learnt well to hide
the wounds of one city
from the wounds
of anther
To change myself
just a bit
on changing a city
Laugh loudly one place
Smile softly on a
at the other
In just five hours
crossover from the
sigh of Shiv Kumar Batalvi*
to the notes of Bhimsen Joshi*
I have learnt drifting
from city to city
to forget my lost village

*Shiv Kumar Batalvi was a lyrical poet of Punjabi known for literally singing out a sigh and Bhimsen Joshi is a magical vocalist of Hindustani classical music.

Suicide

She will not think of suicide
It is difficult to devise
ways of dying
and survive the poison
with the guilt of knowing
that the money saved
for the wedding feast
was spent on
extracting the poison
Instead she will take
out the seven saris
saved over long years
in her mother’s box
and the locket with
nani’s picture, that
somehow escaped the
eyes of her drunk father,
put the bundle of her
past in the box
and go to another home
She could well be killed
there for bringing less dowry
The newspaper next day will
carry a small story of yet
another young woman dying
in a stove-burst

Growing up

She is no longer
a little girl
My daughter
is growing up
She no longer
likes to make sentences
as her mother would
She wants to do things
as she would
When her grammar
teacher asks her
to make a sentence
with the word ‘need’
My darling writes_
‘No one needs anyone
in this world’_

I look at the sentence
and think my daughter
has grown up
beyond her years

Where have the boats gone?

Where did the boats come from? O’ Ranjha*
my trader in love?
Where did the boatmen come from? O’ Ranjha
my trader in love?

My mother used to sing this
lost song of Pothohar*
I recall the boats would come
from Jehlum
and the boatmen
from Attock

My mother had seen Attock
and spent her childhood in Jehlum
For me these are just two
names of rivers and towns
lost somewhere in the Punjab
across the barbed wire

If the boats came they must have
gone somewhere too
I cannot recall the destination
mentioned in the song
Mother is no longer there
or I would ask her
Never mind I will ask Ranjha
my trader in love
if I come across him
somewhere along:

Where have the boats gone, O’ Ranjha
my trader in love?
Where have the boatmen gone, O’ Ranjha
my trader in love.


*Ranjha is the archetypal romantic and tragic hero of the famous love legend of Punjab_ Heer Ranjha. The poet belongs to a family that migrated at the time of the Partition from Pakistan Punjab to India Punjab thus the allusions to lost village, rivers and towns.
Newspaper

The morning cuppa tea
must be spiced up
with a juicy bit or two
But nothing seems
to happen
the obituary is ready
but the old ailing leader
has survived again
with dialysis
The police station reports
no murder, no suicide
No shanties have been
burnt down anywhere
No dalit* girl
has been raped
The day is passing
and there has been
no strike, no price hike
The newspaper is sad today…

*dalit means low-caste, who form the oppressed section in India


The Black Woman

The dreams of a black woman
are very fair
and her truth pitch dark
She is born with a pain
to which no colour
can be assigned
It borrows the colour of water
To fill her eyes
to swim in the red wounds
of her dark body
She suppresses on her lips
the silent screams of
every dark person and turns
darker still
The dreams of a black woman
fly away like white birds
to pick bits of moonlight
and scatter them in her lap
A black woman longs for
a fair child…

Female Friends


When female friends meet
after long years around
the old and new names
scratched on the coffee house table
their infectious laughter
will ring false the adage
that says that laughter
has but a small life
And they will be surprised
at their own capacity
to still laugh so much
The unprovoked
laughter of youth
often gets lost
in loves, homes, offices
But when they met
after long years
then once again
it will be a laughing marathon
Laughing, they will talk
of painting, poetry and fiction
And they will recall
that girl in the hostel
who pasted posters
outside the warden’s room
and raised slogans against
the insipid mess food
They will also remember
The girl who used to sing
old Hindi movie songs
till late in the night and
stealthily make tea for her friends
Now even the new songs
of those days
have become old
and the old very old
But when they meet
the difference between the old
and the new
will melt away
Trying to recognize
some names on the table
they will ask one another
Why is it that one rarely
marries for love?
And if one does then
why does the love end?
The answer to these
unanswerable queries
will be some more laughter
but not as unprovoked as
it used to be in the old days.


Mother and Me

She may have told me the story of Prince
Charming
when I was a child but it is long forgotten
Now, when I wash the day’s dust from my feet
and lie by her side, she says —
Yes blow the smoke into my face and
consider yourself lucky that your father is dead
you wouldn’t have dared to smoke before him.
Your father was a strange one indeed,
All the restrictions were meant only for
the women of the house,
Not only your father, my father was the same to
Fathers, husbands, sons — they are all alike
their species is such. It is a folly to love them.
Not one of them is to be trusted —
I disagreed with my mother and say that there must be
some man somewhere in this wide world who can be loved
and trusted but she shuts me up and says —
A great one you are to tell me that
haven’t you trusted and seen. Then you will
come back crying and wish yourself dead.
The likes of you puzzle me. What greater blasphemy
can there be to die for one of these beggars.
It is not like it was in our times. You girls
Are independent and earn your own bread, say good riddance
to these fellows and be happy —
My mother’s logic is simple, she also says —
Don’t marry to man you love, before marriage
he is a god
and after marriage, in a brick and woof house, a
demon like any other.
Why tarnish the image of a god! —
My mother has saved herself from storms by
cherishing an image of god
and I who have looked only for a man have
drifted much.
Mother doesn’t think well of men at all
She curses and criticises them but if one of her
four sons
is late in writing a letter, she hide beneath the
quilt and weeps
at nights. In the morning, she washes off her tears
and declares —
My sons are not to be blamed
The whole tribe is the same.




Sub Editor

Lost in the mass of blue letters
clicked out of the teleprinter
I the eternal sub editor
Delete, cap and uncap
with my ball-point pen
words which belong
to another.
Condemned forever to correct
and not create
I forget my impotence
temporarily
by giving a smart headline
which I will find in the paper
tomorrow with another’s name.