Jahane Rumi

by K G Sankarapillai

‘Dalit’ means broken, oppressed, untouchable, downtrodden, and exploited. They come from the poor communities which under the Indian caste system used to be known as ‘untouchables’. They constitute nearly 16% of the Indian population.

The caste system, with a history of more than 3000 years in India, is a shameful system of social segregation, which works on the principle of purity and impurity. Purity is rich and white or whitish, impurity is poor and dark. Hidden powers of wealth can be easily traced in every feudal Brahmanical concept of the ideal. Material milieu of purity and beauty and prominence and command and comforts is also wealth. Economic division is reflected in the social classifications. But it should not be registered that caste is racial or economic. Dr. Ambedkar says that the caste system came into being long after the different races of India had commingled in blood and culture. To hold that distinctions of caste are really distinctions of race and to treat different castes as though they were so many different races is a gross perversion of the historical facts. Ambedkar asks: What affinity is there between the Untouchable of Bengal and the Untouchable of Madras? The Brahman of Punjab is racially the same stock as the Chamar of the Punjab and the Brahman of Madras is the same race as the Pariah of Madras. The caste system does not demarcate racial division. (Annihilation of caste – in writings and speeches vol.1 .p.49 Dr .B.R. Ambedkar) (more…)

A Poem by M.I. Kuruwilla

Carry a message to your own people, my friend,
Which will be well understood by your people,
Not ours- the creed of the material, phenomental
World as an illusion, you call it, Maya, don’t you?
Concealing but also symbolically revealing
A deeper order of reality. Do I sound philosophical?
You must excuse me. I cannot help it.
This view of things with a deeper reality
At a deeper level is intriguing. I am myself affected
To the extent of thinking of blood and terror
As fantasies, symbols. Isn’t it intellectually
Consoling  to think that violence, blood and terror
Are not real but only symbols of a deeper
Reality. Although I live in a firm word, I move
On two planes of reality- the mundane level,
And a deeper level of mystical yearnings and insights.
Yet the mystique of blood and terror is terrifying
Thing, not consoling at all. Passion and the craving
For power at a deeper level are murderous things.
Call it spirituality of blood and terror, if you
Like. But it is no joke to allow your face
To be blasted. No taking you first by the scruff
Of your neck even.
But I speak of none of those things here, the fear
And dread in the pursuit of Passion and Power.
Let them be. I would rather tell you of other mystical
Properties of violence and bloodletting. Although
We perpetuate violence to see an end to what we hate,
Violence is endless. Like Time. Though Time
Must have limit, time is endless, eternal.
Besides, our relationship with our enemies is
Of both love and hate, in which note a deeper
Dimension. Hatred is in the desire to exterminate
Our caemies. Our love for our enemies is in the care
We take for the continuance of violence……..
                                    2
Symbol and blood, blood and symbol. Why only
Symbols, you are asking. What about emblems?
You are right. They are there, when we often
Look at things horizontally, on the surface,
Not seeing the wood for the trees, if there is
Any wood to see. Look at the emblems of our culture
Which we are apt to overrate, but worth
Something, the surrogate and substitute fantasies,
The flotsam and jetsam of this our modern life.
Ponderous definitions!  Let us have some model samples.
Yes the toothbrush, the sanitary towel- the tampon,
That covering for the female back under certain
Conditions. Don’t your Dakshina ladies in their
Shopping expeditions go in search of it – two
To three thousand miles? We may call them universal
Symbols, being so ubiquitous….  Nonsense!
We will stick to them as nothing but emblems.
But what is covered, is it at least universal…
Appetites are universal, passions urges aren’t
They? Possessing uniqueness, individually too?
What universality, uniqueness in a word
Of throw- away tampons and throw-away condoms!
Emblems will always be emblems, But in the rotund
World, baubles too have their place,
Looked at representationally.
All these- dilettantish nonsense! Commodity
Rules the world, someone truly said. The spilling
Of blood is profitable. Next of kin to blood
Is arms - for an orgiastic embrace, the buying and selling
Of which is profitable.
How we forget the realities of life!
Farewell, fantasy symbols and emblems. Yesterday’s
Shopkeepers are now the most expert gunmakers.
The descendants of those who stormed the Bastille
For the Brotherhood of Man are the manufacturers
Of deadly missiles. Three hurrahs for Gallic Socialism,
And four for their Socialist President. Thou shalt
No kill, said the great Jehovah to prophet
Moses. Thou shalt kill, kill and kill again
In Jordan and Gaza. That is the new dictum
Which replaces all of Hammurabi and Moses.
Christ and Gautama. Arms have to be sold,
Blood has to be spilt.
Look! Can great powers survive without arms
And arms-trade? And if they can’t survive,
If they collapse, what is the future of mankind?
And your terrorist gangs- call them guerrillas
Or freedom-fighters- where do they get their arms
From? From the sources controlled by us. We know
The extent of their sources and resources.
We have prescribed the rules and the game
As to who wins, who loses. But the game
Must go on. It is such fun-and so profitable. (more…)

Contribution by Naveed Siraj

The Risalo of Shah Latif is divided into chapters called Surs which are composed on the lines of musical notes. Each sur is based on symbols taken from stories which are part of Sindhi folklore. Sur Kamod in the Risalo of Shah Latif is based on the love story of Noori Jam-Tamachee:

Noori Jam-Tamachee

King Jam Tamachi was a Samo ruler of lower Sind at the end of the 14th century A.D. While on a shooting expedition, he chanced to see a fisher girl named Noori, falling madly in love with her and offered to married her, his love for her blind to the social disparity between them.

When they returned back to his capital, he was made aware of the general disapproval of this match. He merely observed that the detractors did not know her as much as he did. In order to display her character and appease the cynics, one day, he announced to his queens, that he would take one of them for a ride on an outing. (more…)

A Poem by K.G. Sankarapillai

Dear Che

Dear Che,
you came to our university campus
in mid sixties
with a comrade and a modernist friend
with visuals of jungles past and present
with a vision of a new battle for justice.

Like a fresh wind of October
you joined us
moved us
renewed us
and smoothened our entry into history
with love, dreams and plans.

You told us about the sleeping rebel powers
of mountains and forests of the new minds;
quite often you talked of the day when
‘the Andes would become
the Sierra Maestra of America.’

Our modernist friend said:
you are the red star over the world
tarnished by America;
you are the future of the world
crippled by America;
you are the Jesus of the modern age
crucified by America.

Although you remained evergreen in us
showed us the exit to the oceans
from the lyrical ponds of our
post Independent Indian youth;
the exit to the storm from the water lily breeze
of our weeping romantic poems;
dear doctor, you redefined us
living with us
living for us
living in us
passing the confidence of torrents into our deserts
weaving sunlit paths into our prodigal nights.

You brought world into our words
and future into our past.
You opened blast-furnaces for our ore. (more…)

Herat Hami

A poem by Wimalaratne Kumaragame (a translation)

Herat Hami who lived in Aliya Watunu Wawe*1
Even someone like me was more important than him
Though Harat Hami cut dead bodies*2
He was twenty, thirty times more decent than me
In the hospital of Aliya Watunu Wawe
He spent his time removing night soil
Though he lived happily with a monthly salary
Whenever I saw him I was moved with sadness

A hard, wiry body, handsome and thin
Not much of age, fresh and young
No wife as yet
I was perplexed by the job he did

Making someone like me sad
Each day he carried my excrement
If someone dies suddenly
Doctor comes
He cut the dead bodies in front of us

None from the farmer, worker or elite caste
Ever did such a job
No known disease of mind he had
He did no harm to any dwellers of the forest

He spread a docile smile
Every word of his spread ahimsa
Every evening he drank burning water
His heart overflowed with kindness

His sister was stabbed
Recalling her my eyes get wet
He did not cry the day his sister died
When she had a fever he wailed with tears in his eyes

When his younger sister died he went with a doctor
Her dead body was cut by Herat Hami
Though the villagers blamed him in harsh words for this
He did not care much about the world’s violent flesh
As he was not born in a rich mansion
He went to the temple at every Poya
He was a member of the newly built stupa
Even more than that he respected Iyyenayaka*3

Translation by Basil Fernando (more…)

An essay contributed by the celebrated singer,writer and spiritualist Vidya Rao

I often ask myself the question why I choose, above all things, to sing, and then to sing a traditional gayaki like thumri. The images that are gleaned from its poetic texts are so often open to misunderstand: pining nayikas, heartless piyas, rakish Krishnas, divine Rams. I ask myself that question again today when ‘tradition’ is in danger of being smothered by sectarianism, communal violence and a whole culture lies bleeding.
I turn to the music itself for my answer. It has never failed me before—it does not fail me now. (more…)

My friend Jasdeep Singh has shared his translation of a Punjabi poem Naanak by Jaswant Singh Zafar. I like the way poet brings out the essential side of Guru-Saint Naanak and his contemporaries from the Bhakti movement and alludes to the fact that how iconoclastic this was. Alas, all such movements and thoughts become boxed in rituals supervised by power hungry clergies..

Excuse Us
Its quite hard for us
To idolize real image of Naanak
Legs messed up with dust of the tiring paths
Cramped feet
rouged up beard by ..
eyes popping from the facial bone structure
dazzling renegade eyes
eyes –
which challenge
the family
the regime
and every ritual

Real Naanak
can prove dangerous to us
Naanak imitated in the paintings of Sobha Singh
is well suited for us
peaceful
spiritual
hand shown like Goddess Lakhsmi
and the generosity withering from the hand
eyes full of delicacy
clean sun silked beard
round fair cheeks
fair and lovely
rosy tipsy lips
soft gemini feet
delicate barbie hands
The walls of our home can only hold
Naanak imitated in the paintings of Sobha Singh
Naanak who challenged the paths traveled by others
That Dangerous Naanak’s real picture
is quite bulky for our walls..

Excuse us..
the homes we created with labour of blood,
we can’t afford ruining them,
kids we got with God’s grace,
we can’t afford losing them,

we can not idolize the real image of Naanak
Excuse us

Punjabi version in roman can be found below: (more…)

Bulleh Shah of Kasur in Central Punjab is another towering voice that provided a mystical message beyond caste, institutionalized religion and ideologies of power. Born in 1860 in a Syed family, he found a Murshid (spiritual master) in Shah Inayat who was an Arain (a lower caste). This enraged his family and they almost disowned him. However, intoxicated with the love for his master and driven by ideas of Unity of existence and equality of humans, he rejected such notions and stuck to his humanism.

Bulleh’s poetry reflected his rejection of orthodox hold of mullahs over Islam, the nexus between the clergy and the rulers and all the trappings of formal religion that created a gulf between man and his Creator. A common theme of his poetry is the pursuit of self-knowledge that is essential for the mystical union with the Beloved.

The yearning for anonymity and connecting with the Beloved requires that there are no distractions, no priorities and no illusions of attachment. Bulleh Shah’s verse and its translation say it so directly and passionately -(thanks again to Shahidain for sharing the translations by Muzaffar Ghafar):

Chal Way Bullehya Chal O’thay Chaliyay
Jithay Saaray Annay
Na Koi Saadee Zaat PichHanay
Tay Na Koi Saanu Mannay
O’ Bulleh Shah let’s go there
Where everyone is blind
Where no one recognizes our caste (or race, or family name)
And where no one believes in us

Ab to jaag Musaffir pyare
Raeen gayi latke taare
Kar le aj karni da weera
Mod na ho si aawen tera…

Awake, dear traveller, you’ve got to move on.
Trailing its stars, the night is gone.
Do what you have to do, do it today.
You will never be back this way.

Your companions are calling.
“Let us go.”
Awake, dear traveller, you’ve got to move on.
Trailing its stars, the night is gone.

A pearl, a ruby, the touchstone and dice…
With all that you thirst by the waterside.
Awake, dear traveller, you’ve got to move on.
Trailing its stars, the night is gone. (more…)

“Main NeevaaN Mera Murshid Uccha…
Main UcchiyaaN naal sang laayee”

I am lowly my spiritual guide is lofty!
I have tied my fate to such lofty ones!

“Bulleh naaloN chullaah changaa
jis te ann pakaaee daa
ral faqeera majlas keetee
bhora bhora khaaee daa”

A stove is better than Bulleh
because at least you can cook food on it
Saints sit together to eat
and share their food with each other

“Bulleh Pi sharaab tey kha kabab,
par baal haddaan di ag,
Chooree kartay bhan ghar rab da,
ais thuggan de thug noo thug.”

O Bulleha, Drench yourself in wine and feast
ignite the fires flaming out of the bones.
stealing, break into the house of God
and swindle the cheat of cheats.

“Mulla tay mashaalchi dohaan ikko chit
Loukan karday chananan, aap anhairae vich”

Mullah and the torch-bearer, both from the same flock
Guiding others; themselves in the dark

Another translation of Faiz rendered by a Toronto based poet - Anis Zuberi. This is a timeless poem or nazm, aaj bazaar main pa ba jolan chalo has been translated and explained below. I am also posting a video that shows Faiz reciting the poem followed by a beautiful rendition by Nayyara Noor.

Aaj bazaar main pa ba jolan chalo

aaj bazaar main pa bajolan chalo
let us walk in bazaar in shackles

Chashm-e-nam, jaan-e-shoreeda kafi nahin
wet eyes and restless soul is not enough

Tohmat-e-ishq-posheeda kafi nahin
being charged for nurturing concealed love is not enough (more…)

I had earlier posted a video of Abida Parveen singing Bulleh Shah. While that is an all time favourite, the global voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan has also rendered Bulleh Shah with great ease and soulfulness. I am grateful to Cubano for opening the doors into this magical world of music. No words can capture the sheer beauty of this music. Videos are posted below (more…)

By Vidya Rao

The streets of some cities, they say, are paved with gold. This city’s streets are paved with stories. Doubtless, they were also paved with gold once, but this would have been before the British pounced upon it and shook its pagoda tree. Which was how they referred to the looting of India that each ‘nabob’ of the East India Company systematically carried out. Though, to give the devil his due, it was the British that are considered to have founded the city. (more…)

Sur Suhni

This story dates back to the time when the Moghul Emperor, Shah Jahan ruled over Delhi. There was a wealthy potter named Tala, in Gujarat (a village in the Punjab), who had a beautiful daughter named Mahi (Suhni – the beautiful). About that time a handsome youth named Izzat Beg (Mehar), son of a merchant of Bukhara, had started on his Indian tour, and visited Lahore and Delhi, buying and selling merchandise. He chanced to pass through the village of Gujarat and fell madly in love with the potter’s daughter. So he stayed back indefinitely and forgot his home and profession.

He used to visit the potter’s house constantly on the pretext of buying the pots, and so oblivious was he of his financial state that in a short time he converted all his wealth into pottery. His home was now full of pots of all sized and shapes. Very soon he was obliged to open a shop and turn potseller to support himself.

But his heart being with Suhni, he could not attend to retailing earthenware and shop was closed and Izzat Beg came under the employment of Tala, whose daughter he loved. First they put him to knead the clay.

Then they gave him a herd of buffaloes to graze, which he did as a labour of love. At last one evening chance brought him face to face with the beloved, to whom he then confessed his feelings. Suhni was struck with his devotion towards her, and she gave her heart to her father’s servant. They met secretly thereafter but not for long. (more…)

I am grateful to Shahidain for introducing me to another majestic poem of Bulleh Shah with the translation and a preamble:

Ever since the soul has been seperated from its source, it has been pining to go back to it. The feeling of loneliness by man will not end till the soul unites back with the Lord. When God had not manifested himelf, all the the souls were united with Him. When they were seperated , there was a covenant between them, that He would reunite those with Him, who were really desirous to do so. So the Lord is as keen to end the period of seperation as is the yearning soul.

O Maid! Who is this well clad Person?
O Maid! Offer Him a seat and enquire Him sincerely

He has a staff in hand, a blanket on His shoulder
He has glowing eyes
He is not aservant but some one ecstatic
Ask Him politely and sincerely

Do not call Him a servant or a herdman
He is not without any deep secret
He seems seperated (from his Beloved) on the very first night of Union
He has come here looking for his Beloved, O Maid

O Maid! Who is this well clad Person?
O Maid! Offer Him a seat and enquire Him sincerely

He is neither a servant
nor has He any interest in tending buffaloes
He is neither fong of milk nor yoghurt
Neither He feels hungry nor thirsty, O Maid

O Maid! Who is this well clad Person?
O Maid! Offer Him a seat and enquire Him sincerely

Bulleh, the Beloved is hidden and sits aside
Neither He speaks nor reveals any secrets
My father is trying to find a fiance from Kheras
O Maid, whereas my Fiance is with me

O Maid! Who is this well clad Person?
O Maid! Offer Him a seat and enquire Him sincerely

(translated by Saeed Ahmad)

The original Punjabi version is posted below: (more…)