(Note: Poet and Master lyricist Gulzar's Urdu poetry needs no introduction. Below is a collection of these that sheds light on the Dalit situation in the country and have been translated by Rakhshanda Jalil from the original Urdu verse.)
Tirhka Cup
Tirhka cup ke jaisa thha vo
Uska haendal thha hii nahi
Koi muh na lagata thha, lab jal jaate thhe
Haath mein lo to, garm thha, ungliyan jal jaati thiin
Boss ne eik din baahar pheink diya uss ko
‘Chal saala Dalit!’
Sab ke chehre tirhak gaye hain daftar mein
The Cracked Cup
He was like the cracked cup
The one without a handle
No one would put their mouth to it
For it would scald the lips
If you cupped it in your hands
It was so hot
It burnt your fingers
One day, the Boss threw him out, saying:
‘Scram! You damned Dalit!’
The face of everyone in the office
Cracked!
Aadmi Hal Ko Kheenchte Hain To…
Bailon ki jagah jab aadmi hal ko kheenchte hain to
Seeng nikal aate hain unke
Bojh se jab gardan jhoolne lagti hai uski
Pair ki panchon unglyon se
Khushk zameen ko pakad pakad ke paanv uthaane padhte hain
Eidiyan phat jaati hain uski
Bailon ke khur jaise beech se phat te hain
Naal lagaana baqui hai varna ye aadmi
Zamindar ke chabuk khaa ke chalne wale chaupaye se kum hai kya?
When Men Pull The Plough...
When men pull the plough instead of oxen
They grow horns
Their neck begins to droop when they
Have to lift their feet off the dry ground
Using all five fingers of their toes
Their heels crack
Making their feet look like
The cloven feet of oxen
Only a metal shoe remains to be nailed
Otherwise these men are no less
Than the four-legged beasts
Who move when the zamindar cracks his whip!
Makauda
Diwar pe latke chaku ki jis dhaar pe eik makuada
Itni der se ooper neeche tahal raha hai
Uss chaku se mausambi kaati thhi kisi ne
Baar baar kuchh chaat ta hai uss dhaar pe aur phir
Saamne wale pair uthha kar sungta hai
Kitni baar gira aur sambhala
Ras to sookh chuka hai kab ka
Dhaar pe jeebh kataane mein ab ras aata hai
Yaar mere ko
Uska ant mujhe maaloom hai, vo bhi jaanta hoga mera
Hum dono ko tez dhaar pe kat ke utarna hoga
Hum dono dalit hain!
A makauda has been crawling for so long
On the sharp edge of the knife
Someone had used that knife
To slice a mosambi
It licks the edge again and again
And, then, lifting its fore legs
It smells something
How many times it has slid and slipped
How many times it has regained its balance
The citrusy juice has long since dried
Now, the only pleasure comes from
Getting its tongue slashed
For my pal!
I know his end
As does he, mine
To get off the knife
We must get slashed in two
We are both Dalit!
Laut te Paaniyon Se…
Saara din main Kerala ke laut te paaniyon mein jab kashti kheta hoon
Chhaan chaan kar nariyal ke patton ke kirnein mere badan ko seinkti hain
Seeli hawa namkeen samandar se utthh kar
Teil sane baalon mein ungliyan pherti hai
Raat gaye ghar laut ta hoon jab
Choolhe mein gobar ke uple jalte hain to unka dhuan
Mere badan ke poron mein bhar jaata hai
Saans kheench ke mere badan ki khushbu
Sungho, dekho, Dalit ke nange badan se kaise
Zindagi ki khushbu aati hai!
From the Backwaters...
All day long, when I row my boat
In the backwaters of Kerala’s lagoons
The rays of the sun sieve through the palm fronds
And warm my body
The damp wind rises
From the salty sea
And combs its fingers
Though my oiled hair
When I return home late at night
And the dung cakes burn in the fire
Their smoke seeps into every pore of my body
Draw a deep breath
And smell the scent of my body
See, how the fragrance of life
Rises from the naked body of the Dalit!
High Heels
Oonche joote pehna karo, ai dost hamesha
Qad mein mujh se chhote ho tum
Aur ooper dekh ke eik Dalit se baatein karte
Tumko hamesha jheinp aati hai
Maathe par chunnat daalne se tum aur sukad jaate ho
Oonche joote pehna karo tum, oonchi jaat se ho!
Always wear high-heeled shoes, my friend
You are shorter than me
Talking to a Dalit
With your head tilted up
Causes you much embarrassment
Furrowing your brow
Makes you shrink even more
Wear high heeled shoes, my friend
After all, you are from a high caste!
Blood Test
Sheeshi bhar ke khoon ki vo le gaye hain
Qatra qatra khol kar dekheinge kya beemaariyan hain
Eik Dalit ki muflisi virse mein aayi hai mere khoon
Mein milegi
Taabedaari hukumraanon ki jo mere aaba-o-ajdaad mein thhi
Aur gulaami bhi to kuchh pushton talak
Khoon mein reh jaati hai
Thorhi si garmi hai khoon mein
Par koi visfot ka khatra nahin
Chhote chhote se jaraseem
Ab baghawat ke bhi shamil ho gaye hain
Vo nazar aate nahin hain aankh se
Khurdbiin ke neeche rakh kar dekhne padte hain vo
Haan, ana ki kirkiri shayad miley!
They have taken a vial of my blood
They will examine it drop by drop
To investigate the disease that ails me
The poverty of a Dalit was bequeathed to me
As my legacy
You will find it in my blood
The same submission to my lord and master
That my ancestors had before me
For slavishness stays in the blood
For several generations
There is a little heat in my blood
But no real danger of an explosion
Tiny, tiny germs
Of rebellion will be found, too
They cannot be seen by the naked eye
But you can see them under the microscope
And, yes, you might find the grit of Ego!
Inn Jangli Paudon Ke Dhanthal Par…
Inn jangli paudon ke danthal par
Kuchh lafz nikal aatein hain kabhi
Par lafz nahin phalte koi
Inn paudon ko khuraak nahiin milti ki jadein
Mitti ko pakad ke baith sakein
Inn paudon ko gamle bhi nahi milte ki jadein mehfooz rahein
Sadkon pe pheink diye jaate hain
Dhool, bhook, aur bheek mein palte rehte hain
Aur unmein kahin koi koi
Thokar khaa kar jaa girta hai bahti naali ki keecharh mein to
Vo mitti paani paakar ugne lagta hai
Eik aur Dalit pauda!
On the Stalks of These Wild Plants...
On the stalks of these wild plants
Sometimes some words sprout
But a poem never blossoms!
These plants never find enough nourishment
For their roots to go down in the soil
These plants don’t even find pots
Where their roots can stay safe
They are tossed on the roads
They grow amongst dust, hunger and need
Sometimes, some among them
Get knocked into a dirty drain
Finding water and soil, they begin to grow
Another Dalit plant!
(Rakhshanda Jalil is a writer, translator and literary historian. She writes on literature, culture and society. She runs Hindustani Awaaz, an organisation devoted to the popularisation of Urdu literature. She tweets at @RakhshandaJalil.)
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