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Tuesday, 27 January 2009 |
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Questions From a Worker Who Reads
Bertolt Brecht
Who built Thebes of the seven gates?
In the books you will find the names of kings.
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock?
And Babylon, many times demolished
Who raised it up so many times? In what houses
Of gold-glittering Lima did the builders live?
Where, the evening that the Wall of China was finished
Did the masons go? Great Rome
Is full of triumphal arches. Who erected them? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Had Byzantium, much praised in song
Only palaces for its inhabitants? Even in fabled Atlantis
The night the ocean engulfed it
The drowning still bawled for their slaves.
The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Did he not have even a cook with him?
Philip of Spain wept when his armada
Went down. Was he the only one to weep?
Frederick the Second won the Seven Year's War. Who
Else won it?
Every page a victory.
Who cooked the feast for the victors?
Every ten years a great man?
Who paid the bill?
So many reports.
So many questions.
("Fragen eines lesenden Arbeiters" - translated by M. Hamburger in Bertolt Brecht, Poems 1913-1956, Methuen, N.Y., London, 1976)
Silent Questions from the Wife of a Worker Who Reads
Manali Chakrabarti
So you say, it is you not the kings, who built the Thebes of the Seven Gates.
Your forefathers hauled lumps of rocks when Babylon was Resurrected all those Several time – after each demolition.
You ask about the Houses where the Builders of gold glittering Lima lived,
I ask silently who kept the houses, the children, the future builders.
You ask, where did the masons go when the Great Wall of China was finished,
History did not record it.
But what about the patient unheard voices who made the shacks and hovels Homes,
Who waited with hot gruel for the masons?
Who do not even have the Great Stone Wall of China as a Silent testimony,
Should a Future day Historian choose to enquire.
Alexander conquered India, Caesar beat the Gaul,
Philip of Spain laughed and cried with the fortunes of the Spanish Armada,
Yes they had soldiers to fight their wars.
And cooks too, and a thousand others to assist them in their noble endeavours.
Their triumphs and their losses in the battlefields and the seas were not theirs alone.
There were the ‘not so great men’ behind these ‘Great Men’
Should you dig O! Present day historian you may still find them
But wasn’t there anything else happening then, when the men, Great and Small,
Were making History?
Wasn’t there an ordinary child being born and nurtured anywhere?
And houses kept, vegetables grown, clothes made and rice dehusked.
Who made the ends meet in times of war and scarcity?
The Men were away.
Who sang lullabies while the roaring canons decided the victors?
I listen to you, while you question the past with your new found knowledge.
You roar, you thunder, I sew silently a pattern on the pillowcase.
Would my story visit you in your dreams – mine that I share with my foremothers?
Would my child be able to decipher the words hidden in this pattern,
As you do now for those in the history books?
I did not cook for the victors; I did never cook for the past,
I always cooked for the future – where every morsel was important.
It was no feast – lavish fare strewn around and men doused in drinks,
I never cooked to commemorate great events,
I cooked the humble daily gruel soaked in parsimony and care,
This was to write a different history,
A history for the future.
Behind your vocal questions to history and all its records and reports
Is the Great Wall of my Silent questions.
Who has the Answers?
I wonder.
Maybe I do.
Manali Chakrabarti is an economic historian, presently affiliated with the Institute of Development Studies, Kolkata.
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Friday, 05 December 2008 |
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Ahmed Faraz
My enemy has sent message for me,
That his army-men have laid siege around me.
On every tower and minaret of the city-wall,
His army-men are standing with bows in their hands.
The lightening-wave has been extinguished
Whose fervor awoke volcanoes from the soil.
Landmines are laid in the waters
Of the streamlet that came flowing to my street.
All people—outspoken and bold, are now bodily torn.
And all the rebels are sent to gallows.
All the mystics and mystic-initiates, all the guides and leaders
Have gathered in the high-towered palace, hoping favours.
All the honourable judges, ready to take oath,
Are sitting on the way, like adamant beggars.
You have been an admirer of poets’ dignity,
Those stars of the art’s sky are now before you.
At the wink of a ruler’s buddy,
A number of begging poets would gather before him.
Weigh the footing of these dauntless and the faithful
Look around you; see yourself, who is with you.
If you want to protect your life, the condition is this:
Put your pen and paper in the killing-yard.
Otherwise, you are the only aim of archers this time.
Therefore, shun off your sense of honour in the street.
Seeing these conditions, I told the emissary:
He doesn’t know what the History teaches us.
When a night murders a sun,
A new morning carves out a new sun.
Therefore, this is my reply to my enemy:
I am neither greedy for favour, nor afraid of revenge.
He takes immense pride in his sword’s power,
But he can’t judge the grandeur of a pen.
My pen is not the character of that protector
Who takes pride in besieging his own city.
My pen is not the bowl of that debased,
Who bestows praises upon the usurper.
My pen is not the tool of that burglar
Who breaks the roof his own house.
My pen is not the companion of that night-thief
Who throws up a lasso on the unlit houses.
My pen is not the rosary of that preacher,
Who keeps counting the moments of his prayer.
My pen is not the scale of that arbiter,
Who keeps two masks for his face to cover.
My pen is the safekeeping of my people.
My pen is the law-court of my conscience.
That’s why, whatever I wrote, I wrote with passion of life.
That gave to my poems the supple of bow, and the tongue of arrow.
Whether I lay cut here, or be spared, I believe,
Somebody will wreck this wall of oppression.
I swear for my torment-stricken life,
The voyage of my pen will not be futile.
The passion of love did not get a nature that weakens the lover.
Instead of seeing the height of the cypress, you are gauging its shadow!
Translated from Urdu by Arjumand Ara
Ahmed Faraz (1931-2008) wrote this poem, Muhaasirah (The Seige), when General Muhammad Zia-ul Haq overthrew the democratically elected government of Pakistan under Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto in 1977.
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Last Updated ( Friday, 05 December 2008 )
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Sunday, 21 September 2008 |
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Ahmed Faraz
You sprinkled gold-dust on the forehead of the Earth
But lived yourself in the gloomy expanses.
You wove an Eden of dreams for others,
But burnt yourself in the inferno of misery.
You listened to the heartbeat of humanity,
But spat blood for all your life.
Whenever the world burnt in the fire of war,
You sang lullabies of peace.
Whenever blew the storm of destruction
You showed the beacons of light.
The human civilization owes its blooming to you,
But you had to face the arrow-dart of tyranny.
You adorned your masterpieces with your heart-blood,
But your hands were chopped off, as reward.
You led the world to the springs of nectar,
As reward, you had to drink the bowls of poison.
Alas! You had to die at the hands of the world,
Though you lived all your life to serve the world.
You were not a messenger, a claimant of heavens.
You talked about earth, with the earthly people.
You gave to the dust the spark of stars,
Though you were deprived of your eyes.
You healed the wounded hearts of people,
But in return the world crucified you.
From the castle and court to the street of gallows,
The chain is the same, as it used to be in the past.
You were denied the fragrance of a garden, while alive,
But after death, you have a grave with flowers covered.
O the saviors! How long this suicide!
There are vast distances between earth and heavens!
Translated from Urdu by Arjumand Ara
Ahmed Faraz (1931-2008) was a prominent Pakistani Urdu poet known for his progressive radicalism and defiance against oppression in post-colonial Pakistan. The above poem is taken from his collection Dard Ashob.
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Last Updated ( Sunday, 21 September 2008 )
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Monday, 25 August 2008 |
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Avtar Singh Sandhu 'Pash'
If not Frontier, read Tribune If not Calcutta, talk about Dacca Bring the clippings from Organiser and Punjab Kesari And tell me Where are these eagles flying? Who has died? Time is not any dog That can be chained and driven wherever you like You tell us Mao says this and Mao says that I ask you, who is Mao to say anything? Words cannot be pawned away Time itself can speak Moments are not speechless. You sit in the Ramble Or drink a cup of tea from a side stall Speak truth or lie - It doesn't matter, You may even jump over the corpse of silence ------- And O rulers, ask Your police and tell me Whether I am imprisoned behind the bars Or this policeman standing across? Truth is not a whore of AIR Time is not any dog.
Translated from Punjabi by Pratyush Chandra
Note: (1) Frontier, Tribune, Organiser and Punjab Kesari are names of weeklies and newspapers published in India. (2) AIR stands for All India Radio.
Avtar Singh Sandhu 'Pash' (1950-1988) was a celebrated revolutionary poet from Punjab (India). The above poem is taken from his collection Loh-katha (Iron-tale).
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Last Updated ( Sunday, 21 September 2008 )
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Poetry 
