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Roundabout: Return of the Touch in the second wave of the pandemic
Manglesh Dabral’s poem Touch has been widely circulated on social media in these times of touch me not, when news has travelled that the much loved people’s poet is battling Covid
The gentle sensation that passes on the emotion of love, understanding and warmth vanished in human communication. We got busy washing our hands, hoarding sanitiser bottles with the right measure of alcohol, covering our faces with masks and stood at a safe distance of six feet even from our dear ones. Tougher still for the 65 plus community getting glared at by neighbours and family.
What came to mind were some lines from Sailing to Byzantium, a poem by WB Yeats: An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress...
Suddenly, the time came to clap our hands, sing and laugh, wear coloured clothing with a mask to match and go to the delayed and then suddenly announced Chandigarh Press Club elections on the last but one day of November. This annual fair makes retired old scribes very welcome too. One of the attractions always was the chance of meeting old folks who rarely visited the club.
One enjoyed the attention of colleagues divided for the day in two groups during an election which, in times of Covid, had none of the old revelry and followed strict rules of entering the club, picking up a brown sketch pen ticking on the names and then walking out with the pen lest someone touched it. Don’t touch or hang around were the orders of the day.
Meeting friends after a long time
Yet many chose to hang out on the road, across a little park, meeting friends after nine months, laughing and getting pictures clicked, sipping coffee from disposable paper cups. But something was missing and one looked around and saw that there were none of the old seniors whom one could chat with. Where had they all gone? Then came the realisation that we were the old ones and the older ones had gone over the years to the destination where we all had to go.
Not being there for a friend
But the joy of now and here lingered for a day and then came the sad tidings that a close friend, the much-loved poet of Hindi, Mangalesh Dabral, was battling the second coming of Covid 19 in Delhi, his condition serious as his lungs had been affected.
Social media was flooded with his poetry and friends anxiously exchanged notes, some trying to reach out to the family, and others doing what they could. But never before had one felt so helpless at not being there for a friend personally at that hour. However, the pull of Mangalesh’s poetry and persona brought many together in messages and phone calls.
My acquaintance with Mangalesh happened through a senior poet of our city, Kumar Vikal. In the mid-eighties, on a whimsy, I quit my job, left the city and moved to Delhi, hired a mezzanine barsati and decided to do my own creative writing. Vikal, on a visit there and concerned by the state of affairs, decided to make arrangements for me so that I didn’t go hungry by introducing me to a grocer who would give home supplies on credit and suggested that I visit his wife’s family, living not too far away, whenever I wanted a good home-cooked meal. Next was a bus ride to the Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg where the newspaper offices were located to meet his journalist writer friends so that work could keep flowing in.
Himalayan breeze in his poetry
At that time Mangalesh was the magazine editor at Jansatta and though I was introduced to many of Vikal’s friends it was he who in his generosity encouraged me to contribute to the magazine. So there I was doing story after story in Hindi, a language I had not written in earlier. Besides, it was the beginning of camaraderie with the poet who came from Tehri Garwal with Himalayan breeze in his poetry and said thus of staying on: I looked at the city and smiled, I came to know how anyone can live here, And never went back!”
The voice of dissent has always been strong in tradition of poetry but never as a slogan. He touches many souls with his poem titled Touch: To touch it is not necessary for someone to sit close, From very far it is possible to touch, Like a bird from a distance who keeps her eggs protected!
Perhaps it was the silent touch of his many friends and admirers that has healed him and he is recovering from the dreaded illness.
