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Roundabout | When places become literary postcards
Poems often become the literary postcards of a village, a town or a city with its whispers, murmurs and its teeming people
What is a place after all but a habitation for human existence or an odyssey, yet it assumes a persona far greater than mud or concrete that may have gone into its being. Thus, for the inhabitant, it becomes a symbol of the very existence to be celebrated or negated. Fiction writer Albert Camus described the big city as a remedy for life in society and the only desert within means.
To the dreamy poet, a city is much more, for these creatures cannot but be attached to the streets, the pillars, the rooftops, and of course the people who make the city. Very often the vision gets blurred and it becomes a person to be applauded or shunned in poetry. Thus, verses are dedicated to it and the most famous tribute to the city of Delhi came from the famous Urdu poet, Ustad Zauk, on the magnetic attraction of the county’s Capital in the times of the last of Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar: Kaun jaaye Zauk, Dilli ki galiyan chhod kar....
Of Delhi and Lahore
It was Delhi playwright Asghar Wajahat, who brought back the old adage about Lahore, ‘Jis Lahore nahi dekhea oh janmea nahin’ (He who has not seen Lahore, is not born). He was evoking the sad memory of the Partition and never-ending communal skirmishes that add fuel to the fire of religious politics.
For poets, be it Delhi or Lahore, it is humanity that matters, instead of flashing the saffron or the green. Ebullient poet Nabina Das, who has published some six collections poems, including the Sanskarnama, pens a poignant poem ‘Arisen of wood’ as she walks through the streets with her friend, Mausam. The two enjoy the small joys of youth and friendship in New Delhi’s Mehrauli, sipping nimbupani as one walks with a bindi dotting her forehead and the other’s jhumaks nestling on her cheeks.
One asks the other: “Mausam were you scared my brother wore/ a saffron-red bandana of faith/ your cousin guarded the green mosque/ we both shivered under cursing cries/ did you notice Mausam we held only fragile tales in our hands/ right when our homes became fireballs, our bodies charred wood?”
Onto Lahore, which was once hailed as the Paris of the East, one finds poet-journalist Irfan Aslam writing poems after the day’s work is done at the Dawn newspaper, sometimes in Punjabi, other times in English. He pulls out a poem, ‘Jain Mandir Chowk’. Now, somewhat repaired, it had once been damaged by a mob in the wake of the falling of the Babri Masjid. “However, its dome kept standing as a symbol of resilience!” he says.
“Who brought the lonely dome down, like desecrating a dead body/Exploiting the religion, another means of grabbing property/The new metro train removed more parts of the old grace, took more land/Nobody wanted a mandir in the middle of the city of the pure land/There is only a part of the dome now, like scattering stones of an ancient grave/ It’s taking so long to die, how it is so brave/ It was Jain Mandir Chowk, Lahorites would call it only Jain Mandir/ A new white mosque sits across it now/When would it be called mosque chowk, I wonder,” he writes.
Amchi Mumbai
Move to the second most populous city after Delhi and one finds oneself in Mumbai, which was earlier Bom Bom Bombay with its cultural mix of the east and west, and the city where people reach daily to find their luck in filmdom for it was here that the Indian cinema industry took deep root. It is the place to rush not just for actors, but all those who make the film industry, including musicians, singers, story writers and of course poets.
Known for its local trains, it is only natural that the Mumbai locals should inspire poetry. It is late Dilip Chitre, a celebrated bilingual poet of Marathi and English, and also his own translator, who pens a touching portrayal of his father returning home late evening in the infamous monsoon showers of the city: “ My father travels on a late evening train,standing among silent commuters/suburbs slide past his unseeing eyes/His shirt and pants are soggy and his black raincoat/Stained with mud and his bag stuffed with books is falling apart. His eyes dimmed by age/ Fade homeward through the humid monsoon night,” he writes.
For rapid rhythms in the Mumbai local, which was a favourite place for picturising peppy Hindi songs and Bollywood romances, one must turn to poet and playwright Anju Makhija, who has set several of her writings in the local train.
Here come lines from her a memorable poem, The Train Vendor: ‘One rupees, one pin,two rupees, two pin,three rupees, three pin.’/Little hands place, an oversized trayon my lap/She smiles at me,black teeth jagged,like stones beneath the tracks/Five rupees for Glucose biscuits,five rupees for police hafta,five rupees for an Amitabh Bachchan film/.‘Angrezi Madam,want pin?Five rupees, six pin?’
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