SNL25-26_final for print.pmd - sparrow

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KALYANI THAKUR24What a nice game it isLalgarh, LalgarhA play with green and redThe red blood ofBodies blackMakes the green grassOf jangalmahal redProfileoWhat a nice game it isBetween green and red(Translated by Shrish Roy)ARANGAMALLIKALANDPoemsLand –Fields rippling with harvest,Gentle morning breeze of abundance for some,expanding at timeslike Bharati’s prayer for a piece of land.Blood-sucker of labourers,Bestower of a day’s meal too,Tireless supplierof crops plants creepers trees,Alchemisttransforming tenantsinto landlords,Nourisherfeeding caste-furyto the upper castes,A promisein times of election.Land –for the Dalitsa foetus-killingmelting hot liquefied iron.(Translated by C S Lakshmi and Arundhathi Subramanian) P O E M S 1.2JOOPAKA SUBADRASARI-END—NOT A RAG TO KEEP SENTRY ON MY BOSOMHaving clung to my hunger,My sari-end hangs on my bellyLike deity Maisamma at the embankmentWhen I become a stream of sweat working for wages,My sari-end would blot the sweat on my face as breezeWhen I bundle the star-like grains, tubers and granules inmy sari-end,It twinkles on my head like the moon.When wearied having worked in the fields and crops,The sari-end offers me relief as a cloth for napping on thefloor.When my sorrow drizzles from eye to the sky,My soiled sari-end takes me to into its bosom like motherWiping off my tears.When my irate husband fumes and frets on me,I readily find it handy in the fists like a lump of butterTo wipe off my tears.The sari-end, a rag that is—It’s the first casualtyIn the hands of the man within and the man outside homeTo drag me for molestation.In the rain, my sari-end forms into an umbrella of flowersof cassiaKeeping the lock of my hair warm.The sari-end becomes a warm bonfire fondling my cheeksand earsAs a wrap on my shoulders.It provides a shade on my faceAt the sunlight in the hot noon or the whips of sunstroke.It shields me from the biting chilled looks of the sunlight.When I fetch water,It becomes a rounded-pad below the water-pot on my head.It burns its fingers when used as a cloth at the mudstove.Forming into a pouch,It fondles my child when I’m at work.It lick dust on my body as a cow would lick its just born calfIt forms into a drape over the wet menses-clothIf the rag of my sari-end is a clarinet around my waist,The songs of plantation, weeding and threshingWould give it chorus.The rag of my sari-end—
1.3It’s an inalienable part of my sweat and work and bedMy pleasure and sorrow.As a companion, the rag of my sari-endDaubs the mud on my body in the path of my lifeWhen is it that it hangs on my bosom?My sari-end is at work ceaselesslyIt’s not a rag to keep sentry on my bosomIt’s not a burden on my heartHow do I blame it in public?How could I survive setting it aflame?(Translated by Dr K Purushotham)DR JYOTI LANJEWARMOTHERI have never seen youwearing one of those gold-bordered sariswith a gold necklacewith gold bangleswith fancy sandals.Mother! have seen youburning the soles of your feet in the harsh summer sunhanging your little ones in a cradle on an acacia treecarrying barrels of tarworking on a road construction crew…I have seen youwith a basket of earth on your headrags bound on your feetgiving a sweaty kiss to the naked childwho came tottering over to you,working for your daily wage, working , working…I have seen youturning back the tide of tearstrying to ignore your stomach’s growlsuffering parched throat and lipsbuilding a dam on a lake…I have seen youfor a dream of four mud wallsstepping carefully, pregnant,on the scaffolding of a sky scrapercarrying a hod of wet cement on your head…I have seen youevenings, untying the end of your sarifor the coins to buy salt and oil,putting a five-paise coinon a little handsaying “go eat candy”taking the little bundle from the cradle of your breastPoemssaying “Study, become an Ambedkarand let the baskets fall from my hands”…I have seen yousitting in front of the stoveburning your very bonesto make coarse bread and a little somethingto feed everybody, but half-fed yourselfso there’d be a bit in the morning…I have seen youwashing clothes and cleaning potsin different householdsrejecting the scraps of food offered to youwith pridecovering yourself with a sarithat had been mended so many timessaying, “Don’t you have a mother or sister?”to anyone who looked at you with lust in his eyes…I have seen youon a crowded street with a market basket on your headtrying always to keep your head covering with the end ofyour sarichasing anyone who nudged you deliberatelywith your sandals in your hand…I have seen you working until sunsetpiercing the darkness to turn toward home,then forcing from the doorthat man who staggered in from the hooch hut…I have seen youat the front of the Long Marchthe end of your sari tucked tightly at the waistshouting “Change the name,”taking the blow of the police stick on your upraisedhandsgoing to jail with head held high…I have seen yousaying when your only sonfell martyr to police bullets“you died for Bhim, your death means something”saying boldly to the police“If I had two or three sons, I would be fortunate.They would fight on.”I have seen youon your death bedgiving that money you earnedrag-picking to the diksha bhumisaying with your dying breath
Page 1 and 2: Voices From Silence....
Page 3 and 4: SPARROWSPARROWSOUND & PICTUREARCHIV
Page 5 and 6: 0.3Jab We MetAdishaktiCampusreading
Page 7 and 8: 0.5 Jab We MetRavikumarYazan AathiK
Page 9 and 10: 0.7joined the Public Works Departme
Page 11 and 12: 0.9 Jab We Metthat plunge in like s
Page 13: 1.1PhotosConcluding session & discu
Page 17 and 18: 1.5shop, and in Kaka’s shop she b
Page 19 and 20: 1.7nauseating. She went to the publ
Page 21 and 22: 1.9 Book ReviewTamil Dalit WritingT
Page 23 and 24: 2.1 HomageIndira GoswamiNovember14,

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