Strains of Unknown Birds | অচিনাকি চৰাইৰ গান শুনি

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Jiban Narah

Translated from the Mishing (Assamese script) to the English by Krishna Dulal Barua

It’s all right that you’re accompanying me
don’t get frivolous
seeing the doves at play

Don’t fling stones at the middle of the river
the fish would be aggrieved
the affliction would cause measles

If you come across a downpour on the way
the herdsmen would arrange plantain leaves for you
or else you’ll catch fever
when you run a temperature you’ll blame the village
regard rains to be a nuisance
abuse the river
O townsfolk, the unknown lads who had
arranged plantain leaves
wouldn’t be asking your names

Can you see how the sun has been hidden by the hill
the boat on either side, by the river
the buffaloes by the herdsmen
the flutes by the lips

Night has fallen
O townsfolk
you’d do well to return home
don’t lose yourselves in the strains of unknown birds
go and strive with your books on the table

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Farewell, O Setting Sun | ਅਲਵਿਦਾ

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Lal Singh Dil

Translated from the Punjabi to the English by Nirupama Dutt

Farewell, O Setting Sun
Do return tomorrow
I will bow before you
But I will not indulge
In the ritual of
Offering you water
I will take up arms
You may even hide the Moon
I will take up arms
Don’t you know
Humanity is the fire of the sun
Whose songs light the lamp
Of your glow!
Namaskar!
Farewell…
O Setting Sun!

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Fractured Notions … Fractured Identity

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Anonymous

Not translated. Written originally in the English by the author, a native Konkani speaker.

Caste, I never understood it
I thought I wasn’t part of it
I thought it never affected me
I thought I was casteless.

In the class they told us
Caste was hindrance to equality
I hated caste
but now when I look back,
low caste were lowered
in the lectures of the teachers
(a position which I’m trying to thread cautiously)
through the re-reading of the
old texts, without hint of the present.
They told us the caste pyramid
could be broken and reformed into a circle
when everybody would be equal
when everybody would be same.

Same! The word haunts me now
as I reflect back
look forward
and live in the present
Same? What does being same
as in similar means?
I understand now …
it got deeper implications
Who will become like whom?
Who will imitate whom?
In the quest of
becoming similar, same, equal?
(or did I confuse the words and misunderstood it?)
(But in the end this is what I understood!)

Why do I deny my caste?
Why do I say I don’t?
believe in caste?
My experiences I have understood
only in terms of rural-urban,
rich- poor and healthy- unhealthy.
But caste? It didn’t exist in my world
I am trying to make sense of it only now
it eluded my curiosity for long
and when I came to know about my caste
the next thing that I knew was
“It is low, lowest in the Varna”

And being a Shudra!
(I’m finally writing on this!)
Shudra! I only studied in books
Shudra or in Goa, the Sudir
came from the feet
were the lowest in the varna I knew
but when I came to know
that I am a shudra
I didn’t know what it meant …
what implications it had for me.

And moreover
Why do I want something low
when all my life I held my head up
and lived without it
why would I put myself
knowingly down when I was already
fighting a battle of being a
rural, middle class, unhealthy woman?

But no! I was fooled
Fooled to believe that there
is fault in caste- in my caste
and there is urgent need
to believe that we
all are equal
or on the path to equality.
They shut my mouth up
when I was about to declare
my caste to the class
And I wondered why? Is it so bad?
By believing that caste is bad
inequality was swept under the carpet
on which I stumbled now and then.

Life is not as simple as
the theories that I study
My experiences, my positions
are shaped by structures
which are beyond my comprehension
and it is more frightening to know
that I existed into it
without having any knowledge of it
and what havoc it played with me!

Under the guise of equality
we embraced their notions
and fractured ours!

Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS |

कार्डबोर्ड कारावास | Cardboard Incarceration

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Jeanine Leane

Translated from the English to the Nepali by Prakash Subedi

अभिलेख भनिने यो कार्डबोर्डको जेल
चिसो, हावाविहीन, र मृत्युजस्तै निस्तब्ध छ ।
भुइँदेखि छतसम्म चाङ् लगाइएका बाकसभित्र
सुनिन छाडिसके पनि भित्रभित्रै आर्तनाद गरिरहेका
आवाजहरू छन्
अनि छन्
अरूका एक-एक अंश बटुल्न छुटकारा दिने
विज्ञान, इतिहास, मानवशास्त्र वा अरू कुनै त्यस्तै विशिष्ट नाममा
संसारभरका सङ्ग्रहालय र विश्वविद्यालयका छिँडीमा
व्यवस्थाका साथ बन्द गरेर राखिएका
काटिएका शिरहरू र विखंडित विखण्डित शरीरका खुइलिएका हाडहरूजस्तै
देखिन छाडिसकेका, तर
अझै हराइरहेका बन्दी टुक्रा, बिम्ब र स्मृतिका जेलमा गुमनाम अनुहारहरू ।
चाङ् का चाङ् रेकर्डहरूले बताउँछन्
तिमीले कसरी हाम्रा टाउका पश्चिमा गजले एक-एक गरी नाप्यौ
आफ्ना दृश्यरतिक लेन्सले हाम्रो परीक्षण गर्यौ
माइक्रोस्कोपले हाम्रा बच्चाका नङ्हरू नियालेर हेर्यौ
र तिनलाई सार्है पहेँला पायौ
र, हेर्यौ महिलाका योनीभित्र
जहाँ कालो र गोरोको बिचमा देखिने
बुद्धि, उद्यम र बस्ती बसाउनेजस्ता
स्पष्ट अन्तरहरूका बाबजुद
गुलाबको त्यो कोपिला त्यति नै गुलाबी छ जति गुलाब गुलाबी छ ।
हामी कार्डबोर्डका कालकोठरीहरूमा थुनिएका कैदी हौँ
जहाँबाट एकनाससँग काटिएका अनि चिटिक्क पारेर सजाइएका
निर्जीव अक्षरले चित्कार गर्छन् :
यी सेता पन्नामाथि लेखिएको
कालो विषाद पढ ।

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कहानी कहना बडा अच्छा लगता है | Loves to Tell Stories

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Celestine Delvine Rowe

Translated from the English to the Hindi by Rupalee Burke

बडा अच्छा लगता है मुझे
पालक माता के साथ टहेलना।
जानती है वह मुझे, मेरे जीवन, मेरी यात्रा को।
सबसे ज़्यादा पहचानती है वह मुझे।
मुझसे भी ज़्यादा वह मेरे जैविक परिवार को जानती है।
बहुत पसंद है उनहे मेरे बच्चों को बताना
कहानीयां मेरी दादी की और मेरी देखभाल करना उनके हिस्से में कैसे आया।
रेगिस्तान और मेरे बुज़ुर्गों की कहानियां बेहद प्यारी है उनहे।
कैसे हम निकल पडते, खेलते, झाडीयों में शिकार करते।
मेरी कहानीयां बहुत प्यारी लगती है मुझे।
बांटती हुं यह कहानीयां मेरे बच्चो के साथ तब सुनते है बडे चाव से।
चलती गाडी में बंध, बिना संगीत बैठे हुए
धंटो तक एक दुसरे के साथ का आनंद उठाते
एक राज्य से दुसरे तक की सफर के दौरान बनाते है अपनी कहानियां हम।
बडा प्यारा लगता है जिस तरह मेरे बच्चे उसे जकड कर रखते है
जो मुझे पेट पकड कर हसने को मजबुर करते है
बेटा मेरा अकसर जिसकी याद दिलाता है
हसा देते है वह मुझे।
उस समय में रची स्मृतियां
जब थे सिर्फ हम एक दुसरे के पास ।

बहुत ही अच्छा लगता है जब दौड के आती है मेरी बेटी
हसती और कहती हुई मां याद है तुझे उस वक्त जब …
तब स्मृति से ऊभरती है कहानीयां, और याद है यह हुआ, वह हुआ।
यात्रा और संगीत और जगहो की, खाने की और लोगों की कहानीयां।
जब मैं छोटी थी, दुनिया में पैर रखा ही था
एहेम अर्थभरी कहानीयां धारण किए हुए जगहो पर जाती थी।
‘गुंडीगाय’ और ‘डॉग ऑन ध टकर बॉक्स’,
‘रॅडफर्न एन्ड ध टॅन्ट एम्बसी’ की कहानियां सुनकर मैं बडी हुई।
बच्चों के साथ बांटी हुई कहानियों में बायरन बे और ऊलुरु जैसी जगहों
और उनके साथ गए NT, SA, QLD, VIC जैसी जगहों
रेगिस्तान से समुद्रतट, सभी जगहों।

बीच सफर बांटती हुं उनके साथ ताकी जब वह बडे हों
उनके बच्चों के साथ बांटने के लिए कुछ खास हो उनके पास
कहानी कथन में बडी ताकत है।वह उपचारात्मक है और
हृदय स्पर्शी भी और उसकी शुरुआत तब हुई
जब मेरे बच्चों की तरह मैंने देखना शुरु किया था दुनिया को।

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Puppet | કઠપૂતળી

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Priyanka Kalpit

Translated from the Gujarati to the English by Gopika Jadeja

Histories roar within me
at orders
from their fingertips

A puppet,
I dance on
to fill the empty stomachs
of my tribe

I too
have a story to tell
Large as the sea
but
I am merely

a puppet.

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

Lhonak

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Tashi Chophel

Translated from the English original to the Lepcha by Pushpa Choden Thomas Lepcha

Triangulating the contours
It might escape attention
Amongst high passes
And crashing glaciers

Mule trains to Tibet are over
Only soldiers frequent the windswept houses
Seeking forbidden liquor and border gossip
Women would be a bonus

But streams still pass through
Playfully, making horseshoe
Crescent, ellipse
And at times a full stop

A days’ journey north west
Treading on a spread of alpine flowers
Steal a glimpse of exquisite Chomiomo
Behind bearded Khangchen’s jealous back

Nodding yaks point to
A necklace of lakes
Arrayed like water offerings in a chodsom
The afternoon sun makes for a lone butter lamp

Across Dolma’s rickety bridge
And many a weary stride later
Witness a miracle from a low rise
108 streams gush from the lotus born’s strewn beads

Beyond the pass of the morning rays
They say lies a lake and a line of stupas
Where pilgrims arrive to atone
The sin of the bone

On a dry flat plain
the mule suddenly rears
unsaddling a cousin
unhurt but rattled

It always happens here
whispers the muleteer eerily
At these cracks between the
visible and the hidden world.

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

Old Scores: An Occasional Poem for Girrilang

Posted on October 1, 2016 by John Mukky Burke

Translated from the English to the Malayalam by Manarkkal Dasan

aq¶ncp]Xm­pw ]ns¶mcp]¯pw?
Po³ ]dªp
hm¡pIfpsSsbmcp hoXw sh¡Âþ
]ns¶….. Ah D]tbmKn¡q \o ihsa!
sshIrXsat¶m?
AsX, Hcpthf kXyamhmw IfhpamImw,
Po\ns\¡mÄ {]ikvX\msbmcmÄ XÀ¡n¨p.
F´mWv kXyw?
hnävK³ ss̳ ]dªp
‘kwKXn F´pXs¶bmbmepw’
AbmÄ ]dªXv icnbmhmw.
XncsªSp¸v hmkvXh¯n Xpd¶n«ncn¡p¶p.
Cu Øew FhnsSbmWv? kqcy\n \n¶pÅ aq¶mw]mdtbmbnXv?
iq\ymImit¯¡b¨ kzÀ®¯fnIbnt•emWnXv
aq¶ncp]Xm­pIÄ¡v ap¼Ã,
HcmSnsâ Im s]m«n¨t¸mÄ BZyþ
i_vZw \½psS ImetZiss\cy´cy¯neqsS…..
Hcp \nanjw \n¡q,
AsX, XnI¨pw bm{´nIambnt¸mIp¶p.

Hcp \mWbw IqSn B ]m«v b{´¯ntebv¡nSq
Cu ]gbIme lnäv ]m«pIÄ CjvSamWv.
tam¡nwKv t_ÀUv lnÂ
]Xnsb sIm¶p sIm­ncn¡ps¶s¶…..
hnkvXmc¯n sNIp¯ms\, Ipdn¨pÅ AÚXtbm?
ssZh¯n\dnbmw.

BcmWo ]pebmSn hnävK³ ss̳?
GtXm Hcp Ingh³ kzhÀ¤kwt`mKn
X³ an{Xamw kz¶nt\msSm¯v
t\mÀshbn hnt\mZbm{X \S¯nbh³
ho­pw tIw{_nUvPnÂ…… HmIvkvt^mÀUn Xncn¨ph¶h³
AXnse´v Imcyw?
saämen¡m BtemNn¨nÃ…….Bcv sN¿pw?
kcXpkv{S ]dªp
Rm³ {Iqin¡s¸«h³….
AtXm Xsâ hm¡pIsfÃmw XoÀ¶t¸mÄ
{`m´mbn acn¨hsâ aI\mb \otjtbm?
Po\nsâ thZhmIyw
Rms\´mWpt±in¨sX¶v \n\¡dnbmtam
F\n¡v Xs¶ XoÀ¨bnÃ

Hcp Idp¯ Ncn{Xw ]nt¶m«v hfbp¶p, t\mhn¡p¶p
]gbIme¯ntebv¡v …..
ASbmf§fp­mbncp¶hnsS,
bm¦nIfp­mbncp¶hnsS
(AanXt`mKnIÄ) (IW¡ntesd i¼fw ]äp¶hÀ,)
(ChnsS apIfnÂ,)
BcnÃmbncp¶p?
R§sfÃmhcpw htc­n h¶p.
NneÀ IogS§n
A\ytZihn[hIfn hn¯p ]mtI­ Bhiyap­mbncp¶p
]pf¨p hcps¶mcp ]qt´m«hgn
]pXnsbmcp Idp¯ Ncn{X¯ntebv¡v \bn¡p¶p.
\n\¡v am{XaXnsâ, \nKqVX Ipgns¨Sp¡mw.

Ncn{Xsa¶mse´mWv?
Hcp tImi¯n\p]pdsa asämcp t`mKw
FÃmadnbmsa¶v [cn¨v
hnUvVn¯w ]pe¼n ]cnlmkycmhp¶hÀ
“Zn lnÌdn t_mbvkn”se s{]m^kÀamcpsS {]Xn[z\n t]mse
]s£ Abmsfmcp {Iqcamb Imcyw ]dªp
(Nncn¨Xn\v tijw, \n§Ä¡njvSsa¦nÂ)…..
AXmWv \n§Ä¡v Ncn{Xw.
amä§Ä.
]gbXv ]pXnbXmIp¶p.
]pXnbXv ]gbXmIp¶p.
F\n¡v hbÊmhp¶p, Rm³ hbÊ\mIp¶p.

{Sukdn³ ]n³`mKw tatem«p Npcp«n hbv¡pw Rm³
Bcpw ]dbmsX Npcp«n h¨ DuSphgnIfnÂ
Ncn{X¯n³ Nne cmP]mXbnÂ
hÃhsâbpw h­nbn Ibdn DÃmkbm{X sN¿pw
Fs´mcp hr¯nsI« ZpcqlX
AsænÂ, Xpd¶p ]dªmÂ
Rm\Xv FtâXmb hgnbn sN¿p¶p.

Idp¯ Ncn{Xw, Ccp­ Ncn{Xw.
bp²s¯¸än ]dbcpXv!
\osb´pXs¶ sNbvXmepw,
B \in¨ bp²s¯¸än ]dbcpXv.
\o h¶Xv AXv I­p.
h¶p ]ns¶ AXnPohn¨p.
A¶papXÂ Ft¸mgpw bp²w.
an¡Xpw \o t\Sn
Ct¸mÄ AhnsS aq¶ncp]Xm­pw ]ns¶sbmcÂ]hpw ]ns¶
aq¶ncp]Xv apdn¸mSpIfpw ]ns¶sbmcev]hpw.

kv{XoIÄ ho\kn \n¶v
]pcpj³ N{µ\n \n¶v
ho\kv XnI¨pw apdn¸mSpÅhÄ
F¶m aXnbmwh®w ssIIfnÃm¯hÄ
tPm¡v tPmbvkv!

Zb\obw. s_¶äv, Hcp]mSv \µn
“F\ns¡mcp Iq\p­mbncp¶p” F¶ \nsâ \mSI¯n\v.
shfn¨w ImWm³ Ignªp.

C\nbpw F\n¡v ]dbm\pÅ Nne Imcy§Ä,
aänÂUm ]dª `bm\Iamb IfhpIfpw
C\nbpw apgph\mbn ]dbs¸Sm¯ aäp \nKqVXIfpw
D¨¯n hnfn¨p ]dbm\pÅ AhImiansænÂ
]ns¶ Cw¥ojv kmlnXy¯nsemcp _ncpZw F´n\mWv..?

\osjbpsS “D_Àsa³jns\”t¸mse
A[nImc Xzc
\nsâ PohnXw F§s\ t]mIp¶p?
\nâÑs\§s\bp­v?
AsænÂ, \nsâ AÑ\mcv?
aäpÅhcpsS PohnX¯nsâ “»m¦vam³Pns\”¡mÄ
Rms\sâ Ncn{Xs¯ G¡p¶p.

F³Ñsâ `mcybv¡v \à ssÌembncp¶p.
s{^Uns\t¸mse, AbmÄ acn¨p, Ahfpw.
\msaÃmw thK¯n A§s\¯s¶bmhpw.
kplrs¯, kwkmcw sasÃbm¡q.
F´n\v [rXns¸Sp¶p?
\o sshInà kplrt¯ \o hnjant¡­XnÃ.
\nsâ kabsaSpt¯mfq.
\ap¡v A\´amb{Xbpw ]ns¶bpap­v
aq¶ncp]Xpw ]ns¶mcp]¯pw t]mse.

Ioävkv ]dªp, kuµcyw kXyhpw
kXyw kuµcyhpamWv.
AXv am{Xsa \obo `qanbn Adntb­XpÅq.

]gb ]pÅn¡mc\v Ht¶m aqt¶m
Fgp]tXm Adnbmambncp¶p.
Hcp]mSp Imcy§Ä þ
\n\¡pw AXpt]mse Xs¶
clky§Ä ]¦v sh¡m\pÅXÃ
ImcWw \o hfsc IqSpXÂ kq£n¡p¶p
AXpt]mse F\nbv¡pw Fsâ Iq«¡msct¸mse
Aev]w Idp¯ Idp¯ Ncn{Xap­v.
\nsâ `qXIme clky§Ä \nsâ am{XamWv.
]Xnsb \S¡q,
Fsâ kÀÆ apdnthmÀ½Ifpw
Nhn«n¯mgv¯msX AsænÂ
Rm³ acn¨p t]mIpsa¶v tXm¶p¶p.

Cu temIw Xs¶ Hcp \nKqVXbmWv.
Fgp]Xv tImSn IYIfpw…
Ct¸mgpw F®nsIm­ncn¡p¶p. AsX{Xhsc?
\o? Rm³? AhÄ? Ah³? \mamcmWv?
tKmKn³ ]dªt]mse
F§p\n¶v hcp¶p?
FhnsS Xmakn¡p¶p?
FhntSbv¡mWv [rXn ]nSn¨v?
\msaÃmw sImgnªp t]mtI­hÀ
\ndw a§n Idp¸nte¡v
sImgnªp t]mtI­hÀ.

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The Colour Blue | नीला रंग

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Hemlata Mahishwar

Translated from the Hindi to the English by Mridula Nath Chakraborty

blue
blue coloured weals
would form
on body on heart
blows of forced labour and insult

remember?
the pot hanging from the neck
the broom tied to the waist
the rope on the broom
bubbling up drops of blood
just under the skin

green wounds red bruises
turning blue then black
leaving behind their indelible marks
bloodying the mind

though there isn’t today
the rope around the neck
the broom at the waist
the broken-sounding bamboo board
in the hands
but why don’t they go away
those blue marks?

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

untitled poems

Posted on October 1, 2016 by N D Rajkumar

Translated from the Tamil to the English by P Rajani and Rajamanickam Azhagarasan

After gorging a pan full of pig’s blood
and gingili candy
our gods do savage dance,
striking fear and terror.

Like our Gods
We also don’t like that vegetarian curry.



***

Translated from the Tamil to the English by Rajamanickam Azhagarasan

Some forget the past.
But everything still keeps floating before my eyes-

The Hundi coins fixed with shells of the fish
that I caught and sold for the first time;

The nose-ring glittered in the light of the camphor
that I bought by selling the dry fish;

The Amman’s tongue hung-out like the fish-crazy cat
that had tasted the fish kolambu in the temple;
Everything seemed like yesterday.

The last time I met you was
At the festival in the Mandaikkattamman temple
Before that clash.

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged , ,

ବିଶ୍ଵରେ କ’ ଣ ଘଟୁଛି | What in the World

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Kerry Reed-Gilbert

Translated from the English to the Odia by Prabhakar Palaka

ବିଶ୍ଵରେ କ’ ଣ ଘଟୁଛି ଓ କ’ ଣ ଘଟିବାକୁ ଯାଉଛି :

ଯେବେ ମଣିଷ ଅନ୍ୟର ରଙ୍ଗକୁ ଘୃଣାକରି, ତାର ଜାତିକୁ ଧ୍ଵଂସ କରୁଛି ତ
ପୃଥିବୀ ସମ୍ମତି ଜଣାଉଛ,
ଯେବେ ଜନତାଙ୍କ ଦେଶ ଉପରେ ଦାରିଦ୍ର୍ୟ ଓ ନୈରାଶ୍ୟ ସବାର ହେଉଛି,
ଯେବେ ୨୫ ଅଯୁତ ଲୋକଙ୍କ ଆଦର୍ଶକୁ ମୂଲ୍ୟହୀନ ବୋଲି କୁହାଯାଉଛି ,
ଏକ ଚିତ୍ର ର ମୂଲ୍ୟ ଯେବେ ଜଣେ ଶିଶୁର ଜୀବନଠାରୁ ମଧ୍ୟ ମୂଲ୍ୟବାନ ହେଇ ଉଠୁଛି,
ଯେବେ ଅନ୍ୟକୁ ବଞ୍ଚାଇବାକୁ ଯାଇ , ଜଣେ ମା ତାର ନିଜ ଛୁଆକୁ ବିକିଦେଉଛି,
ତେବେ ବିଶ୍ଵରେ କ’ ଣ ଘଟୁଛି ଓ କ’ ଣ ଘଟିବାକୁ ଯାଉଛି ।

ଯେବେ ମଣିଷଗଢା ବୋମା, ରକେଟ ଓ ମହାକାଶଚାରୀଙ୍କ କାର୍ଯକଳାପ
ପୃଥିବୀର ଅକ୍ଷକୁ ଆଘାତ କରୁଛି,
ପୃଥିବୀର ଅସନ୍ତୁଳନ ଯୋଗୁଁ ସୁନାମୀ, ଆଗ୍ନେୟଗିରି ଓ ଘୁର୍ନିବାତ୍ୟା,
ଆମ ମାତୃଭୂମୀ ତଥା ମନୁଷ୍ୟ ଜାତିକୁ ଯେବେ ବିନାଶ କରୁଛି ତ,
ବିଶ୍ଵରେ କ’ ଣ ଘଟୁଛି ଓ କ’ ଣ ଘଟିବାକୁ ଯାଉଛି :

ଯେବେ ମଣିଷ ଧରିତ୍ରୀ ମାଁ ର କାନ୍ଦଣା, ତାର ହୃଦୟର ବେଦନାକୁ ଶୁଣୁ ନାହିଁ ତ
ବିଶ୍ଵରେ ଯାହା ଘଟୁଛି, ହୁଏତ ତାହା ଧ୍ଵଂସ ଆଡକୁ ମୁହାଁଉଛି ।

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

మేమిక్కడున్నాం | We’re Here

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Natalie Harkin

Translated from the English to the Telugu by Joopaka Subhadra

మేము మీ …
వైద్యులమ్ కళాకారులమ్ కవులమ్
మీకు చదువు చెప్పే గురువులము , మీ న్యాయ వాదులమ్
మీ సమాచార సాంకేతిక నిపుణులమ్
మీ పారిశుధ్య కార్మికులమ్ , సంగీతకారులమ్
నటులము , మీ మూల దుకాణాల్లో పనోల్లమ్
బస్సుల్ని నడిపేవాల్లము , భవన నిర్మాణకులం
జీతమ్ లేని వెట్టి వాల్లము
మీ నైడాక్ (NAIDOC) కమిటీ సభ్యులము
మీ పాఠశాలల్లో స్వచ్చంద సేవకులము
మీ ఆదాయ వనరులమ్, నర్సులము
మీ వంట గదిలో ‘ చాయ్ గిన్నె‘ మీది మూతలము
మీ ఇండ్లల్ల పనోల్లం, మీ యిండ్లకు యెట్టి కాపలాదారులము
సైనికులమ్ , క్రీడా నాయకులమ్, ప్రముఖులమ్
సకల వృత్తులకు మేమే ప్రతినిధులమ్
మేము కొంటాము , అమ్ముతాము
కాపాడుతామ్, ఖర్చు బెడ్తామ్

2

మేమిక్కడ వున్నాము
మీ అంతం దాకా మేమిక్కడే
మీ చావు దాకా మేమిక్కన్నే

మేము మీ …
తోబుట్టువుల బిడ్డలము , కొడుకులము
అక్కా చెల్లెండ్లము అన్నదమ్ములము ,
మీ పిల్లల్ని పెంచే ఆయాలము
తండ్రులము , తల్లులము , మరదండ్లము , బావ బామ్మరుదులము
అత్తా చిన్నమ్మలము , మామా చిన్నాయినలము
కొడుకులమ్, కూతుర్లము, దోస్తులము
మీకన్నీ అయినోల్లమ్, మీ పక్కింటోల్లమ్
మీ బండ్లు నడిపేటోల్లమ్, చిట్టి చెల్లెల్లమ్
హిజ్రాలము , ఆడ మగ కలపోతలము , ఎల్జీబీటీలము
మేము పోరాడుతాం , మేము కలలుగంటామ్
మేము ప్రేమిస్తాం , మేము ప్రార్ధిస్తామ్
మేము నవ్వుతాం , ఏడుస్తామ్ , మేము నెత్తురోడుతామ్

3

మేము పురా తరాల్నించి మెరుగవుతాము
మేము కిందకు పడిపోయినము
మేమిక్కడ వున్నాము
మీ చావు దాకా మేమిక్కడే
మీ అంతం దాకా మేమిక్కడే

మేము మీ …
పాటల రచయితలము
నల్ల వారి హక్కుల ప్రచారకులము
రాత్రి క్లబ్బుల్ల ఆడి పాడే వాల్లము , మీ పూల హారాలము
మీ ముసలోల్లకు చాకిరీలు చేసెటోల్లము
మీకు కాఫీలందించే వాల్లము
మీ పొయిలకు వూదు గొట్టాలము
మీ చలి నెగల్లము , మీ వాహనాలము
మీ పర్యటనలకు దారి దీపాలము
మీ నాట్యశాల గానాలము , స్వాతంత్ర్య సమరాలము
మీ చర్చి గంటల నాదాలము

4

అల్ప సంఖ్యాకుల్లో అల్ప సంఖ్యాకులమ్
తళ తళ మెరిసే యీ భూగోళం భిన్నత్వాల చిన్నెలున్నది
ఆ ఏడు రంగుల ఇంద్ర ధనసు దారుల్లో మేము నడుస్తామ్
అప్పుడూ ఇప్పుడూ ఎప్పుడూ మల్లీ మల్లీ
మేము నడుస్తానే వుంటాము
మేమిక్కడ వున్నాము
మీ చావు వరకు మేమిక్కడే
మీ చావు దాకా మేమిక్కడే

నెత్తుటి యాది కతలు , మాట , మట్టి
జెండా ఎత్తుగ ఎగురుతుంది
మేము తలెత్తుకుని నిటారుగా నిలబడ్డాం
ఎడారి , పచ్చిక మైదానాలు , నదులు , సముద్రం
మేము కారుణ్యం తో కదిలాము హుందాగ
మా మానవత్వాన్ని గౌరవించు
మా భిన్నత్వము మా సహజత్వము
ఎప్పుడూ వుండింది , ఎప్పుడూ వుంటుంది

5

మేమిక్కడ వున్నాము
మేమిక్కడే వున్నాము

మూలం ; నటాలీ హార్కిన్
తెలుగు అనువాదం ; జూపాక సుభద్ర

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

That Is Where Life Resides! | જગનૂઠ ત તેઠ જ!

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Mahendra Patel

Translated from the Kunkana to the English by Rupalee Burke

Limbe panting at the fourth step of the stairs
How he once roved hills and vales
Untiringly
No sooner he hit the pillow would he fall fast asleep.
When his wife shook him from slumber
Awake he would
Weighing equal to a four maund male buffalo
With great difficulty
Then
Mumble to himself: Truly!
None there is like me.
Seated at the dining table
Paneer-handi curry to eat
Uncovered basket with parathas in it
Chikus, apples and bread-butter too.
Everything but the heart missing.
Back then Shevla, bhopid, alim, ambadi, vans,
Umbra, anla, keri, karamda, timru
And
Flowers of all hues!
Pockets stuffed with siridoda blossoms
That’s what you would call a feast! Truly health-giving.
Here withered vegetables
Pulses cultivated with chemical fertilisers and rotting fruits
This is what makes the doctor proclaim
It is this … It is that …
Eat this … Drink that …
No way comparable to the bhagats, our own medicine-men
No matter what sickness, they cured without a fee
This mop of hair, do you see?
White as white can be
While
Rinsing hair with sticky mud
Those elders there bearing no trace of age!
Cannot think of sitting without a chair
Whereas yoking male buffaloes elders plough the fields!
Sweetness of ice-cream pales when it comes to
Goat milk thickened with drops of the karvat tree
Thoughts come by the dozen
Thoughts … Thoughts …
Shrugging them off, had barely put on the television
When
Not the television, wifey said:
Will need money, the roof is leaking.
Oh God …
How much can one earn?
There is no hunger! Yet no happiness!
One life, a million worries
Roof of teak leaves elders made in no time
In return for a meager charge.
Haunted by a host of thoughts … Sleep eluded the eyes
Memories of teacher arose in my mind
If you do not complete your work I will drive you out, he would say.
How much work I have accomplished yet no compassion-love.
Hard as stone are people here
None to call our own even within family
Feeling drowsy while turning sides
Fell asleep.
Trin trin rang the doorbell
Who is it? Wifey answered the doorbell.
Oh … Mother … Father … Mother-in-law …
Limbe sprang up from his bed
Why Mother … Father …
Indigestion … Digested …
Pain … Cured …
Mother had brought food tied in a bundle
Knot was undone
Ate to heart’s content
Then
Burping aloud
Wiped his mouth with his mother’s sari
Much like a bubble
In a hushed tone
Muttered: I am full!
That is where life resides!!!

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

To Progress | આગલા વાદાઁ

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Jitendra Vasava

Translated from the Dehwali to the English by Gopika Jadeja

When I read my poetry
In our language
In the raga of my ancestors

They look beneath my mouth
Clap enthusiastically
for a few moments

But in order to understand
They ask me to speak
In their language
I cannot dissolve my life
In their language
And explain it to them.

So they teach me their language
To write in, sing in
And explain:
If you want to progress
You will have to
Or else—

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

ਕਾਲਾ ਸੋਚਣਾ * ਕਾਲਾ ਬੋਲਣਾ * ਕਾਲੀ ਔਰਤ ਹੋਣਾ | Thinking black * Talking black * BEING BLACK WOMAN

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Sue Stanton

Translated from the English to the Punjabi by Raj Paul Sandhu

ਲੋਕ ਅਕਸਰ ਪੁੱਛਦੇ ਨੇ।
ਜਦੋਂ ਤੂੰ ਕਹਿੰਦੀ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਤੂੰ ਇੱਕ ‘ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ’ ਹੈ, ਇਸਦਾ ਕੀ ਮਤਲਬ ਹੈ ?
ਆਦਤਨ ਇਹ ਸਵਾਲ ਵਾਈਟਫੈਲਾ ਗੋਰੇ ਹੀ ਪੱੱੁੱਛਦੇ ਨੇ।
ਅਤੇ ਫ਼ਿਰ ਉਹ ਮੇਰੇ ਮੁੰਹ ਵਲ ਵੇਖਦੇ ਨੇ ਅਤੇ ਸੋਚਦੇ ਨੇ ‘ਪਰ ਤੂੰ ਤਾਂ ਸਾਡੇ ਵਰਗੀ ਗੋਰੀ ਹੈ। ਜਰਾ ਵੇਖੋ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਇਸ ਵਲ, ਇਸਦਾ ਰੰਗ ਗੋਰਾ ਹੈ, ਅਤੇ ਮੁੰਹ ਤੇ ਝਾਈਆਂ ਨੇ’।
‘ਅਤੇ ਇੱਕ ਹੋਰ ਗਲ ਵੀ ਸ਼ਰਤੀਆ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਉੱਤਰੀ ਇਲਾਕੇ ਦੀ ਕਿਸੇ ਦੂਰ ਦਰਾਜ਼ੀ ਨਦੀ ਕੰਢੇ, ਅੰਬ ਦੇ ਰੁੱਖ ਹੇਠ ਪੈਦਾ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੋਈ ਲਗਦੀ’।
ਉਹ ਇਹ ਵੀ ਸੋਚ ਰਹਿ ਹੋਣਗੇ, ਕਿ ਇਹ ਸਿਡਨੀ ਜਾਂ ਮੈਲਬੋਰਨ ਦੇ ਕਿਸੇ ਤੱਪੜ ਇਲਾਕੇ ਵਿੱਚ ਜਨਮੀ ਨਹੀਂ ਲਗਦੀ।
‘ਤੇ ਇਸ ਕੋਲ ‘ਨਸਲ ਚੋਰੀ’ ਦੀ ਕੋਈ ਕਹਾਣੀ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੋਵੇਗੀ ।
ਐਪਰ ਬੁਝ ਕੀ ਗੋਰੇ। ਅੱਵਲ ਤਾਂ ਮੈਂ ਤੇਰੀ ਰਿਣੀ ਹਾਂ ਕਿ ਤੂੰ ਮੇਰਾ “ਰੰਗ” ਵੇਖ ਲਿਆ ਹੈ। ‘ਤੇ ਤੂੰ ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ਸਹੀ ਹੋਵੇਂ ਮੇਰੇ ਜੰਮਣ ਭੂਮੀ ਬਾਰੇ। ਹਾਲਾਂਕਿ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਵੀ ਨਹੀਂ ਪਤਾ ਕਿ ਮੈਂ ਕਿੱਥੇ ਜੰਮੀ ਸਾਂ।
ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ਮੈਂ ਕਿਸੇ ਪੁਰਾਤਨ ਅੰਬ ਹੇਠ ਪੈਦਾ ਹੋਣ ਦੀ ਕਹਾਣੀ ਘੜ ਲਵਾਂ ਯਾ ਫ਼ਿਰ ਗੁੰਦ ਲਵਾਂ ਕੋਈ ਗਾਥਾ, ਕਿਸੇ ਦੱਖਨੀ ਮਹਾਨਗਰ ਦੇ ਤੱਪੜ ਇਲਾਕੇ ਦੀ ਕਿਸੇ ਗੰਧੀਲੀ, ਭੀੜੀ ਗਲੀ ਵਿੱਚ ਪੈਦਾ ਹੋਣ ਬਾਰੇ।
ਨਹੀਂ ਤਾਂ ਫ਼ਿਰ ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ‘ਨਸਲ ਚੋਰੀ’ ਬਾਰੇ ਕੋਈ ਕਹਾਣੀ, ਜੋ ਕਿਸੇ ਮੌਕੇ ਤੇ ਸੂਤ ਬਹਿ ਸਕੇ।
ਐਪਰ ਸੱਚ ਤਾਂ ਇਹ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਮੈਂ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਨਸਲ ਦੀ ਇਕ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਹਾਂ।
ਮੇਰੀ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਬੰਸਾਵਲੀ ਵਿੱਚ ਮੇਰੀ ਪਹਿਲੀ ਮਾਂ ਮਿਮਬਿਂਗਲ, ਛੇ “ਦੂਜੀਆਂ” ਮਾਵਾਂ, ਦੋ ਨਾਨੀਆਂ, ਦੋ ਪੜਨਾਨੀਆਂ, ਦੋ ਲੱਕੜਨਾਨੀਆਂ, ਦੋ… ਕੀ ਮੈਂ ਹੋਰ ਗਿਣਦੀ ਜਾਵਾਂ?
ਮੈਂ ਮਿਮਬਿਂਗਲ ਦੀ ਕੁੱਖ ਵਿੱਚੋਂ ਜੰਮੀ ਹਾਂ, ਜਿਸਨੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਕੰਨ ਵਿਚ ਕੂਵਾਰੱਕ (ਗੁੜ੍ਹਤੀ) ਫ਼ੂਂਕੀ ਸੀ।
“ਤਜਾਲਿੰਗਮਾਰਾ, ਲੁਕੜੀਕਾਨ ਪੋਂਗਾ ਤਜੁਦਾ ਲੋਕ ਕੁਰੀਂਦਜੂ”।
“ਤਜਾਲਿੰਗਮਾਰਾ, ਪੋਂਗਾ (ਸ਼ੀਤਾਂਸੂ) ਰੁੱਖਾਂ ਨਾਲ ਘਿਰੇ ਕੁਰਿਂਦਜੂ ਲੋਕ ਦੀ ਕੁੜੀ”।
ਮੇਰਾ ਕਾਲੇ ਬੰਸ ਦਾ ਆਦਰ ਅਤੇ ਐਲਾਨ ਕਰਨਾ ਬਹੁਤ ਜ਼ਰੂਰੀ ਹੋ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਹੈ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਇਹ ਸਿਰਫ਼ ਮੇਰੀ ਨਸਲ ਤੱਕ ਹੀ ਸੀਮਿਤ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ ਬਲਕਿ ਮੇਰਾ ਰੁਤਬਾ, ਮੇਰੀ ਸਾਖ ਅਤੇ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਧ ਇਹ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਆਪਣੀ ਭੋਏਂ ਨਾਲ ਜੋੜਦਾ ਹੈ। ਜਿਸ ਵਿਚੋਂ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਪਹਿਲੇ ਗਰਭ ਨੇ ਜਨਮ ਲਿਆ ਸੀ।
ਮੈਨੂੰ ਇੱਕ ਕੁਂਗਾਰਕਨ ਲੜਕੀ ਰਾਹੀਂ ਇਸ ਦੁਨੀਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਹਾਸਲ ਹੋਣ ਦਾ ਸਬੱਬ ਮਿਲਿਆ ਹੈ।ਉਹ ਕੁਂਗਾਰਕਨ ਲੜਕੀ, ਜਿਸ ਲਈ ਗੁਰਿਂਜੀ ਔਰਤਾਂ ਸਦੀਆਂ ਤੋਂ ਪਵਿੱਤਰ ਇਸ ਰਸਤੇ ਤੇ ਮਾਰਗ-ਦਰਸ਼ਕ ਬਣੀਆਂ ਨੇ ।
ਮੈਂ ਮੰਨਦੀ ਹਾਂ ਕਿ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਰਾਹੀਂ ਇਸ ਦੁਨੀਆਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਆਉਣ ਨਾਲ ਮੈਂ ਇੱਕ ਖ਼ਾਸ ਸ਼ਕਤੀ ਅਤੇ ਗਿਆਨ ਨਾਲ ਭਰ ਗਈ ਹਾਂ।ਕੁਝ ਖ਼ਾਸ ਲੋਕ ਹੀ ਇਸ ਪੈਂਡੇ ਲਈ ਚੁਣੇ ਜਾਂਦੇ ਨੇ।
ਇਹ ਜਨਮ, ਇਹ ਕਾਲ਼ਾਪਨ, ਮੈਨੂੰ ਉਸ ਗਿਆਨ ਨਾਲ ਸਰੋਬਾਰ ਕਰਦਾ ਹੈ, ਜੋ ਸਿਰਫ਼ ‘ਕਾਲ਼ੀਆਂ ਰੂਹਾਂ’ ਦੇ ਅਮ੍ਰਿਤ ਕੁੰਡ ‘ਚੋਂ ਨਿਸਾਰ ਹੁੰਦਾ ਹੈ।ਅਤੇ ਇਹ ਸੁਗਾਤ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨਾਲ ਹੀ ਵੰਡੀ ਜਾ ਸਕਦੀ ਹੈ, ਜਿਹੜੀਆਂ ਰੂਹਾਂ ਇਸ ਸਫ਼ਰ ਤੇ ਤੁਰੀਆਂ ਹੋਣ।
ਕਾਲ਼ੀਆਂ ਔਰਤਾਂ ਵੱਲੋਂ ਮੇਰਾ ਪਾਲਣ ਪੋਸ਼ਣ ਹੀ ਮੇਰੀ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਦਾ ਬਿਹਤਰੀਨ ਤਜ਼ਰਬਾ ਹੈ। ਭੰਗੂੜੇ ਤੋਂ ਪੱਕੀ ਉਮਰ ਤੱਕ ਦੀ ਸਿੱਖਿਆ, ਜਿਸਨੇ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਬਲ ਦਿੱਤਾ, ਤਾਂ ਜੋ ਮੈਂ ਉਸ ਵਾਈਟਫੈਲਾ ਗੋਰੇ ਨਾਲ ਗੱਲ ਕਰ ਸਕਾਂ, ਜੋ ਮੇਰੇ ਰੰਗ ਬਾਰੇ ਸਵਾਲ ਕਰੇਗਾ।
ਮੇਰਾ ਸੱਚ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਹੈ। ਮੈਂ ਗਰਵ ਨਾਲ ਖੜ੍ਹਦੀ ਹਾਂ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਮੈਂ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਹਾਂ।ਮੈਨੂੰ ਮੇਰਾ ਪਹਿਲਾ ਸਾਹ ਇਕ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਕੋਲੋਂ ਮਿਲਿਆ ਸੀ। ਮੈਂ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਵਾਂਗ ਸਾਹ ਲੈਂਦੀ ਹਾਂ, ਅਤੇ ਮੇਰਾ ਅਖ਼ਿਰੀ ਸਾਹ ਇੱਕ ਕਾਲ਼ੀ ਔਰਤ ਵਾਂਗ ਹੀ ਹੋਵੇਗਾ।

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

ਕੇਸ |Hair

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Faye Rosas Blanche

Translated from the English to the Punjabi by Ishmeet Kaur

ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸ ਮੇਰੀ ਪਛਾਣ
ਮੇਰੀ ਜ਼ਮੀਨ ਮੇਰਾ ਮੁਲਕ, ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਦੀ ਤਾਣ ਵਿੱਚ, ਉਹ ਕੇਸ ਜੋ ਮੇਰੀ ਜੜ੍ਹ ਮੇਰੀ ਪਛਾਣ
ਮੈ ਕੇਸਾ ਵਿਚ ਹੱਥ ਫੇਰਦੀ, ਮੌਜ ਵਿੱਚ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਖੇਡਦੀ, ਉਹ ਵੱਟੇਦਾਰ ਰੇਸ਼ਮੀ ਮੁਲਾਇਮ
ਮੈ ਆਪਣੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਵਿਚ ਖ਼ਜਾਨਾ ਚੁਪਾ ਰੱਖਿਆ ਹੈ
ਇੱਕ ਵਾਰ ਮੈ ਆਪਣੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਵਿਚ, ਲੱਕੜ ਦਾ ਕੰਘਾ ਫੇਰੇਆ, ਕੇਸਾ ਦੇ ਚੁੰਗਲ ਵਿਚ ਫਸ ਕੰਘਾ ਝੂਲਦਾ
ਮੈਨੂੰ ਇਹ ਮਹਿਸੂਸ ਹੋਇਆ ਕਿ ਮੈ ਮਹਿਫੂਜ਼ ਹਾਂ
ਮੈ ਕੇਸਾ ਨੂੰ ਉਸ ਨਾਲ ਵਾਹਇਆ
ਤੇ ਆਪਣੇ ਆਪ ਨੂੰ “ਐਂਫ਼ਰੋ” ਢਾਲਇਆ
ਮੈ ਆਪਣੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਨੂੰ ਬਜ਼ਾਰੀ ਰਸਾਇਣ ਲਗਾ ਸਿੱਧਾ ਕਰਨ ਦੀ ਸੀ ਕੋਸ਼ਿਸ਼ ਕਿਤੀ
ਪਰ ਕੁਝ ਵੀ ਸੀ ਨਾ ਹੋਇਆ, ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸ ਰੋਸ਼ ਵਿਚ ਗੁੱਛਿਆਂ ਚ ਡਿੱਗਦੇ
ਉਹਨਾਂ ਦੀ ਜਗ੍ਹਾ ਨਵੇਂ ਨਿੱਕੇ ਨਿੱਕੇ ਤੇ ਝਾੜ ਵਰਗੇ ਕੇਸ ਫੁੱਟੇ
ਮੈ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਗਰਮ ਕੀਤਾ, ਪਰ ਪਾਣੀ ਲਗਾਇਆ ਹੀ
ਉਹ ਪਹਿਲਾਂ ਵਾਂਗ ਹੋ ਗਏ
ਉਹਨਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਮੈ ਬੰਨ੍ਹਿਆ, ਕਸਇਆ, ਮਰੋੜਇਆ, ਤੇ ਰੁਮਾਲ ਵਿੱਚ ਬੰਨ੍ਹ ਇੱਕ ਫ਼ੁੱਲ ਲਾਇਆ
ਉਹ ਸਰਕ ਕੇ ਸਾਹਮਣੇ ਆ ਜਾਣਦੇ
ਬਚਪਣ ਵਿੱਚ ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਦੀ ਨੁਮਾਇਸ਼ ਕੀਤੀ ਗਈ
ਇੱਕ ਦਿਨ ਮੇਰੀ ਟੀਚਰ ਮੇਰੇ ਸਿਰ ਤੇ ਖਲੋ
ਪਿੰਸਲ ਨਾਲ ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਨੂੰ ਪਾਟ ਕੇ ਫ਼ੋਲਣ ਲਗੀ
ਉਸਨੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸਾ ਨੂੰ ਮੈਲੇ ਤੇ ਬਦਬੂਦਾਰ ਆਖ ਨਫ਼ਰਤ ਕੀਤੀ
ਨਫ਼ਰਤ, ਉਹ ਬੇਕਾਬੂ, ਜੰਗਲੀ, ਸਾਹਮਬੇ ਨਾ ਜਾਣ ਵਾਲੇ
ਫੇਰ ਵੀ ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਜਾਣਦੇ ਹਨ, ਤੇ ਮੈਂ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਜਾਣਨਾ ਸ਼ੁਰੂ ਹੀ ਕੀਤਾ ਹੈ
ਮੇਰੇ ਕੇਸ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਮੇਰੇ ਪਿਉ ਮੇਰੇ
ਦਾਦੀ, ਚਚੇਰੇ ਭੈਣ ਭਰਾਵਾਂ, ਤੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਖਾਨਦਾਨ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਜੁੜਦਾ ਹੈ. ਮੈਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਚਾਹੁੰਦਾ ਕਿ ਮੇਰੇ ਵਾਲਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸਿਧਾ ਕੀਤਾ ਜਾਏ, ਕੈਦ ਕੀਤਾ ਜਾਏ
ਮੈਂ ਸਾਡੀ ਦਾਦੀ ਨੂੰ ਵੇਖਦੀ, ਤੇ ਉਸਦੇ ਕੇਸ ਆਪਣੇ ਜੜ੍ਹ ਨਾਲ ਜੁੜੇ ਹਨ
ਉਹ ਖ਼ੁਬਸੂਰਤ ਹੈ
ਮੈਂ ਸਾਡੀ ਦਾਦੀ ਨੂੰ ਵੇਖਦੀ, ਤੇ ਉਸਦੀ ਰੀੜ੍ਹ ਦੀ ਹੱਡੀ ਵੇਖਦੀ, ਤੇ ਉਸਦੀ ਮੁਸਕਰਾਹਟ
ਮੇਰੀ ਦਾਦੀ ਦੀ ਅੱਖਾਂ, ਮੇਰੀ ਦਾਦੀ ਦੇ ਹੱਥ ਤੇ ਸਭ ਤੋ ਸੋਹਣੀ ਉਸਦੀ ਚਮਕੀਲੀ ਬੇਦਾਗ ਚਮੜੀ
ਮੇਰੀ ਦਾਦੀ
ਅਤੇ
ਮੈਂ ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਸਾਰੀਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਬੁਲਾਉਣਦੀ ਹਾਂ, ਜਿਹੜੇ ਬੋਲਦੇ ਹੋ, ਸੁਣਦੇ ਹੋ
ਇਸ ਜਗ੍ਹਾ ਤੇ ਬੇਬੀ ਸਗਸ ਟੋਨੀ ਮੋਰੀਸਨ ਚ ਆਖਦੀ ਹੈ
ਅਸੀਂ ਮਾਸ, ਮਾਸ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਵਿਲਕਦਾ ਹੱਸਦਾ ਸੱਖਣੇ ਪੈਰ ਬਾਲੂ ਚ ਸਾਡੀ ਜਮੀਨ ਤੇ ਨਚਦਾ
ਮੁਹੱਬਤ ਕਰੋ ਪੈਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਕਰੋ

ਲੱਤਾਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਕਰੋ ਉਹ ਤੁਹਾਡੇ ਸੋਹਣੇ ਸਰੀਰ ਢੋਹਣਦੇ ਹਨ
ਜਿਸ ਨੂੰ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਸੋਚਦੇ ਹੋ ਕਿ ਪਿਆਰ ਨਹੀਂ ਕੀਤਾ ਜਾ ਸਕਦਾ

ਉਹ ਉਥੇ ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਪਿਆਰ ਨਹੀਂ ਕਰ ਸਕਦੇ, ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਆਪਣੇ ਆਪ ਨੂੰ ਆਪ ਹੀ ਪਿਆਰ ਕਰਨਾ ਪਉ

ਆਪਣੀ ਚਮੜੀ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਪਿਆਰ ਕਰੋ, ਆਪਣੀ ਗਰਦਨ ਜਿਹੜੀ ਕੈਦ ਵਿੱਚ ਰਹਿ ਪਾੜ ਦਿਓ
ਆਪਣੀ ਗਰਦਨ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸਮਰਪਣ ਨਾ ਕਰੋ ਪਰ ਸਿੱਧੀ ਕਰ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਦਾ ਸਾਹਮਣਾ ਕਰੋ
ਆਪਣੇ ਹੱਥਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਪਿਆਰ ਕਰੋ ਉਠਾਉ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਦੂਜਿਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਛੂਹੋ

ਆਪਣੇ ਮੂੰਹ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਕਰੋ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਨੇ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਬਦਲਣ ਦੀ ਕੋਸ਼ਿਸ਼ ਕੀਤੀ

ਆਪਣੇ ਮੂੰਹ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਕਰੋ, ਦੇਖੋ ਉਸ ਤੋਂ ਕਿਹੜੀ ਬਾਣੀ ਨਿਕਲਦੀ ਹੈ
ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਜਿਆਦਾ ਆਪਣੇ ਦਿਲ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਕਰੋ ਇੱਕ ਇੱਕ ਸਵਾਸ ਮਹਿਸੂਸ ਕਰੋ

ਇਹ ਕਥਨ ਜਿਸ ਕਰਕੇ ਅਸੀਂ ਜਿਊਂਦੇ ਹਾਂ ਵੱਸੋ ਅਤੇ ਆਨੰਦ ਮਨੋ

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

चौथी दुनिया | Fourth World

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Melissa Lucashenko

Translated from the English to the Hindi by Rekha Rajvanshi

गूरी लड़की, क्यों बैठी हो होठों पर चुप लगाए
अपनी आँखों में जाने क्या रहस्य छिपाए?
पूरी दुनिया के लोग मारपीट में लगे हैं
एक दूसरे को ठगे हैं
तुम कुछ नहीं कहतीं पर कुछ तो घटा है,
तुम्हारे लिए आत्मसम्मान बहुत बड़ा है 


माहौल है ख़ामोशी से भरा,
तुम चुपचाप सुन रही हो कि लड़का कैसे मरा?
क्या सोच रही हो? कुछ नहीं?
पर शब्द शनैः-शनैः लौटने लगते हैं कहीं

कि उसने कैसे तुम्हें निर्वस्त्र किया,
कैसे तुम्हारे पेट में लात मारी
पर शुक्र है उसके पास बन्दूक नहीं थी दुनाली
कि कैसे उसके परिवार ने मार डालने की धमकी दी
और तुम भागी के खुद को बचाना
किसी फ्लैट में कहीं
पर – प्लीज़ – किसी को न बताना

वह सोचता है, सुधर जाएगा
और तुम्हारा मुरी मैन बन जाएगा
जब कि तुम्हें पता है वो दुष्चक्र चलाएगा
आएगा तो फिर मारपीट कर जाएगा
तुम प्रेम करती रहोगी
पर उसे बदल न सकोगी, तुम भी तो हो जानती
तुम सिर्फ चाहती हो – अच्छा घर और शांति

उसने तुम्हें जिस पार्क में छोड़ा
उसका नाम तुम नहीं जानतीं
तुमने नार्थ में कलेक्ट कॉल लगाया,
कहा – ‘आओ
मेरी मदद करो, मुझे दोषी मत ठहराओ’
पुलिस ने तुम्हें शैल गैस स्टेशन पहुँचाया
‘काली कुतिया, सब एक सी हैं’ मन में बुदबुदाया


न टैक्सी का भाड़ा न परिवार,
और तुम बेबस शर्मसार
कुछ हफ्ते पहले ज़ख्म भरे,
पर मुसीबत के पहाड़ टूट पड़े
दो सौ पचपन डॉलर हफ्ते की पगार
दो सौ अड़तालीस का किराया
तीनों बच्चों को यूनिफार्म चाहिए
आज दादी ने बताया


तुम शुक्रवार की रात काम पकड़ लेती हो
और उन्हें पढ़ने का अवसर देती हो
जी जान लगाती हो ज़िन्दगी का भार ढोती हो
पर जब तुम ग़मग़ीन होकर रम पीती हो,
मैं चाहती हूँ रोना
क्या कहूँ बस इतना
कि मौत के हाथों
नहीं चाहती तुम्हें खोना

तुम्हारी नज़र सीधी है, दिल मज़बूत है
और आँखों में साहस है
पर बहन
कभी तो खुद को 
उन्मुक्त करो
और खुले आकाश में ऊँची उड़ान भरो

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

Body Purification

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Basudev Sunani

Translated from the Odia to the English by J P Das

If you can, but once,
fix a bone in your tongue,
stand firm on the ground
and ask yourself:
Which Ganges can clean
my shit-smeared body?
How many stacks
of tulsi leaves
will sanctify me?
How many tons of sandal paste
will deodorize my body?

How do I look
when I clean your sewer tank
taking out bucket loads
of faeces floating
on the water used
for cleaning your bottoms?

How do I look
when I swim breathless
on the water flowing
straight out of your latrines
to clean the sewer depths ?

What do I look like when I pick up
the maggot infested mangy dog
to clean the street
so that your car
can have a smooth drive?

Once,
just one time
guide the pupils of your eyes
towards the sun
and look at me,
and then only can you measure
what strength you carry
in your sinews.

Wherever I am
the place reeks of bad odour.
Your nose snivels;
your mouth retches;
your eyes squirm.
But when I’m sick for a day,
your streets stay unswept;
the latrines choke;
hospitals groan
as patients go on rampage.

Ask your grey cells
but once to explain
what Smriti, Purana,
Intelligence, Education mean.
I’m the one who handles shit
and eats his rice
with the same fingers;
and I’m the one
who knows the difference
between shit and rice.
yet, I don’t know
What Smriti, Purana,
Intelligence and Education are.

I’ve seen it all –
Worms excreted from your innards,
snot and drivel
Thrown up from your mouth,
Blood congealing
On your death bed.

You may scoff and sneer at me,
but when I’m not around,
I know you have
a mental breakdown.

Fix a bone in your tongue
and tell me for once –
how much Ganges, tulsi
and sandal are needed
to purify and sanctify
my shit-smeared body

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

ربیکا کے ساتھ – ٹونی برچ | With Rebecca

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Tony Birch

Translated from the English to the Urdu by Jayant Parmar

اُردو ترجمہ : جینت پرمار

ہم سوچتے ہیں کچرے کے بارے میں کریک کے کنارے چلتے ہوئے اور ہمارے
لڑکھڑاتے قدم جنگلی گھاس کے درمیان سے گزرتے ہیں اور ہم باتیں کرتے ہیں
بچّے ، شوہر اور بیویوں کے بارے میں ، وہ جو کھو گیا ہے
اور کبھی واپس ملنے والا نہیں اور جو ہمارے پاس ہے ، جو کبھی کھونے والا نہیں ہے
اور ہم باتیں کرتے ہیں فٹ بال کی اور کیوں اُسے چاہتے ہیں اور کیوں اُس سے
نفرت کرتے ہیں اور ہم فن کی باتیں کرتے ہیں، گیت گاتے اور نظم گنگناتے
رہتے ہیں اور ہم ساحل پر لوگوں سے ملتے ہیں، جو سانپوں کو کچلتے اور
خرگوش کے پیچھے بھاگتے اپنے کتوں سے پیار کرتے اور اپنے بچوں کو کھینچ کر لے جاتے ہیں ۔
ایک ساتھ بیٹھ کر ناشتہ بانٹتے ہیں اور اپنے بچّوں کے
بارے میں زیادہ باتیں کرتے ہیں اور فکر کرتے ہیں موسم کی اور اُن
لوگوں سے ملتے ہیں جو زمیں کو آگ لگاتے ہیں اِس اُمید میں کہ زمیں نرم ہوگی،
اور دھوپ ڈھلتے ہی کہتے ہیں ’الوداع‘ یہ جانتے ہوئے کہ ہمیں کچھ کرنا باقی ہے،
یہ کبھی نہ سمجھتے ہوئے کہ وہ کچھ کیا ہو سکتا ہے اور دِن ڈھلتے ہی تارے
نکل آتے ہیں ہم میں اُمید کی کرن لے کر ، ہمارے لئے صرف ایک ہی سوغات ہے ،
ہم جو کر سکتے ہیں، اور جو صرف یہی کر سکتے ہیں ، تو ، مَیں اور بچّے اور کتے ،
سانس لینا اور سانس نکالنا – باربار

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

The Penile Purana of a Cripple | ವಿಕಲಾಂಗ ಪುರುಷನ ಶಿಶ್ನ ಪುರಾಣ

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Ravichandra Chittampalli

Translated from the Kannada to the English by Ravichandra Chittampalli

Spring arrived under hot sun
The flower never blossomed
Upon the Mango tree swung the dead
Neither the cuckoo could voice nor the Spring show face
In the company of the formless
Can a sweet rendezvous possible?

Under the watch of false genesis and empty myths
The body called body grows into a yoni
The yoni becomes an eye, then a stone for the history of a cursed genital
A line of thorns

Wherever one turns are faceless men
The genitals of the cripple shout
“Your limbs excite us”
Poor souls! The know not, Shiva, please forgive them!
The genitals of the formless disgust us
The weapons that “bobbit the penis” are being sharpened
May there never arise an unhealthy environment.

The humane discourse of women
The barbaric taint of unknown history
The speech of the mind is the innard of those with a mind
It is an art to affiliate the mind
Rape is the expression of weakness
Of a man who can never get a woman’s affection
Tche! Did poetry grow wordy?
But how can rape produce a different tone?
It is beyond softness.

That day
Draupady asked
Will women love if offered riches and gold?
Today
We have not yet found answer
To the open invitation of women from Manipur
The penis is eyeless, mindless, it is not full bodied
The bodiless can never come face to face

In the festival of mating in private
In the fear of sowing the juice of arrogance
They attack
What meaning can be assigned to an unwanted mating?
The secret of the peacock dancing with its unfurled feathers
Filled with colours in its hundred eyes
Should become the song of this land

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(लहान मुलांवर लैंगिक संबंध लादणाऱ्या व्यक्तीला उद्देशून…. ) तुला कधी पश्चात्ताप झाला ​का? | Did You Have any Regrets? (Ode to a paedophile)

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Marie Munkara

Translated from the English to the Marathi by Urmila Pawar

काय विचार करत होतास तू
जेव्हा तुझं आयुष्य संपत आलं
तुझ्या हृदयाच्या अंतिम ठोक्यापर्यंत?
या बद्दल विचार केलास तू
कधीतरी …

काय तू त्या चोरलेल्या क्षणासाठी व्याकुळ झालास
ते शब्द …
जे तुझी इच्छा पुरी करण्यासाठी फुसफुसलास (माझ्या कानात)
आठवतात तुला ते?
कारण मला आठवतात

तुला कधीतरी वाटलं का
की त्या तृष्णेनं तुझ्यावर आक्रमण केलं नसत
आणि तुला बेडी घातली असती
किंवा तुझ्याकडे असं काही पुरेसं नव्हत का
ज्याने भरून काढला असता तुझ्यातला रितेपणा

तुला कधी पश्चात्ताप झाला का?
मला विचार पडतो
मला खंत वाटते
की मला कधीच संधी मिळाली नाही
तुला क्षमा करण्याची
तू या जगातून जाण्यापूर्वी

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The Musty Pool of Expectations | अपेक्षांचं कुबट थारोळं

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Pradnya Pawar

Translated from the Marathi to the English by Krishna Kimbahune

These sorrows have been blocked
in my blood vessels for so long …
I cannot even breathe properly
Life has got so confined

All my replicas-
wife, mother, beloved, friend
that I lived, with all my flesh and blood, intensely
from the bottom of my heart-
make faces at me now, violent, ferocious

‘Why didn’t you go for a revolutionary end?’
‘Keep writing like a woman!’
‘You must keep the prism of Buddhism in mind’
‘Why write bitter to this extent?
Try some romantic mode!’

I happen to listen to the voices
Anytime… anywhere…
Right under the sun
In the night, in the late nights even
On roads
In solitude
On a platform
Or
In dreams

This musty pool of expectations, accumulated for so long,
Continuously trickles
and
Stinks to no end

What freedom of choice?
It is the crystal
Glittering and rare
That eludes my hands.

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વરુઓ  | The Wolves

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Tara June Winch

Translated from the English to the Chaudhari-Bhili by Roshan Chaudhuri on the basis of Rupalee Burke’s Gujarati translation of the original

ફંડાણે આગે રાખણેં મત્થી
કામાલી ફુય, તીયણેં બડા વઅ્લે તક્તો ફેરુવતી, અંતર નેઅ્તા
એખુનતામાં એય! મુરાખ, કાંય ઉગ્તઅ્ કાયની. વાડલેઅ્ માને તીયાય ખુચ્સો આપ્યો
ને ઓહુરતો દરયોઅ્. વિમાનણાં વરાલ-લીટાણોં મીંજ્હાયનો રંગ તો રતવા.
કતરો બધોઅ્ વખાત્ હોય ગોવાઅ્
ગામણઅ્ સાળવઅ્ કચરઅ્-જીવજનાવારઅ્, જાતિણેં, નિલગીરાય સાળવઅ્ હેદીનઅ્
અતરો લાબો વખાત કા મય નામ હું વિહરાય ગય હાસામ્
બાખું રીબાતઅ્ વિલો સાળવાય મયેં હેદજઅહ્ ને સંય-રજઅ્
ચકઅ્, ચક, ફુભરઅ્, ખહ્તઅ્ ગાબી કા દયાલા દરયેથઅ્
મુંગઅ્ ઈસારો કરતાં ગાયળેણાં પાટા.
૩૦ દીહીણેં જો મય બનાવી હક્તી હોત ખાલી
ફીરીન્ ને ફીરીન્ ને ફીરાન્
જો મય ખાલી હુગંધ વિહરાય્ હકતી હોત્
આકરીઅ્ અતરી કા તે હવાદ બની જાતીયા
અમોનિયાણોં, સલફરણોં કા
ગમકોટન
જો એક ડાલખઅ્ પુંગી જાતઅ્ હોય મારે માંહા ખાલી
જાણેં હવાય મથાકણાં કેરુસલ પેંહેંથઅ્ તીયાણો સામાન પાસો મેલુવણેં
તેં મય વિદાય નેય હકતી.

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Posted in 76: DALIT INDIGENOUS | Tagged ,

(My) Uncle’s Bullock-cart | Mamageli Boilam Gaddi

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Pobre Fernandes

Translated from the Konkani to the English by Walter Menezes

Here’s my uncle’s bullock-cart
Powered by Mhalu and Balu, ever smart

The bells around their neck
Awakening villages along the track
Through dense forests and flora
Of the Pandavas of another era
Go, Balu, go!
Go, Mhalu, go!
To Chandarwadi1 the cart is headed

Here’s my uncle’s bullock-cart …

The smell of the harvest
Mounds of paddy on the threshing floor
The cart is loaded with sacks
One upon another, neatly stacked
Go, Balu, go!
Go, Mhalu, go!
The cart gathers the entire crop

Here’s my uncle’s bullock-cart …

There is this competition
And uncle secures the hook in position
He whips up the nose-rings
The moment the whistle screams
Go, Balu, go!
Go, Mhalu, go!
Prizes galore for the speeding cart

Here’s my uncle’s bullock-cart …

It is now dusk
But uncle is still at task
He summons all
Children big and small
Go, Balu, go!
Go, Mhalu, go!
The cart goes for a trip across

Here’s my uncle’s bullock-cart …

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