Culture & Society

Poems: ‘Thakur Ka Kuan’ And ‘Born and Raised in Bambai 17’

Through 100 pages of 'Poetry as Evidence', Outlook presents a selection of poems and verses that have moved us, and we feel these serve as evidence of our bleak times and lives. The poems below are the 41st and 42nd from the series.

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Farmers staging a ‘Zameen Satyagrah’ near Jaipur in 2017 to protest against the forced acquisition of their land by the government
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Thakur Ka Kuan (Thakur’s Well)

चूल्हा मिट्टी का 
मिट्टी तालाब की 
तालाब ठाकुर का। 

भूख रोटी की 
रोटी बाजरे की 
बाजरा खेत का 
खेत ठाकुर का। 

बैल ठाकुर का 
हल ठाकुर का 
हल की मूठ पर हथेली अपनी 
फ़सल ठाकुर की। 

कुआँ ठाकुर का 
पानी ठाकुर का 
खेत-खलिहान ठाकुर के 
गली-मुहल्ले ठाकुर के 
फिर अपना क्या? 
गाँव? 
शहर? 
देश? 

The stove is made out of mud
The mud is from the pond
The pond belongs to thakur
The hunger is for the roti
The roti is made of bajra
The farm belongs to the thakur
The ox belongs to the thakur
The plough belongs to thakur
The hands on the shaft of the plough are ours
The harvest belongs to thakur

The well belongs to thakur
The water belongs to thakur
The crops and the fields belong to thakur
The lanes that run through these neighbourhoods belong to thakur
Then what is ours?
The village?
The city?
The nation?

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­—Translated by Rakhi Bose

Om Prakash Valmiki, Uttar Pradesh

(Om Prakash Valmiki, one of the doyens of Hindi literature, is renowned for his autobiographical works such as Joothan. His collections of poetry and prose highlight the deep-seated injustices perpetuated by the caste system in India.)

Born and Raised in Bambai 17

At the mouth of the world,
I ache for nothing but the feeling of being swallowed
In the slow, changing colours of the twilight
I saw God from the local train passing over the bridge
They were tailoring curtains
No third eye or big hands
Just crow wings & burnt skin spread across the sky
I prayed to them for their seeping light
in my veins and my pericardium
They sang to the drumbeats
Come find me at jaatara where pioneers meet their death
where you last confided in Begum’s eyes
where all your brothers descend
where the hearts turn as soft as entrails under the knife
Through the city noise of honking and revving,
from the narrow alleys of Dharavi chawls,
a dirge of birds migrated with the sound of Azan

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O how full of holes and yet so heavy

Shripad Sinnakaar, Maharashtra

(Shripad Sinnakaar is a poet and a researcher from Mumbai. His poems have appeared in The White Review, Dalit Art Archive and Mumbai Urban Art Festival, and are translated in Telugu and Marathi. He runs a literary project called Flamingos in Mithi. He is working on his forthcoming collection of poems.)

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