Cry To Waris Shah During Partition (1947)
Today, I ask of you this, Waris
Shah.
That you answer from the grave.
And open the next chapter to the
book of love.
In times gone by, a daughter of
Punjab wept.
You wrote endless songs of
lamentations for her.
Listen! Today, millions of
daughters
Are crying out to you, Waris
Shah.
Listen! Rise up, you sympathizer
of suffrages!
Rise up and look at your Punjab!
This day, grazing fields are replete
with the deceased.
And the River Chenab is brimming
with blood.
Someone must have infected the
five rivers,
And that contaminated water
irrigates the lands.
Each and every pore of that
fertile land ejects enmity.
Sky has turned bloodstain
crimson
And is erupting acrimoniously.
A toxic wind runs through every
forest.
That wind’s toxicity
transforming
Every bamboo flute into a hooded
serpent.
Upon first biting the snake
charmer,
All mantras afterwards lost
their charm.
What of the second bite?
As people drank the venomous
water,
They evolved into snakes.
Then, sting after sting,
The limbs of Punjab turned blue with
venom.
Songs from the streets split.
Dresses were unraveled as
Girls left their friends’ play
gatherings.
Humming of the spinning wheel
stopped.
Nuptial beds became castaway
boats.
The swing of innocence came
crashing down
When the pipal tree branch
broke.
Listen! The place where the
flute
Played melodies of love
Has lost its song:
The dashing brothers of Ranja
Having lost the touch
Of how to play the flute.
Instead, blood rained on the
earth
And graves oozed blood.
The spirits of dead princesses
Wailed in the graveyard.
Listen! Today, all men became
Evil and villainous,
Robbers of beauty and love.
Today,
Where must we search for another
Waris Shah?
Today, I ask of you this, Waris
Shah.
That you answer from the grave.
Amrita Pritam (31 August 1919 –
31 October 2005)
Translated from the Punjabi by
M.S. Alverston, 08/18/11.
“Tomato Ketchup:
The Condiment”
In our region of the world,
A woman who writes poetry
Is considered strange.
Every man presumes that he is the
person
Being addressed in her poetry.
And since that is not true,
He becomes hostile towards her.
Sarah Shugfta, in this sense, made
less enemies,
Because she did not believe in giving
explanations:
Before she could become the
designated wife of a writer,
She had become the sister-in-law of
all mankind!
Even the worthless and lowest of men
claimed that
She had slept with them.
Morning until evening, jobless male
scribes buzzed
About Sarah Shugfta.
Even men who had jobs
Would leave their stinking files
And worn out wives
To come to Sarah Shugfta.
Leaving behind electricity bills,
Children’s school fees,
And wives’ medicines,
For these were the problems,
Only concerns for the trifling
bipedal.
All day, all evening, and through the
late night,
Heated discussions would take place
On literature and philosophy,
And when hunger struck,
With joint money contributions,
Chickpea curry and naan were gotten
From the corner vendor.
Great intellectuals then,
Requesting her for tea,
Began to praise Sarah Shugfta:
“Wow! You are our Amrita Pritam!”
The naïve girl would be very pleased,
Thinking the praises as the truth.
Perhaps there was some reasoning
behind
The men’s praises: Those who were
Responsible for supporting her
Always served Sarah Shugfta
Kafka’s coffee and Neruda’s biscuits.
Due to these saliva-soaked
compliments,
She was, at least, able to secure a
meal.
But for how long?
One day
When
She was able to free herself
From the wolves’ clutches,
Sarah Shugfta left the jungle and
died.
As long as she had lived,
Appreciators of art kept gnawing her.
In their crony congregation,
She is still savored,
The only difference being
That after her death, they can no
longer
Take bites of her.
Now she has the status of tomato
ketchup!
Condiment for spicy desires.
Parveen
Shakir (24 November 1952 - 26 December 1994)
Translated from the Urdu by
M.S. Alverston, 02/26/11.
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