Process

Where was I
when everyone was cheering?
I too was there,
cheering,
fearing the consequence
of silence,
        like everyone else.

What did I do
when everyone said,
we’re Hindus,
        Muslims like Aziz
        are our enemies?
I too agreed,
I’m a true Hindu,
        Aziz is my enemy.

What did I say
when everyone murmured,
keep your mouth shut,
        silence is safe?
I too concurred,
don’t risk words
since words betray,
        say
only what the others say.

The cheering is over now,
Aziz has been lynched,
the mouths are silent.

        Aghast,
everyone asks,
how could this have happened?
And I,
        like everyone else,
repeat the question.
How did this happen?
        Why?

Khyber

There’s room enough on earth for everyone—
saying this, the noise died down
and joined the feast.
For years I wrote lost in error
and came to see
there was no other tongue.

Fame and the lure of carrying all before me
brought me to the place where I found
nothing
(armies have crossed the Jhelum,
trampling on the dreams of others,
or is this my delusion?)

except this celebration, in a phantom world set up by scoundrels
freed of the burden of virtue and sin,
of action, inaction.

Any day it can change, any day,
there’s hardly any difference—
in the language in which their slogans are printed
we have poems.
Two-bit Time says to me,
live with integrity.
It never ends
(far into the distance you can see
the trail of Alexander’s footprints),

stop it if you can, stop the universe, stop
the accursed momentum
that dreamt of passing down the streets of Paris,

stop these screams
that had to arise in Howrah, in Sealdah,
entering and leaving
the countless offices of death.

They will come again this way, the Ionians, in search of the key
to the puzzles of geometry,
this time in space-age camouflage,
women sit watching the way
(whoever among us is a warrior
is free to leave),

opposing no one and nothing, yet opposing all.
The ethics of war
can go to hell—
and they, who’ve come with plans to conquer
a mansion ready to topple down.
Burdwan! Burdwan! Just three bucks per passenger to Burdwan!

The solutions that were possible are done with now,
only the desire is left—
in every scheme of things there’s sorrow and strife.
For what are you laying a new foundation stone?

Babur, returning once more to Samarkand,
pauses to pray for a moment, and then
nothing,
whether you come or go through Khyber,
there’s hardly any difference.

Babur and Samarkand

Samarkand remains on Babur’s way,
and Babur on the way to Samarkand.

        At frequent intervals
                he asks,
        ‘How much further still to Samarkand?’
        Babur’s question finds
        no answer anywhere.

        The air, ascending, shimmers overhead,
        underfoot, the earth
                is dust,
        his horse, oblivious, remains absorbed
        in plodding on.
                Babur screams,
        ‘How much further still to Samarkand?’
        No answer anywhere—
                only Babur’s horse
        whinnies, whines.

        The news of his arrival has arrived
        ahead of him,
                the streets are dense
                with crowds,
        Babur parts the crowds and passes down the streets.
        ‘For Allah’s sake’,
                he pleads,
        ‘how much further still to Samarkand?’
        His question winds
        back through the air to him.

        Babur goes down on his knees,
        stops short
                as he sees
        the city and the city’s domes
        rise before his eyes,
                and cries,
        ‘Samarkand! my Samarkand!’

        Passing close to him,
        Prince Shaharyar
                murmurs to the king,
        ‘Samarkand’s been left behind’.

Samarkand remains on Babur’s way,
and Babur on the way to Samarkand.

Anonymous in Avanti

Will it make any difference
if I say,
I don’t belong to Magadh,
I belong to Avanti?

It will certainly make a difference.
Everyone will assume
that you belong to Avanti,
you’ll have to forget Magadh.

And you,
you won’t be able to forget Magadh.
You’ll spend a lifetime in Avanti
and still won’t be able
to get acquainted with Avanti.

Then over and over again
you’ll say,
I don’t belong to Avanti,
I belong to Magadh,
and no one will believe you.
You’ll whine,
“I’m telling the truth,
I belong to Magadh,
I don’t belong to Avanti,”

and it won’t make a difference.
No one will believe
that you belong to Magadh,
and you won’t be recognized
in Avanti.

Coming and Going

Whenever he went
from Kosal to Magadh,
on the way back
from Magadh to Kosal
everyone asked him the same thing—

are you going
from Magadh to Kosal,
or are you coming
from Kosal to Magadh?

He tried to evade the question
by saying,
What difference will it make?

But some questions
can’t be evaded—
especially when we pass
so often
through Kosal on our way to Magadh,
through Magadh on our way to Kosal.

The most important question
is this—
Where are you going?

Then the question—
Who are you looking for
in Kosal and Magadh?

And then—
Will Kosal come first
or Magadh?
The fact is
that no one knows.
Why does he go
from Magadh to Kosal,
from Kosal to Magadh,
over and over again?

Why does he repeat
the same scenes
over and over again?

Why does he shout
slogans for Kosal
while passing through Magadh,
against Magadh
while passing through Kosal?

On the broken bastions of Kosal,
why does he raise
the tattered flags of Magadh?

When there’s no answer
from anywhere,
he too joins the ranks
of those who catch hold
of every passer-by and ask—

Are you on your way
to Magadh through Kosal,
or are you on your way
to Kosal through Magadh?

(Translated from the original Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker.)