Vulgar worship

We had pinned high hopes on Mayavati’s rise to eminence as a Dalit leader. Her being elected as chief minister of Uttar Pradesh re-fuelled our hopes that another great Dalit leader had risen on the Indian horizon. However, our hopes were cruelly belied. Success went to her head and she began to indulge in delusions: “If I can become chief minister of the largest state in the country, nothing can stop me from becoming the prime minister of India.” She began to amass real estate in UP and Delhi, deck herself in expensive jewellery, have a fleet of aircraft, including a helicopter, for her personal use. A helicopter and a private plane are understandable for one who has to cover long distances to fulfil her duties, but luxury planes are not. She mocked people like Rahul Gandhi for staying in Dalit homes and eating with them as if Dalits were her monopoly. And worst of all were her lopsided priorities. Parks and monuments came first. Then came dozens of marble statues of Baba Sahib Ambedkar, Kanshi Ram and herself. Erecting one’s own statues is nothing less than self-worship of the most vulgar form. She says that these monuments will become places of pilgrimage and inspire people. If there are any pilgrims, she will be the only one. If they inspire anyone, she will be the only one to be inspired. It never occurred to her that each one of these statues and the innumerable elephants in black stone could have given the poor a hundred village schools and clinics. If any of her minions dared to tell her not to go forward, he was fired or transferred. She did not want honest advisers but yes-men who endorsed whatever she wanted to do: “Jee hazoor, chief minister sahiba, your wish is our command.”

There can be little doubt that Mayavati has dug her own grave. To cap it all, she denounced Mahatma Gandhi as a natakbaz — who made it a point to stay in bhangi colonies in different cities only to enact a drama. He was in fact the first to rouse the country’s conscience against the indignities our forefathers had inflicted on Dalits. To describe him as a dishonest play-actor is an unpardonable act of arrogance for which no Indian will forgive her.

One way a nonentity can get notoriety is by abusing a national icon. It is like spitting at the sky. It will only fall back on the spitter’s fact.

Dreams are like dry flowers

Ahmed Faraz died last August in Chicago. He was in his sixties. He was born in Nowshera and educated in Peshawar University. Like Faiz Ahmed Faiz, he was a frequent visitor to India and a great draw at mushairas. I have happy memories of evenings we spent together in Islamabad and Delhi. He had a great deal in common with Faiz. They both experimented with new forms of poetry, were fiercely opposed to dictatorships, and were put in jails for their defiance of authority. Both sought asylum abroad, but never compromised. And both were hard drinkers and chain smokers.

Despite knowing Faraz over the years, most of his poems I was familiar with were those sung by Mehdi Hasan. His melodious voice made many poets into literary celebrities. In the case of Faraz, it was Mehdi’s rendering of “Ranjish hee sahee” and “Ab ke hum bichhrey toh shayad kabhi khwabon mein miley,/ Jis tarah sukhey huey phool kitabon mein miley (Next time we meet will be in our dreams, like dry flowers preserved in the pages of books)” that made his name. So I was happy to read some of his poems. I was not aware of an anthology of the selected poems of seven poets recently published, entitled Masterpieces of Urdu Poetry — Gul-e-haft Rung, compiled and translated into English by Amar Dehlvi. One short poem, “Vapsee (return)” specially attracted my attention. It is in two parts, the first about the break- up of lovers and the second about the yearning for a re-union. I did my own translation: “Usne kaha, ‘Sunn,/ Ehad nibhaney ki khatir mat aana/ Ehad nibhaney valey aksar/ Majbooree ya mehjooree ki thakan se lauta karte hain.’” (“She said, ‘Listen to me/ Don’t comeback only to keep your word/ People who stick to their promises often do so/ Because they feel they must, or being tired of loneliness decide to return to their old love.’”)

Then come the lines yearning for the lover’s return: “Tum jao, aur darya darya pyaas bujhao/ Jin aankhon mein doobo, jis dil mein bhi utro/ Meri jalan aavaaz na degi/ Lekin jab meri chaahat/ Aur meri khwaish ki lao/ Itnee tez aur bhi oonchee ho jaaye/ Jab dil ro de/ Tab laut aanaa.” (“Now you go and slake your thirst in every river/ No matter whose eyes captivate you,/ I will not let my jealousy speak out,/ But when my love for you gathers stormy heights,/ And makes your heart cry out for me/ Then come back to me.”)

Written in blood

A medical student wrote a love letter in blood to a fellow girl student, ending with, “You must reply, otherwise I’ll die.”

The girl replied, “Your blood group is B positive.”

(Contributed by Rajeshwari Singh, Delhi)