2013

Sualehs Works
PROSE & POETRY, EXCERPTS FROM LONGER WORKS
A COMPILATION

Table of Contents
Of Defaced Faces and Hidden Places .......................................................................................................................... 4 What if you were born and raised in the Himalayas? .............................................................................................. 5 Life After Life ........................................................................................................................................................................ 6 The Great Divide ................................................................................................................................................................. 7 A Garden is Born (Kashmir as a union of opposites)................................................................................................... 10 The Chir-Haran of Stories.................................................................................................................................................. 12 The Ape King...................................................................................................................................................................... 16 Barbaadi Naama: a "Laddi Shah" song ........................................................................................................................ 17 Asi tsaay tsoor (Barbaadi Naama) ............................................................................................................................ 17 Holy Water .......................................................................................................................................................................... 19 The Rishi's Solution (a moral story) .................................................................................................................................. 20 Ancient Ruins of Awantipur ............................................................................................................................................. 21 She ....................................................................................................................................................................................... 23 Why, I Love Her .................................................................................................................................................................. 25 Old Age .............................................................................................................................................................................. 27 Decimal Man ..................................................................................................................................................................... 28 The Song of the Satatut (or What Became of the Monkey) ..................................................................................... 29 Liar (a poem about networking sites) ........................................................................................................................... 31 Telephone Scatologia (a cyberpunk poem) ............................................................................................................... 30 Addict ................................................................................................................................................................................. 31 An Atheist Discovers the Ultimate Drink at the Pune Wine Festival .......................................................................... 32 Eyes on Same Side of the Mirror ..................................................................................................................................... 35 City in the Desert (a post-apocalyptic poem) ............................................................................................................ 37 Blinkers, Bakery, and Bakwaas (a poem) ..................................................................................................................... 38 Two Kashmiri Poems: History from the perspective of a people's poet .................................................................. 39 Pre-independence poem: Vwolo haa baagvaano .............................................................................................. 39 Post-independence poem: Azaadee ....................................................................................................................... 40 Another post-independence poem: Shaheed sunz maaj .................................................................................... 42 The Night Watchman (a poem by a blind Kashmiri poet) ........................................................................................ 44 Shab Garud .................................................................................................................................................................... 44 The Night Watchman ................................................................................................................................................... 45 With the Sword of Truth You Must Play (a Kashmiri poem by Azad) ..................................................................... 47

Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar..................................................................................................................................... 47 With the sword of truth you must play ....................................................................................................................... 48 Appendix I .......................................................................................................................................................................... 50 A Guide to The Roman Alphabet for transliteration of Kashmiri words ............................................................... 50 ILLUSTRATION .............................................................................................................................................................. 51 (Translation) ................................................................................................................................................................ 52 Change ....................................................................................................................................................................... 52

Sualeh Keen is a Marketing Communications Manager with interests in Graphic Design, Poetry, Literature and Human Behaviour. He has a tendency to write impressive, thoughtprovoking (and sometime humorous) poetry, prose and commentary. His words, languages and translations bridge ancient knowledge and the modern context. This is an anthology of his works reproduced with permission. These works are published on Facebook Notes from where they were sourced in the same order they were published.
All works contained herein are copyright Sualeh Keen and cannot be reproduced without his explicit permission. As I compile these works, these words and thoughts prove to be most nourishing to the intellect. As the compiler, I hope you will find this collection as more than something to be cherished. My earlier compilation was in 2009, a work I have resumed in 2013. Sunil Beta Baskar, the compiler

Of Defaced Faces and Hidden Places

Many dabblers in history and myths have invented an Alexander legend. So, here is yet another legend of the Two-horned Sick-Under, inspired by C G Jung. It's about the human inability to pay full attention to marginalities and about the extraordinary popular delusions and madness of lonely people. Of Defaced Faces and Hidden Places

There are demon-haunted worlds, regions of utter darkness.

- ISHANA UPANISHAD Once upon a time, Alexander the Great went with his courtiers on a hunting expedition far away from his camp to the foothills of Bindu Kush on the periphery of his vast kingdom he had never seen before. There he met some villagers who could not believe that it was the great Shahenshah of Persia who stood before them. In order to prove their point, a villager handed across a coin to him. By its looks, the coin was issued by Alexander alright with its Greek inscriptions, but with one difference: instead of his clean-shaven face, a gruesome bearded face was embossed on it! His courtiers were so furious with the villagers because of the profanation that they wanted to slay them then and there. But Alexander stopped them and investigated this bizarre phenomenon of his barbarised face. Each city-state in ancient Greece had its own mint, and when Alexander expanded his empire, his mints were spread far and wide across a vast geographical region. Greek traders spread Greek coins across this vast area, and the new kingdoms soon began to produce their own coins. Now, only the royal treasury in the capital of the kingdom had the original moulds for minting coins with Alexanders embossed image. These coins are passed on to the city-states where a local mint would use a coin to make new moulds, a reverse process of what is done at the capital. All Greek coins were hand-made, rather than milled as modern coins are. The design for the obverse was carved (in reverse) into a block of stone or iron and the design of the reverse was carved into another. The blank gold or silver disk, heated to make it soft, was then placed between these two blocks and the upper block struck hard with a hammer, punching the design onto both sides of the coin. This was a fairly crude technique that produced a high failure rate, so the high technical standards achieved by the best Greek coinsperfect centring of the image on the disk, even relief all over the coin, sharpness of edgesis a remarkable testament to Greek perfectionism. This perfectionism was lost once you ventured into the far-flung city-states. For them gold was gold and silver was silver and the emperor was a man they had never met. Invariably, minor distortions and die errors made their appearance. When a new domain would be added to Alexanders empire, new city-states would spring up, which immediately required coins with the emperors portrait on it. The mints were excellent propaganda for Alexander as a coin was usually the only way that the people came to know who the new emperor was. The new city-states would make a mould from a neighbouring city-states coin, which, however, already had errors in it. As a result, these distortions and errors got accumulated until the essence of the original was lost. This was the reason that the coin that Alexander came across in the remote village showed him as a long bearded Persian demon. Why a demon; why not a god? Alexander investigated further and stumbled on a startling revelation.

It was as simple as this: if his satrap was kind to the people of a city-state, the coins would have errors no doubt, but the embossed face would have been that of a benevolent god, a thing of beauty. And if the local satrap was wicked, the sculptor would carve the face of an oppressor of people, a demon, on the mould. Further deterioration of the original was warranted when neither the sculptor nor the satrap had ever seen the emperor in person. For demons are often created because of sheer ignorance of other human beings, as well of oneself, much the same way that a demon gets minted by the ignorance of not having seen and understood the bearer of the face. Gods and demons, flip the coin, it is just heads and tails, which side you were born.

What if you were born and raised in the Himalayas?

Picture this. Himalayas: Mental barrier, staggering snowy screen, voluminous wall that bifurcates the Garden into World and Otherworld. The most isolated, the unreachable, the inaccessible, the sparsely populated twilight regions of the world possess a vast sense of loneliness of a geographical magnitude. You are afraid of the unknown and you know nothing as nothing happens out there in the sleepy mountain villages, where imagination runs wild and a sensory-deprived brain hallucinates some semblance of sense. The frenetic dreams are fraught with nightmarish images a lonely shit scared human child would conjure to replace the comfortable warmth that vanished into the night. The shadows in the attic filled with imaginary sounds, the peeling peripheries of eyes. The leviathan of loneliness sends chills down a human spine, kundalini in reverse. The gods become the demons that lurk in the darkness outside the mandala-spotlight, flickering like shadows cast from an unsteady flame of reason. Worship the umbrae in the maws of altars where dancing shadows merge into bizarre forms in the darkest recesses of the human mind. Werewolves, banshees and icy vampires stalk in the twilight of the arctic fire. The edge of the world is in Antarctica where ships fall through the ozonehole and shatter to frozen shards on the shoulders of the Brahma Bull. Abominable snowmen abound in Himalayas. O, Goblins, Bhoots and the phantoms galore! Kashmira is your subconscious; you can meet her in your dreams! (Excerpt from the T HE G ARDEN OF S ILLYMAN ) Sualeh Keen

Life After Life

A juvenile poem about male conflicts seen from the perspective of evolution. Inspired by Ray Bradbury's poem 'I Sing the Body Electric!'

Long before these Men-at-arms And antediluvian torrential thunderstorms And the churning stew of a primordial sea Rocking-horse of Time riding, came Natures baby. She lived and She died, surviving climates harsh As a giant dragon fly in the acrid humidity Of many a swamp and marsh. She adopted ancient fish-like forms Thriving on some bizarre creature. Time and again, emerged She fairer from fair And fairest from fairer Afresh and anew, endlessly Her mammoth hide weathered by sun and shower Bleaching and shedding scales, feathers and hair Through the acid rains of Chemistry. She watercoloured oceans aquamarine With indelible octopus ink. She bejewelled green valleys Becoming a flower pink. She flew in pterodactyl skies And like small dinosaurs ran. She climbed down the family tree And She became Man. Man kills Herself for an After-death Sheds blood, engages in strife Death is panacea to Mans troubles all Death is more natural than Her Life Life is too good to last forever So sweet, it saccharine turns soon So Man commits a cold-blooded murder On a warm spring afternoon Long after these fatigued uniforms And post-apocalyptic particle storms And the burning of a long dead sea Rocking-horse of Time lies empty

Sualeh Keen

The Great Divide

Triangulation of Oriental and Occidental versions of ancient history... A large civilization had flourished around the Indus Valley in ancient times, with its mixture of Dravidian and Mediterranean denizens. It had been an oligarchy, a state governed by a faction of trader families, an aristocracy of middlemen engaged in sea trade with Sumer and Egypt on behalf of the agriculturalists and artisans of both regions. Climatic changes like a mini-glaciation and frequent floods resulted in the decline of civilization which finally collapsed as the soil of the region became too saline to support extensive crop growth after centuries of crude irrigation. Supplanted by inhospitable deserts and marshes, the urban centres shifted from their original sites deep into the interior of the subcontinent and the trade links with the outside world ended. The mixed communities that still lived around the river basins were the fisher folk, the worshippers of water and otter, who were driven back to a primitive way of life. As the centuries rolled by, the rest of the world now practically lived in a blissful ignorance of India, completely unaware of the lands to the south of Himalayas. Whatever communication trickled there, it was through merchants like Boldo Bayans descendants who plied between India and the rest of the world without ever enlightening the one about the other. And it was just as well. It suited these traders to invent incredible myths to enhance the exotic quality and the perceived value of their wares and maintain a monopoly by discouraging other traders from venturing into the dangerous nether areas populated by demons. And the myths were perpetuated. Exploits like that of Sindbad the Sailor were everyday narratives which the traders swore by their testes to be nothing but the truth. Saffron was extracted from the body of a living goddess and costus was the dried faeces of a magical animal. The Romans were convinced that Chinee silk had been combed from the leaves of a rare and exotic tree and the Chinee who imported cotton from west Asia, in turn, were made to believe that cotton was clipped from the fleece of water sheep. Call it one fleeces what one shears or let us keep our formula under wraps. Both sides were fine with mutual fabrication. What a yarn! And these trader tales were taken up by the ancient historians and perpetuated right up until the time of Marco Polo, because even Alexanders legendary march into the great subcontinent could not demystify India, thanks to the weird and wonderful legends that had been spun about his exploits there. The reasons why these curious fantasies survived for so long was the absence of cultural exchange and the many dogand-bull stories that were circulating, like that of John Mandevilles fantastic journey to Asia. In fact, until the medieval era when the east and the west were united by the Mongols and Muslims, the Indian sub-continent was not just a land of rare jewels, pearls, aromatic woods and spices, it was occupied by bizarre men. Herodotus, the so-called Father of History, brought the focus on the people of the East. He told his western audience that the eastern lands were populated with Cynocephali, human-like animals with the head of a dog on their body (ogres / uighurs traditionally clothed in dog skins), Monopods, people with a single foot (a gang of lame fakirs perhaps), and Antipodes, people whose feet pointed backwards with their heels facing the front (people with lotus feet as one doesnt see much of their feet when they wore shoes). There were sub-human creatures with neither neck nor head, but with a face set into the middle of their chest (perhaps a hunchback). There were wild hunters who lived on the mere smell of flesh (hunters who turn their backs on bad meat), pygmies who lived a thousand years (Guhyakshas and Rishis), Satyrs (again, foot-bound people), Amazons (women who knew how to defend themselves), Gymnosophists (naked Sufis and siddhas), enchanted mountains (arent they everywhere?), unicorns (rhinoceroses), griffins (fabled animals in royal emblems, assumed to be real) and ants that dug for gold (gerbils).

By the same token, Herodotus, the yeomen of the British monarchs royal guard, the beefeaters, are those people of the West who have abnormally tall heads covered with short black hair and who eat live cattle! Nevertheless, all these fantastic creatures of the East described by Herodotus became standard fixtures in medieval art and literature, and their likenesses were carved on the exteriors of Gothic churches. What we know today as the gargoyles were stone likenesses of the inhabitants of Asia as imagined by Europeans six or seven centuries ago. Herodotus, if you were the father of history, who was the mother, and what monster baby did you conceive together? Or couldnt you foresee that people would have to fight these mythical creatures of history to claim an equal place on the pages of society, as they still do? Then again, history does not concern itself with the future. It is oh so easy to accuse the ignorant foreignersfathers and bachelors of social sciencesof perpetrating offensive stereotypes of the noble savages, who were more civilised perhaps. But Herodotus was not to blame; hackneyed history was not his objective. He was merely on the Persian Shahenshahs assignment to beckon his audience to the horizon that had opened in the east, to present the wonder that was the east as a land worth seeing, to list the ajaib-o-garaib curios of a hitherto unexplored and unexploited continent so that young adventurers would enlist. Why crucify Herodotus for the fantastic elements in his accounts, when it was a barter of lies, the East paying back with the same token, same cartographic currency? Take a palm-leaf from the geography textbooks of the noble savages themselves and see what they thought of their foreigners. Take the point of view of the noble savage somewhere in central India, the location of the real Middle Earth as far as he was concerned: In the East, far away from his home, in the far eastern mangrove forests, lived the Vyaghramukha (people with tiger-faces, tiger markings rather), Surpakarna (people with sieve-like ears, that is, with multiple earpiercing), Asvavadana (people with horse-faces, that is long faced) and Dantura (people with long teeth). In the foreign countries of the south-east resided the Urdhvakarna (people with ears turned upwards, people in a bunny cap), Vyalagriva and Mahagriva (people with snake-slim bosoms and people with great assets respectively). Then there were the Ekpada, the one-footed people, the Indian version of Herodotus Monopede foreigners. The North too had its share of one-footed people in addition to Svamukha (Herodotus dog-faced Cynocephali, people of Ogrea), Turaganana (the horse-hooded musicians of Gandhar), Capitanakisa (flatnosed people, mongoloids obviously) and Trinetra (three-eyed people, that is, people with an eye painted on their foreheads). And importantly, for the noble savage of India and to Herodotus himself (if only he were listening), the West was populated with Narimukha (men with womens faces, that is, the Turks), Strirajaya (women amongst whom no man dwells longer than half a year, that is Amazons coming full circle), Nrisimhavana (lion-faced men, or lepers with shaggy hair) and Khastha (people who are born from the trees, hanging on them by the navel-strings). Blasted barnacles! Did somebody mention spontaneous generation? In the west were also found great specimens of Carmaranga (people with coloured skins, not in the racial sense, but in body painting way, like in Scythian Picts or Woads), Ekavilocana (one-eyed men), Dirghagriva (long-necked men), and Dirghamukha (long-nosed people). And Dirgakesa (long-haired men), but that every rock-n-roll fan knows already.

Herodotus, could it be that when you talked of the people of the East, you were in fact standing in the wrong direction? Herodotus, were you standing on one leg in Middle Earth peering at the map with one eye and sniffing with your long snout on the ground, trying to pick a scent of the history of the people who walked that way? Did you see any of these creatures with your own eyes or did you rely on the testimonials of traders, those liars of the three worlds? Dont look so confused, Herodotus, what happened was this: You people of the North-West with an ice-berg numbing your behinds saw the earth extending from where you stood to the far east and the far south, so you drew maps in which south was ahead of you, that is, towards the top of your map, and the east to your left. And when, Herodotus, you studied the maps drawn by the eastern people of the lands, you did not realize that their view of earth was a full one hundred and eighty degree inverted. It is oh so human to consider human conventions to be universal truths. Go ask the Hun who turned around and the world rotated with him and he would tell you to get lost. What will happen to you if you go to an eastern country where the screws are threaded not according to the universal standards? People like you try to open the tap in the right direction in vain and declare: That yonder country has taps but no water; the people there have no proper standard of hygiene. Go tell a native of that yonder country and he would tell you to go screw yourself. Are you weeping, Herodotus, or is that soap in your eyes? What happened was this: Herodotus had never been to the east. Using Shahenshahs influence, he procured some maps prepared by some unknown and unreliable travellers from the east. Herodotus applied his own cartographic conventions and inverted the map: Right became left, west became east and Herodotus became dizzy. The world is round, Herodotus; what goes round comes around. And the West on your map lies on the east of your East. And each point on the ground is the Middle earth. And each place is the horizon because the Sky touches the Earth everywhere. For every finger that you point in one direction, Herodotus, four point back to you. Sualeh Keen (Excerpt from T HE GARDEN OF SILLYMAN )

A Garden is Born (Kashmir as a union of opposites)

Once upon a time, millions of years ago, the earth was a single garden island, an emerald studded on a sapphire. And in this garden, there were no fences or thickets dividing it. Nothing was out of bounds for anyone: it was a playground for all the children of nature. The earth was a single and vast clodthe United Continents of Pangaeaas all land masses had coalesced like a group of bubbles that stick together, back to back, to escape the surrounding water no.3. Or, as cowherds would put it, the land was like a lump of butter that has surfaced after the churning of the primordial ocean. It was as if nature was forging a deal and making sure that its childrenthe plants and animals that would thrive in her gardenwould play the same game and follow the same rules. But each one would wield the power to build a team or oust some player out. May the beast, er, best one, win. Pop! One bubble bursts and another one is eaten by a bigger one. Or, as your cowherd friends would insist, If the butter can not be extracted by a straight finger, bend the rules. Touch base was over and from this deceivingly unified mass, out emerged two teams: Laurasia and Gondwanaland. The first team took position in the northern hemisphere, and the latter, in the southern. Like the scattered pieces of a colossal jigsaw puzzle, they went to occupy the far corners of this vast playground. The Laurasian team broke in its formation. North America you go there, Europe you take that position, and Asia, dont let anyone through. The Gondwanaland players also took position. Antarctica, defend from the back with Australia-New Guinea and New Zealand. South America, you tackle North America. Africa, lead from the front and Madagascar, stand by. And India, go attack! Ahem, attach! About forty-five million years ago, surfing on a tectonic plate, like a sperm on a collision-course with an egg, the northward-bound Indian subcontinent head-collided with Asia, forcing the crust to buckle and fold, forming the tallest mountains in the world, sentinels to the south and north, the Himalayas. In celebration of the reunion between North and South, a vast lake got raised like a flagon by the mountains, a trophy full of clear and bubbling champagne: Kashmir! Kashmir was a submerged valley nestled in the north-western folds of the Himalayas, kept safe on all sides by grizzly peaks that poured the purest snow-melt sweet water into it. And adorning the vast lakes beautiful face like a bindi was a volcanic island from which a plume of smoke arose like a serpent to eat the sun. The greatest creations arise out of a crash landing and some of you say that life itself started after a meteor crashed on earth (true or false, I wont tell). The point is that birth is never without its accidental big bang, without a ripping and rending of flesh, without the breaking of an eggshell. Rupture to rapture, the collision of India with Asia, this clash of civilisations, led to a unique creation: Kashmir! Kashmir was an odd-eyed babyblue in one eye and brown in the otherthat had inherited the features of its two parents: North and South. She was a split-personality baby in whose mongrel mind contradictions thrived in the same time, leading to transmogrification and synthesis. She was a place where the crosscurrents of the world met, a place where the four corners of Time folded into a point (so now you understand why I chose the valley). Human had difficulty getting in and, because of its beauty, difficulty in moving out. So it became a place where the refuge of cultures thrived and survived. She was a cauldron of change, an epicentre of unrest that would occasionally rock the worldfor India continued moving against Asiaand a microcosm that reflected the gigantic forces that sculpt the collective future of your species. Like I told you, the history of this tiny valley foretells the story of the entire world and its ending is the end of the world. 10

Any sentient creature opportune enough to view this virgin lake would have exulted. And, perchance, if the hypothetical creature had any semblance of language, these are the words it would have spoken in its strange tongue:

Here is the central axis of the universal wheel! Here is the microcosm that reflects All the grandeur and glory of the heavens! The omphalos of the divine mother! It is here, it is here, it is here!
And if the sentient being had possessed anything resembling your naughty human mind, it would have soiled the water with his sins or frivolously skipped stones on its surface! But more of that later. So, for millions of years, this vast lake remained in this pristine form, pregnant with possibilities. Then, one day, her waters broke and a daughter was born. And no matter what your made-up histories say, of listener of mine, No Man had any part in that Immaculate Conception. What happened was this. A devastating earthquake opened the mountain wall on the west of this submerged valley and water gushed out of a gorge leaving behind fertile lacustrine mud on the margins of the mountains. Once the valley was drained, the small volcanic island was the first piece of dry land to get exposed, emerging from the receding water as Shangar Achuras or the Fairy Mountain. Kashmir! Yes it was tiny, but it was an intricate place. This eighty miles long and twenty-five miles wide valley was adorned with Wularthe largest freshwater lake in the Indian subcontinentand a host of smaller but even more regaling lakes. A placid river called Vyeth or The Way crossed the length of this valley and left the smooth grassy banks, hurrying headlong down its rocky course through the gorge to the southern plains. There was a saying: Kailash is the best place in the Three Worlds Himalaya is the best place in Kailash Kashmir is the best place in Himalaya Thus was created the Happy Valley, the faraway Eden hidden in the mountains. So fertile was this oval wombshaped valley that the human beings who came to occupy it aeons later likened it to Uma or The Womb, the cradle of civilization. Sualeh Keen (Excerpt from T HE GARDEN OF SILLYMAN )

11

The Chir-Haran of Stories

Our ragtag legends seem to have been woven from some common fabrication. Strip them of their superficial raiment and identifying features and change the names and places and you have brand new wine filtered into an old bottle. Comparative mythology shows how similar seemingly 'different' peoples are.

In the Mahabharat epic, Draupadi is the common wife of the five Pandu brothers whom they lose in a game of dice to their Kuru cousins. The victors, free to do as they deem fit with the property won, drag the queen into the court by the hair and proceed to strip her off her clothes in the court. The five husbands, helpless due to the gambling laws of fair play, do nothing to prevent the humiliation of their wife, but they vow that they would avenge the insult in a battlefield. Draupadis chir-haran, stripping of clothes, is the most definitive moment in the epic and is the central reason of the Great War. In fact, she was preordained to be the cause of the defeat of the Kurus. Her father had kindled a raging fire to attain a means of revenge against the Kurus to whom he had lost half his kingdom. Her daughter Draupadi emerged from the sacrificial fire with a divine voice saying that she would be the reason for the destruction of the Kurus. While this episode raises issues regarding the legal as well as the moral right of a husband to treat his wife as a mere property, there were other aspects that Solomon found unsettling. Perhaps it was not so for Heemal, who can only see things from a martyr divas perspective, perhaps it was not so for the native people who did not know any better, but the chir-haran episode was obviously the familiar Legend of the Insulted Woman. And this legend, as far as Solomon could figure, had played a key role in the history of many great wars worldwide and it invariably spoke of a woman of high social rank who was mortally insulted, which led to either a war or a coup dtat. The Greek version applied this legend to the Trojan War. The story begins with three goddesses contesting as to who was the fairest of them all. They choose a shepherd named Paris as the judge and the three goddesses appear naked before him. (Interestingly, Paris, like Kurush and Krishna, is actually a prince of Troy, who, unaware of his royal ancestry, was secretly being raised as a shepherd due to a prophecy that he would be the downfall of Troy.) Paris adjudges Aphrodite, the goddess of Love, as the fairest and awards the proverbial apple of discord to her, and the goddess obliges by offering him the love of Helen the Greek, the most beautiful woman in the world. Paris promptly abducts Helen (like Ravan abducts Sita) and carries her off to Troy. Lo! The Trojan War breaks out, with the Greek expedition against Troy being led by her husbands brother. After a decade of besieging Troy, the Greeks win the war. Helen and her cuckold are reunited, and they live happily (like Sita and Ram in another epic). Then there was the Roman insult that referred to the rape of Lucretia, the beautiful and virtuous wife of a Roman general, by the son of the super-proud king. Before she stabs herself to death, Lucretia makes her father and husband swear vengeance against the evil regime. Her husbands brother displays her ravaged body to incite the people against the royal family. There is a popular uprising and the rulers are driven out. The kingdom of Rome becomes a republic and begins to dominate Italy and the world, all thanks to the providential rape of Lucretia. Some losses of honour can be quite lucrative, it turns out.

12

What is it about the husbands brothers? Well, all of them including Lakshman of Ramayana, without being disrespectful to their sisters-only-in-law, are faithful johns. The husbands vengeful brother mused Solomon. Draupadi was lucky in having four of them for each of her five husbands, and including the husband, five in all! Then again, there was the story of the wife of King Candaules of Sardes in ancient Greece. The king, to prove to his servant that the body of his wife was most beautiful, exhibited the nakedness of his unsuspecting wife to his servant whom he had secreted behind the royal bedroom door. But the queen discovered the servant watching her naked, and immediately saw that she had been betrayed and shamed by her own husband. She silently swore to have her revenge, and began to arrange her own plan. The queen had the king murdered by the same servant, whom she eventually married and installed as the king. Solomon found that this story was reminiscent of Draupadis chir-haran episode, what with a chauvinistic husband putting the modesty of his wife at stake in a gambling or betting contest. In fact, in Mahabharat, the moral right of Yudhishthra, the erring husband who bet on his wife, is hotly debated. But he escapes the hellish fury of the womans scorn, unlike King Candaules, perhaps because he was a ruler in the land of Sati, and it is his cousins who bear the brunt. There were similar stories of the woman mortally insulted that led to wars, like the Gothic version about the murder of Amalasuntha. Draupadi stripped, Sita and Helen the Greek abducted to a land across the sea, Lucretia raped, Amalasantha the gueen of Goths killed, and all the ensuing events are presented as revenge for the affront delivered to a chaste and beautiful woman. All this led Solomon to a single conclusion: Heemal unnecessarily read Draupadis chir-haran as the moral imperialism of the foreigners, while it actually was a common theme across many cultures and nations. The Wiggin needs to learn not to take such myths too seriously. But there was a disturbing corollary to it: the same story of the naked woman had been presented in different garbs. I had already noticed the similarities between Homeric epics and Mahabharat and Ramayan, Solomon realised, but it had never occurred to me that the two wars in the Sanskrit epics were loosely based on the Trojan War! The childhood story of both Paris and Krishna are the same But there was a crossing over of traits. In Homers epics, it was not Paris but Achilles who was killed by an arrow aimed at his heel; here, it was the cause of Krishnas death. The Kashmiri epics, like Homers, were infused with subplots in which the mother tries to lend immortality to her son by making the babys body indestructible, by a dip in holy waters, by exposing the body to burning rays, etc. In all cases, however, Fate leaves a vulnerable point which becomes the cause of the sons eventual death: the accursed Son. The Kuru cousin Duryodhan of Mahabharat, for example. Indeed, if a man were to set his brain on seeking out such parallelisms, a thousand and one parallels would emerge between the stories of antar and that of bahar. Oh! Solomon gasped. Even Kurush, the Saviour of Yahuds, met with an inglorious and dishonourable death at the hands of a woman! His troops were crushed by Tomyris, the queen of the Ashkenazi Massagetae, who then desecrated the corpse of Kurush Here again, there were two sides to the coin: for the Yahuds, Kurush may have been the hand of heaven who smote the wicked, but the pagan Ashkenazis saw him as an overly ambitious evil and bloodthirsty king who wanted to become the emperor of the world. Yahuds liked to believe that the Babylonians welcomed his army into their country and that his conquest was on their request. This softening of his image was obviously to show the Saviour as a man of peace, but Solomon could now see that such a belief was too much of an

13

idealisation of a tyrant who had managed to conquer a vast region in a short time. He was the Saviour who liberated the Yahuds from slavery, but he was at the helm of a vast army that advanced through streams of blood and reduced entire nations and cities, young and old, to utter slavery. It was difficult to assume that an army of mercenaries would not rape and loot the conquered lands; unthinkable in fact. Thus, Kurush the angel had a demonic aspect to him. He was not the saviour for all people; he was a crusher and a cruel crusader. And if some claim that the Babylonian people actually welcomed him to raze their city, then they were his stooges. Such are the lies told to justify the burning of an ancient civilisation. If at all his army managed to infiltrate the walls of Babylon without bloodshed, it was because of the long and fruitless seize and not because he had no taste for blood. Yes, his troops languished out side the fortifications, much like the Greeks outside the walls of Troy, until someone had the idea of draining the river that passed through Babylon and entering the city through the aqueduct. Peaceful? Nah! Just good old cunning. Aqua means water and equa means horse The stealthy way of entering the walled city of Trojan horse! Oh! Is the conquest a phantom image of the Saviours conquest of Babylon or is it the other way round? Hose or horse? Solomon couldnt answer that one. For that matter, the accounts of the Saviours death were not in agreement as well. Some simply said that the do-no-wrong man died quietly in bed, thereby avoiding any controversy. But most people said that he fell in the thick of battle and his head was cut off later and presented to queen Tomyris, as her son Spargapises had been treacherously captured alive by the Persians and killed in captivity. According to this legend which painted him in a less-than-hallow colour, Kurush was convinced that he was born immortal and a trail of easily-won victories only helped strengthen his delusion of grandeur. Safe in the knowledge that he was irresistible, he used cunning in battle right from the beginning to win over his prospective victims. He was the saviour who saved mere mortals from his god-like wrath, and he was fighting a war to end all war, enslaving all nations to abolish slavery forever. Thus, after defeating Babylon, when he cast his eyes on the land of Massagetae, the Ashkenazi (Scythian) tribe east of Caspian Sea, instead of going to battle against them, he tried to woo their queen Tomyris, who had been installed as the ruler after her husbands death. But Queen Tomyris saw through his faade, knowing well that this pharisee was interested in begetting her country rather than betrothing her. What happened was yet another blot on the so-called immaculate face of the so-called Saviour. The Persian army feigned defeat and laid a feast of meat and wine for the victorious Massagetae, who went ahead and got drunk. But the defeated Persians soldiers had merely been a decoy party. The main force arrived at night and captured more inebriated Massagetae than they could kill. Spargapises, son of Tomyris, was also captured, but he was later murdered in the Persian camp (the Yahud version, as expected, claims that Spargapises committed suicide). The enraged queen swore to give the insatiable drinker of young blood a fitting reply. Thus, when the head of Kurush, who was eventually slain in battle, was presented to the queen, she immersed the Saviours severed head into a sack of blood that he might drink his fill of wine. But most famously, it was believed that the Saviour was captured alive in battle and was crucified by Tomyris, a punishment deemed so ignominious that it was not inflicted even upon the most criminal.

14

And though Krishna of Mahabharat fame was not crucified like his prototype (or progeny), but succumbed Achilles-style to an arrow wound on his heel, due to the curse of a woman, namely, the mother of the slain Kurus. Then again, the mythical conflict between Garuda and the Nagas was due to one insulted woman. Vinata, the mother of the king of birds, lost a wager to Kadru, the mother of the serpents, due to which she had to suffer the humiliation of slavery. However, it was Vinatas sonnot her husbands brotherwho exacted revenge from Kadru and her Naga spawn who had won the wager fair and square; some chicks are such bad losers. Hell hath no fury like a womans scorn All histories were woven from the same yarn Verily, the death of Dawn would be the cause of the setting of Sun. And the brother of her husband Night is Twilight, who puts to rest the proud and accursed killer. Sualeh Keen (Excerpt from T HE GARDEN OF SILLYMAN )

15

The Ape King

The deranged King Jayendra in his death bed, wondering how life could have been had he not been born with long hairy arms that earned him the Ape nickname, had he not been hated by his father King Vijaya (after whom the town Vijayeshwara or Bijbehara is named), had he not listened to intriguing ministers and murdered his best friend Ishana, had he had a heir to his throne...

Let pits of blood sit stagnant on banks Of Vyeth, whose loam loathes absolving me Let mocking moths of the dead gather ranks On black corrosive tanks, dissolving me Yes, let that dark insect cloud of shames That shies not from Indra's colourful bow Buzz with itching slander, call me names Lie low and plot in my father's shadow For there is nothing to be afraid of Nothing When nothing is all these fears give Let no one ape the law except the Ape King Let no one escape his long arms and live! Let! But get Parashurama's axe and gently hack These memories that like serpentine hairs grow Put the impaled cursing corpses in a blind sack And into a dead and forgotten sea throw And get me a son like Ishana, my dead friend Whose thrill was to die and not to kill If my fruitless life is madness, here let it end But where, where will I get the will?

Sualeh Keen

16

Barbaadi Naama: a "Laddi Shah" song

"Laddi Shah" was the generic name of a minstrel who travelled from village to village in Kashmir, giving accurate and satirical accounts of recent tumultous events, such as a famine, earthquake, acute salt shortage, etc., in his unique style. His narration included direct references to the people affected (with actual names) and the action that each government official took to address the situation. Over the years, due to television and newspapers, this folk tradition has died. I am sharing a Laddi Shah song I wrote named "Thieves did us in (An account of free-doom)", about the valley's events from 1985-2005, which, if you can, should sing in Laddi Shah style.

Asi tsaay tsoor (Barbaadi Naama)

Assala malaiykum Laddi Shah aav Dapan pot-kaalan tsu kuluf mutsaraav Yeth manz tsael Batta gaiy Chhattisinghpur Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Poddamut lyookhmut tshaanddni nokree draav Afsaran dopus haara ttyablas petth thaav Su afsar ti kheyaha haraam haersa ttoor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Manisttaras zen aav na zaah rut ma kara Manis-ttarabaazas hyisa vaatan os gara Bankan barin haara, Switzerland petth Singapore Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Rishwat-khoran asuy bandookuy dawaa Magar gav fyail su ti, asi melyov sazaa Yus banayaav mujahid, tamee kaer majboor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Hoo hoo karvun jangajoo gara raetul aav Krekh ditsen darvaaza phoran mutsaraav 'Breast' dimaiy chhaati, nata nimaiy koor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Hamsaaya heharan ti aki doh sooz dhamakaav Karaza dopun maaf thaav, zameen kanaal machharaav Ye na zaah manahaav, tee karnawikh manzoor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Curfew loag fojan, asi maar dyitukh tyoot Maaz tulukh namman, banaawikh kokar poot Lootikh saen ghara ta phalanaawukh asi loor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor 17

Buddani hond jaloos draav police station Tas nyumut nechyuv karni interrogation Hasaa kas kari fariyaad, Dilli chhaiy door Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Firing pata zaalimo poora bastiya zaaji Woti petth kadekh saaryay kori ta maaji Subahas aas gaeb seari, ti soramut soor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Sarkaaran relief dinuk kaer bas kathaa Kaensi kuni relief na meliov zaah Chakarav tsachi chapni, tulukh asi gyoor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Hoda kamtaan party dits hartaal call Mazdooras log faaka, paanas banowukh maal Kasheeri korukh noksaan, Amrikaah korukh tour Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Aav election, siyaasat daandas aay aes yaad Aend aend asis paantsvanzah bodyguard Dopun vote traav mea, khaab karum poor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Saddaka karekh kachi, wonhes healing touch Bullddozaro kaer zachi, thank you very much Dab dee dee pakanaawikh, ratabaani karukh thoor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Hyond-Pakis manz saen Kasheer gaiy tabaah Yusuy chhu woppar, tasund chhuy dabadabaah Yus osuy laagan panun, suy path phyoor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Shaayir lekhaan shaayiri, kaav karan ttaav ttaav Tsoor yath qomas tsaav, kati pata draav? Khotsaan panani gari, saakinay Ashashpur Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Assala malaiykum Laddi Shah draav Dapith gav baagas gaiy yirawuna naav Tsoor dee, swoy kaddi, baagvaanas aasay shawoor Prath balaayi bachahaav, asi tsaay tsoor Sualeh Keen

18

Holy Water
Inspired by a funny incident. When my cousin's friend was forcibly made to drink holy water by his mother, he spat it out, saying, "Yuck! This stuff is diluted!"

Holy water a heavenly drink is, being water Holy water takes shape of container, whatsoever Holy water has no universal form Holy water is hard when icy, soft when warm Holy water rusts iron hand and will Holy water contaminates on standstill Holy water does less good, more harm Holy water has no place in exalted places Holy water rests in depressions, empty spaces. In the make-believes of belief, Holy water can be diluted.

Sualeh Keen

19

The Rishi's Solution (a moral story)

A short story to please my friends of faith... Once upon a time, a Rishi sat in meditation on the summit of a lofty mountain, completely unaware of hunger and thirst, lost in his spiritual world. The seasons changed and it was winter soon. He did not break his meditation nor did he make special preparations for the progressing winter, for the snow that fell upon his body turned into steam, such was the tapas of the holy seer. That year, however, the winter was unusually harsh and the creeping cold managed to crack the stillsurface of his mental equipoise like thin ice. Suddenly, the old seer found himself shivering like a dry leaf in a winter gale, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as if they had a life of their own. The Rishi looked at the old and worn-out bear pelt that he was wearing and saw that it had many large holes in it. That was from where the cold winds were prodding on his body with icy fingers. To put a short end to his misery and to resume his disrupted meditation soon, he closed two of the largest holes with his two hands. But the onslaught of the cold did not stop, and he saw why: the pelt had several other large holes, and alas, he had only two hands. He realised that he could not ward off the cold with the inadequate pelt. What did the Rishi do then? He took off the pelt and threw it away, saying, "The holes gone, the cold cant enter any more! The Rishi miraculously did not feel cold after that and he passed that winter with his tapasya undisturbed by the cold.

END OF STORY ................................................................... We may call the Rishi foolish and argue that however inadequate it had been, however many holes it had in it, the bear pelt was still the best thing he had, a real materialistic covering against the cold of the universe. It was better than nothing, better than nakedness. But that is not how our minds work. We want all or nothing. We choose the invisible just so that it is impossible to disprove: it is there but we are unable to see it. We want a blanket explanation for the universe so we wouldn't have to think; we dont want knowledge, we want assurance. We do not want to be reminded of our shortcomings, the holes in our rags; we want a place with the gods. And if people have faith that their prosperity resides in the hands of the deities they make sacrifices to, no matter what our personal beliefs are, we have to respect this fact. They may be fools, but we have no right to shear away that imagined blanket of security from them.
Coming from me, I am sure this will make you happy :-) Happy sacrifices! And thanks for all the Eid parties!

Sualeh Keen 20

Ancient Ruins of Awantipur

(a poem)

Obliterated Sanskrit literature hangs fire In ancient stone tongues that sing no verses: Only the cold northern wind curses Through the colonnades. Each winter rekindles A frozen Raag Malhar strain That etches the stone marrow anew In the silent sound of snowflakes Forming a shroud. The silence is intermittently broken by A shrill azaan from the adjacent mosque. This sculpture depicts the victory Or confabulation thereof Of Garuda, the bird Over Naga, the aboriginal Kashmiri. The clearly outshined Naga is an elephant, Illustrating that a man can become a serpent Can become an elephant And back again In the mutating pot of historicalchemy. Over there, statue-stoic gazes Penetrate petrified souls And a soil of incompetence Buries the engraved eyes of wrathful kings, Who once purified to ashes everything in path. Time worn sculpture wearies still At the play of light and shade. Now, these certain long dead Sun-gods Sulk in the shadow of The freshly white-washed mosque. A ghost of a question Is reported to haunt these ruins In anthropomorphic tatters, Doomed to remain for evermore a question: Who ordered this disorder? The old aged azaan Persistently offers an answer Not less than five times a day. An echo could have agreed with it Or at least a wailing dissent From Kafir stone-gods and serving wenches Had the roof of the entire structure Not collapsed too. The mosques one-eyed loud-speaker
21

Gluts the ravage, nevertheless Knowing not that not far away A satellite station looms Hopelessly tall in the heavens, taller than Ithyphallic minarets goosing the heathen sky Relaying Kali Yug 24/7 right into Heavily draped apostate rooms. Wish it had been a Khajuraho instead Where I could have seen myths sex-positioned In uncomfortable zodiac trajectories And mud-sodden mouths Vacuum cleaning phantoms lips Shameless shapes melting into the architecture Amputated stone hands cupping crumbled stone breasts Once round like inseparable Magdeburg hemispheres. Now this particular imperious lady Beautifully dressed in no clothes Would attract my adolescent attention. To her once delicate stone lips, she would hold A stone flower, moss-pungent. I would take out my pen and Scrap liverworts growing in and around her nose. I would find that she has no nostrils and say And why should she? Critically fingering the pen And not even once wondering Who she was and Who the hell her sculptor had been. This would be sufficient to give me a hard on. And a sense of heritage. My imaginary Khajuraho disappears suddenly When my attention is drawn towards a visiting couple Stampeded by their eleven boisterous children Whom I unanimously christen Jan, Feb, Mar and so on. But where is Dec? Did he die due to some Indian disease? Well, well. Eleven is too large a number as it is. So I settle for a cricket team instead. The kids raise cain about Uncle Chipps: The garden is soon littered with wrappers. I shout petulantly at the unlooking kids: Non-biodegradable! And lo! I attain Zen, in the ancient ruins of Awantipur.

P.S. Nobody offers prays in the mosque anymore. Kafir money had gone into its construction. The fatwa reasoned. P.P.S. Good news, good guys! A little bird told me Locals have thumbed their noses on the fatwa and started praying there. Verily, a sign of the End of Days.

Sualeh Keen 22

She

(a poem)

I was just a child when into my family she wed But thereafter she bled. The family honour was now in her immaculate Henna stained bride-hands. And it was in the harsh hands of men To see it through and to see through it. The nuptial knot was strong enough To tie her down with agreed disappointments Till Kingdom Come, which might definitely come For she was well-bred, programmed. Yes, she happened to be she. She greeted strangers with welcome hands and smiled. Now she has cancer. And she cannot survive. She smiled at her unsmiling husband pathetically, The smile she saved for anyone disapproving. She wanted to be liked. She took all burdens upon her frail shoulders. She busied off her dreams. She silenced off her screams. And chirped away the silent reproach. In piles of unwashed dishes and dirty clothes She buried herself, Long before she will be buried. For she was well-bred, programmed. Yes, she happened to be she. She served food with calloused hands and smiled. Now she has cancer. And she cannot survive. Vividly I recall our first meeting She nervously and meekly, thus over-politely Hosted my inconsequential child presence And remained standing in attention all the while. She wanted to be liked. I think I overheard someone telling That someone else had overheard her Sobbing alone in the dark.

23

But she was never known to cry. For she used to brush off briny tears Dismissing them as just a mote in her eye. She masked her resentment in a smile. For she was well-bred, programmed. Yes, she happened to be she. She poured me salt tea with bruised hands and smiled. Then she had cancer. And she worried about a wifeless husband And two small motherless children. In her death throes, she smiled in pain. She died with a silly look on her face.
Sualeh Keen

24

Why, I Love Her

(a poem)

In her infancy, she was a playful child But she didnt volunteer to play the fool Though she was girl. Thus she had to play alone. So she was a girl. Incidentally, she believed studies were More important than games. I was her parent. I loved her. In her school, she talked confidently With a deep voice, and articulated a lot. She knew everything beforehand That was being taught When proded, that is. Incidentally, in the classroom she Slinked to the back row and pursed her lips. I was her dull friend. I loved her. In her teens, she wanted to do things In her own fashion. She disdained cosmetics. She was against Miss Universe contests. Incidentally, she didnt happen to be Stunningly beautiful herself. She was good looking though, looking for good. She was in for inner beauty. I was her ugly lover. I loved her. In her house, she scowled at cameras. She found photographs over mantelpieces Inconsequential. Incidentally, she didnt stand out in group photos. She was not photogenic. Because she scowled at cameras. But she made excellent dishes.

25

I was her husband. I loved her. Now she rakes her ex-ambitions to everybody But secretly moves away Night and day. Ah! To hear her say She would be doing something else If it werent for somebody else. Incidentally, the bitch is a neurotic mess. I am her psychiatrist. I love her.
Sualeh Keen

26

Old Age
(a poem)

Im but a landmark Registered by Some unconscious recess Of unconscientious minds. Im but a worthless item Enveloped in dust and spider webs Lying there somewhere in some Neglected cranny And they mind When I do not mind My own business. I just dont know And they show me how As if I was born only yesterday. I cease to be Long before they doctor me dead, On the rocking-chair I tick-tocked away time in, Mocking them, reminding them Theyre rapidly becoming me. Making them hate me Gives me my power, For I embody Fate I am Death itself.

Sualeh Keen

27

Decimal Man
(a poem) Written around the year 2000, during Musicurry.com days...

1Pools

of coffee and

The cursor is blinking The thing-screen collides and Somebody is thinking.

2He

gets no sleep

Working the end of days. He forgets his passwords To where he stays.

3He

is a decimal promoter

He is a startup man, With directories in his trashcan, Hes got an exit plan.

Sualeh Keen

28

The Song of the Satatut (or What Became of the Monkey)

In Kashmiri folklore, the tongue of the satatut or hoopoe is considered to be most pure and truthful, the conveyer of satya, thus its name (literally, truthful beak). Due to this belief, a few rustic rascals catch the hoopoes and eat their tongues to acquire arcane knowledge. As a child, I unsuccessfully tried to catch one in my garden (not having to study for exams being the main motivation), but was outwitted by that damn bird. The hoopoes are real smart, I tell you.
1A

hoopoe darted through the grove

It picked out a worm, it drank the dew In unending circles did it move.
2A

very lost monkey rambled into view

Seeing the hoopoe, his eyes large grew Ah, to know what the wise bird knew!
3He

said, O wise bird, is it true

Did God make this forest for us to live A home to be shared by me and you?
4Startled,

the satatut gave a last chew

Swallowed the worm, cried Who? Who? Leaving the monkey, away it flew.
5The

monkey was puzzled and had no clue

Why the satatut had answered with a Who? While he stood wondering, the shadows grew.
6The

monkey asked his question anew.

But satatuts in that grove were few. A fox heard him and said, That's true!
7The

fox grinned and said, How do you do?

You seem to be lost, can I help you? Will my humble lair be good for you?
8The

monkey said, Thank you, thank you!

A friend so true, may God bless you! I promise I wont be trouble to you
9The

fox smiled, said, That's true too.

So come with me and I will take-away you. Are you all alone, or is someone with you?

29

Epilogue
10What

became of the monkey, no one knows

But we are all invited to the feast of crows At the foxs lair where the nightshade grows.
11So,

come one, come all, friends and foes

Do bring along all your kids and does For the fair foxs bounty no end knows.
12And

fie to the hoopoe with his crooked nose

With his dirty dew and his she-hoopoes And his wriggly worms and what God knows. Well, that is the way the story goes.

AFTERWORD
So, children, the moral of this fable is: Minds tethered to a straight bole Men get steered into pack and herd Goaded by the blind blinker. A thinking man with himself as goal Digs for truth like the satatut bird Hither thither, beyond and further.
In other words, no short-cuts to studies and no simple answers to tough questions. Study hard and gain knowledge, and best of luck in your terminal exams. Okay now, time to sleep. Sualeh Keen

First in his "FABLES AND FOIBLES" series

30

Liar (a poem about networking sites)

This is for all those starry-eyed folks out there who weigh their real relations against their online friends (who are more fun to talk to, seemingly). Inspired by my brief stint at DeviantArt.com, where, using a pseudonym or "Avatar", you can operate in "Invisible" mode, so your 'friends' never know when you are online. Read this poem in the voice of Bob Dylan.
1I

am not the one you want, babe

What do you know of me? When you are cloaked in darkness I sneak in to watch you sleep.
2As 4You

got nothing in common with me.

I am just a figment of your romance soon as you log in I am all persona and no substance Deviously deviant, dream of your dream. Heck, you dont even know my real name Even if you did, what would it mean?
5He

You see my stale good morning I typed and posted yesterday While you were gone away. The one who really adores you And would give his life for free Checks in after his morning blues And what does he see? This dick is there already.
3But

stalks you on the net

He will pursue until you are met Is that why you are invisible too? Closing your eyes cannot hide you From his google and his stare. It ain't me babe He is the one who cares.
6I

I am not going to be around

When in your car you lock your keys. Cant you see I am invisible? I come and go when I please. I am poles apart from you

say I am a liar

But how would you know for sure if I am telling the truth?

Sualeh Keen

31

Telephone Scatologia (a cyberpunk poem)

Let's talk about the things nobody cares...

1Gloved

digital-bleeps doorbell his galvanised hold

He visits Her again, behind the perforated receiver Like in a hyperspace sance with silicon ghosts Of safe-sexing virile viruses in protein armour.
2Worm-wriggling

through the rendezvous spirewire

Saccharine whispers millipede into his auditory meatus As phoney words, like enamelled caterpillars wind Round the little ferrous finger in the apparatus.
3Foetal-positioned

on the starched bedsheet, he hears

The female voice exhale indexed desire excrement He mouths penetrating electromag obscenities To teleport Her scarlet in cyborg embarrassment.
4An

auto-bleeper marks celluloid time to his credit:

Time goading frequencies to orgasmic pitch Alloy butterflies in his prosthetic stomach are brewed By the mechanised laughter of his Cybernetic Bitch.
5Wish

here She was, in my bed, but given the choice

Hed rather They culture vinyl semiconductor-crust For his poor pinna is aching hot against Her voice, Against the telephones dry-ice bakelite thrust.

Sualeh Keen

30

Addict
(a poem) You don't need to jump off the edge, to know what the abyss holds... Kids, don't try it at home or at your friend's place or anywhere else.

A toxic toad squirms inside the throbbing void, Sucking sponging the blood-brain-barrier alkaloid. A dark maw swallows the monomania addictions, Cannabis-holy vision follows lysergic revisions. A layer of dust conjunctives the needle insight, Mandalas of darkness sun-spot the migraine light. I recognise cancer metamorphosis of the mirror soul, Come, O ye archaic Newcomer, come rig-me-a-role. A blast furnace grimace smelts to smiling slag, Drugged lips laugh, but for each coughing drag. Hello, amputee finger sensations, seen you before, In some cigarette-burnt nightmare of a day of yore. Dying to live, life is death-trailed by confined rebounds, My psychlic rebirths grapevine in aromatic compounds. Will Lazarus-clay ever decay, devoid of death catalyst? Maybe on Dry Day, like for a seventh-day adventist.

Sualeh Keen

31

An Atheist Discovers the Ultimate Drink at the Pune Wine Festival

December 20, 2009 My whiney experiences of last evening... I am not much of a wine guy (not an alcohol guy for that matter). And I do not believe that the Ultimate Drink exists, and if it does, it is not ultimate to me. I have designed the labels and marketed an entire range of spirits, which makes me sceptical to the whole cost and label differentiation thingy (the ghost of Ogilvy will agree). And I make my derision known to friends who take clever copywriting on outer cartons as sacred words written by Dionysus. To an atheist, all are same; all equally bad, that is. Typically, I dont look beyond Port No.11, a sweet and simple wine, which I occasionally sip as solemnly as a priest, especially after my hicholesterol non-vegetarian binges, ostensibly for health benefits. Now, I was feeling a bit adventurous and the Pune Wine Festival offered a spiritually impoverished man a low-cost opportunity to give a fair chance to all kinds of wine gods, from snooty ancient reserves to chummy new age ones, and their co-branded consorts. I said, Wine not? So, there I was, after End of Day at my banking software company, heading for nocturnal revelry on my trusty (rusty) old bike. When I reached my destination, I had second thoughts. I was ambushed at the gate by a regiment of numerous receptionists, who frisked me from counter to counter, making me wonder if my being a Kashmiri Muslim had something to do with the extra precaution. After they duly relieved me of Rs.350 and strapped a wristband that certified that I was a Windeian patriot, I was handed a wine glass as a souvenir, which was to be my begging bowl for the night. Thankfully, I was spared the humiliation of having to sing a Wine Anthem, because, frankly, I dont remember any. I stumbled into the unfamiliar Rohi Villa Palace grounds with an empty glass in one hand and my empty helmet in another. I got confused looks from people who couldnt figure how a black-leather clad Votary of Skull had crashed into the upper-class party; perhaps they wondered if the Kapalika was going to use the helmet to fill his drink. I franticly searched for familiar facebook faces in the crowd. I had no idea where to start. After four generous wine samples by an obliging winery salesman, things became progressively better. Nothing like alcohol to bolster your bravado. Surprisingly, my eyes became more focussed and I spotted a few facebook friends and they too found some familiarity between me and the cartoons I use as my profile photos. The friends were very accommodating. But I suffer from an inferiority complex as far as wines are concerned, so they inadvertently scared me off by name-dropping their favourite wines that I cannot even begin to pronounce. I was scared too that my name may be announced at anytime for a Blind Wine Tasting Competition, which would take away even my basic ability of differentiating all wines into the red and white category. I told you, to an atheist all wines are same; the differences are only in colours and hues.

So, I slipped away from these friends and decided to go solo. I sampled my way round the perimeter in drunken circles, looking for my soulmate and namesake Sula Wines, who, however, hadnt put its stall this year. All the more better, coz Saturday night is not the night you ought to play safe. 32

As I got drunk and drunker, I started dishing out free consultancy on the finer points of brand extension to the staff of a new age winery; they listened with patience and full agreement, which is what new age guys do. There I spotted fellow lost souls in search of the Ultimate Drink. We exchanged names and parted with promises of adding each others as facebook friends (a promise I dont expect them to keep, once sober). I never realised I had it in me to make friends on my way to and from the washroom. This boosted my confidence further. In fact, now I was a real maniac, announcing my presence by shouting, Bring it on! at every stall. I grilled the winery staff about their USPs and I challenged their justifications for their high prices. I felt deep satisfaction as I cut the biggest brands to size by a simple too acetic, too astringent and too bitter. Typically, I left the staff manning and womanning the counters tongue tied. Next, I sampled the many food stalls, whom I left equally ruffled with my too little. In retrospection, I should have carried a platter of chicken tikka with me while hopping from counter to counter. Perhaps the too acetic, too astringent and too bitter would have lost their toos in threes (cannot do anything about the too little food though, sorry). While I was going around blaspheming the most hallowed wines by likening them to fermented truck tyres, an excellent jazz band was playing at one corner and some of the best painters of Pune were herded in the centre of the perimeter, filling their canvases in a state of inebriation. But I paid them little attention. Milind Mulick, who was there too, pointed at my heart and philosophised, There will be another day for art attack. Finally, I spotted the other reason I was at the festival: To meet my facebook friend Deepak Mohoni flushed face to flushed face for the very first time. Drunk as we both were, we met like long lost friends and we spent the rest of the evening discussing my irreligious intolerance. I also made some new friends (I hope so), who happened to be within earshot. Overall, it was an evening well-spent and well worth the cover charges. So, did the atheist find the Ultimate Drink? Well, no. But I did realise that after drinking ghaat ghaat ka paani, you become more amenable to differences in wines. Whether they are ancient reserves or fortified grape juices in old bottles, whether they are from Italy, France, South Australia or from the famous slopes of Nashik, Maharashtra, India, they all have something to offer. And I rediscovered what I knew already: A wine doesnt need to be more famous or more costly for it to be liked more. Finally, they all get mixed in my stomach. And since I sampled all the wines displayed there, I cannot blame any particular brand for the hangover, because, thank Dionysus, I didnt get any! Perhaps I had been possessed by his spirit for the evening. Perhaps the many aldehydes and ketones cancelled each other out, leaving me high but not dry. So, the many wines are all the same to me; I liked them all. But only when they were together. This Sunday morning, while I am writing this, I still feel a warmth in my heart (which has nothing to with the excess Vatta in my stomach Pitta). I try to recap the half-forgotten mumbled conversations with friends, old and new, with my magically-refilled wine glass and my empty helmet as mere props. Now I know what Omar Khayyam was talking about when he saider, whatever he said. Okay, now I know what prompted a fellow cynic H.H. Munro to write under the penname Saki. Sualeh Keen

33

Post Script (verbatim) I just wish my friends Pankaj Sapkal and Gautam Godse had been there with me. But then, they had a school reunion to attend. I am sure they too had a gala time with their old friends (with whisky and rum, I suppose). So, thank you, Deepak, for inviting me to the festival. It is a celebration of contrasting tastes and textures and colours, of unity in diversity. Have my goblet cleaned for the next instalment! Here is to our friendship! Cheers!

34

Eyes on Same Side of the Mirror

(a poem published on Facebook in 2009) Suppressing your thirst makes it go out of control. And when it takes charge, you throw caution to the wind and eat a gola at a road-side stall.

Remember the first time we met in the voluptuous art gallery? Coming from opposite directions we stopped and stood facing the painting with the nude images. We, strangers, in the margins of our fish-eye visions this time fused together like wet colours on the moist night canvas critically measuring the phantom cocoon that brings us together from different angles, like two eyes on same side of the mirror unable to see each other at the same time. And you, unwary, said "I like this artist" to the painting. I said "I like you" and you, you thought I was some kind of weirdo. You have killed me. It's been a month now, but I can give no straight answer anymore to your skewed smile that stretches my patience. I am a simple man. I will not put a finger on your lips, in the coffee shop lest your silences swallow me like the spit I gulp when you're talking. I cant even stand looking at you. Like some perverse uncertainty principle we are: We are eyes on same side of the mirror. There I found you; there I lost you again. It is not that I like my armour. I cannot stand the dead weight of it And I cannot kiss you through my visor. But then, each time I lay my brazen face bare you
35

Maybesomeday the heat shall drive us mad and bleeding sweat we would stand naked in the face of truth, and melt cold steel and forge a new armour small enough for two. And watch robots with mail-chains go haywire clinkety-clanking to attract each other's attention giving ample warnings for a wider berth. Believe me, I don't believe in anything. Ive heard a driver's heart pound five minutes before he loses control. I've seen a driver headlight into disaster deliberately like that guy from the JG Ballard novel. And I've been deriving a heady pleasure from playing ping-pong. And I swear I know a person who, even as I write this, thinks "a pen is mightier than a sword" and an abbreviation. The sword of so many words! And I confess I've spent hours, watching the trickle from the tap fall into a red bucket, wondering how much longer I'd take, wondering and wandering between my thirst and germs We live in a society where continence is virility. We become so impotent at times: I open the tap and drink with my soiled hands.

2001, Sualeh Keen

36

City in the Desert (a post-apocalyptic poem)

(Published in Facebook December 2009)

A post-apocalyptic poem written in 1996 after reading Poe's "City in the Sea" and listening to Sting's "Lost Without You".

1The

ruins centre where ceaseless sand and grime

Shift ephemera of shapes all around ceaselessly, Like the raging waves of sea that bear no mime That a stretch less tumultuous in time could be.
2Majestic

structures, spires succumbing from onset

Unearthly merge with the leprous face of the earth. Crumbling to dust in the twilight of eternal sunset: A life of dying crushed under the dead-weight of birth.
3The

desolate towers prod the ancient wound,

Heighten the suffering, surge to the peak with pain Till a lightning flash hurls them to the thirsty ground And blood, tears, and debris become heaven-sent rain.
4In

not so divine ambitions past, can it be divined

That intent people, not ghosts, these paths once trod? That no heathen skies grimaced, but a rainbow smiled, A token of eternal forgiveness from a mortal god?
5From

shackles of everlasting Todays comes the day

When human etchings, like skin death-mask, rind When the lustrous metallic epitaphs tremble and sway To the lukewarm acid-breath of the desert wind.

1996 Sualeh Keen

37

Blinkers, Bakery, and Bakwaas (a poem)

(Published in Facebook - December, 2009) A random sampling of some of the 'pakao' conversations you get to hear, trapped in a room or at a table with people you would rather were dumb in their tongues as well. This was written in 1998, when I was new in Pune and had very few friends here (and thus, was interested in the human species).

1A

gentleman with sideburns in the posh restaurant said,

Speaking between spoonfuls washed down with wine, Science is nothing but three empty plates, my friend, Arranged alphabetically in a straight line.
2 Flipping

thru the music magazine, the lady, she confided,

This instrument is demanding. Umm I like the context. And when it came to movies (and her heart undivided): You know, I liked the bit about the villain being honest."
3

Mister, trust machines more than a human head.

You see, a little technological knowledge does not hurt. I nodded at the 'Vice' President, nothing is what I said, When all I could see was the tiny tear in his shirt.
4 The

firang with the floral scent came flirting this evening.

She whispered: Silent men are efficient, or so Ive heard. Or maybe I have nothing to say, I heard myself saying. She barked a laugh, Oh, come, lets. Before you get bored.

Sualeh Keen

38

Two Kashmiri Poems: History from the perspective of a people's poet

(Published in Facebook - January, 2010)

Both poems are penned by Ghulam Ahmad Mahjoor (1885-1952), a sensuous poet, who later enlarged his canvas to include subjects like unity, social equality, communal harmony, and freedom. With the birth of New Kashmir, he was the most honoured poet till his death in 1952. My English translations here could not capture the rhythm and internal rhymes that are the hallmark of his poems. Post-partition, Mahjoor played a prominent part in opposing the tribal invaders. He supported the leaders who had cast their lot with India, and inspired the people to rise as one and defend their land. He wrote "Vwolo haa baagvaano", which is brimming with self-belief and optimism for the future of New Kashmir. He had high expectations of the new popular government, not for himself but for the downtrodden. But within a few years he got disillusioned. Being a 'patwari' (a land steward), he was in close contact with the 'aam aadmi' living in the backwaters of the valley. He was unhappy the fruits of freedom and progress had gone to the chosen few and not percolated to the grassroots. The sardonic poem "Aazaadee" articulates that anguish.

Pre-independence poem: Vwolo haa baagvaano

English transliteration:

Vwolo haa baagvaano

Vwolo haa baagvaano navbahaaruk shaan paadaa kar Phwolan gul gath karan bulbul tithee saamaan paadaa kar Chaman vaaraan rivaan shabnam tsatith jaamay pareshaan gul Gulan tay bulbulan andar dubaaray jaan paadaa kar Ma thav gulzaaras andar swoy gulan kits swoy kharaabee chhay Yivaan sumbal chhi pay dar pay gul-e-khandaan paadaa kar Karee kus bulbulaa aazaad panjaras manz tsu naalaan chhukh Tsu pananye dasta pananyan mushkilan aasaan paadaa kar Hakoomat maal-o-dolat naaz-o-nemat byi shahanshaahi Yi soruy chhuy ts nish paanas tsu amichee zaan paadaa kar Agar vuzanaavahan bastee gulan hanz traav zeer-o-bam Bunyul kar vaav kar gagraay kar toophaan paadaa kar

39

English translation:

Come, O gardener
Come, O gardener, of a new spring the glory you must create That flowers bloom, bulbuls sing, such means you must create Desolate garden, weeping dew, forlorn flowers with raiments torn Inside the dead flowers and bulbuls, a second life you must create From the garden weed out nettles, of flowers who stunt the growth In crowds the hyacinths will come, a flower gate you must create Who will free you, O bulbul, now that you are crying in your cage? From your ordeal a way out, with your own hands you must create Power pride, money wealth, comfort luxury, kingdom and authority All are yours, within reach, about them awareness you must create To awaken the valley of flowers, your soothing songs you must stop Create an earthquake, a howling wind, a thunderstorm you must create.

Post-independence poem: Azaadee

English transliteration:

Azaadee
Sanaa saaree pariv saanyan garan tsaayi aazaadee Syaha yatskaaly asi kun jalwa haavan aayi aazaadee Yi aazaadee chhi traavaan magribas kun rahmatuk baaraan Karaan saanis zameenas pyah tsharyay gagraayi aazaadee Gareebee muphlisee bebooj naapursaa zabaa bandee Amee rutsi traayi asi pyah aayi traavaa saayi aazaadee Yi aazaadee chhi sworguch hoor pheryaa khaana path khaanay Fakat ketsan garan adar chhi maaraan graayi aazaadee Yi aazaadee dapaa sarmaayidaaree chham na kunyi thavuny Vwo pananyan nish chhi sombaraavun hyavaan sarmaayi aazaadee Lukan maatam garan andar bihith maahraaza hiv haakim Yimav ramuts chhi paanas suuty khalvat shaayi aazaadee
40

Nabir Shekh zaanyi kathi hond maanyi tas tsaly khaanadaareny hyath Sy gav fariyaad karne tas vwopar gari pyayi aazaadee Katshan taamat dapaa vuchhahas sate lai tomla mwochhi baapath Photis kyath gara any pootse tshaayi aaram baayi aazaadee Gamuty damphay chhi saaree bekaraaree chhakh dilan andar Dapaa vanahav panun ahvaal asi maa laayi aazaadee

English translation:

Freedom
Give thanks everyone, to our humble homes visits freedom After ages towards us a rare glimpse shows us freedom This freedom in a western place showers light and grace But upon our thirsty soil, empty thunder offers freedom Poverty, liability and destitution, anarchy, division and repression Coming with these blessings, a long shadow casts freedom A houri from high heaven, freedom door-to-door wont run Camping in select few homes only, belly-dances freedom Freedom says hell no, anyone to amass wealth it wont allow So, wealth from everyone, its own people, wrings out freedom While people are in mourning, lords like grooms are sitting In some secluded bower, they all take turns with freedom Nabir Shekh* knows what I say, his wife they took away He filed a petition and at an alien house she gave birth to freedom Even in armpits seven times, they skin searched her for a handful of rice** In a basket under her rags, the market gardeners wife snuck home freedom They are all broken hopeless, inside their hearts is restlessness They say if we dare speak, wont we be punished by freedom?
Nabir Shekh is used as a generic name for those who were punished for hiding rice. 41

** Officials at the octroi post had to see that rice is not smuggled into Srinagar. So they were duty-bound to frisk comely poor women more thoroughly. ... I am not sure if the above poem was written by Mahjoor before or after the Land Reforms of 1950, before which the daughters of poor peasants were treated as part of the estate on which the landlords enjoyed absolute rights. It seems Mahjoor was rather hasty in condemning the new government. Then again, the local government hasn't done much after the Land Reforms, have they? So, here is a more 'realistically' disillusioned poem by Roshan, written years later.

Another post-independence poem: Shaheed sunz maaj

A disillusioned poem, written by Noor Mohammad Roshan Kaul (1919-?), who expresses his angst against selfish leaders who ignored the people, busy as they were in amassing "power, pride, money, wealth, comfort, luxury, kingdom and authority" for themselves, which was but a re-enactment of the feudal regime independence was supposed to have put an end to. Roshan was influenced by progressive writers at a young age. Was one of the first to join the Cultural Congress. Translated Munshi Prem Chands Godaan into Kashmiri. Stopped writing poetry altogether in 1960 and went on to set up a silk factory in Srinagar.

English transliteration:

Shaheed sunz maaj Magar chham khabar gny yakas kyaazi khaaruth Buman chaar dith zan kamaan kyaazi chaaruth Vuchhith haal myonuy doguny kaar maaruth M kath chham amich graav yi van baagvaanan Timan yim na vaadas vwofaa poor zaanan Tsyatas paavy paavy yim na zaanh myon maanan Yohoy daag laalas chhu naa laala myaane Jigar paara myaane ta achh gaash myaane Chhasay maaj aamuts shaheedo salaame Vanay kyaah vatan avatis vaatanaavith Votan pyah shaheedan honduy khoon traavith Bihith praany konoon roody shaana thaavith Na zonukh manzil maa chhu dooris mukaamas Na zonukh vatan maa chhu manz girdiaabas Phirukh thar ta roody dola zan kaaravaanus Rongukh buth ta az aay thazar haavane Bajar haavy haavy posh chhakaraavane
42

English translation:

The martyrs mother (at his grave on every 13th July) But I know why there is a frown upon your brow Why your brow is drawn tight like a taut bow Why, at the sight of my plight, your head is bent low But go tell those gardeners that I no grudges hold Those who dont honour the promises that they sold Those who listen never, though they are told and told This grief, O my precious son, is my very own plight O piece of my heart and of my eyes the light O martyr, I am your mother, who has come to salute you How to tell you the nation they brought but mid-way Leaving the blood of martyrs on the road in their wake Bolstered by old laws, they now sleep night and day They forgot that the ultimate goal is a distant destination That it is stuck in a whirlpool, they forgot their nation Turned their backs, played it cool, blocked the procession With painted faces they come today, to show their loftiness To fling flowers at you in a grand display of their greatness But, O martyr, I am your mother, who has come to salute you
Martyr: One of those killed in the first uprising on 13 July, 1931. ... Now, read the first poem, and start all over again.

Translations Sualeh Keen

43

The Night Watchman (a poem by a blind Kashmiri poet)

(Published in Facebook January 2010) Vasudev Reh (b. 1926) became blind in infancy. But that did not stop him from becoming a hakeem, diagnosing merely by feeling the pulse. I guess back in the good old days fatalistic people didnt consider medical negligence as a possible cause of death. Though he was blind and had only a vague sense of landscape, his visual images are fairly accurate. His poem "Yath chhu salaab yivavun" (A Flood is coming) is rich in imagery and atmospherics. The blind man became a hakeem and a nature poet, but there is another profession that he could have been great at: that of a night watchman. "Shab Garud" (literally, One who makes the rounds at night) is his most famous poem and I love the bawdy voice of the night watchman! English transliteration:

Shab Garud
Maane booziv yiman kalaaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh Daay m yee dyun khaasan aaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh He vuchh saa myaany bdaaree aakhur maa twohi taar diyav Path bronh vuchhinay nyandur agar traaviv thaplis maa aar yiyav Vumri sombrovmut raaviva ratsh khan kaansi agar vyastaar yiyav He vunyi maa chhi kamee badnaaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh Myon sadaa gav khaalis baayav hosh habaa hushyaar habaa Yath samsaaras naahamvaarus chaara dinas chhuna taar habaa Kyaazi rachhun aaraam chhu tava kiny aaraamas chhuna vaar habaa Yuth na hyamuts hond traaviv daaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh Yina saa aalav myon gatshiva kany paty ta yi boozith mashiraaviv Yina saa panun azyuk yaa pagahuk sonchun byinuy pyah traaviv Yina sany tsooras deenas darmas driyan ta kasman kan thaaviv Mwokhsar thavzi nazar anjaaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh Yina kana ol diyiv krakh boozith, ray gatshv asi kyaasaa he Yina zaaniv yi chhu par aalav, asy paan rachhav, asi kyaasaa he Yaamath kaanh gatshi naarah dith, yina twohi baasyava asi kyaasaa he Myaany yhay krakh shahran gaaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh
44

Zari hanaa vakh krooh hasaa vuchh saa taamath kyaah kari insaan Vuchh saa yee maa rozi dohay yi chhu doraah ath kyaah kari insaan Thaph thwos hyi path paanay sot sot, nyath rozyaa kath, kyaah kari insaan Baayav hosh yiman ayaaman hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh Bahraalti ta shury hwoka-chee-chee yina yaaro mismaar gatshiva Naala rayoon yi yovun, vakh yina atha manza raaviva, phyaar gatshiva Sarphas been gatshiva yina par krakh, nahka yuth na karaar gatshiva Yina rh zaaliva maharnyi khaaban hoshaa hosh Aalav myon yi shaaman shaaman hoshaa hosh
English translation:

The Night Watchman

Of these words listen to the meaning, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware To the rich and poor, this is my warning, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware Hey you, my vigils alone wont see you through If you sleep without spying around, a thief wont spare you All you have saved, if you give one a chance, lose will you Coz of knaves there is no short falling, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware Be vigilant, be aware, my call is only, my brothers In an uneven world nothing goes smoothly, my brothers To secure peace, rest we cant peacefully, my brothers So dont let go of courages clothing, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware Hey sire, dont just hear my call and forget to remember Hey sire, dont let another man plan your present or your future Listen to thieves, creeds, duties, promises and oaths, never! In short, keep consequences in reckoning, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware

45

Dont let my call in one ear and out the other, thinking, whats it to us Dont think it is a stranger calling, ourselves we are saving, whats it to us When someone goes starting a fire, dont stop wondering, whats it to us Thats what I in cities and villages go shouting, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware When times are tough, for the time being what can one do See, these times arent forever, time is passing, what can one do Theft will end itself slowly, wont be remaining, what can one do Brother, however, these times need watching, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware Friends, your doll houses and childish whirling dances dont you lose Hold on to youth, lest time slip through fingers, dont wrong you choose Serpents deserve the pipers tunes, over its noise no sleep you lose Dont let Flame* burn the brides dreaming, be aware My call will come evening evening, be aware
* The poets penname Reh literally means flame, which is used as a pun here. In this stanza, the poet is implying that some people, such as children and brides, should be exempted from the membership of a vigilance community; it is for protecting their childhood and dreams that the rest should be vigilant. Translation Sualeh Keen

46

With the Sword of Truth You Must Play (a Kashmiri poem by Azad)
(Published in Facebook January 2010) Written by Abdul Ahad Azad (1903-1948), who had studied up to the 3rd standard and, ironically for a lifelong Radical Marxist, was appointed as an Arabic teacher in a Govt. school in 1919. He passed the Munshi Alim examination in Persian in 1926. Wrote first in Persian and Urdu, and later, inspired by Ghulam Ahmad Mahjoor, in Kashmiri. His earlier pennames were Ahad and Janbaz. He was inspired by Iqbal and progressive poets.

English transliteration:

Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

Paziche razi lam kunyiruchi vere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar Rinda mastaanan zindagee phere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

Valaveer hala vizi path no phere Valvala tamysund tuli mahshar Suha grazi shaal bhi tsoori tal bere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

Broonhymis patapata pakuvunyi teere Paana ti bronh kun nazaraah kar Khayi manz maa gatshakh nayi hanzi veere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

Mardee chhana swon vatharun here Tsandanuky laaguny daari ta bar Swona seri laagunyi thazi kana vere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

47

Gond chhuy logmut shoobidaar shere Baalaadari pyah traavmuts lar Ami suuty huri kyaah tshari kalahere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

Pwokhtakaar mwokhtuchi veri ta zere Vasi manz sodras nyeryas shar Aarakot treshi hot phai maa kere Pazi shamshere gindunaa kar

English translation:

With the sword of truth you must play

Rope of truth with your wilful self pull With the sword of truth you must play Drunken low-lifes will with life become full With the sword of truth you must play

Never does a brave from a battle cower His tumult brings about judgement day The lion roars and jackals run for cover With the sword of truth you must play

Following footsteps of leader, O sheep, The front yourself you must survey Lest dreaming a meadow you land in deep With the sword of truth you must play

Manly it is not to pave with gold a threshold Sandalwood windows and doors to display

48

Or to raise foundation you lay bricks of gold With the sword of truth you must play

A foppish feather is on his turban held* In pleasant palaces did his body he lay What will they add to an empty head? With the sword of truth you must play

A wilful man with heart set on a pearl Dives into the ocean, no fears to allay A pitiful man may thirsty drown in a well With the sword of truth you must play

Gond = A plume of heron's feathers bound up with pearls, precious stones, and gold and silver wire. It was traditionally worn on a turban on state occasions.

Translation Sualeh Keen

49

Appendix I
A Guide to The Roman Alphabet for transliteration of Kashmiri words
Illustrated by the English transliteration of Abdul Ahad Azads poem Inkalaab, with my English translation of the same. For reference, I used "An Anthology of Modern Kashmiri Verse (1930-60)", selected and translated by Trilokinath Raina. It was published in 1972. I used his exact transliterated version here. The translation, of course, is my own.

T ABLE 1: A GUIDE TO THE ROMAN ALPHABET FOR TRANSLITERATION OF KASHMIRI WORDS

Letter a aa a au e ee i o oo wo u u uu ch chh d t

Pronounced as sound emphasized in bold in the English word luck father pertain bird, murder cow male see met (approx) sit go tool oasis (short sound) got (approx) full script long u sound vowel sound beginning as u and ending as u chain same as the Hindi consonant this do hunt entre, tableau (French)
50

as used in the Kashmiri word akh raat chh as au jel teel tr pin mol roon n swon kun tu r tuu r gr chon pachh dod oon tsooh tr

Meaning in English one night eye mouth yes jail oil three pin father husband blind gold alone rag cold mare your fortnight pain walnut apple three

Letter th h ts tsh a -y

Pronounced as sound emphasized in bold in the English word thing till same as the Hindi consonant tsar (Russian) aspirate of ts
short indeterminate sound at the end of a syllable or word

as used in the Kashmiri word tham n vyh tsam tsh gara kuly

Meaning in English pillar pot fat skin short

home

combining with a consonant preceding it, as in , ,

Trees

Consonants: b, f, g, h, j, k, kh, l, m, n, p, ph, r, s, sh, v, y and z have the same sound as they normally have in English.

ILLUSTRATION
Inkalaab
Here is a progressive Kashmiri poem Inkalaab transliterated in this way. It was written by Abdul Ahad Azad (1903-1948), who had studied up to the 3rd standard and, ironically for a life-long Radical Marxist, was appointed as an Arabic teacher in a Govt. school in 1919. He passed the Munshi Alim examination in Persian in 1926. Wrote first in Persian and Urdu, and later in Kashmiri. His earlier pennames were Ahad and Janbaz.

51

(Transliteration)

Inkalaab
1 Zindagee

Change
1

(Translation)

kyaah? inkalaaban hanz kitaab

What is life but the book of changes

inkalaab-o-inkalaab-o-inkalaab
2 Zindagi

Changes, changes and more changes

2

hond asal mane iztaraab

A turbulent flux is your lifes true meaning

Iztaraabuk mane matlab inkalaab

3 Inkalaabav

Flux and change are one and the same thing

3 Changes are what created faith and religion Removed doubt, gave something to believe in

paada kary mazhab ta deen

Inkalaabav kos shak hovukh yakeen

4 Gaatajaaree

khatam kar paygambaree

4 Reason

is what put an end to prophecy

Rooz baakuy shaayiree sodaagaree

5 Bronh

What remains is priests profit and poetry

5 Go

kun pakh darda baagan bar mutsar

ahead and the garden of love reveal

Chhay banemuts parda hish pananee nazar

6 Yemy

Your vision has now become a dark veil

6 The

bahaaran sheen traavith oh trov

Spring has seen hail after the snow

Poshibaaguy zaani tamy kus daag thov

7

Pain of that only the garden would know

7 One

Akh ti maaryas byaakh haaryas daari khoon

slays, one slaughters and drains blood

Tshaavulis teeris hihuy puj raamahoon

8 Khooni

Goat sheep see butcher wolf in same stead

8 The

law has now made murder of men halal

mardan thov konoonan halal

The lions blood gets drunk by a lowly jackal

9

Rath chavaan paadar suhan kamzaat shaal Alas, the compulsion, slavery, submission
9 Vaay

majbooree gwolaamee bandagee

Restlessness, helplessness, the humiliation

Bekaraaree bekase sharmandagee

10 Rip 10 Parda

the veil, lift the lid off your boiling heart

tsah dilakyan hubaaban tul nakaab

Bring about change, let an evolution start

Inkalaab an inkalaab an inkalaab

Translation Sualeh Keen

52

Acknowledgments

53

Index
Abdul Ahad Azad, 51 Ahad Janbaz, 47 Alexander, 4 Amalasuntha, 13 aquamarine, 6 Ashkenazis, 13 Asvavadana, 8 Awantipur, 21, 22 Azad Abdul Ahad, 47 bakelite, 30 Bhoots, 5 Bijbehara, 16 Bindu Kush, 4 Boldo Bayan, 7 Candaules King, 13 Cannabis, 31 Capitanakisa, 8 Carmaranga, 8 chir-haran, 12, 13 costus, 7 Cybernetic, 30 cyborg, 30 Cynocephali, 7, 8 Dantura, 8 Dionysus, 33 Dirgakesa, 8 Dirghagriva, 8 Dirghamukha, 8 Ekavilocana, 8 Ekpada, 8 equipoise, 20 facebook, 32, 33 firang, 38 frenetic, 5 gargoyles, 8 gerbils, 7 Gond, 49 Gondwanaland, 10 google, 31 griffins, 7 Guhyakshas, 7 Gymnosophists, 7 Heemal, 12, 13 Helen, 12 Herodotus, 7, 8, 9 historicalchemy, 21 Inkalaab, 51 Ishana, 16 Jayendra, 16 JG Ballard, 36 Kadru, 15 54 Kailash, 11 Khajuraho, 22 Khastha, 8 kundalini, 5 Laddi Shah, 17 Laurasian, 10 leviathan, 5 Lucretia, 12, 13 lysergic, 31 Madagascar, 10 Mahabharat, 12, 13, 15 Mahagriva, 8 Mahjoor Ghulam Ahmad, 39 Mandeville John, 7 martyr, 43 Martyr, 43 Massagetae, 14 Munshi Alim examination, 51 Munshi Prem Chand, 42 Narimukha, 8 Nrisimhavana, 8 octroi, 42 Ogilvy, 32 omphalos, 11 pakao, 38 Parashurama, 16 Paris, 12, 13 patwari, 39 ping-pong, 36 pinna, 30 psychlic, 31 Reh, 46 Vasudev, 44 Roshan, 42 Noor Mohammed Kaul, 42 saccharine, 6 Saccharine, 30 Sardes, 13 satatut, 29, 30 hoopoe, 29 satya, 29 Satyrs, 7 semiconductor, 30 silicon, 30 Shaheed, 42 Shahenshah, 4, 8, 9 Shangar Achuras, 11 Shekh Nabir, 41 siddhas, 7 Solomon, 12, 13, 14

Spargapises, 14 spirewire, 30 Sufis, 7 Surpakarna, 8 Svamukha, 8 tapas, 20 tapasya, 20 Tomyris, 13, 14 transliteration, 39, 40, 42, 50

Trilokinath Raina, 50 Turaganana, 8 uighurs, 7 Urdhvakarna, 8 Vinata, 15 Vyaghramukha, 8 Vyalagriva, 8 Vyeth, 11 Wular, 11

55