Poetry of Gujarati

Introduction

Gujarati Poetry : Tenacious Continuities, Bold Deviations. / Sitanshu Yashaschandra

Here is a selection from contemporary Gujarati poetry. A word on its contexts: cultural, linguistic, historical, geographic.

Gujarati language is spoken (written for over 7 centuries, printed for some two centuries and now e-used) by over 60,000,000 people, living in the State of Gujarat in western India. Its land area 196 024 sq kms of fertile farmlands, deserts, hills, semi-arid land, small forests and with 1663 km of coast line on the Arabian Sea, it has the largest marine border in India. For some three centuries now, an increasingly large Gujarati Diaspora has spread over 127 countries around the globe, in Africa, Middle East, Asia, USA, Europe, Australia etc. 'Gujarat has two wings', says poet Nanalal, of the late 19th, early 20th century, 'the green, fertile land and the blue, vaste sea'. Gujarat has long traditions of sea-farers, farmers, entrepruners and authors. Gujarati is Mother tongue of Mahatma Gandhi, Father of the Nation, Sardar Patel, Unifier of Independent India and Prime Minister Narendra Modi, leading India now internationally, and of a varied society that includes tribals, Dalits and several minorities including the Parsi, Muslim, Jain and Jewish. Gujarat's has always been and is a cosmopolitan culture. -- This is the geo-cultural context of Gujarati poetry. Many of the poems here embody one or another aspect of it.

Gujarati language has been a major Indian language of literature for over seven centuries. It inherited the millania long rich tradition of pan-Indian Sanskrit (and Apabramsha) literature, and later absorbed enriching influence of Persian and English literatures, and developed its own identity since the 12^th century. Gujarat is geographically as large as some countries in Europe and Asia and has India's longest coastline on the Arabian Sea with a number of important sea-ports. Contribution of Gujarati community in development of Bombay/ Mumbai has been immense and that of Karachi, now in Pakistan, considerable. Hence, Gujarati poetry has, over the centuries, developed many dimensions of human concerns, themes, genres and styles, imbibed from many sources and exploring many spaces, external and internal.

Poems that you might enjoy reading on your screen here are all contemporary, most of them by living and practicing poets of the present period, but also by some earlier poets ( largely memorable Meghani, Sundaram, Snehrashmi, Shridhanrani and Umashankar Joshi) of the Gandhian period (1920-50), concerned with anti-colonial struggle for Indipendence and with internal social reforms; and by some mid-century poets (Rajendra Shah, Prahlad Parekh, Balmukund Dave, Ushanas,) celebrating nature and spirituality. Many phases and shades of modernist-post-modernist Gujarati poetry are represented by poets from Niranjan Bhagat, Ramesh Parekh, Ravji Patel, Gulam Sheikh and Labhashankar Thakar to Sitanshu Yashaschandra, Dileep Jhaveri, Adil Mansoori, Chandrakant Sheth, Chinu Modi, Chandrakant Topiwala, Nitin Mehta, Udayan Thakker, Kamal Vora, Manisha Joshi, Nirav Patel, Rajesh Pandya, Pravin Pandya, Harish Minashru, to name only some. Poets from Bhagat to Topiwala gave a decisive modernist turn to Gujarati poetry. Many of these pioneered the post-modernist phase of this continuum.

Amongst more recent poets, not all are truly 'contemporary' or modern or post-modern. Some have clear premodern, romantic tendencies. Minashru's culture-oriented, devotionally inclined, playfulness, Jaydev's poetic-romantic engagements with music and visual arts, Dalpat Padhiyar's evocations of nativist roots, Vinod Joshi's celebration of the feminine, Rajendra Shulka's traditional philosohical musings in verse, Hemant Dhorda's meticulous yet elastic lines, none-the-less, result into good and often captivating poetry. Only some of these more recent poets have a deep sense of contemporarainity, history and explorative on-goingness of poetry. Thus, Udayan's socio-esthetic explorations through his own polyphonic and polymorphic language of poetry, Kamal's stark and profound minimalism, Nirav's refreshingly broad Dalit perspective on Indian culture, Pravin's policial-cultural engagement, Rajesh Pandya's deep-rooted, ironically inquiring tonality, Babu Suthar's modernist explorations into nativistic magical chants and rituals,, Manisha's courageous and imagist depiction of womanhood and human conditions, Vipasha's dark and fearless explorations into the world of the disabled --- these are some of the tenacious continuities and bold deviations of Gujarati poetry today. And there is much more to it, yet to appear on your screens ! -- Some poets below or just above 35, write fresh, new poems, yet to be labled, yet to be translated, yet to arrive here!

Have a good read now and keep reading Gujarati poetry . . .

A POET’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

Suresh Joshi

If perchance I should happen to die
Tomorrow at sunrise, remember to say
A tear still rests between these closed eyelids
That must gently be dried or wiped away.

When the winds blow tomorrow remember to tell them
The smile of a girl stolen sometime when young
Is a ripened fruit that waits to be shaken
Down from my branches where it is hung.

Tomorrow when breakers roll in from the shore
And the sea surges forward, remember to say
That the pitiless rock of God in my heart
Waits to be broken by waves in their play.

The moon will rise tomorrow. Remember
To speak of my struggle to set myself free;
A twisting and turning fish on a fish-hook,
I longed to slip downward, sliding into the sea.

When the fires are kindled tomorrow please tell them
My pining shadow on the pyre will lie
Awaiting the flames that leap up to the sky.
That is, if perchance I should happen to die.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

A WEEK-END OF SCRIPT-WRITING AT KETAN-DEEPA’S PLAC

Sitanshu Yashaschandra

**(Ketan Mehta- Deepa Sahi’s home on the Mudh Island, Mumbai. The sea-scape in the poem in part derives from the one seen from their terrace.)

1.
Now the boats lift anchors and sail away
Into the sea, the night, the dark.
Five of them; seven, perhaps.

Tandels light the lantern-lamps, glass-encased, and shout ‘all-bell’ across the waters.
The town folks, now getting back to their homes from the shore,
start a warning fire atop the ancient light-house,
put their torches out and shut close doors of their dwellings against the cold night.

The waters, lapping,
Groan, grumble and mutter things under their breath
They have been saying the same things for so long,
And not quite saying it.

Those boats,
Five, may be seven,

Have now unfurled their sails, curled in the night winds, and try
To listen, the palms of their hands cupped to their ears.
The waters keep saying it,
The boats keep trying to listen.

‘What?’.

It is just a lovely and large lake, perhaps,
This shore-line over here and the end-line of horizon over there,
The boats, surely, float about happily in it.

There is no surety, though. None,
that
When, later on, they would try to get back here,

the boats would not dash up against rocks hidden in shallow waters of these shores.
And even if the boats, seven, may be five, anchor safely once again and the boats-men tie their thick ropes to the big rings built into the sturdy walls of the wharf,
And saunter up into the town,

There is no surety that these men would not die on its by-lanes or put into its prisons or become
Happy in its homes.

Nobody has ever given a guarantee, either,
That if the boats decided to move on farther out and farther still,
They would not topple over the end-line out there and be buried alive
In the pit of unfathomable dry dust.

Or, again, simply,
that the end-line would not keep shifting father on as the boats move on, to it.

The boats now puff up their cheeks in fear, courageously.
They float on in the tricky, salty lake.
Where would the cunning liquid lead them on to?
O these five sail boats,
seven, some say,
Simple, ignorant, brave boats, those,
out there . . .
They have taken off from the shore
With but a little fresh water in their holds . . .

They wish to talk to one another
Through their storm lanterns,

Captains of those tiny boats.

Lanterns keep swinging
Light, Dark,
Light, Light,
Dark, Light,
Light, Dark,
Dark, Dark, Dark . . .

Language of the lanterns speak out in the night,
Hour after hour,
Fuel gets low, cold sprey strikes against the case, glass slinters, boat-hands get tired.

Storm lanterns begin to falter in their speech,
The sea, whole of it, fumbles.

Amidst its senseless roar
The boats, scared and courageous, puff up their cheeks, put the hollow of their palms near their ears, and move on . . .

Translated from Gujarati by the poet

AT THE LIFE’S FINALE

Rajendra Shah

1. RETURNING HOME

Clattering and jolting old little ox-cart rolls on
along the deserted path piercing the pitch black of the night;
jingle of the bullocks’ bells invite the eyes
to indulge in the ecstasy of the dreamful of sleep.

The chill of the wee-hours blended with the gentle breeze
spreads around like an anguished memory pervading the mind.
Ever awake outskirts, asleep by a small gleam, wake up awhile
then nestle back under the cover of darkness turning over to the side.

Along the tree-lined path an occasional flutter in a nest on a tree
or incidentally perhaps a meteor streaks, that’s all to be aware of,
though in the inmost recesses of the mind senses do perceive
the saga of each single particle of the soil.

I have reminiscences of homeland at the finale of life as I return home,
haunted by the memories of once replete, now, desolate home.

2. ARRIVING HOME

Arriving home once replete, on the dusty forlon front yard,
I lay my tiny little sack of the remaining years of life,
a streak of murky morning light brushed against
the foggy overcast sky; directions arise in compassion.

A few surviving elders enquired about my well-being,
housewives, throwing a quick glance, resumed the chores,
children, inquisitive as ever, came running and surrounded me,
the dog barked momentarily, and then sniffed at my feet.

The locks on the front opened, the door wailed awhile,
years of rigidity had rendered its limbs stiff;
the humid, stale air within gushed out at the opportune moment
as if some phantom had found its salvation!

As I stepped in, the darkness engulfed me,
once again I viewed the olden reminiscences touched by gleam.

3. REMINISCING THE LOVED ONES

The worn-out cot still stands droopingly against the wall,
pulling it down, each nightfall, Father used to narrate the tales of heroic import
from the lores of the yore with verve and vigour,
townsfolk thronged the front room out of sheer love.

Mother’s beaming face and articulate voice kept the house resonant.
She nourished us all with her ambrosial yields churned afresh everyday.
She was our Surabhi fulfilling the wishes of one and all.
Today the empty sling dangles in the air nostalgic for the potful of curds.

Look, O! look at the bedroom upstairs reeling in pain!
O my Dear! How two surging souls were united here in amorous embrace
like tidal waves on a full moon night.
Window, the beholder of the sky, is left blinded by cobwebs now.

Where, like sonorous mountain lake, rolled sweet songs of swans once
not even a cricket, out of mute agony, chirps here to-day.

4. MUTATINGS

Heartily would I, in my childhood, used to stand here near the balcony
imbibing the track in front with its curved gaits flowing and comely
playing momently, hiding now awhile, then moving on to the vanishing point
to wander off beyond, leaving me behind in sheer amazement.

What yearning did I have to tread on the far-off mysterious path!
On its misty surface of half-finished tales I would let
my frenzied fancy have a go, my eyes visualizing the form
of futuristic spells, carved out by my own humble self.

The scene remains still as it was: The balcony, the path and I,
but here now I am overpowered by the memories of things past.
Though the Been is hushed, I hear its strum is still intact.
The notes struck periodically now converge into a concert.

No more sporting of mercurial flights of simplistic stance,
Now that the void to the core within has eased into a subtle silence.

5. COMING TO THE LIFE’S END

Now that the void within my being persists to the core
resolves and impulses do not matter anymore,
and yet the cherished world of my deeds thunders
in acclamation of the triumph of life in all its quarters.

Though a word born subsides instantly, its infinite repercussions
pervade the world of cosmic range and dimensions.
A seed buried in the soil remains a non-entity, yet it aspires
to shine forth in a foliage of a majestic tree with myriad of nuances.

Here, with a degree of detachment, I heed my life,
neither inception nor culmination of matters or affairs do I detect.
I discern only the perennial element rejoicing in a play
of mutating forms exuding the primal joy.

Very depth I am, and the wave as well, besides being the raging storm
seeking ceaseless disintegration in ever evolving novel forms

Translated from Gujarati by Karamshi Pir

BAMIYAAN BUDDHA

Sitanshu Yashaschandra

Had it not been statue in stone,
Had He been standing there in the Bamiyaan cave,
He would have stood as still.
Eyes like lotus,
peace on the face
his thin garment fluttering in the hot winds
a smile on the lips
Hand raised only to bless
the Fearless Man.

Translated from Gujarati by the poet

BIRDS OF ICE

Anil Joshi

We are birds of ice, we melt
in the heat of the summer winds;
our naked bodies drip
into lotuses as we call.
We shed noon’s heat with our feathers
and we fly.

Being birds of ice we melt
with every twittering cry.

We paint the space between
the green woods and the dry woods.
As evening drops from the sky
we’re a thread of gold in the air.
Night falls and we call, we call
like koels.

Birds of ice, we melt
with every twittering cry.

Translated from Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari

BOND

Yogesh Joshi

I had a relationship
with an old woman -
unknowingly!
She lived on a ground floor flat
of the opposite block.

I could see her
from my gallery
on the second floor –
she looked like a flat bundle
of white rags.
Sitting on her verandah
she would stitch and mend
clean grain, sift
polish vessels…

I could not see her face
from my gallery.
I could only see
something dim and dark
under the soiled sari
draped on her head!
I wondered
what sort of a face
she had?
Eyes?
Any luster in them,
like a lamp shimmering
in a dark recess in a wall?
How creased was her face?
Had time formed furrows?
How did
her toothless mouth smile?

I haven’t thought like this earlier.
I still don’t know her name!

On returning from office one evening
I learnt that the old woman was no more…

When, in the middle of the night
sitting in my gallery
I would pant and cough
then like a shade of darkness
she too

sitting on her verandah
on a mattress stuffed with rags
would pant.
Coughing incessantly
that bundle would bend double.
Her mouth just wouldn’t close!
Nobody would get up
to give her medicine
though her cough smote holes
in the night’s bastion…

Sitting in my gallery
I would caress her back mentally…

I got an attack of coughing
the night after her death:
expected the old woman’s coughing
would soon echo
from the opposite side.
But…

Then for the first time
I realized
my bonding with that old lady
from coughing together

from panting together…

Translated from Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla

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Poetry of Gujarati

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