Translated from the Punjabi by Manvi
Open Letter
You writers of love letters!
If the nib of your pen is barren,
don’t make the pages miscarry.
You who stare at stars
and preach about revolution!
When revolution comes
it will show you stars too.
You with the guns!
Either turn the barrel towards the enemy
or towards your own chest.
Revolution is no dinner party, no spectacle,
no river running through fields
but the brutal clash
of classes, of interests
to kill, to die—
to end death itself.
Today, Waris Shah’s corpse
has sprouted like a thorn bush
on the body of society.
Tell it—this is not the era of Waris.
This is the era of Vietnam.
The era of the war for rights
in every village.
Hands
I can gather my whole body
within my hands
When my hands ask for the beloved’s hand
I long to clutch even the moon.
But my hands
welcome the touch of prison bars
without complaint and in the darkness of this cell, my hands
are not hands—only slaps.
The ban on shaking hands is left whimpering
when suddenly a friend appears my hands, on their own
begin swinging around as punches.
If the day pulls these hands back
the night extends them.
No one can take away this chain of hands.
And sometimes, all five bars of the prison
become some very beloved hands—
One, the hand of old Tulsi from my village
whose fingers were worn so breathless
from kneading the years
that while teaching me
the basics of Urdu
they twisted alif into ‘t’.
Another, Jageeri the tailor’s hand
who would take the trouble
whenever he stitched me a pair of shorts
to twist my ear
and knowing I will not stop my mischief
still scolded me—
don’t wade into the pond with the animals.
Will you ever stop playing war games or not?
Another, my dear barber’s hand—
always afraid of my Sikh family
while cutting my hair.
And another, my daai’s—
whose hands were like a hot pan
always singing a tune
the tune of—
live, my child, live!
And one, Darshu the wage labourer’s hand
who smoked away half a century
in the hookah’s bowl.
No one can take from me
this chain of hands. In pockets or outside
in handcuffs or on the stock of a gun
hands are hands
and hands have a religion.
Hands, when they exist
are not just to join together
nor just to raise before the enemy.
They also exist to twist throats.
Hands, when they exist
are not just to take sweets
from Heer’s hands
but also to snatch away Saide’s bride.
Hands exist not just to labour
but also to break the hands that loot.
Those who betray the religion of hands,
those who insult their tenderness,
are crippled.
Hands exist to offer support
hands exist to raise battle cries.
(From jail)
Time is No Dog
If not Frontier, then read Tribune
talk about Dhaka, not Calcutta
bring me clippings from Organiser and Punjab Kesari
and tell me—
where are these vultures heading?
who has died?
Time is no dog that you can grab by a chain
and drag wherever you want.
You say—
Mao says this, Mao says that
I ask you, who is Mao to say anything?
Words are not pawned time speaks for itself
moments are not mute.
Sit in the Ramble
or drink your tea from a street cart
tell the truth or lie
leap across the corpse of silence—
it makes no difference.
And o government! Ask your police and tell me—
am I the prisoner, behind bars
or is it the soldiers outside them?
Truth is not All India Radio’s whore
time is no dog.
To the Police Constable
I have left behind
sisters crying oceans
my father’s beard jerking
in some unknown fear
nd an innocent motherhood
fainting, wishing for relief
the voiceless cattle
tied at my khurli
no one to bring them into the shade
no one to pour them water
and for many days at my house
the chulha will not be lit in mourning.
Tell me, constable, do I look
this dangerous to you too?
Brother, tell the truth
in my flayed skin
and the blood running from my mouth
do you see nothing of yourself?
Show off all you want
in the enemy’s endless ranks
but your sleep-hungry eyes
and forehead turned to stone
your torn shorts
and the poisonous stink of tobacco
settled in its pocket are telling on you.
If there is any difference between us
it is only this uniform
but even today, your father’s pains
are the same as mine.
When your father heaves off
the heavy bundle from his head his
thread-like veins, too
wish—
that the oppressor’s head be cut off any moment now.
When your children’s school fees
cannot be put together, brother
it splits the chest of your wife, too.
When the bribes you take
corrode your insides
you also long to
break the jugular of the state
which has devoured, in just a few years
your sandalwood body
your sage-like ways
and the sweet, monsoon-breeze happiness
of your family.
Hide behind your uniform
all you want
and stand far away from me
but the reality within you
shows me only poverty.
We who bear losses
and kneaded, like dough
a sick, stray childhood
never became a danger to anyone
but when they traded our happiness
sold it, squandered it
it never worried anyone.
Even if you have become
a stick in the enemy’s hand today
put your hand on your belly and tell me
what else, from anyone,
is a danger to us now?
We are now a danger to only those
who see nothing but danger in the world.
Save your curses
for your precious anger
I am not some white-clothed
heir to a chair
one of those who shape
the fate of this unfortunate country
I am one among thousands of dust-smeared faces.
Any river of my country is too small
for the sweat streaming on my forehead
any scripture, of any religion
is not holier than the silence of my wounded lips
and the flag you salute, heels together
any history of the pain of us plundered people
is much deeper than its three colours
and every wound of our soul
is far greater than the wheel at its centre.
My friend, even while crushed
under your nail-studded boots
I am higher than Mount Everest.
Your coward officer has lied about me
that I am a great bloodthirsty enemy of this state
no, I haven’t even touched
the hem of enmity yet.
I am still defeated by the hardships of home
for now, I only fill scraps of action with my pen
for now, I am a trembling link between labourer and landlord
even my right arm still strays
like a stranger to me.
I still have to turn the barber’s razors into daggers.
On the barbed fences of rulers,
I still have to write Chandi’s ballad.
Inside the womb that births shining slogans
the mochi’s blade still has to roam
drenched in poison.
And higher than that devil’s flag
will still wave
burning and sputtering
the smoky carpenter’s chisel.
The flames still have to catch
in the jubilees, where
people still scrub dishes
smeared with the leftovers
of those who come and go.
Khushiya the choohra has yet to
stuff into his hookah
the soft thighbone
of a priest in a chair.
The day I join the seven colours
and become a rainbow
not one of my blows at the enemy
will ever go in vain
and then the splashes of foul spit
from the car with the flag
will not shine
on my life’s eager face.
I cannot reach that tower of light alone—
I need you
you must reach there too.
We are a caravan
of life’s sharp fragrances
and the fertilizer from your generations
has been laid in this garden.
We are restless lovers
of this song-like passage
and in our yearning is also
the song of your sorrow.
Constable, tell me— do I look
this dangerous to you too?
I have left behind …
Avtar Singh Sandhu ‘Pash’ [1950–1988] was one of the major poets in Punjabi of the 1970s. In 1970, he published his first book of revolutionary poems, Loh-Katha (Iron Tale). His strongly left-wing views were reflected in his poetry.
Manvi (she/they) is a writer and translator based in Delhi. She works across English, Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu, and is currently translating revolutionary Punjabi poetry from the late 1960s to the 1980s.