Translated from the Hindi by Ambrish
Translator’s Note:
What translation to make of the word ‘tatasthta?’ What does the word even mean here? Etymologically it is combination of ‘tat’ (shore) and ‘sthirta/sthit-ta’ (to stay/not move). It suggests ‘to not move from a position’, to ‘stay situated at the bank unfazed’.
But, why is this person on the bank?
Is it because he has been held back? That, if not restrained, he might have both the courage and the capacity to leap into the waters and make it to the other side! Or, maybe he is there by choice? Jealously ridiculing the zeal of those who show the intent to cross, and calling their effort futile. Apart from these, another way for the person to be ‘tatasth’ is to reject either shore. To denounce, even belittle the earthly reality of either shore and instead with detachment give oneself to the ‘ascetic’ flow of the river, adhering never to the struggles of the ‘world’.
The three poems here expand upon these manifestations of the word, and have been said as an autobiographical account. Through these testimonies, Dharamvir Bharati has completely turned around the classical emotion of the word tatasthta. Whereas traditionally the word derives a moral weight through its association with dignified restraint and unfazed resolve of characters like Bhishm —we do not see any of that glory in Bharati’s tatasth characters. Sometimes this tatasth person is unable to leave the shore due to circumstances, or at other times his tatasthta is his envy for the change and the flow. It doesn’t really take any resolve or effort to be tatasth in these cases; in fact, this tatasthta is merely a convenient excuse for one’s moral inertia, envy, inactivity, impotency, indifference.
This moral indifference and blatant inaction, forced or chosen, resonates loudly with our times. Around the world, aren’t concerned voices being deliberately silenced and bullied into submission? Aren’t there those pundits around always ready with their bitter cynicism whenever any new effort even slightly falters, while personally giving up on the world and its betterment, calling it a futile attempt? Aren’t there reluctant ‘neutralists’, who lack the potency and courage to push towards any necessary chaos, to the extent of not recognising grave injustice, and being unable to call out a side as clearly wrong?
Forcefully, or by choice, most of us have given up, and one can especially see this as one grows old and increasingly subservient and dependent on the system. This docility, this acquired indifference, this recognition of the age-old status quo of power, this tatasthta—this is the real death of hope and, hence, of the lively, and beautifully violent human spirit.
The Army Of Rukmi
[When the Mahabharat war began, Rukmini’s brother along with his huge army went to Yudhisthir. Yudhisthir did not accept taking his help. He then went to Duryodhan. He also did not accept him. He along with his army, lay idle for the entire eighteen days of the Mahabharat war, just near the battlefield.]
The war
We could hear all day
But only from afar
We were great warriors, lead great armies
But what could we do!
We were rejected by both parties
Not to engage in the war even by mistake—was the commandment
Time seemed frozen, sitting idle in our cantonment
We played chausar
We spouted philosophy
Who did right, and who did wrong
We sat and judged impartially
None of us fought
Not in any form
Out in the sun
Stretched on the cot.
Each of us had lived both minutely—
Be it danger, be it war
It’s just that—we weren’t a part
The war, we only heard, from afar.
Sampati
[Jatayu’s elder brother, the vulture, who was the first to attempt flying to the Sun, got his wings scorched and fell down on the seashore. Monkeys who wanderingly ended up in his rest cave while on their excursion to find Sita, became his prey.]
… This too was a flare of my grandeur
That whenever I’d fall, I’d fall across the sea
And there be a deep cave on the shore I fall—
Where I rest, gathering my scorched wings
That they may stand as a testament …
Testament that only I was the original rebel
Who rose to take on even the sun’s dare ...
Poor sun, still in its place
Just as lonely, just as ablaze
But I, it is I, finding these challenges futile
Have stopped being moved by them!
It’s pleasing to leisurely age and see
The heaving and crashing of the sea
Every now and then some reckless one
Comes wandering up to this cave
Daring to measure the sea in a leap.
Says I, come you!
O aftercomer—you now be my feed!
(For why do they remind me
Of that form of mine, forgetting which is now more suitable for me!)
Watching their zeal with scorn
I flutter my wings half-scorched
As they are the testament
That I was the original rebel, only I am
Nope, no struggle moves me anymore
It wasn’t me
But my brother Jatayu
Who battled Dashanan in vain
Who is Sita?
And rescue who? Why?
In the end, both shall dishonor her anyway
Ravan by seizing her, Ram by reclaiming her.
No, no challenge moves me now …
It’s peaceful here in this cave
Who are these claiming of crossing the sea
Tell them, it’s all now a futility
All courage worth showing, has already been shown by me
Why do they racket, disturbing my peace
Don’t they see
It’s pleasing to raise my wrinkled eyelids
Lying in my cave watching the sea.
Balram
[Krishna’s short-tempered elder brother who, with a plough on shoulder, roamed far away from the war.]
He chose Panchajanya
I shouldered a plough
He became a leader
Setting entrapments for the war
I remained neutral
Journeyed tirelessly on foot
Hamlet to hamlet, farm to farm
Every now and then gave my verdicts on war
Bhim is wrong, Duryodhan is right
(Accept me a Saint even if you wanna fight)
My sermon of peace‘
Nobody my enemy, nobody dear to me’
(face to face, none posed any threat to me)
Whoever wants to change the epoch
May continue doing so
I am quite content living
On the kindness of simple village folk!
Neither am I against, nor in favor
Just couldn’t relate to this era ever
Unable to hold my sway over anyone
Hence I have so much anger!
Dharamvir Bharati [1926–1997] was a Hindi poet, author, playwright and a social thinker. He was the chief editor of the Hindi weekly magazine Dharmayug, from 1960 till 1987. Bharati was awarded the Padma Shree for literature in 1972 by the Government of India. His novel Gunaho Ka Devta became a classic. Bharati’s Suraj ka Satwan Ghoda was adapted into a National Film Award-winning film of the same name in 1992 by Shyam Benegal. His play Andha Yug, set against the backdrop of the aftermath of Mahabharata, is frequently performed in public by drama groups. He was awarded the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in playwriting (Hindi) in 1988 by the Sangeet Natak Akademi.
Ambrish, based in Delhi-Dehradun, reads more than he writes, thinks more than he talks, and unfortunately ponders more than he actually works. Some of his interests include cinema, literature, music, news, and occasionally watching boxing or random people fighting on X.