Bewilderment

Drum beating heard in the desert

Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes

Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown

An elegant palace emerges in the heart of the forest

Snake blows flute and people dance around it

As the dance become wild the world revolves

At the height of it people bite the snake

Wonder struck I set out in search of the root of happiness

I tread the thorny stony way

I pass by mountains and rivers

There is no water in the oasis

No rose in the bush

No palace in the forest

No drum beating is heard

The snake crawls to my head

But, I don’t have a flute to give it

There are no people to dance around me.

By Ismail Meladi

Machine

At ten in the morning:

The wheel of the machine

Started moving

With a slightly terrifying noise

The moments started rolling

Along with the wheel,

Most obediently and devoutly;

Did I take the pen in my hand

Oh! I don’t remember that

It was beyond the fog of numbness

Oh! What a surprise,

It is noon already!

Yes, first of all,

The letters in my page,

Then, the ink in my pen,

Following them, my pen,

And at last, my fingers,

Have crawled and crawled

Along with the wheel

And at last, they have corroded

With the iron of the wheel

At five in the evening:

Oh my God, is it evening!

I have already lost my fingers,

So, I looked at my body

Oh heavens! It has happened

Exactly what I expected

Each of my organs

Have been blended with the wheel!

By Ismail Meladi

The burro at Sultanpur

In the busy main street

Of this Sultanpur city

Smeared with the dust of antiquity

Incessant flow of rickshaws

With non-stop rings of bells

Sounding like death knells

Colourful, clamorous and bright,

Still, beautiful is this ugliness of antiquity

There stands a burro exactly in the middle

Of this road surrounded by all these noises

Silent, sharpening and stretching its long big ears

At this time flows and reaches there

Beautiful music, stereo and non-stereo,

Announcement of lottery tickets,

With handsome promises on future,

Slogans, election manifesto, street politics,

Land boundary disputes, secrets of friends,

Luring laughs of ladies flirting with their lovers

But, the burro stands on the middle of the road

In the same state, unmoved and dispassionate

And, many centuries have passed now.

By Ismail Meladi

Indian images

I saw land areas, I saw forest areas

I saw land people in the forests

I saw barbaric people in the land

The ‘worms’ scrawling in the farms

And the life immersed in the dust

Wishes are being sucked in

By the chimneys of factories

Hopes are being driven far away

Along with the herds of cows

Those who toil for greening this land

Return to the palm huts of darkness

In the evening, crossing the desert

And again, the day dawns decrepit

The bullock carts roll panting

On the marooned track of ‘progress’

Loads burden up and bulls bend down

Carts stop at the red light of the rail track

After scaling up the steep road

Rajdhani Express sped away in front of them

On the electric line with AC three-tier coaches

Thousands of temple bells rang together

In the inner heart of the cart driver

Tridents headed towards his stomach.

By Ismail Meladi

Fly Socialism

The greatest socialists

In this country

Are the flies

They don’t discriminate

Between poor or rich

They act without bothering

Whether it is a patient

Or a healthy person

They don’t think about

The colour or race

Whether blacks or whites

They like everybody equally

Be it a north Indian

Or a south Indian

A Punjabi or a Tamil

A Bengali or a Malayali

The flies place their bottoms,

As they like, on everybody’s body

The flies do not find it difficult

To stay anywhere

Whether it is the waste bin

Or palatial mansions

They have no problem

In breathing the free air

Whether it is clean or dirty

They bless the elderly

As they bless the children

Flies are not shy to sing

In front of anybody

If need arises

They dare to venture out

At any time of the night

They don’t care a bit

For people’s positions or respect

Or even the caste differences

They make all of them their preys.

By Ismail Meladi

Nostalgic Memory

The heart of the capital city

Blossoms in December days

The fire in the torch at India Gate

Hesitates to burn brightly

The city that spits smoke

Moves on mechanically as usual

When the ‘Paanwala’ in Parliament street

Enquires about my well being

My lips utter ‘fine’ artificially

Malayalam ‘fine’ and Hindi ‘fine’ are different

My language changes

In front of the journalist in Rafi Marg

There, it is the usual ‘what is news’

When I meet the Malayali in Mayur Vihar

My language becomes more artificial

And more that that, dispassionate

There, the Malabarian and Travancorean

Show off their ego in newspaper language

When the Tamilian in Ramakrishnapuram

Calls me ‘Sir’ my answer becomes heavy

In Karol Bagh I have one language

And in Africa Avenue, another

In the posh Safdarjung Enclave

I have ‘apartment style’ language

When I return to my dwelling place

At the end of the day

And when I dream of loneliness

A small parrot chirps inside

The nest of my heart

I held my ears close

It was uttering something

In a feeble voice

Yes, I have heard this voice somewhere

It was the language of my village, of my household

Of my village people, and of my family

But, it is still not coming out through my lips

It has not been coming out for long

Even when I spend my time ‘freely’ with my friends.

By Ismail Meladi

Facial contradiction

(i)

I,

A faceless person,

Who hid my body

Somewhere in the depth

Of this big city,

I am the undisclosed offspring

Of an unknown weak woman,

Who came to this big city

Once upon a time

At some cross roads of history

From a poverty-stricken village

Of Bihar or Orissa,

She had crushed her bones,

Shrunken her skin,

Became herself a worm

And slowly perished

While labouring for palaces

I don’t know her

Nobody knows her

Because, like thousands,

She also had no face

She had pushed her life

With her body only

Yes, body had a value

In any street

Where face had no value

Due to this,

There is no meaning

In searching a face for me

That is why

I don’t have a name

So, you can call me

Any name, as you wish

Thief, robber, killer, scoundrel,

Anything

Because,

I don’t have a face of my own

Whenever chances came up

I pasted on my face

The undisclosed faces

Of the politician here,

Of the social reformist

Or of any VIP

My most important peculiarity is

That I am not written anywhere

My name cannot be found

In the birth and death register

In the local authority

Because, nobody knows

Where I was born,

When I was born

And to whom I was born

My name cannot be found

In the marriage register too

Because, I don’t need a marriage

To fulfil my sexual urge

Even the police clerk

Writes nothing about me

As he doesn’t know

Who are my parents,

As I have no permanent house,

Or a permanent name

I can speak anything to anybody

Call any names

I can beat anybody

I can kill anybody

Nobody will ask me anything

I can use the road as a toilet

Nobody will protest against it

I can scream loudly in the day time

Nobody will say anything

I don’t have anything of my own

So what?

But, I have the freedom to do anything

I am beyond the time and ages

I am behind the curtain of all images

That is why, I don’t need any protection

Because of all these,

Nothing will happen even if I die

Because,

I was not written anywhere.

(ii)

I,

A person,

Who lives in the biggest

And highest echelons

Of this big city

I get five-digit salary

I move only in cars

I am an executive

With an identity card

Hanging from my neck

When I come back from work

Thinking of the world’s issues

So seriously, heating my brain

I have the comfort of air-conditioning

Clubs, discussions, parties and get-togethers

Are my inevitable routines

I have to keep a lot of manners

And take care of many social values

Hence, I have a lot of facilities

My parents gave me education

In posh English-medium schools

Mother tongue is a shame for me

I, who have all the comforts in life,

Had a revelation one day

Since that day

This thought started haunting me

Though I have everything

I don’t have anything

When I screamed loudly for two days

My freedom took me to hospital

When I used the road for toilet

They chained me

Because,

Everything about me

Was written

Up-to-date.

By Ismail Meladi

Vote Shanties

In the city

Shanties emerge

And disappear

Without any shape

Like cut pieces of clothes

Political lords

Stitch votes

On these cut pieces

They burn

Old pieces

And dish out

New pieces

As the number of

Cut pieces increase

The lords gain

New and new attires.

By Ismail Meladi

The dog in Renigunta

The dog in Renigunta railway station

Runs through the mob

That is making noise

Comes to the platform

And lies down so close to earth

But dispassionate, closing its eyes

The common man in the capital city

Walks with his eyes wide open

As if he has closed his eyes

In the midst of political brouhaha

By Ismail Meladi

Yield

We put the manure of jealousy

For the best yield

To harvest hundred percent

We plant hatred

To bring out the best bunch

We pluck out the unwanted growth of love

To increase the production capacity

We use hybrid politics

For the yellowness of grains

We mix the ashes of religion

For the fertility of the earth

We import foreign monopoly

For extra high profit

We include anger

For short term gains

We will sacrifice anything

Including us, our generation,

Even the liveliness of this land.

By Ismail Meladi

Global philosophy

This world is blind

This world is endless

This world is a nonsense

That is danced and revelled

Is this world a pretty poem

Without even a proper

Deployment of meanings

And depth of connotations?

This world is a stupidity of life

Of burdened mind and head

This world is a place

Where the churning out of mind

And the memories become dead

In the spirit poured by over ambitions.

By Ismail Meladi

Ire

You raped my innocent language cruelly

You battered my sacrosanct culture

You burned my children to death mercilessly

You poisoned my life-saving air

You polluted my mirror-like water

You converted my green into black.

By Ismail Meladi

Prime Minister in a bullock cart

A fully loaded bullock cart,

The eleventh hour of night

And the Prime Minister who sleeps

On the front seat of the carriage

A limping lantern sways beneath

And the disoriented cart reaches a turning

The bull walks according to its impulses

Criss-crossing vehicles speed away

Bang on and knock down the cart

The cart goes right on one banging

And to the left on another banging

It sways and skids but lingers on

At the eleventh hour of night…

By Ismail Meladi

Delhi life

The nostrils

Become chimneys

The lungs of the child

Become hot furnace

And the city turns a hell.

By Ismail Meladi

Death of democracy

Vultures are hovering around

The parliament house

It is long since democracy

Has breathed its last

Authorities have issued orders

To import all the perfumes

To get away from the stench

That is emanated due to decay

For that, all the laws are amended

Including liberalization and globalisation

Watching all these, there sits somebody

On the courtyard of the parliament house

His head is lowered and body is blackened

It was our Gandhiji.

By Ismail Meladi

Vulture and I

The vulture strikes on dead bodies

And I strike on life

The vulture eats the unknown

And I eat my kin

The vulture flies over

Around death

I fly around and across

Life.

By Ismail Meladi

To Yamuna

Oh! Yamuna!

Are you bowing

To accept

The garland of death?

Is the city of Mayan

On your banks

Transforming into

The city of Yaman?

Are you embracing

All the thoughts

Getting decayed

Throughout the city?

Are all paths

Being filled with

Severely hurt

Dignity?

Are pellets

Of political shrapnel

Being piled up

In the alleys?

Is nothing found

Other than truth

To be sacrificed

On the altar?

Oh! Yamuna!

Are you becoming

Night

Even in the day?

Where is light?

Is it buried

In deep mud

In the gorge?

Are you consuming

The whole smoke

Of the sins that

Emanate from the city?

By Ismail Meladi

____________________________________________________________________

Yamuna: The city of Delhi is situated on the banks of river Yamuna.

Mayan: According to the Hindu mythology, the city of Delhi was created by the Sculptor Mayan.

Yaman: According to the Hindu mythology, Yaman is the lord of death.

Signature

Your signature

Decides the fate

Of my life

Your signature

Builds compound wall

To my freedom

Your signature

Reins in

My hopes

Your signature

Controls the growth

Of my children

Your signature

Takes away the smell

Of my soil

Your signature

Prolongs the life

Of my illness

Your signature

Steals the honey

Of my forest

Your signature

Dims the shining

Of my coin

Your signature

Decides the right

Over my fingers

Your signature

Creates another owner

To all my organs

Your signature

Demands rent

Even for my life

Therefore,

I have decided

To obliterate your signature.

By Ismail Meladi

Soil

This soil

Yearned solidly

For my first cry

I grew up

Consuming the smell

Of this soil

This soil

Had become the cake

In the toy cup of my childhood

This soil

The virgin who blossomed

With the touch of my feet

The plant of my hope

Had grown on her

Chubby cheek

This soil

Was soaked

With my sweat

This soil

Is not alien to me

It is my aim and reality.

By Ismail Meladi

Still…

I lived in the middle of books

Still I became lazy

I lived on the banks of the rice field

Still I became hungry

There were textile mills in my state

Still I became naked

There were beauty parlours in my town

Still I became ugly

There were wells in all houses around me

Still I became thirsty

There were police in my country

Still I was pained

Because there was paper in this world

I did not commit suicide.

By Ismail Meladi

Feminine grief

Boiled pain is there

To chew in

Sour juice

Of poverty is there

To drink in

Dead dreams are there

To caress

Blanket of fear

Is there to sleep in

Kids of hope

Are not there

To sing lullaby

First sight

Of husband

Is not there

To get up from sleep

No truth, no justice

No righteousness, No coins

To dress up

Not even the Sindoor

Of tomorrow

To spill on the hairline

Nobody is there,

Not a Banyan tree

Or even a sheet

To give shade

No sandal

To tread the path

Of hot sunny days

No green leaves

No drinking water

To quench the heat.

By Ismail Meladi

Sindoor: A red powder used by Indian women to spill on their hairline, which means that they are married.

Melted thoughts

Thoughts flow wide open

Spread and merge with fire

All the miseries ooze out

Towards the fire as petrol

All the goods and the hopes

And the mind too catch fire

Cracks appear on chairs

Whips lash out heavily

Screams evaporate quickly

Feminine youthfulness

Becomes disastrous

Blood spreads on coins

Shame and pride melt in tar

By Ismail Meladi

Halt

She said:

I am the sigh

That has fallen apart

Halfway through

While it was rising up

I am the feeling

That was suppressed

Before being expressed

I am the opinion

That was chopped away

Before being voiced

I am the desires

That never blossomed

Out of the heart

I am the thoughts

That are confined

To the brain

I am the attitude

That cracked up

Hitting the walls

I am the worries

That end up burning

Inside the heart

I am the sorrows

That evaporated

Through tears

I am the dreams

That were collapsed

Without being built up

I am the anxiety

That was caved in

Before being ascended

By Ismail Meladi

Delhi

Oh! Delhi,

You are the mother of cities

In your adolescence

You were Indraprastha

In the youth

You became Shajahanabad

And later you became Delhi

You are the Panchali

Who, for decades,

Is being stripped

By the political lords

You live on the banks of Yamuna

Still, no flutist

Is coming to your rescue

You are the Sita

Who braves the fire

To prove your innocence

Rama sends you

To the concrete jungle

Again and again

Not an inch of earth

Is available here

For you to split

And perish yourself

Oh! Delhi,

Ghalib wanders

In your alleys

Singing his Ghazals

Even today

Now, the river Yamuna

Flows Through your chest

Like a flimsy wound

Where are your children?

Don’t they have a place

Even in this concrete jungle?

By Ismail Meladi

Does rain possess a mind?

Does rain possess a mind?

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it downpour

Like a torrential lashing

Into the miseries of the poor

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it drizzle like

Kindness again and again

Into the affluence of the rich

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it play havoc

Always in some regions

As floods and landslides

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it hesitate to come

Sometimes, becomes incessant

Another time, breaks and clears

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it waffle indefinitely

To pour down in some places

And makes the land a rain bird.

By Ismail Meladi