‘Sanskarnama’: Poetry that reflects the politics of our times (which we cannot flinch from)

Sanskarnama is largely a product of the turbulent times India is steeped in. As “poetry of our times”, it speaks in a caustic, humorous, scathing tongue. There are musings on love and death, lamentation on inflictions and conflicts, and meditation on temporality. Gau rakshaks are lampooned and young Junaid’s brutal killing is lamented. The body is a horizon for feminist resolutions where the poems test their scope. The elegiac tenor of “apologies” bursts with cynicism.

My neighbour is a gau-rakshak

Everyone has a gau rakshak neighbour these days
not everyone knows what they look like
we say happy Diwali sirji, and how’s the weather today
we eat cake, madamji makes sherbet when we meet.
I could even have a lover who’s a gau rakshak so tender
that he keeps me from all untowardness of nights.
Our gau rakshak neighbour wears branded jeans
he hates Chinese goods but flaunts a Swiss watch
she too likes kitty parties where Ramdev churan churns
Zara scarves with Kolhapuri sandals for the ladies, kyunki
after all, Musalmanon me hunar toh hai for craft and art
thus my gau rakshak friends make light of life.
When we meet we say pleasantries like the rain
until my inshallah waterlogs their ears, they seem stunned:
You JNU-wallahs are like that only no, they say
a little wanton, a little awaara, somewhat misfit
still I recite Bhakti poetry and often placate the bhakts.
Our gau rakshak neighbour asserts Hindu khatre mein hai
the sky is saffron, the cow mothers turn plastic bags to manna
Our conversations span all greatness of Bharat Mata Shri
then Nirvana becomes a Bengali mithai he offers me with tea.

When everyone asked for a name

(Dedicated to 16-year-old Junaid and the “Not in my Name” protests that flared up following his murder)

Just a regular frangipanied summer day at the railway station
a little in between the hours of waking and sleep
the puffed-rice clouds in the sky were regular in shape

a light breeze, said to be of summer’s grace, was at play
such romance of the train is a never-ending story
but the romance of blood is irregular when seen on a face –
and the men ask: is your name Junaid?

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

I’m looking at the languid suburban rail coach in the news
with the killers’ eyes, with the nose of a troublemaker
I’m smoking the same cheap cigarette they puffed
and I’m drunk with the same impunity of the burly men
it’s a moment when human sweat smell takes over the track stink —
and the mother asks: where is Junaid?

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

It’s a panorama like everyday sun’s rise or set chugging by
one that pans across faces, forms, a skull cap soiled
one that tugs and slaps at lightly dotted teenage chins
a canvas of invisible boys women elders that the station hosts —
and how no one asks: is this Junaid?

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

the shape of things was clouds, broken Cola bottles
smashed clay tea cups thrown from moving windows
a blood-stained seat corner feeling the rush of summer breeze
and then a Maru Bihag coiling up with the shape of wails —
did someone ask: are you Junaid?

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

the sound of iron wheels and mint smell mixing with air
spice and spit touching the moss of ancient stones
then salt on the tongue, sweat on molar teeth seeping slow slow
right inside the heart. Then all stops. Just a cracking crush.
And all of us are looking at Junaid.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

(Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un: “We belong to Allah, and to Him we shall return.”)

Apologies for our times

Is there really time to say, sorry, we won’t long any more or is there
more time for side-winking the Modis and Yogis as well as sleep?

We stalk love to get pained in return each time the heart throbs —
is there time then to say sorry to nature’s well-designed tricks?

But I’m sorry for all the songs that I had composed, for imagining
children will live and the oxygenated world would be better one day

Where do I keep my apologies, if not on your lips, indeed —
for not loving enough, not saying enough that I do, yes I do

There may be times when I need to speak and still stop
look at the watch and imagine your jawline sharp in the dark

We must go our ways and at the station I watch the crowd, feel
sorry about the young men who lust me and just cannot reach out —

During my lone walks I notice wall handbills of the local quack
reminding me that I could still want a(nother) child of my womb

And the day goes by just as myth, all fire and rumble, TRPs
from news channels, and we’re supposed to feel sorry anyway —

Apologies for swear words, screwed up plans, burnt toast
botched meetings, failed flirtations, and even the ISIS

Must we say sorry – soft, soft, say it soft – and retreat for love?
For you the Judgment Day, while I await his tender gaze

Make it light

My body on my lap
a clotted November fly
half-battered, no flutter.
A crumpled newspaper under
the fan. Both failed in flight. I hold
both as though they were two
continents breaking apart. Paper gone
to brittle bones. The insect-limbs blood dyed.
My body no more mine. Death no longer
a surprise.
No longer
any price.

I carry remembrances like continental shelves
this body shifting, grating against the odds
then becoming ash, like all women.
The lost breath
the half love
halved.

It’s a mazhar I walk past and all is dark
It’s a chant I read and all is buried in shashtra’s din.
There’s a silence because women don’t scream.
A fly, a lump, a body that comes apart at seams.

Then I ask:
shall I offer grief a fresh lily for all we endured
for all the grief
for all bodies
in un-flight
for all and
– make it light, make it light, make it light.

Excerpted with permission from Sanskarnama, Nabina Das, Red River.

Nabina Das is a poet and writer based in Hyderabad. Sanskarnama is her third collection of poetry and fifth book.