Meena Kandasamy
We are Not the Citizens
நாமார்க்குங் குடியல்லோம் நமனை யஞ்சோம்
நரகத்தி லிடர்ப்படோம்நடலை யில்லோம்
naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
We are not the subjects of anyone
We do not fear the god of death
We shall not suffer, were we to end in hell
We’ve no deception, we’ve no illusions.
We do not fear the god of death
We shall not suffer, were we to end in hell
We’ve no deception, we’ve no illusions.
naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
Nobody’s citizens and nobody’s slaves
Fearless of lynchings and beheadings
Unscathed by the torrent of hell-fires
We do not tremble at certain death.
Fearless of lynchings and beheadings
Unscathed by the torrent of hell-fires
We do not tremble at certain death.
naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
As people, we refuse to be ruled
As people, we refuse to die
As people, we refuse to suffer
As people, we refuse to be deceived.
As people, we refuse to die
As people, we refuse to suffer
As people, we refuse to be deceived.
naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom
(After the Thevaram, as sung by Appar Thirunavukkarasar)
Notes:
1. “Naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjomnaragathil idar padom, nadalai illom” are lines from the classic Tamil poetry of the Bhakti poet Thirunavukkarasar (Appar), who was persecuted for his faith in Shaivism by Mahendravarman, the Jain Pallava emperor . It’s widely believed that these lines were sung when efforts were made to arrest him and produce him in Mahendravarman’s court. Because the seventh century Tamil of Appar is still in use — and at the same time, some words have fallen out of the everyday vocabulary — it opens up to all of these renderings, all of these translations. This declaration, that we are not citizens/subjects, is a radical slogan to throw in the face of the state. In today’s world, rife with the refugee crisis, these words resonate. They encapsulate the people’s rejection of a state and, closer home, brings to mind the poet/writer’s disowning her/ his association with a state.
2. This poem is a rendering in the form of an independent poem. The initial lines are word-for-word, but later, the poem begins to convey the spirit without taking away from the meaning of the poem. Also, the plural address and collective speech amplify the voice beyond that of one poet.
© Meena Kandasamy
Leena Manimekalai @LeenaManimekali
Introducing the disgraceful fakir Madho Lal Hussein, with four poems to prove it
The poet who added his lover’s name to his own made a joke of moral codes.
Weaver, mystic, fakir, Shah Hussein continues to command great reverence in Punjab as a poet-saint more than 400 years after his death. His urs, or death anniversary, is still celebrated at his shrine in Baghbanpura, Lahore.
In the inner sanctum of the shrine, buried right next to Hussein, is his young beloved and disciple, Madho (pronounced Madh-oh) Lal. The fact that Hussein literally fused his name with Madho’s and came to be known as Madho Lal Hussein is not only testament to the enduring legacy of love, but also illustrates an essential tenet of Sufism, the merger of the lover and the beloved…
To understand the subversive wisdom of Hussein’s kafis (singular kafi, the stanza-length poetic form preferred by most Punjabi and Sindhi mystical poets) and his unconventional lifestyle practised in sixteenth-century Punjab, we must delve into the scant biographical sources available.
Hussein’s father, a Rajput from the Kalsrai clan, converted to Islam during the Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526) and took on the Muslim name of Sheikh Usman. As a boy, Hussein joined the local mosque which also functioned as a madrasa, where memorising the Quran by rote was the main method of learning.
Being a prodigious student, Hussein caught the attention of an itinerant dervish and scholar, Sheikh Bahlol Dariai, who took him under his wing. The Sheikh was a learned man, having travelled across the wide expanse of the fifteenth-century Islamic world, including Arabia, Mesopotamia, Persia and Afghanistan. He broadened the parochial horizons of his young ward, daring Hussein to fathom the unconventional ways in which traditional texts could be interpreted.
Later, at the age of thirty-six, while studying with another respected scholar of the time, Sheikh Sa’ad Ullah, Hussein paused at the following verses from the Quran:
Harken, Ye Folks, the world is a play and a show, a display of pageantry, pride, and boasting between yourselves, and competing with one another for greater wealth and number of children.Sura Al-Hadid 57: 20
The words resonated so deeply with Hussein that he broke into a spontaneous dance of self-liberation. From this point onwards, he would not play the game for the sake of any success in the world, material or spiritual, but would rather become the amused player who treats the world as what it is: an ephemeral playground.
It was only a matter of time before Sheikh Bahlol Dariai heard of the promising young student turned malamati – one who seeks disgrace and censure – leading his pack of revellers through the town. The Sheikh returned to talk some sense into Hussein, and he received his due reverence despite Hussein’s radically altered lifestyle. When asked to lead the prayers, Hussein complied. In the middle of the prayer, Hussein broke into laughter and ran away when he recited these Quranic verses:
Did We not open your heart, and ease your burden which weighed down your back, and exalted your fame?Sura Ash-Sharh 94:1-4
In time, Hussein acquired quite a reputation: a rebel fakir dressed in all red, bearing a wine flask in one hand and an earthen bowl in another. This popular figure did not make for an exemplary model to enforce the moral codes based on the puritanical values of the religious elite. And yet the swelling numbers of his followers could not have gone unchecked since Akbar had temporarily shifted his capital to Lahore.
According to legend, the emperor was unimpressed by the wine-to-non-alcoholic-drinks miracle performed by Hussein when he was brought before Akbar for interrogation, and sent him to prison. While Hussein was in the dock, his likeness showed up in the harem attended upon by the royal ladies. Mystified by the miraculous feat, Akbar acknowledged Hussein’s credentials as a saint, and set him free.
Sorrows are our completion, I tell you,aches and scars compose a beingThose busy turning millions to billionsremain greedy as everYour white robe is fuel for fireYou may have been better offwith a dervish’s grimy cloakThose who keep the companyof the plain and simplestay out of harm’s way and arriveat fuller wisdomSays Hussein, the Sain’s fakir,People leave unfulfilled~~~
My lover grabbed my armWhy would I ask him to let go?Dark night drizzling, painfulthe approaching hour of departureYou’ll know what love’s all aboutonce it seeps into your bonesWhy dig a well in brackish soil?Why sow a seed in sand?You, who are making giant leaps,one day you’ll be leapt over, my man!Says Hussein, the humble fakir,look into the lover’s eyes, and letthe gaze remain interlocked~~~
O God, I hid my weaver’s toolsYou are merciful, SainWith rings on my fingerhow can I do any labour?With my red velvet shoeshow can I sit still and weave?For the sake of warming the stoveI sweat for the five measly kaseerasHow can I pay for the expenses?Inside I’m a den of hens, outsidethe serenity of a peacockSays Hussein, the Sain’s fakir,the good weaving girl gotkidnapped by the robbers~~~
Be fearful as long as you liveIn the bazaar of love, poor monkeysput to bizarre tricks. Not easy, I tell you,to entertain the whims of the belovedDon’t be a stubborn colt, bow downLovers risk life and reputationGrab the flame through the fireSighs ‘n’ sobs, that’s not the wayOut in the field you discover loveNot easy to catch a glimpse. Pluck outthe heart at the glint of love’s bladeThe real lover first finishes off the bodyNot easy starting up passion, but once startedbetter not tell anyone. Without the belovedit’s a false game of a gossip spun worldDon’t seek the temporal out of truthDon’t ignore one or the otherSays Hussein, the beggar fakir,what can you do if he remains indifferent?Let him sort what he started. Look!Here comes the wedding party~~~
Excerpted with permission from Verses of a Lowly Fakir, Madho Lal Hussein, Translated from the Punjabi by Naveed Alam, Penguin Books.
We welcome your comments at letters@scroll.in
