Right in the morning,
They get together
From no one knows where
At the street corner.

Men, women, a little child
Waiting for odd jobs –
Painting, masonry or simply cleaning.
Women huddled together,
Villagers – their dark glistening bodies
In clusters
Awaiting work,
On tenterhooks.

Like cattle herded,
Immigrants from several lands
Move towards the city
Towards the Bigari Naka
Agents bring jobs with their commissions
Or comes along a needy householder.
Women don’t go alone;
They work together
And look after themselves.

They set up shacks
Anywhere…
Raising brick on brick
They build houses for others,
Dig holes,
Haul the muck from the deep manholes.
They live on the margins of the city,
Yet they are no citizens.
They stay for months together
Untouched, neglected…
With faith…
But, for the progress of the city,
Their shacks are demolished the first.

They can’t make sense of the city-dwellers:
Why do they act like strangers?
After doing so much for them,
Why are they so rude?
Clinging to the creek,
Close by the rail sidings
They set up shanties.
From no one knows where,
Towards the wealthy, crowded parts of the town,
They congregate at the Bigari Naka
Again.

(* Bigari Naka is the name given to a street corner where casual labour, skilled and unskilled workers assemble in search of work.)

Original Marathi poem titled Bigari Naka from the text titled Navya Manasache Agaman by Narayan Surve.
(Navya Manasache Agaman, Narayan Surve, Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, 1995.)

The tenements that sat warming their backs clamoured
The city slowly turned grey
And then brown
Then… darkness swallowed the ruby.

The mills wearing their stone-gowns
Lit their cheroots and
Drowned in their thoughts.
Later…
With wet shirts thrown across their shoulders
The workers turned towards their shacks.

“Hey Sundri, what’s happened…?”
“…Don’t burn the incense today… Nehru’s dead!”
“Really… then, it’s an off tonight…!”
The women who comfort the weary slumped on the cot.

I walked on despondent… depressed
The roads seemed so desolate
Bearing a paper lantern a man pushed his handcart.
I asked,
“Why are you carrying the light now?”
“Come on sir;
Up ahead darkness would be baring its fangs!”
It was the time Nehru died…!

[Translated by Jatin Wagle from the Marathi collection of poems Maze Vidyapeeth (My University) by Narayan Surve, Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, 1966.
Original title of the poem: ‘Nehru gele tya velchi goshta’, p. 19.]

A measured life; at the moment of birth…
Glowed a measured light
Spoke measured words. Whining
Walked the measured track; walked back
To the measured home; lived a measured life
If you traverse the measured path
You’ll attain the heavens, they say! In the four measured pillars
And, I spit on it all.

[Translated by Jatin Wagle from the Marathi collection of poems Maze Vidyapeeth (My University) by Narayan Surve, Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, 1966.
Original title of the poem: ‘Betoon dilele ayushya’, p. 44.]

Papa was talking…
All of us were listening; those at home,
In the chawl, from tomorrow’s world!
The water in the gutters of the chawl was glistening in the floodlights.

“So, I was leading a sea of people…
You know what, son; I went ahead,
Turned at our chawl,
She was standing there at the door,
Something inside me smiled, just like that.
The neighbours whispered,
‘Look, Atmya’s father…a leader’

“You know what, son…
I started growing…became an ocean
I pierced the skies.
You know what, son; I mocked at the towers.
Telegrams arrived from England.
The queen’s minarets went tumbling then, it seems.
A trickle of blood glimmered across the darkness.
Some of us, like a bundle tied tightly, in a van
Passed the chawl once again…
You know what, son…
You were sleeping in your mother’s arms.
When I, too, waved my hand, her expression…

Memories of that May Day well up in my heart.
You know what, son!

You know what, son…

Original Marathi poem titled Bara ka re pora from the text titled Maze Vidyapeeth by Narayan Surve.
(Included in Kavita Shramachi, ed. Narayan Surve, publ. Maharashtra Kamagar Kalyan Mandal, Mumbai, 1993.)

I don’t want your melancholy nights anymore

I don’t want your melancholy nights anymore

Just about now I walked out of a mehfil
I felt so melancholy, I walked out…
The moon had moved… or I would say…
Turned homewards… or I could say,
Turning melancholy, had got quite soiled.

The day’s flags started fluttering…
Looming up…
Or I would say –
Over the city, over houses, all over…
Started galloping.

Jivba sat at the gate
On a bench
Collecting subscriptions
The lantern burned still…

“Hey Jivba, … how long would you stay up man?”

“We eat fire and shit embers…
So, don’t give us that… okay…”

Really, I don’t want your melancholy nights anymore.
Truly, I don’t.

[Translated by Jatin Wagle from the Marathi collection of poems Jaheernama (Manifesto) by Narayan Surve, Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, 1975.
Original title of the poem: ‘Tumchya tya udas ratri aata mala nakot’, pp. 22.]

Dawoodchacha

“What’s that you’re writing son?”
“No Chacha… just practising the alphabet.”
Dawoodchacha enters the room
Takes off his bobbled Turkish hat
Wiping the sweat from below his neck, he smokes a bidi
Flops down;
His crutch trips up, stretches out its legs.

“Keep this in mind, son!
It’s so easy to write a word,
And so hard to live for it.

“Just look at my leg…
Your mother, Kashibai’s my witness.
I’m a butcher, son… but
Never slaughtered a pregnant cow.

“So… Souraj came… Gandhi’s.
Allah’s grace.
The chawlwalas rejoiced.
Your father too…
Your father, the chawl’s trumpet.

“So, I was saying…
One day I sat in the butcher’s shop
A skinned goat hung from the hook
Suddenly I heard a din nearby
I ran out and saw…
The mob had cornered your mother
Kill her
Said the Allah-ho-Akbar-walas
Beware said I
They laughed, said
He turned out to be a bloody Hinduwala

“So, butcher the kafir
Rose the Allah-ho-wala voice
And, there was a fight
The bastards beat me up so hard
I almost died; lost my leg.
Isn’t it true, Kashibai…?

“So son…
Now man’s lost his worth… and mutton’s become dear
Son, in life now, darkness is everywhere
And, who’s left now
With a heart big enough to live for his word?
Money’s gobbled up everyone.

[Translated by Jatin Wagle from the Marathi collection of poems Jaheernama (Manifesto) by Narayan Surve, Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, 1975.
Original title of the poem: ‘Sheegwala’, pp. 20-1.]

School of Media and Cultural Studies 
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While selling their wares, they brought the sun to the market!

Those who’d forsaken their homes stood staring.
– How will it do to sit quietly at this hour?

Soon, they dragged even the hand to the market.
– How will it do to sit with folded hands now?

So, I got up,
Got out of the slums,
Whispered into the ears of the factories,
“We got to move ahead now! …”

Original Marathi poem titled “Zhep”
(Jaheernama, Narayan Surve, Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, 1975, p. 38.)

Hark!
In the heights of Mumbai
Malabar Hill, the paradise
The abode of the rich
Abounding with pleasure
And here those living in Parel
Working day and night
Surviving by the sweat of their brow
O listen, o listen ye people!
Trains, cars, planes flying high
The fine horse carriages
on the roads
The coolie’s handcarts
The crowd of bullock carts
The rushing vehicles
All in a jam!

Grant Road, Gokhale Road,
Sandhurst Road, Vincent Road…
Countless roads like these
Endless bylanes, crossroads
all flanked by the Arabian Sea

The old chawls of Chinchpokli, Lower Parel
Worli
No new paint on their walls
Here in the neighborhoods of Naigaon Dharavi and Matunga
the kids of the unemployed play in the filth

In St. George’s, Batliwala, KEM and Wadia hospitals
Everyday long queues of the ill

TB, carbuncle, STD, Fever cough, asthma
many die of innumerable diseases

Holding the flag of revolution
The new generation of workers steps forward
Looking at the marginalized
Anna Bhau Sathe says
Those who struggle will be victorious

 
I had no home, nor relatives, but as much of land as I could walk on,
And shop sheds; the municipal footpaths were for free.

………

These ghettos, slums divided between communities, red bulbs on the doors,
In the evenings, the noisy throngs swarming around the zoo at the centre.

In these rusted, hunger-charred, gloomy slums of Vandevadi,
Came in the tongas, horses were felled, I stood holding the horseshoe box.

“Come, catch the rope… yes, pull hard…scared? Are you a brahmin’s son or what?
We’re workers; hold the horse; ya, that’s good, my little horseshoer!”

Yakoob horseshoer laughed loudly. The horse got up shaking off the dust.
“A beedi for me, for you a jalebi”, and the second horse was downed.

Yakoob died in the riots; no blood ties, still I couldn’t stop crying.
When the bier was lifted, I added my voice to the funeral chant ‘Milad-Kalama’.

That day I wrote on a blank page of my mind, “Oh, Narayan,
These are the ways of the world of the unclothed; remember all the signs.”
 

Original Marathi poem titled “Maaze Vidyapeeth”
[Nivdak Narayan Surve (Selected Poetry of Narayan Surve), ed. Kusumagraj, Lok Vangmay Griha, Mumbai, 1999, p. 12.]

 
When the stars started dimming,
And the tall sirens began singing,
Turning towards the sounds,
Began the everyday processions.
And, leaving in haste,
She used to keep turning back again and again.
‘Don’t fight’, she used to say tenderly.
Thus, she used to earn her two-penny.

The day before Dashera,
She used to take the five of us along.
We used to roam through all the departments,
Watching the decorations.
What fun we had I just cannot say.
Words fail me.
Playing with the tops and whistles,
Flying the balloons and kites,
We turned into birds.

It so happened once,
They brought her in a car.
Her eyes staring wide open,
Blood streamed out of her mouth.
Her co-worker, Salu drew me close.
I was watching with restless eyes,
Was looking for the roof above.
We were looking for our mother.

That night the five of us crowded together.
Comforted ourselves with the bed-cover,
As though it was our mother.
We had nothing earlier.
Now even our mother was gone.
Trying to stem the flow of tears,
We stayed awake through the night.
Now we were completely destitute.

 
Original Marathi poem titled Mazi Aai from the collection titled Aisa ga mi brahma by Narayan Surve.
(Included in Kavita Shramachi, ed. Narayan Surve, publ. Maharashtra Kamagar Kalyan Mandal, Mumbai,1993)

Right at my first strike
I met Marx so…

At the centre of the procession
I held his banner on my shoulders.
Janaki Akka said, “ Know this chap –
This is our Marcus Baba.
He was born in Germany, wrote a sackful of books
And passed away in England.
You know, for a mendicant
All lands are the same…
Like you, he too had four kids.”
Right at my first strike action
I met Marx so…

Later: I was speaking at a meeting,
– So, what’s the cause of this depression?
What’s the source of poverty?
Again, Marx came up; I’ll tell you, he said
And went on speaking incessantly…

Just the other day, he stood listening to the speech at a gate meeting.
I said –
“Now we alone are the heroes of history
And of all the biographies to come too.”
He was the one who clapped loudly then.
Laughing spontaneously, he came forward,
Put his arm around my shoulders and said,
“So, do you write poems or what…?
Great!
I, too, liked Goethe.”

Original Marathi poem titled “Karl Marx”
[Nivdak Narayan Surve (Selected Poetry of Narayan Surve), ed. Kusumagraj, Lok Vangmay Griha, Mumbai, 1999, p. 35.]

I’ll lift the whole limitless universe on my shoulders
And untie the knots of all space and time.

The world’s teeming masses play at my door,
And I’ll toss up the solar system.

I’ll tie up the elephant of clouds at my door
And fill up the pitchers with nectar.

The wind spins in my courtyard.
And the heaven’s steeples twist.

I’ll straighten up the bent Sky
And punish the one who punished it.

Mountain from a molehill and molehill from a mountain,
Both reside in my being.

Thus I am the Brahma, the fulcrum of the universe,
Without a home that I can call mine own!

Original Marathi poem titled “Aisa Ga Mee Brahma”
[Nivdak Narayan Surve (Selected Poetry of Narayan Surve),  ed. Kusumagraj, Lok Vangmay Griha, Mumbai, 1999, p. 3.]
Translation by Jatin Wagle

To reassure oneself everyday and live; it’s getting tough…
How far does one console oneself; it’s getting tough…
I soothe and put the howling heart to sleep
Though I see the grain-sack stuffed with sawdust in front of me; to stop; it’s tough.
Live and let live. So, I live: everyday, it’s getting tough…
To deny one’s existence; it’s getting tough…
I understand and convince myself, but even after that if I don’t fall in line…
A lit matchstick won’t fall into the godown, to guarantee this; it’s getting tough.

Original Marathi poem titled “Katheen Hot Aahe”
[Nivdak Narayan Surve (Selected Poetry of Narayan Surve), ed. Kusumagraj, Lok Vangmay Griha, Mumbai, 1999, p. 19.]

The struggle for the daily bread is an everyday question
At times outside the door, at times inside
I’m a worker, a flaming sword
Listen, you intellectuals! I’m going to commit a crime.
I’ve suffered, witnessed, explored a bit
The sweet ache of my world lies in it
I’ve messed up, missed out and learnt new stuff
The way I live, that’s the way I’m in words.
Bread’s my first love, I agree, but I need something more
That’s why my world’s casting the royal seal
It’s here that I drop flowers into the palms of my words
It’s here that I give swords into the hands of my words.
I haven’t arrived alone; the epoch’s with me
Beware; this is the beginning of the storm
I’m a worker, a shining sword
Listen, you intellectuals! A crime’s about to happen.

Original Marathi poem titled “Chaar Shabda”
[Nivdak Narayan Surve (Selected Poetry of Narayan Surve), ed. Kusumagraj, Lok Vangmay Griha, Mumbai, 1999, p. 1.]

Anand Patwardhan
Arun Khopkar
Bharat Ahire
Catherine Greenhalgh
Darryl D’Monte
Datta Iswalkar
Gayatri Singh
Khayal Trust
KV Nagesh Babu
Madhusree Datta
Mangesh Gudekar
Mukund Sawant
Neera Adarkar
Nikhil Titus
Paromita Vohra
PUKAR
Ramu Ramanathan
Shekhar Krishnan
Sonal Gajaria
Vijay Kale
Vrushali Mohite

Transcriptions
Noopur Desai

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