History and Reality

 
History and Reality
 
A watchful trek through history reveals
A landscape that is dual in its forms—
With false facades—resembling those in sets
In Hollywood—and then the fields of truth
That stretch through time and space, but out of view
For all except the ones who persevere
And find their ways, beyond the obstacles,
To glimpse, however partly, this terrain.
 
And so it is with much that we perceive
As real, based on trust in what we’re sold.
It takes some effort—and a stillness deep—
To start to see, in part, realities
Beyond the here and now and all that we
Have gathered through our lives—by each alone—
While blessed or cursed with sight of heart and mind,
And all our senses, sharp in clarity.
 
The “knowledge” that’s beyond is second-hand
At best—and often very far from that.
We cross a border—and the headlines change
For those events that happened yesterday.
How different are then the histories
We're taught from those of near and distant lands?
We can't go back in time—or even be
In more than one place at a given time.
 
2024 June 26th, Wed.
Berkeley, California
 

Poetry—and Fortune

 
Poetry—and Fortune

Poetry, in you I found a solace true—
Depicting, in a foreign tongue, what I 
Perceived of worth, in spite of all we rue  
In this, the world we’re in, not knowing why 
We came—or whence—or where we’re going to.

And then, on finding, buried deep within, 
My own forgotten tongue, whose cadence I
Had gained in childhood, through my closest kin,
And then had seemed to lose—and left to die,
I found the strength to turn—and so begin. 

******

How rarely do we get, alas, this chance
To find again what we had thought we’d lost!
As one by one the words began to dance
Upon my tongue, not asking for the cost 
Of long neglect, I felt the grace of Chance—

That goddess, yes, to whom we rarely pray,
Who yet determines what we are and do,
Whose willful whims we must perforce obey—
Who spins, upon her fingers, me and you—
And only rarely kisses us—in play.

******

And so the prosody of Greece and Rome
Had passed, through western isles, to a distant land—
Where I, like others, spoke a tongue at home
And learned, in school, to speak and understand
Another that we made in part our own—

And then had met the rhythms, side by side, 
Of a lilting tongue of sky and sun and field—
Of cloud and rain and rivers flowing wide—
To clash with these and then to merge and yield—
To birth the waves that motes like me could ride.

2023 January 26th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

Itihaxer Boi-ইতিহাসের বই

ইতিহাসের বই

ইতিহাসের বইয়ের পাতায় দেখি
রক্তমাখা আঙুলের ছাপ—
শুকিয়ে, রঙ বদলিয়ে, প্রায় কালো।

পাতা উল্টিয়ে দেখি—
কত কিছু প্রাচীন যুগের কাহিনী—
নবাব, রাজা, সুলতান, সম্রাট—
এনাদের কীর্তির মালা।

পড়তে পড়তে, পেলাম কত
রাজবংশের বিবাহের সম্বন্ধ,
ব্যবসা-বাণিজ্যর প্রগতির খবর—
আর তারই পাশে পাশে
সারি সারি দুর্ঘটনার তালিকা—

যুদ্ধ, মহাযুদ্ধ, দূর্ভিক্ষা, দাঙ্গা,
নিষ্ঠুর জুলুম, বিদ্রোহ, বিপ্লব,
প্রতিবিপ্লব, নির্দয় খুনাখুনি,
জয়, পরাজয়, লুটপাট, ধর্ষণ।

পাতায় পাতায়, শুনতে পেলাম
শাঁখ-ঢোলের ডাকাডাকি,
ঢাল-তলোয়ারের ঠং ঠং, কামানের গর্জন,
হাতির ডাক, ঘোড়ার দৌড়, সৈনিকের চিৎকার,
বিজয়ের জয়ধ্বনি।

শুনলাম দূরে, হাহাকার, আর্তনাদ—
যারা আহত, তাদের কাকুতি,
যারা পরাজিত, তাদের বিলাপ।

এসবের খবর পেলাম, তবে
খুঁজে পেলাম না কৃষকের, শ্রমিকের নাম,
বিধবার দুর্দশা, অনাথের ভীতি,
মা-বাপের দৈনিক পরিশ্রম।

খুঁজে পেলাম না, ছোটদের হাসিকান্না, খেলা,
মিস্ত্রির কেরামতি, কারিগরের কৌশল।

দেখতে পেলাম না, মা-বাবার মুখে—
সুখের খোলা হাসি, দুঃখের চোখের জল।

শুনতে পেলাম না কোথাও
ধর্ষিত মেয়ের গোঁঙানি—
প্রতি কালের চিরঞ্জীবী গান।

শুনতে পেলাম না
রাখালের বাঁশি, বাউলের গীত,
বনের ধারে সাঁওতালের নাচ গান।

ভাবলাম, কোথায় গেল, হায়,
গাঁয়ের গরুর ডাক,
পাখিদের ভোরের আহ্বান?

তাও সন্তুষ্ট হলাম শেষে।
পড়ে, রেখে দিলাম আলমারিতে,
সেই পুরনো  ইতিহাসের বইটাকে।

বৃহস্পতিবার, ৮ নভেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
-------------------------------------------

I would like to thank my uncle, Prokas Das, for several corrections.  I am responsible for any remaining errors or sillinesses in the Bengali. 
--Arjun 

Ashes

Ashes

https://www.facebook.com/D.V.Ahluwalia/posts/913650452108809

The history of humans, friend,
Is a greatly tangled web.
We know about it next to naught,
Although we might pretend.

The Vedas only came to be
A moment back in time.
So Abraham was born in Ur
And Egypt rose sublime.

A hundred thousand years have passed,
Since humans left that land
In which we branched away from apes,
Or so we understand.

The Abrahamic faiths insist
The gods are none but one,
And all of Earth was made for Man,
By him who made the sun.

Our Aryas worshiped dewas, while
Ahuras ruled in Fars.
And so, "divine" and "devil"—these
Are siblings joined in farce.

Segregation, apartheid,
The lasting sin of varnas—
These all have failed to separate
Arjuna's kind from Karna's.

There is no superior race or god,
Or way of earning wealth,
And each such thought has wrought its dread,
In open or in stealth.

Each thing we make, which promises
To make our burdens light,
Is turned, by those who need their slaves,
To rob us of our sight.

So agriculture was and now
The labors hard of science.
So all is turned to ashes, friend,
On which we put reliance.

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
    

The Kalka Mail

I received a letter from my cousin, Ashoke Menon Dutt, on 2016, April 12th Tue, in which he suggested that I should try to write the lyrics to a “railroad song”, set in the Indian subcontinent.

He had been inspired by a song written and first sung by the late Steve Goodman.

For most of the past thirteen years, I had been regularly sending out, to some relatives, friends and colleagues, the verses that I had been writing on a weekly and even daily basis.  For the last several years, I had been posting these on my poetry blog, The Daily Poet, and sending out the links to the posts.   However, because of many preoccupations and for some other reasons, I had stopped  doing this for a while.

So I wrote back to Ashoke, saying that the “muse” appeared to have left me.

But later that night, I searched on the Internet for a “railroad song”, mistaking it first for the song “Lord I’m one, lord I’m two … lord, I’m five hundred miles from home”.  This, I found, was a song apparently written by Hedy West, in the 1960’s or earlier, assembled from melodies she had heard from her uncle in Georgia.  That song has elements that reminded me of classic Negro spirituals.

Soon afterwards, I found the song Ashoke had really been referring to, “The City of New Orleans”.

Ashoke had mentioned some things he liked about that Steve Goodman song, such as its catchy lyrics and rhythm that balanced the somewhat sad nature of the theme, which was not just about the railroad, but about the riders and more.  He had also outlined what he would like for the song set in India—a human element, references to the beauty of the surroundings, the inclusion of names of places not too well known, and perhaps a long route—north-south between Kashmir and Chennai, or diagonal between Bengal and Kerala.

Unfortunately, I have neither Ashoke’s experience of those routes, nor his gift for music and song.

Nevertheless, after hearing those American songs, from recordings on the Internet, I briefly considered trying to write the words for a “railroad song” in Bengali or Hindi.  I then stayed up late, into the wee hours of Wednesday morning, writing the verses in English instead.

These, reproduced below, are based on my experiences in the 1950’s, traveling with my parents and others between Kolkata (Calcutta) and Dilli (Delhi), India’s capital city.

Whether or not the muse took it upon herself to return to help me in this, I do not know.

East Indian Railway Mail leaving Kalka Station circa 1906
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalka_Mail

I omitted many historical places and interesting experiences on the route, including only a few.

For those who are not that familiar with the geography of the subcontinent and its history between the 1940's and 1970's, some information might be needed to understand the background to the verses below.   This can be found in the accompanying notes, which have pictures and maps.

But the reader may perhaps want to first read those verses. (See below.)

In the notes, I have not gone  into the history of the railroads in the subcontinent, that began in the British Raj. Suffice it to note that those railroads, running thousands of miles, were built, as elsewhere, mainly by human (and animal) labor.
======================================

    The Kalka Mail

I’ve ridden on a bullock cart,
I’ve ridden on an ekka.
I rode upon a riksho once—
And never will again.

But now we ride the Kalka Mail—
The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail!
And as we ride the Kalka Mail,
The night will turn to morning.
 
I’ve ridden on a ‘cycle and
I’ve ridden on a car.
I rode the tram to T’aligo`nj,
The bus to Bou Bajar.

But now we’re on the Kalka Mail,
The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail!
And soon we’ll be in Asansol,
The way the wheels are turning.

I go to bed within the train.
The wheels put me to sleep.
I wake to find the train has stopped,
Within a darkness deep.

I look outside—and all is dark.
The wind is softly blowing.
And in the distance, I can see
A light is softly glowing.

What could it be, I wonder as
The wheels begin to turn.
And slowly then, it slides from view—
That light within the dark.
 
I toss and turn and try to sleep.
The wheels are singing songs.
And yet it seems I hear, in these,
The groans from ancient wrongs.
 
******
 
Before I sleep again, I hear
“Ça, gawrom ça!” a call
That tells me, where we’ve stopped is still
A station in Bengal.

But when I wake again, I see
The night has turned to day.
And when we stop, I hear the chant,
“Çae, çae—garam çae!”

“Kaavi, kaavi, kaaviya!”
I’d later hear that hail.
But that would be another trip,
Along the Deccan trail.
 
The dreaming hills of blue go by.
I wish that I could climb
A hillside track, towards the light
Of that Çhot’a Nagpur sky.
 
******

The hills are gone, and now I see
The sun-bright plains spread wide.
The dust and grit of coal is in
My clothes and hair and eyes.

The greens by now have turned to browns.
And yet I see, at times,
The yellow mustard flowers dance
As the train goes speeding by.

“Mughal Serai!” The “Mongol” horde
Had camped upon this site.
So this was where the horsemen once
Had rested from the fight.

And this was where the caravans
That linked the east to west,
Would halt, so horses, camels, men
Could water and could rest.

I hear this from my parents and
My eyes are opened wide.
I wonder how and why they fought—
How many then that died.

And who were they who traveled then,
To whither and from whence?
How much there is to know, I think,
And dream of Mughal tents.

Mughal Serai!  And westwards still—
And northwards, on we go!
Who laid these rails, that stretch for miles
And miles, with labor slow?

“Who laid these rails?” I ask, but then
I’m told. “You’re just a boy.
And so, this ride, upon this train,
Is what you should enjoy.”

******
 
I’ve ridden on a scooter and
I’ve ridden on a bike.
But riding on the Kalka Mail
Is what I really like.

The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail—
It thunders through the night.
From Howrah, west and north it goes,
Till Dilli is in sight.

“How far are we from home?” I ask.
“How far is left to go?”
“We’re halfway there,” I’m told, “And that
Is all you have to know.”

“Who made these trains, who made these trains?”
“The British taught us how.
But hush!  There’s people sleeping and
You’re kicking up a row!”
 
******

“The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail—
It doesn’t travel slow.
It leaves the local trains behind—
But whither does it go?”

“The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail--
To Kalka still can go.
But there’s a line the British drew—
And what it says is ‘No!’”

“And why is that?” I ask and see
My parents’ worried looks.
“You’ll learn the reason later, when
You’ve learned to read your books.”

I hear my mother’s answer and
I hear my father’s sigh.
“This boy of ours is curious and
He’s always asking why.”

They’re speaking now in English, as
I still can now recall.
They do not know I’m listening still—
And memorizing all.

“He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know—
He doesn’t know it yet—
Those horrors that we saw—those things
We wish we could forget.

“Those trains that never came—and all
Those bodies in our alley…
The steamer that I took, towards
The fires of Noakhali….

“We had a dream, we had a dream.
But where did it all go?
He’s still a little boy.  There’s much
He’ll sadly come to know.

“The British now have left and yet
They still receive the loot,
From those who wear the khadi and
The ones who wear the suit.

“Perhaps the future will restore
The things that we have lost.
Perhaps we ‘natives’ still might learn
From paying such a cost.

“From Dhaka, will a train that runs
To Howrah, come to be?
From Medinipur, he’ll go, perhaps,
To Ça~t’ga~ then, by sea.”

I learn by heart the English words,
Although they make no sense.
I see my mother looking sad,
I see my father tense.

“Will Quetta and Peshawar be
On signs upon a train?
From Dilli, will the mail be run
To ‘Pind’i once again?”

I hear my parents talking and
I hear my father sigh.
I do not understand and so
I idly wonder why.

******

I’ve ridden on a phat’phat’i,
I’ve ridden on a camel.
I rode once on an elephant.
So many ways to travel!

But I prefer to walk—or else,
With Dilli as my dream,
I ride upon the Kalka Mail
That runs on coal and steam.

“Who laid these rails, who laid these rails,
That stretch for miles and miles?”
I ask again. My mother looks
At me and only smiles.

2016 April 12th Tue night to 13th Wed morning.
(several stanzas added April 23rd Sat & May 1st, Sun)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
======================================

Notes on "The Kalka Mail".   These notes have pictures and maps and include:
 
A) Place Names and Other Vocabulary (in order of occurrence in the poem) with Pictures and Maps;
 
B) Some Cities, States/Provinces and Regions of the Subcontinent (mentioned in the poem or its preface);

C) The Geography of the Subcontinent and the Violent Creations of Three of its Nation States.
 

The Walmartization of the U.S.A. – Part II

        
The Walmartization of the U.S.A. – Part II
                                                
The rebellion here against the king began
in earnest with the document which held
that "life and liberty" were "rights" of "men"
and so was the pursuit of “happiness”,
that word that Jefferson had changed from “wealth”.

Of course, by “men”, it meant a certain class,
of a certain “race” – and women weren't "men",
and even less were those of African
or "Indian" descent.  And even "Whites"
would first need land – and only then be "men".

And so it was that men of wealth could vote
and make the laws that others then obeyed.

On "ownership" it rested, all that those
who'd ventured forth from Europe's thrall now built,
the ownership of land, of slaves – and more.
For this, they saw, was how they could pursue
the founders' goal of wealth (read "happiness").

So Africans transported here in chains
would work as slaves to feed the founders’ dreams,
and natives would be massacred, till next
to none remained – in this new paradise.

And shortly after revolution here had won,
the French rose up against their king and court,
but there the banners that they raised declared,
“Liberty, equality – and 
fraternity” for all.  And so we see
the ends were not the same – except the first,
and “life” for France’s old “nobility”
was not a right, as all that followed showed.

And nor did those, who led the masses here,
consider brotherhood and equal rank
for all as goals for which they fought, believed,
but rather as the very things they feared
the masses might then glimpse and dare to reap.

And this is evident in what they wrote
in letters – or discussed, with records kept,
and less in public documents, unless
one studies how they argued every line.

And so those leaders labored mightily
to keep the greater public in their place.

And till the civil war would pit the North
and Industry against the South, the ones
who owned the land (and plenty of it),
wrote the laws to suit their land-lord-schemes.

< to be continued >

2013 December 1, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
    
The Walmartization of the U.S.A. -- Part I
    
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-walmartization-of-usa-part-i.html
 

Winter’s Fury

            
Winter’s Fury
    
In tropic climes, the sun, ascendant,
Rules the summer with its heat.
Rains are welcomed.  Winter braces,
Brings a brief relief that's sweet.

But, in climates that are polar,
Summer’s cherished, and the spring
Is awaited through the winter.
And, with autumn, sun takes wing.

Here, by the cold Atlantic seaboard,
Autumn came, with its slanting sun,
Painted the trees in many colors,
Left, of a sudden, on the run…

******
    
Now winter comes with all its fury,
With banshee winds that howl at night,
For autumn’s left – and taken with it
Remnant warmth and fading light.

The sun, defeated, feeble, arches
Low above horizon south.
The birds have fled – and squirrels sleep,
As blizzards blow from winter’s mouth.

Season grim, of cold and darkness,
Stripping broad-leaved plants of life,
Comes – and many flee before it.
Others hide from winds that knife.

******
    
If springtime be the time for courting
And summer be the consummation,
Then autumn is the time for parting
And winter then is desolation.

So winter comes, like death and taxes,
Season dread, of dark and cold.
And some have strength enough to bear it,
But not the sick or weak and old.

The ones with clothes enough can venture
Out and brave the winds that freeze.
And some have heated homes of comfort
But what brings poor and homeless ease?

****** 
      
For some had slept on subway gratings,
Cardboard-covered, shivering, wet.
But now the councils curve the gratings,
So ease can only come with death.
   
First, the pain in the nose and fingers,
Then, the numbness that foretells
Loss, from freezing, of those members.
So does winter work its hells.
   
Soldiers  fought and died in winters,
Frozen hard in fields of gore.
Others, who were prisoners, suffered,
Frozen till they were no more.

******
    
From the lands of cold and darkness,
Came the hordes – to lands of sun,
Slaughtered, robbed and raped and plundered.
So the south and west were won.

So the Arya, Hun and Mongol,
So the settler with his gun,
So the ruthless armies marching,
With the locals on the run...

But those, who tried, in vain, to conquer
Northern lands – or those on high,
They were fated, by that winter,
To, defeated, freeze and die.

******
    
So the French and Germans perished
As the Russian winter blew.
So the British, in the Afghan
Highlands, paid their venture’s dues.

Humans, born from ape ancestors,
Still can’t live in freezing climes,
Not without the dense apparel,
Learned in Neanderthal times.

Who can deal with winter’s fury,
Save the one, who’s winter’s child?
He survives – but not the stranger,
Ventured north from climates mild.

2013 November 28th, Thu.
(Last Thursday in November, Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.A.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Genghis Khan Has Come To Town

             
Genghis Khan Has Come To Town
                                 
Awake, oh citizens of the ancient city,
When you were sleeping, waiting for the dawn,
A horde had gathered and, before the sun,
Had entered this, your city, as the gates
Were opened by the gatemen, they who saw
The army stretching to the distant north…

Awake, oh citizens, awake and see
The Mongol horde is here, with all the rest.
And many are their tongues -- but they are one,
United in their lust for conquest, loot,
For women that they’ll rape or take as slaves…
Awake, for Genghis Khan is in your town!

And when you see the soldiers, look away,
But when you see their lordlings, then bow low.
We have survived invasions, plagues, before.
So to this tempest bend, and it will pass,
And then we’ll nurse our injured, bury those
Who gave their lives – and carry on.

But sing the praises now of conquerors.
In Mongol, sing – for I will show you how.
We all will sing, as we had done before,
We’ll sing the praises of our conquerors.
We'll imitate their ways and learn their tongues…
Sing now, “Genghis Khan has come to town…”

2013 November 24th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   

Evening Mass

                
Evening Mass
         
As I was walking by St. Finbar's Church,
I heard the organ and the evening mass.
I heard the converts in the basement sing.
I heard their voices as they rose and fell.
It seemed, in this our world, that all was well.

But, recalling then the history
Of those who sang of faith and mystery,
Remembering then, how their ancestors died
And for a bit of peace and justice cried,
I knew this world of ours was far from well,
More distant, yes, from heaven than from hell.

I heard the Guatemalans in the basement sing,
I saw some coming down the street to join –
In Sunday best, a little family...
I saw them cross themselves before the church
And quietly enter, by the side, to sing.

And I remembered then, how they had fled
Their country, ravaged by the endless wars,
How cash and arms had streamed from here to south,
How many then were hunted, massacred...
How those surviving lived from hand to mouth,
How many homeless ones had grieved alone...

And so they traveled north, where money went,
And some had papers, others never did.
They took up humble trades and quietly hid,
For they were quiet people, most of them –
Except on Sundays, when they donned these clothes
And gathered in the basements, there to sing.

A simple story, told by a simpleton.
The truth, you can be sure, is more complex.
But you will have to sit and talk with them
In Spanish or in Quiché.  Then you'll glimpse
The many threads that weave that history
Of silent ones – of faith – and mystery.

For these are “Indians” – not my Asian kind,
But folk of  these, the western continents.
And those, who've traveled far, from Central Am,
Are quiet folk, of stature small and slight.
But when you talk with them, you'll see, at times,
Some traces left – of a soft and ancient light...

And all the weight of ages – Maya, Spain,
The persecutions and the silent pain,
This past, you'll feel – or hear in cadences,
The muted tones of those who've suffered much,
But haven't walled themselves; they're forest folk,
And used to sounds of death – and silences.

So when they sing of Jesus on the cross,
They know of what they sing, for they have seen.
And when they sing of resurrection, they
Have tears that flow – as those, who're grieving, pray.
Far from their homes, in a foreign land, they sing,
The ones they left at home – or gone – remembering...

I heard them singing in the basement and
I briefly thought that I could understand...
And for a moment, there, by Finbar's Church,
My heart was touched and filled, with grace divine,
As pastors poured the sacrificial wine.

November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

This may be of particular interest to those from the Indian subcontinent.

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

Part II – A Rant

If truth be told, the peasant, tilling land,
Has often fared no better and no worse,
When those who'd ruled from 'Pindi were replaced  \1
By those who ruled from Dhaka in their stead.

What matters it, if the Queen of England reigns,
Or mughal, maharajah?  It's only when
The Company had squeezed the golden goose         \2
To close to death, that sepoys did revolt.

To Brits, it was rebellion.  Natives saw
A chance for liberation from the yoke.
But the old colonials long have left and yet –
The brown sahibs remain.  Another joke!

If there's a choice, between the local big,
And one afar, it may at end be this:
The one at hand can only squeeze so far,
And where he drinks, he also, there, needs piss.

******
< start of explanatory portion, added Aug. 26th,  for stanza directly above >

So landlords buy, of what the artisan
Produces, and they also hire, at times,
The ones who're seeking work, to dig a pond
To stock with fish, or build yet one more house.

But when a cousin of that landlord builds
A factory, in Howrah, then the cash                         \3
From sales of grain to the city then will go
To earn for him the promised interest.

And so, in turn, some peasants too will move
To work in city factories or build
The quarters there for better-offs -- or join
The beggars on the footpaths or the slums.

So local wealth departs, by labor earned,
And workers follow, seeking then for work.
But if the city isn't far away,
Then hope remains that some will still return.

But when the wealth moves further, even out
Beyond a country's borders, fencing men
But not the flow of cash, to far New York
Or London, then it is forever lost.

And sons of landlords follow, daughters too,
And even more of cash is sent abroad,
So they can study and then settle there,
As native country bleeds yet even more.

And yet, with workers who are peasants still,
Remembering the ones they left at home,
Some capital may flow, from all their toil
In lands of oil and sheiks, to green Sylhet.            \4

And so do trickles continue to flow
From cities in the U.S. to the south,
Where villages, deserted by the men,
Are living now on cash that comes by mail.

And so it is in China, in the north,
As only old and children there remain,
And even in old Mexico, you'll find
The plateau's air is fouled by city's breath.

And what do cities, even capitals,
Pretend to know or care about the hicks?
Where there's a vote, with pesos it is bought,
Or with rupees. Where carrots fail, there's sticks.

So summing up, the local brigand is
A better bet than one who's far removed,
Who neither spends his wealth on local fare,
Nor cares what local men may think of him.

You say the Syrians slaughter now their own,
The Congo's been a place of genocides --
And that may be, and you can shine a light,
But stay away with bombs and troops, I pray.

Our governments have done, in places far,
What they would never do, in present times,
In their own capitals or places where
They still might be accountable.

< end of explanatory portion added Aug. 26th >
******

There's balance  – and a circulation, which
A Dilli or a London or D.C.
Escapes.  How long was it, before
Our bombs abroad were echoed in New York?

How many millions died, in fiery hells,
In nations far, who'd never done a thing
To harm a hair on blond or auburn head?
How many lies were told, that still prevail?

The soldier, like the teacher in the school,
Is blamed – or else the generals.
The ones, who sent them into combat, live
At ease, with both the dead and living mute.

Who dares to say the battle's lost – or war?
We click our heels, salute and go to teach.
Who cares that men are dying, needlessly?
We're paid to do.  Let those, who're jobless, preach.

There is no lack of problems, in a land,
The foreigners will never understand.
Nor does it lack that class of lords and lackeys,
Who'll take the bribes and side with global bullies.

A superpower, in a land that's torn,
Is like the bull within the china shop.
So Soviets were, in high Afghanistan.
And so were we, as Khmers saw rain of bombs.

How many Indonesias, Vietnams,
How many troubled lands of east and west!
How many more of Lebanons, Iraqs,
Before we let the tortured nations rest?

It's time to let them live and fight it out,
If not for moral sense than for ourselves.
The oceans will no longer serve as dikes.
What's done afar affects us, in the end.

We have our troubles too, no end of them.
Our wars distract us from the matters here.
It's only when we truly see, that sense
Prevails, dispelling myths – and greed and fear...

I'd tell the ones, who've suffered from our bombs
And constant meddling in their land's affairs,
“Remember this – the more you bicker, fight
Among yourselves, the longer we can stay.

“And if you have to choose, between a lord
Who is corrupt, or is a zealot, then
Prefer the first, for he may rob and reign,
But does not seek to rule your mind and soul.

“But better yet, dispose of both of them!
You need your kings and presidents and worse
As much as farmers need their lords of land,
Or deer depend on wolves for wherewithal.”

But who am I to tell or to advise?
The ones afar are caught in struggles fierce,
That are connected deeply with our own.
They'll struggle through, without my glib advice.

Enough! I woke, with mind and soul disturbed,
And plainly wrote, whatever came to mind.
I leave this now, for readers to peruse
And find me mad – or put to future use.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
(stanzas 5-17, within the dividers “******”,
inserted to explain or illustrate the 4th stanza,
added August 26th, Mon.)
Brooklyn

A Ramble and a Rant -- Part I  

Notes

1. The capital of Pakistan, following its independence in 1947, was initially Karachi, the large port city on the Arabian sea, near the mouth of the Indus river in the southern province of Sindh.  With the increasing dominance of the Panjab, the capital was shifted first, in the early 1960's, to 'Pindi (Rawalpindi) in the north, where the Panjab plain meets the Himalayan foothills, and what was then the NWFP (North West Frontier Province), inhabited by Pathans (Pashtuns/Pakhtoons)) and others.  Around 1966, it was moved to the neighboring, newborn, planned capital city of Islamabad.  So Islamabad was the official capital at the time of what was essentially a military coup, in March of 1971, against what would have been the newly elected government led by Mujibur Rahman's Awami League, which had its base in mainly Bengali-speaking East Pakistan, separated from W. Pakistan by well over a thousand miles by the width of the Republic of India.

The brutal crackdown by the Pakistani army, starting in March of 1971, in that eastern wing of Pakistan, the stirring up of religious animosities, and the ever-present scarcity of land and resources in the fertile but overpopulated delta region, led to a great number of hapless, frightened, malnourished and footsore refugees streaming across the borders into neighboring states in India (which I witnessed first-hand as a relief worker there) and quite a bit of local resistance, including from a lightly-armed guerrilla force, the Mukti Bahini (Liberation Army).  Most of the Awami League leaders, however, those not arrested along with Mujibur Rahman, fled across the border to Kolkata. The final full-scale war, involving the Indian army, that led to the creation of  Bangladesh, occurred at the end of 1971.

Although Islamabad was then the capital of Pakistan, I have referred to 'Pindi in the verse line, as that was where much of the W. Pakistani army headquarters and generals were centered.  The two cities are situated, I believe, cheek to jowl.  I gathered then, from talking to many of the refugees (mostly Hindu, but with a fair number of Muslims as well) that the lot of ordinary peasants, especially the landless ones, might not change that much if and when the W. Pakistani rulers, reigning from Islamabad-Rawalpindi, were exchanged for Bengali ones ruling from Dhaka, just as the departure of the British had, at least at that time, left much of the peasantry unaffected all over the subcontinent, still subservient to, indeed, effectively enslaved by, the feudal landlord hierarchy that had been established since before the Mughals. 

For me, this was a revelation, which I might not have had had I not journeyed, in the summer of 1971, full of youthful idealism and misplaced Bengali nationalism, 900 miles southeast by train with a Gandhian group from Dilli to Bongaon, a small town on the Ichamati river, which separated the eastern Indian state of W. Bengal from what was then E. Pakistan.  But after talking to the refugees (many of whom had received their only organized help, on their own side of the border, from the Communist Party and the National Awami Party) and after rowing surreptitiously across the Ichamati, as cannon boomed, to visit a badly shelled and nearly abandoned village, where we met a few remaining aged inhabitants and some wary youths who were part of the local Mukti Bahini, I came to this conclusion, which was, at the time, a rather sad and life-changing one for me.  I hoped then that I would be proved wrong.

2.  The reference is to the British East India Company, and to the Uprising of 1857 in the subcontinent, led by the native sepoys (soldiers) employed in the Company's army.  The rebellion was brutally suppressed.   However, the British Crown then took direct control of India, making it a centerpiece of the British Empire, taking a slightly longer view and  shrewdly reining in, to some degree, the rapacity of the colonial enterprise there.

3. Howrah is a suburb of Kolkata (Calcutta), in the state of W.Bengal, India.  It houses the main railway station and is linked to Kolkata by the Howrah Bridge, built in British times across the Hooghly river, a broad local estuary of the Ganges, navigable by ocean-going ships.

4.  Sylhet is a north-eastern district of Bangladesh, bordering the Indian states of Meghalaya, Assam and Tripura.  It is a lush, hilly region, with tea, oil and gas being major industries. Sylhet, like a few other parts of the subcontinent, has long had a large expatriate population, many of whom work in the U.K. and in the Gulf states, sending remittances home.