This poem presents a remarkable alternative view of the Agni Pariksha of Sita in the Ramayana.
Sita’s the talk of the town
Barefoot on the flames, as she walks down.
A goddess, if she emerges unscathed
A sinner if the flames consume her whole,
She whose beauty soothed the universe
In the mirror of fire, does herself behold.
Let the world think what it will
But that all-knowing God!
The destroyer of sin and falsehood
Is so naïve, and still her Lord?
Behold! She crosses the flames unharmed
And her husband’s trust does win,
She sees Rama, his armswide open,
All eager to fold her in.
She walks up to him, having crossed that extra mile.
But from that day onward, she lives in true exile.
Banwaas (Shaamka Pehla Tara)
THE ACROBAT WOMAN
This poem is a symbolic representation of the real life oppression of women, depicted through the acrobat tricks that are popular attractions at village fairs.
She stands, against the wooden board
As though impaled in every part
First her son, then her husband
Will rain knives upon her
Over her hands, over her shoulder
Over her head, over her back.
The spectators, with bated breath
Watch this spectacle again and again
As if it’s the first time.
But no one knows
That in this carnival called life
Ornamented and impaled
To the board of domesticity
This woman conceals within her
The knives aimed by her own kinsmen.
If there’s a difference, it’s just this:
The sharp blades of these knives pierce her body
But are invisible to the world.
Mela Ghoomni (Waraq)
SUPERMAN
Children selling goods at traffic signals are a common sight. This poem is a depiction of the innocent enthusiasm of one such street child and his subsequent degradation as circumstances turn him into a drug addict.
Why do you stare at him thus? Remember?
He’s the same urchin you would see
Every time, when you traveled this way.
Early in the morning, yellow dust cloth in hand
He would eagerly wait for the signal to turn red.
Late afternoon, with those bundles of mid-day newspapers
Clutched to his chest, he would come.
And in the evening, laden with fragrant gajras
He would bloom in these streets.
Maybe you’ve forgotten the lilt of his voice
That chirped on endlessly.
Perhaps you’ve forgotten his luminescent eyes
That saw and shone all at once.
Ask him his name and he would reply, ‘I’m Superman!’
Almost flying, he would cross each road.
Like so many children in this, my city
He was illiterate, ignorant.
No guiding hand blessed his forehead.
He grew up in the blistering sunshine of his own toil.
A desert bloom, he had been rocked by the winds
And put to sleep on the bare chest of the city
Amid lullabies of the stars.
He was the inheritor of this blessed land, the heir apparent
He was the length and breadth and depth of the sea, the forehead of mountains.
Why do you stare at him thus? Remember?
He’s the same urchin you would see
Every time, when you traveled this way.
Today, in this blessed land, this Superman
Exhausted, and shivering with cold
Cannot wipe with his own hands
Even the saliva dribbling from the cavern of his lips.
No longer now that yellow dust cloth on his shoulder
No thought of that bundle of newspapers
No more that philosophy of self-imposed labour
No more that God gifted intelligence
No more that audacity of glib talk.
He’s no more concerned with enmity or peace.
He’s now addicted to the poison in his veins.
Superman(Waraq)
GULZAMEENA
This poem depicts the plight of girls in war torn Afghanistan. It concludes however, on a note of resilient determination. Gulzameena, a popular name for girls in Afghanistan, literally means flower of the earth. The ironic connotations of the name are not lost on the reader.
Gulzameena, Gulzameena,
with your delicate finger, what do you write on this pile of rubble?
Gulzameena raised her questioning eyes and replied,
‘A few days ago, this pile of rubble was my school
I would come here daily
And inscribe the Holy name of Allah on its wall.
My paper, pens and books, my fellow companions, have all been destroyed.
I come here every day, and from the satchel of my memories,
I pull out the last lesson I learnt.
I write it on this pile of rubble and return
I know I am not destined to read
At least I can continue to write.’
Gulzameena
Zehra Nigah (b.1935) is a much loved and respected poet from Pakistan. She began reciting in mushairas at a very young age and is known for the spell binding renditions of her verse which she occasionally puts to song in her mellifluous voice. She was one of the two women poets to achieve acclaim (the other being Kishwar Naheed) in the 1950’s at a time when Urdu poetry in Pakistan was the literary stronghold of men. Her poetry, though not aggressively feminist like that of Kishwar Naheed, portrays her engagement with the emotional impact of subjugation and exploitation, not just on women, but on children as well. Today, as established gender roles are being questioned and re-formulated, and child rights are being vociferously discussed and defended in the South Asian socio-political context, the contemporaneity of Nigah’s poems strikes the reader. She uses the traditional form of the ghazalas well as the nazm to convey ideas that appear simplistic but are intensely profound. She has to date published three volumes of poetry; ShaamkaPehla Tara (1980), Waraq(1998) and Firaq (2009).
