Salesman not Allowed

Sampurna Datta

Sampurna Datta

Govind was sceptical, yet excited. It was his first day at work.

He hails from a rural village in West Bengal and is the only one from his village who has made it to college and is cheered by all as “graduate bhaiya” in his little village. At times, amidst the sprawl of the bustling city, Govind would often miss the cool breeze of his quaint village, the people, who are all known to each other, the smell of the soil and the dripping trees after the first rain, the little river and the days he would pass with friends trying for a nice catch and return home with a long face. Then also mother would always greet him with a smile, waiting with rice, a humble vegetable curry, green chilli and raw onion. That meal, though not fancy, never tasted bad. However, the dabbawalas of the city were never able to excite his taste buds and he would tell himself "it's the touch you are missing".

Govind's father had leased a part of their agricultural land to help him continue his studies till college but after that Govind decided to work and study. A commerce graduate, 'Accounts' 'Marketing' and 'Sales' ran in his blood. He would spend hours explaining to his father how they can facilitate to sell the agricultural products in the wholesale markets of the cities, thereby get a grip on the entire market. Moreover, he had plans to diversify the business and bring transport facilities at a much lower rate to ferry fresh farm products to cities. Father would listen to him and ask, "Is it possible?" Govind would reply with confidence, "Baba, give me a few years, I'll bring this dream alive."

All these thoughts were crossing his mind when suddenly his name was called for, "Mr Govind Mahato". He had excellent marks but was a fresher in a never ending splurge where there was a radical imbalance of opportunities and its seekers. So, Govind responded to the first job offer and thought it to be the beginning of his road to success. He was basically going to head a group of 5 men, trying to sell water purifiers. Amidst the many water purifiers available in the market, they had to present theirs as the best one. Exaggerate every inch of it, capture the best angle and squeeze in a deal. “The buyer had to buy the words and not the purifier”, Govind explained to his team with an inherent expertise in his voice. The target customers were the women and retired, staying at home, who would entertain demonstrations as such, to bring some diversity in their seemingly monotonous life, and Govind and his team set out to cash on that.

Calcutta, which has over the years evolved into a city dotted with posh malls and high rise, was, however, unknown to Govind. A city, which scorches blinding bright in the sun and twinkles luxuriously in the night light, doesn't have a very merciful heart inside. Every housing or building that housed lucrative customers inside had a very disturbing board outside - "SALESMAN NOT ALLOWED". The first one, second, third. Chance denied without trial. Govind started to feel dejected. "Are we stray dogs?" "Don't people buy things?" Govind didn't know, that it was against the statistics of status. Yes, people do buy things, from posh malls, showrooms or online, his new-born rival. He, however, managed to enter a few households, who showed promising enthusiasm and praise for the product, but the price seemed to spoil all of it. At lunch, all had similar stories to share. They also had one unanimous query lurking in their minds, "Why are salesman not allowed?"

In the post lunch session, Govind cheered up his team and himself and with new hope went in front of a building. Two men were caught in a conversation. One was outside the gate and the other was inside.

“Sir, I came last week, you remember. Madam Malhotra, second floor, knows me well. She has asked me to come, today.” said the man standing outside.

“She only asked me not to let people like you in, bhaiya. Please go.” Said the security guard.

The man wanted to say something when the security guard got a call and busied himself in it. The man, somewhat dejected, gave a long exasperated look at the building and turned back. Govind was watching him intensely, and suddenly their eyes met. The man almost promptly said, “difficult job”. Govind gave a wry smile and asked him, “Why isn’t the guard letting you in?”

The man replied, “This building too, have stopped allowing salesman.”

Something made a thud sound inside Govind, he was meeting a man from his own clan. A salesman. Immediately he stretched his right hand with a smile and said “I am Govind, I am a Salesman too.”

The man introduced himself as Manoj Roy, a resident of Digha. A village boy. A graduate. Got the job of heading a sales team, with the promise of a yearly increment once his team achieves a target number of sale. “The figure seemed quite achievable 7months back”, said Manoj sipping tea from the earthen cup, called bhar in Calcutta, “but now with 5months left, it seems like an epic battle every day to even get hold of customers.” Manoj and his team would sell, vacuum cleaners. Govind heard it all and asked, “Are all the localities like this? No one allows salesman?” Manoj smiled at his innocence, paid for their tea and said, “No, not all. Let’s go, hopefully will meet you again.”

Govind could not make out the smile. Was Manoj trying to console him?

That day and the following two weeks Govind and his team was able to sell only two water purifiers. In the meantime, Govind has met Manoj quite a few times and every time the dark circle under his sleep deprived puffy eyes seemed more prominent. It was on a Friday afternoon when Govind and his team was out, when he noticed a crowd has assembled in front of a building. Sensing some sort of tension he went ahead, hoping to meet a few people and start a conversation. The building was scarcely cemented, almost exposing the skeletal bricks in some places. The doors and windows were mostly had washed clothes hung on them. It was situated at the back of a very posh locality and almost looked like a creeper. The gate was open and he made his way towards the building where he was stopped by the watchman-"Hey, where are going?" "Who are you?” Before he could explain, he started again, almost shutting him, "Look young man, as you can see, something has happened, anytime police will arrive now. A man has committed suicide in one of the apartment, so I can't let you go in." Govind turned and started to walk away when he heard the watchman talking to his mate, "Bhaiya, he was a salesman, worked very hard, he was frustrated...may be..."

The rest of the words did not penetrate his ears, the only words that echoed in his mind were, and “he was a salesman…”

Setu, February 2018

Pillars Of Thought

Mario Vitale 

you base your reality on the external

paying little need or homage for what's internal

one soul soars while the other one burns

in this life you got to wait your turn

getting caught up in the mix

its all a cheap thrill fly by the pan type of fix

a challenge to be free is a question of time

why does one equate logic for fear

for i shed a single tear to help numb the inner pain

let your words be truthful & to the point

we still haven't made a single dent on society

looking to someone to set us free

we have chosen ill but faded rhymes

its the changing of the times

people will let you in but take you just so far

it all come don't to choice so no one can boast

like a lost seagull still found by heading back to the coast

teach your children well in there education

not to take a break on any long awaited vacation

we have to live between are means

listen to the voice of reason

its the changing of the season

to what we all have to be dealing

does this logic sound appealing

deep inside we have a reason to live

a willing chance by which to humbly forgive

yet its based on the way that you live

you must become selfless in a very selfish existence

pardon my french you need some confidence

this in order to make a dent on the real values we support

pillars of thought with hearts beating in the night

it is your right to share & care

Setu, February 2018

Hossein, the Rhino Fighter

Abu Siddik

- Abu Siddik

One winter afternoon I went to Galakata haat. It was on the western side of Jaldapara forest. On a clear noon one could eye the treetops of the forest, swaying and singing, from the haat. And in the evening one could see the line of men and women carrying homes loads of lakri and pieces of timber on their heads from the forest. They were all set towards their huts.  Of course there were some patches of greenery and some acres of tea foliage, and some peasant huts stood at the extreme outskirts of the forest. But the tall trees of the forest had overshadowed them. The forest with all its wild animals and trees, its shades and hues, its beauty and ferocity, its truth and myth, its stillness and calmness touched the daily lives of Dooars.  The haat was all abuzz. The street from Falakata to Nine Miles through Kunjnagar went zigzag and touched the haat. It was relatively small. Only thirty to forty tin shops were there. There was a huge tree in the middle. The trunk of the tree was cemented, and elderly men sat on it, and talked, and passed the days.   Two lottery tables, A tea stall, a saloon, a tailoring shop, four or five clothes stores, two stationeries, two groceries, two slippers stalls, an open space for the vegetable sellers, a corner foe fish and meat sellers, a damaged tube well, a pucca temple and a tin mosque lay like good neighbours. On haat days the peasants brought fresh vegetables from the fields and live fish from ponds and streams running through the forest. Men and women of the village came to buy daily necessities. They also crowded for nothing—chattering, gossiping, chewing betel leaves, smoking, sipping tea, quarreling, and spitting. The rays of the setting sun fell aslant on the people. It made their faces hued. Everyone was speaking, laughing, shouting, and hollering. I felt amazed at their vivacity.
I lazily walked around the haat and thought of taking another glass of tea. A student suddenly caught me, “Sir, here! What’re you for?” I saw a nylon bag hung from the handle of his cycle. The bag was too fat with all wintry vegetables—brinjals, turnips, cauliflowers, cabbages, peas, carrots, etc. and the juicy leaves of a cauliflower coming out of the bag. I made my point. He scratched his head, and looked to the ground for a while. He perhaps understood me half, and brought me to a tailoring shop and introduced me with the tailor. The shop was tiny tin hut. A sewing machine, four or five pants and two shirts, all dusted, hung from a bamboo pole. The tailor sat on stool, and was busy in stitching the ends of lungis newly brought from the haat by some peasants. A plastic badna (water pot, especially used by muslim villagers of Bengal for purification of body parts), stood at a corner of the tin shed. Beneath his stool scattered all rejected ends of clothes of myriad colours. A tiny bulb hung above. A small rusted wooden bench lay vacant at one side. We sat on the bench, and after chit a chat my student left for home. 

The tailor was in his late thirties, and a father of two children. He wore a muffler on his neck. The ends of his pant were folded. He wore plastic chappals. His black windcheater was old and soiled. His hair was thick and black, and back brushed. His nose was sharp, and lips thin, and eyebrows broad. His teeth somewhat marooned and tongue reddish. He had dark eyes, and the cheeks a bit dimpled. He was tall, fair and quite handsome in a rustic way.

“Your home Falakata?”  He smiled.

 “Living at Falakata almost a decade and visited all the villages in and around the block. Every morning and evening I visit some haats or villages. It’s my hobby.” Exaggerated I to make him ease and comfortable. I also said my name and as a coreligionist, perhaps, he gained confidence and became more affable soon.

“You’re a rhino fighter of Galakata?” I heard a lot of you.

“Ohoo…No Saar.” He completed stitching a lungi. He folded and kept it beside me. He then stopped his work, called a boy to keep an eye on the shop, and brought me to a tea stall.

“Hey, Gobindo, give us two special cups.” Gobindo heard and made no reply. He face was dull, and he was serving the men mechanically, as if he lost interest in them.

We sat at one corner of the shop. It was already dark. The mist had thickened, and from a tall tree dews clotted and fell beneath on a rhythm.  The crowd wore everything they found at home. An elderly man with an old brown monkey cap sat beside us. He was clean shaven, and he bit a samosa. The muscles of his mouth twitched, and when the flickering light of the bulb fell on his face, he looked exactly one of our forefathers, the monkey men.

“Tell me your story.” I persisted, and he fell silent, and went down to the memory lane, and sighed.
“It happened at childhood. I was a boy of ten. My father along with some other workers was engaged to make a street from Jaldapara to Kunjnagar through the forest. Five carts, all driven by buffaloes, were recruited by Beat Babu for carrying bricks and mortars.  It was noon. I with other six boys of the village carried roti and sabji to our fathers.  There were stretches of long wild grass on both sides of the path. The forest was deep, and silent. We felt cold.  The sideways of the path was shrouded with the long blades of wild grass, almost ten feet high.  Hamidul walked first, and we lined behind.  We reached a few miles of the forest. A one-horned rhino all of a sudden came from nowhere and caught Hamidul, and hit him. The boy fell on the ground and the rhino began to lick him. My friend bled in profusion.   Our friends all fled. I tried to rescue Hamidul, and then the rhino, the ugly beast with all ferocity chased and caught me then, and licked me whole. Its tongue was all razor sharp, and I was peeled and skinned to the bone.  Blood gushed out forth, and I thought I would die.” Gobinda put two cups of brewing tea with a thud, and went to his counter back sullen.  The tailor’s face was a bit reddish, and tiny beads of sweat marked his temple. He was terribly excited. He gulped the cup, and made a loud “aahh” out of satisfaction. More people crowded him. The darkness thickened.
“How did you survive then? It was a miracle! And perhaps nobody would disagree?” I said.
 The man looked around the crowd, and resumed. “Huhh…, all in Allah’s hands. Without His favour and grace I couldn’t survive. But I could never repay the debt I owed to Suma Bhagat, the adivasi man. All I heard it later from my parents and brothers. The rhino tried to kill me. But what happened…I couldn’t tell.  I lay on the ground smeared with blood and sand. I wasn’t senseless. I was fully awake, but could not raise my voice. I groaned in pain, and tried hard to raise my voice. Had you ever heard the sound of rhino? It sounded like running truck, gharar, gharar. And it was huge and ugly. You would be pale in fear, and your blood would clot, if you saw the beast in its ferocity alone in the jungle. Oh…what was I telling? You knew I tried to raise my voice. My groaning was suppressed under the terrific gharar gharar sound of the rhino. But I was fearless, and hoped the best. Meanwhile my friends informed my father and other workers. They all came with whatever they got at hand, bamboo sticks, lakris, shovels, knives, hatchets, axes,  and scared the beast, and it then left me, and went to the forest.  They saw me lying in a pool of blood. I was soon brought then to the hut of the Bhagat. I was wrapped with a blanket, and my head laid rest in a pillow. They nursed me with a glass of warm milk. Then I was carried in a van to Six Miles Hospital. The van, pulled and pushed by four men, was followed by a huge crowd. Men and women came out of their huts hearing the commotion on the street. Some enquired my parentage; some sighed, and prayed for my recovery. After primary medication at Six Miles I was transferred to Falakata Rural Hospital, and then to North Bengal Medical College and Hospital, Siliguri.  I had twenty five stitches. I was treated for six months there. A doctor, whose name I couldn’t remember now, used to come to see me from Calcutta with bags full of fruits. The doctor loved me very much, and he often padded my head and said I could go home soon.”

He stopped and looked around. He then suddenly called a pigmy man from the crowd, and ordered for two vaga paans (betel leaves with a rotten piece of betel nut that has a foul smell, popular in some areas of Dooars). The man, a bundle of cotton clothes, limped toward some corner of the haat, and soon came back with paans. He offered me one, and with a style inserted the other into his mouth. He chewed with a noise, and his tongue, and the edges of his thin lips became red. His mouth and lips all watered with the juice of the paan and betel nut. 

“So, it took six long months to be cured completely?” I suggested.  The buzz of the haat was on the wane. Buyers bought all for tomorrow and the next day, and the sellers were busy to repack their sacks, bags, and polythene sheets after the day’s end. All thought of going home now. Only the tea stalls and paan stall still was abuzz.  Some fortunate peasants, in mufflers and second hand overcoats, sat on the benches, all lazy, drinking tea and chewing paan for hours.

“No, no Saar; after the release from hospital, merely the risk of my life had gone. But still I needed medication and care, and the blessings of Allah and my villagers. Wounds were deep, especially on two shoulders and two thighs, and they took prolonged treatment to be cured. My family, friends, neighbours, doctors from Falakata, Beat babu of Moiradanga—all stood beside me, and helped me with money and medicine and love. I’m grateful to all of them.  Allah and all these men saved me. Nobody thought of my survival. All feared the worst. But you know the saying, “Rakhe hari, mare ke” (If God is with you, no harm can reach you).” He laughed and stopped speaking.

“Could you show me the wounds?”

He lost no time. He came direct under the bulb, hung from the thatch.  He put off his windcheater, his shirt and made bare his shoulders. He also pulled up his pants to the waist. I saw the wounds on his shoulders and thighs, and became dumb. The wounds are still fresh, only covered with thin layer of renewed skin. The wounds on his left thigh was too deep, flesh was all eaten, only the bones remained. It made the left leg somewhat rickety. If he was made bare, the big four brown patches of cut and eaten flesh, and stitches struck your eyes. The crowd knew it all. But they didn’t miss the chance of revisiting the past. They all leaned upon the rhino attacker, and glued their eyes to the marks of the wounds. It seemed to their daily dry poor life, the rhino fighter with his heroic endurance and boldness, courage and bravery, rumour and myth,   injected an aura of otherworldly reality under the dim light of the thatch. The people were all animated. The hero of the evening was the rhino fighter. They all gossiped, talked, laughed, sighed, spat and didn’t move.

“Do you fear the forest?” I saw the crowd of peasants encircled us. Their clothes were all shabby, but their eyes shone bright with enthusiasm and curiosity. They eyed me as a very important person from top to toe.

“Saar,” The man rose to spit, and the crowd moved and made a passage. The speaker went to one corner, spat, and took seat on the bench.  “Saar, I feared both the jungle and its beasts. I often dreamt of the fight, and shuddered in fear and sweated. I screamed in sleep, and my wife and children had bad sleep for me.”

The man stopped. His head lowered, shoulders shrunk. He was soft, and contemplative. His muffler dangled from his neck.

“Saar, it wasn’t so. My childhood days spent in the forest. I loved a kunki (tamed elephant) so much that I often climbed on its back. Her name was Laxmi Piyari. I played with her at Moiradanga Depot. She knew my smell. Every day I went to the Depot. She saw me, and called me with her trunk to climb on her back.  After a round, I with my tiny hands brushed, and messaged Piyari’s temple.  She felt joy at my caress, and shook her head and fanned her ears continuously. If one day I not attended her, she was all day sullen, and sorrowful. She often cried for me, and people of the Dept said, tears welled on her tiny eyes.” 

The young man brushed his face with both hands, and sighed deep. The people around him were all silent. A sense of remorse pervaded the haat. The men knew not what to do. But all felt a sympathy for the speaker. They spoke with their eyes, and believed his tale.

“The jungle was a mystery Saar,” the man continued. “I loved it long long ago, but since the attack I feared and hated it. Have you heard the story of my grandfather?”

“No. Who is he?” I asked him in surprise and total ignorance.

“It was a sad tale, Saar. Everyone of Moiradanga knew it. My grandfather, Darbar Miah was a stout over six feet tall, handsome man. He, along with other forty men one day in the year of 1985 went to the river to catch fish. The river flowed through the forest. All forty men after the day’s fishing came back home. Only my grandfather didn’t. We made every possible search for him. He was nowhere found. He had gone forever. No trace of him could later be found. Nobody had any clue to his missing still now.”

The man sighed long, and deep. He was bewildered. He wiped his moistened eyes, and stood up for his shop. The crowd broke. They hurried towards their huts. The air was heavy. The haat was almost empty. I also stood up, and shook his hand.  I left him with a promise to meet him again.

Setu, February 2018

Anurag's One-Liner Quotes (Continued from January 2018 issue)

Anurag Sharma

Sometimes, an idea flashes in my mind and then refuses to get out of it. My way of getting rid of a stubborn thought is by burying it deep down in my notebook before attempting to forget about it. Sometimes I am so sad to see the damage done by a common saying, or belief that I feel like countering it. That's how my one-liner quotes are born most of the time. Here are a few for your reading pleasure. - Anurag Sharma

One-Liner Quotes (1) in Setu, January 2018

• Luck is easy to master.
• All that smells is not mold.
• Those who breach, often preach.
• Oversimplification is a complex trap.
• At times, it feels normal to be normal.
• At times, truth sounds like exaggeration.
• Ignorance is bliss, but arrogance is amiss.
• It's illogical to seek logic behind everything.
• Past has memories, while future has possibilities.
• There is a great makeup artist behind every celebrity.
• Quality is a long drive, way beyond your comfort zone.
• By the time one is fully awake, it's almost time to sleep.
• The best time to quit an unsuitable job is during the interview.
• It's time to move on when your boss starts competing with you.
• An actor with good eyesight can play the role of a blind character.
• You don't really know a person unless he/she is your immediate boss.
• Columbus knew his destination, he had no idea where his destiny was.
• You aren't forgetful if, in your dream, you forget that you are forgetful.
• Love doesn't bring anyone back, it stops people from leaving someone.
• The student matters, education matters too, but the school matters most.
• Midlife crisis is when parents are hard of hearing and kids hardly listen.
• Turning 40 is the toughest part of life for a person with normal eyesight.
• Knowledge is not the path, it is the light that helps you choose right path.
• Bad history cannot be erased but an apology can help healing old wounds.
• Patience pays sometimes, all other times, the patient pays (through the nose).
• Most people love truth in it's most brutal form, when they tell it about others.
• One person's desperate call for help is somebody else' opportunity for gossip.
• Helplessness is strength for some, while skill becomes a weakness for the rest.
• The best birthday is 50th, you are tougher, wiser and experienced by this time.
• A person without a profile is fine but a profile without a person makes me sad.
• The biggest surprise of life is the realization that nothing surprises you anymore.
• A 30-minute interview is like capturing 360° personality in a passport size photo.
• Your perception is limited to your brain, while reality is already there, everywhere.
• A fish complains about 'big fish eating little fish', only after digesting all smaller fish.
• The 'bad' excels in teamwork and collaboration, the 'good' may never master this art.
• It's a good idea to join a self defense course before going to teach literature to a ruffian.
• Even animals care for their biological family, humans are capable of respecting their in-laws.
• In an ideal world every human will have a home and every dog will have freedom to reject humans.
• As long as you continue using paper in your printer, somebody will make sure that trees are planted.
• People who called TV an 'Idiot Box' were lucky not to have experienced 'social media'.
• I have spoken to dead phone lines throughout my life. If my talk makes sense, it makes sense even without a listener.
• Emotions are infectious. Beware of unhappy people who keep stealing the happiness from everyone around them.
• Give a man a veggie burger and you feed him for a day; Teach a man to fish and he would destroy the ecosystem.

Setu, February 2018

Sanskrit Journalism: History and its Modern Forms

Dr. Baldevanand Sagar

            Before saying anything about Sanskrit Journalism I would like to tell all my wise readers that even though Sanskrit Journalism is not discussed as much as Hindi, English or other prevalent languages’ journalism; but you will be surprised to know that today in the half of the second decade of twenty first century, most of the Indian states and some overseas countries are publishing Sanskrit periodicals and different kinds of Sanskrit magazines.

                It is my humble endeavor to explain the history and modern forms of Sanskrit journalism, not only as a sincere reviewer or writer but also as a Sanskrit news editor, translator and broadcaster, having experience of more than 44 years with All India Radio and more than 22 years along with Doordarshan in these areas.

History of Sanskrit Journalism

                       Whenever we talk about Hindi journalism, the reference of very first magazine of Hindi, ‘Udant-martand’ (1826, Editor - Pt. Jugalkishor Shukul) comes to our mind. Similarly ‘Kashi-vidya-sudhanidhih’ from Kashi [1st.June, 1866] is mentioned as Sanskrit journalism’s first magazine. Another name of this magazine was “Pandit-Patrika”.

                    Now when I am writing these lines, one hundred and fifty two years of Sanskrit journalism are almost complete. In view of this glorious history of Sanskrit journalism, two years back, a nationwide association of Sanskrit-lovers and Sanskritists - “Bharatiya Sanskrit Patrakar Sangh” [Regd.] had pledged to organize many workshops and seminars on Sanskrit journalism at national level throughout the year [in 2016]. This fact indicates that Sanskritists are working relentlessly to connect Sanskrit journalism with the mainstream journalism of the nation.  

                     History of Sanskrit journalism has witnessed a difficult journey started with “Kashividya-sudhanidhi” (June 1, 1866). Broadly to understand this difficult journey, better I should mention the Marathi language’s “Kesari” of Lokmanya Balgangadhar Tilak ji.

                      Many magazines’ and journals’ contribution have been important in the history of linguistic journalism in India. However, the magazine “Kesari” is something special in linguistic journalism of India. With the signatures of Vishnu Shastri Chipaloonkar, Balgangadhar Tilak, Vaman Shivaram Apte, Ganesh Krishna Garde, Gopal Ganesh Aagarkar and Mahadev Vallabha Namajoshi, the letter of aims and objectives of “Kesari” was published on Vijayadashmi-day of 1880 in Mumbai’s ‘Native Opinion’. The publication of Kesari was decided but there was capital problem for the printing. However, with practical pragmatism of ‘Namajoshiji’, publication of Kesari started on 4th January 1881 from Pune as a Marathi language weekly paper, regularly publishing on Tuesday.

                The point which I want to indicate is of Great Sanskrit Scholar Panditaraj Jagannath’s famous shloka from ‘Bhamini-Vilasa’ which justifies the work and purpose of ‘Kesari’. It was selected by Vishnu Shastri Chipaloonkar and used to be published on the homepage of Kesari, is something like this-                                                                                  

“स्थितिं नो रे दध्याः क्षणमपि मदान्धेक्षण-सखे !

 गज-श्रेणीनाथ ! त्वमिह जटिलायां वनभुवि |   

 असौ कुम्भि-भ्रान्त्या खर-नखर-विद्रावित-महा-

गुरु-ग्राव-ग्रामः स्वपिति गिरिगर्भे हरिपतिः || ”

                       The shloka says - O my friend! Head of the forest-elephants! Please, do not wait even for the moment in this complex forest-land, because here the Kesari (Haripati) is sleeping in the mountain cave. This cave is also similar as the elephant’s forehead, the large stone slices also pierced with its harsh nails, that Kesari is dissipated.

                       My humble intention is that the writers of linguistic journalism of that time, editor and publisher were either knowledge savvy or expert in Sanskrit literature or were loyal to Sanskrit and took shelter in Sanskrit’s rich literature for the dedicated work of journalism. Since it was necessary to communicate in the language of general public as to achieve the independence of Nation, there were comparatively more periodicals and magazines in various Indian languages and less in Sanskrit. But in the context of Sanskrit-periodicals and journals being published from all the states of India, the number of Sanskrit-journals could be considered more in comparison to any other provincial language or national language - Hindi, Urdu or English. This number of Sanskrit-periodicals and journals now stands altogether between 120 to 130.

                       In this small article, it is not possible to cover the entire history of one hundred and fifty-two years of Sanskrit journalism, but to study some journals which were abundant and which were primarily published as research journals, continued to publish research articles, ancient texts and manuscripts. Secondly, those were published in general weekly, fortnightly or monthly magazines, which often featured the contents of all the subjects. But there is a lot of change in the situation today.

Now let’s talk about some special Sanskrit periodicals  
                              Sanskrit journalism is a special achievement of independence struggle of India. It has made unprecedented contribution in development of innovative ideas and nationality. Research has revealed that in 1832, the Asiatic society of Bengal published a bilingual research paper in English and Sanskrit. In this journal, the details of Sanskrit literature were supplied with the details of the ancient literature. It transmitted the new consciousness in the heart of English educated Sanskritists and awakened the pride of the nation, language and literature.

                              As mentioned earlier, on June 1st, 1866, Kashi-based Government Sanskrit College published a magazine ‘Kashi-vidya-sudhanidhih’, which was also called as ‘Pandit-patrika’. Another important publication began from Kashi is ‘Krama-nandini’ in 1967. These two purely Sanskrit journals used to publish Sanskrit texts. However these were not symbol of pure newspaper. In April 1872, ‘Vidyodayah’ came from Lahore as a pure periodical of Sanskrit with new decoration in the editorship of Hrishikesh Bhattacharya. This periodical provided unique strength to Sanskrit journalism. Following this, many periodicals began to be published in Sanskrit.

                     Bihar’s first Sanskrit magazine came out from Patna in 1878 under the name of ‘Vidyaarthi’. This monthly magazine published regularly from Patna till 1880 A.D. and later it was shifted to Udaipur. It was being published as fortnightly from Udaipur. After some time, it was being published from Shrinatha-Dwara. Afterwards it was being published altogether with ‘Harishchandra-chandrika’ and ‘Mohan-chandrika’ magazines of Hindi. This was the first fortnightly periodical of Sanskrit whose editor was ‘Pandit Damodar Shastri’. Its content was as per need and interest of students.

                 In 1880, the monthly ‘Dharma-niti-tattwam’ was published from Patna, but there is no detailed information available about this publication.

                The publication of the monthly ‘Vijnaana-Chintamani’ started from kuttur (Kerala) on 17 October 1884. Later on, due to its popularity, it became fortnightly, ten-dayer and finally turned as weekly. Under the editorship of Neelkanta Shastri, this publication became milestone in the development of Sanskrit journalism.

                 To enrich the Sanskrit education system, prestige and pride “Pt. Ambikadatta Vyas established an organization ‘Bihar Sanskrit Sanjivan Samaj’ in 1887. Its first meeting took place on the 5^th of April, 1887, which was chaired by Pope John Benjamin in which a lot of people participated from many states of India. The secretary himself was Pt. Ambikadatta Vyas. This society started a quarterly publication of ‘Sanskrita-Sanjiwanam’ in 1940.

                 A lot of Sanskrit journals were published in the last two decades of the 19^th century. ‘Sanskrita-Chandrika’ and ‘Sahridayaa’ had special place in national movement. ‘Sanskrita-Chandrika’ was started from Kolkata and later from Kolhapur, which earned immense fame under the editorship of Appa Shastri Rashiwadekar. Because of his political writings; he had to go to jail many times. ’Sahridayaa’ played an important role in enriching and nurturing of Sanskrit language and promoting liberal views and awakening Sanskritists for national interest. ‘Sahridayaa’ played an important role in national movement of freedom.

                       In the beginning of twenty century, whole nation participated in Swadeshi movement in the leadership of Lokamanya Tilak. It was an era of praise for Sanskrit journalism. During this period, many Sanskrit periodicals were published from different parts of the country. In which ‘Bharata-Dharma’ (1901), ‘Shri Kaushik Patrika’ (1907), ‘Vidya’ (1913), ‘Sharada’ (1915), ‘Sanskrita-Saketam’ (1920) - these were some of the main Sanskrit periodicals. According to ‘Arvachina Sanskrit literature’ fortnightly, ‘Mitram’ began from Patna in 1918. It was published by ‘Sanskrit Sanjivan Samaj’.

                      There were some other major Sanskrit periodicals during the days of freedom struggle. Those were - ‘Anand-Patrika’ (1923), ‘Geervaan’ (1924), ‘Sharada’ (1924), ‘Shree’ (1931), ‘Ushaa’ (1934) ‘Sanskrit-Granthamala’ (1936). ‘Bharata-Shree’ (1940) etc.

             In the year 1938 monthly in-house publication (mouthpiece) of ‘Akhila Bharatiya Sahitya Sammelan’, ‘Sanskrita-Ratnakar’ published from Kanpur as independence struggle was going on full swing. Kedarnath Sharma was Saraswat editor of ‘Sanskrita-Ratnakar’. In the year of 1943, the National Sanskrit Vidyapitha started quarterly publication of ‘Ganganath Jha Research Journal’.

                               Following are some of the major Sanskrit journals after independence -  ‘Brahmana- Mahasammelanam’ (1948), ‘Gurukul-Patrika (1948), ‘Bharati’ (1950), ‘Sanskrit-Bhawitvyam’ (1952), ‘Divya-Jyoti’ (1956), ‘Sharada’ (1959), ‘Vishwa- Sanskritam’ (1963), ‘Samvid’ (1965), ‘Gandivam’ (1966), ‘Suprabhatam’ (1976), ‘Sanskrit-Shreeh’ (1976), ‘Prabhatam’ (1980) ‘Loka-Sanskritam’ (1983), ‘Vraja-gandha’ (1988), ‘Shyamla’ (1989) etc. are counted as some of the most important periodicals of Sanskrit after independence of India.

                           In the same period (1970 A.D.), a historical event in the field of Sanskrit-journalism was happened whose megastar was well-known Sanskrit-scholar, Girvana-Vani-Bhushan, Vidya-Nidhi, Pandit-Kalle-Nadadooru-Varada-raja-yyangaarya of Mysore, ( Karnataka ), who started publishing ‘Sudharma’ - a daily Sanskrit newspaper from Mysore. He unfurled the flag of Sanskrit-journalism in the world of Global journalism. Though, on 1^st. January’ 1907, Shri-komal-Marutacharya and Shri-lakshmi-nand published daily Sanskrit-newspaper called the ‘Jayanti’ from Thiruvanantpuram [Kerala] and had made a phenomenal adventure, but in the absence of money and readers, this Sanskrit-daily publication was continued for a few days and later got closed.   In due course of time, the daily Sanskrit-news-paper ‘Suprabhatam’, was also started from Kanpur. It was had to be closed in the absence of the readers and buyers.

Modern forms of Sanskrit journalism
                            Sanskrit is not only cultural heritage of India but it is also pride and identity of the nation.  Without going into the detail of the language policy of independent India, if we concentrate on the growing experiment in the field of Sanskrit journalism, it seems that most of the world languages are getting benefits from the scientific and mathematical vocabulary of Sanskrit. Increasingly, a lot of help has been taken from the Sanskrit language in developing and integrating computational linguistic science. Due to some reason, the slow moving Sanskrit journalism, is now establishing its utility and effectiveness in all the areas of modern communication medium.
                               To understand better the condition of the Sanskrit journalism in the beginning of the twenty first century, it is necessary to review the technical development process and internet revolution in the last three decades of the twentieth century in a broader context. You must have understood my point of view.

                              We have just, briefly observed the history of 152 years of Sanskrit journalism. Another historic incident took place in the series and the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India started experiment by introducing the morning news on June 30 1974 at 9.A.M by broadcasting Sanskrit-news of 5-minutes duration from Akashawani’s Delhi station. It replaced all the myths which used to say that Sanskrit can’t be colloquial and technical ideas cannot be expressed in Sanskrit. The morning Sanskrit-news from All India Radio, soon became very popular and following this popularity, a few months later, an evening bulletin [at 6.10pm.] of 5-minutes in Sanskrit was also introduced from Akashwani’s Delhi station. After a gap of 20 years of the beginning of Sanskrit-news-broadcast, Doordarshan’s Delhi-Kendra [DDK] started weekly Sanskrit-news-telecast on 21^st of August, 1994. Fortunately, the author of these lines got the opportunity of telecasting the maiden Sanskrit-news-bulletin and became the first person on this planet to telecast first TV-Sanskrit-news-bulletin.  After a few years, this weekly telecast of Doordarshan was replaced in five minutes daily-telecast. Recently, by introducing half-an hour weekly Sanskrit-program - ‘Varttavalee’, DD had another feather on its cape.

                             During this period, due to still another historic event the speed of Sanskrit journalism became increasingly fast. Some of the enthusiastic youth were active in organizing Sanskrit as spoken language in these decades and were working under the nationwide campaign. There are some name such as ‘Hindu-Seva- Pratishthanam’, later popularly known as ‘Vishwa-Sanskrita-Pratishthanam’, ‘Sanskrita-Bharati’ and ‘Lokabhasha-Prachar-Samiti’, which are employed in systematically and widespread popularizing in the basic form of Sanskrit journalism by making every Sanskrit loving assured the day is not far when India’s young citizen can speak fluently in Sanskrit. In this series ‘Sanskrit-Bharati’ started publishing monthly magazine, “Sambhashana-Sandeshah’ from Bangaluru in 1999. This monthly magazine is very popular in the country and abroad due to its designing, simple language and subject diversity.

                        Similarly, there are some other Sanskrit-periodicals - ‘Samvit’ ( fortnightly ), ‘Sanskrita-Bala-Samvaadah’ [Monthly ], Geervaani’ [Monthly], ‘Mahaaswini’ [Half-yearly], ‘Aaranyakam’ [ Half-yearly], ‘Sanskrita-Sammalanam’ [Quarterly], ‘Arvachina-Sankritam' [Quarterly ], ‘Aarsha-jyotih’ [Monthly], ‘Sanskrita-Pratibha’ [Quarterly], ‘Sanskrita-Manjari’ [Quarterly], ‘Sanskrita-Varttaa’ [Quarterly], ‘Sanskrita-Vimarshah’ [ Yearly], ‘Abhivyakti-Saurabham’ [Quarterly], ‘Atulya-Bharatam’ [Monthly], ‘Sanskrita-Vani’ [Fortnightly], ‘Sanskrita-Samvadah’ [Fortnightly], ‘Sanskrita-Ratnakarah’ [ Monthly], ’Disha-Bharati’ [Quarterly], ’Deva-Sayujyam’ [Quarterly],’Sanskrita-Vartamaana-pattram’ [Daily Sanskrit-newspaper], ‘Vishwasya Vrittantam’ [Daily Sanskrit-newspaper], ‘Sanskrita-Sampratam’ [Monthly], ‘Nihshreyasam' [Half-yearly], ‘Shrutasagarah’ [Monthly], ‘Setubandhah [Monthly ], ‘Hitasadhika’[half-yearly], ‘Divya-Jyotih’ [Monthly], ‘Raavaneshwar-Kananam [Monthly], ‘Rasana’ [Monthly], ‘Doorwa’ [Quarterly], ‘Natyam’ [Quarterly], ‘Sagarika’ [Quarterly], ‘Ritam’ [Bilingual [Hindi-Sanskrita monthly], ‘Sragdhara’ [Monthly], ‘Amrita-bhashaa’ [weekly], ‘Priya-vaak’ [Bimonthly] ‘Dig-darshinee’ [Quarterly], ‘Vasundhara’ [Quarterly], ‘Sanskrita-Mandakini’ [Half-yearly], ‘Loka-Prajna’ [Yearly], ‘Lokabhasha-Sushreeh’ [Monthly], ‘Loka-Sanskritam’ [Quaterly] ‘Vishwa-Sanskritam’ [Quaterly], ‘Swara-Mangala’ [Quaterly], ‘Bharati’ [Monthly], ‘Rachana-Vimarshah’[Quarterly], ‘Saraswati-Saurabham’ [Monthly], ‘Sanskrita-shreeh’ [Monthly], ‘Vak’ [fortnightly], ‘Ajsraa’ [Quarterly ], ‘Parishilanam’ [Quarterly], ‘Prabhatam’ [Daily Sanskrita Newspaper], ‘Vraja-Gandha’ [Quarterly], ‘Sangamani’ [Quarterly], ‘Vishwa-Bhasha’ [Quarterly], ‘Bhaswati’ [Half-yearly], ‘Kathasarit’ [Half-yearly], ‘Drik’ [Half-yearly], ‘Vakovakeeyam’ [Half-yearly], ‘Vaidik-Jyotih’ [Half-yearly],  ‘Abhisechanam’ [Half-yearly] ‘Abhyudayah’  [ Half-yearly], ‘Satyanandam’ [Monthly], ‘Sanskrita-Sahitya-Parishat-Patrika’ [Quarterly] etc.

                            These periodicals have made the field of Sanskrit-journalism more active. Apart from this, there is a news-agency in Sanskrit - News in Sanskrit [News agency] Hindustan-Samachar. It has been reported that from the past few days, daily Sanskrit-Newspaper as ‘Srijana-Vani’ is being published from East Delhi.

                            My heartily greetings and good wishes to all these Sanskrit-journalists and Sanskrit workers.

                          There are many E-journals in which ‘Prachi-Prajna’ (Monthly E-magazine), ‘Jahanvi’ (Quarterly E-magazine), ‘Sanskrita-Sarjana’ (Quarterly E-magazine) and ‘Daily Sanskrita-E-portal’ ‘Samprati-vaarttaa’.

                           Readers will be pleasantly surprised to know that for the last four years, there is a twenty four hour online radio broadcasting Sanskrita linguistic programs in the name of www.divyavani.in, which is under the leadership of Dr. Sampadanand Mishra from Pondicherry, is being managed.

                       Institutes and universities like Shri Lal Bahadur Shastri Rashtriya Sanskrit Vidyapith and Rashtriya Sanskrit Sansthan has started Sanskrit journalism course.

                     During the period of last three years, four short films in Kerala have been made in Sanskrita language and have been shown to the audience at different places. ‘Janam-TV’ from Thiruvanantpuram has started Sanskrita-new-telecast of 15 minutes duration daily from 2^nd October 2015 onwards. Keeping in view all these facts, I can proclaim with full confidence that the future of Sanskrita-journalism is positive and bright.

Setu, February 2018

Poems by Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar

Period Fruits

And I bring a puny fruit
for her, miniscule but big within,
a million more in its vastness.
We peel it in a second,
eat for four days, her four days,
one fourth million small fruits
with big inside at a time.

The blood of them swells our veins
as she keeps flowing out.
Summer drones in her hair.
Light makes the strands
hay hued translucence.

Zany

The ant meanders through the maze of tiles. It crosses the white tile. Dwindles one the blue one. It loops on the white one. It has a chunk of something in its mouth. I cannot see what it has. It makes me think of the nothingness​. A big juicy chunk of it.

To Catch A Red Moon

You begin to see the world
coming off the spring.
You meet the bird who needs
one more string for its nest.

Your mom says,
Now on, you should cover your
soul with layers rest
someone penetrates it
and you conceive a poem.

Eclipse is scheduled​ today.
A rare red stain on
the dark sheet of the sky.
You stare at it. You take a pic.
Mom becomes a bird
ferrying a piece of metal
across the heavens.

Panes

Father draws the sky.
A shy pane, he draws, for my
sadness.

One drop rain. Rain drop two.
The clouds
are still pregnant with the third.

The brush falls from the system
of his fingers.
The floor is blue. The floor is green.
A shy pane, he draws, again. Again.

Setu, February 2018

Book Review: Fractious Mind

Fractious Mind Genre:  Poetry
Author: Perveiz Ali
Year of Publication: 2018
Publisher: Global Fraternity of Poets
ISBN:  978-93-83755-51-6
Pp:       90
Price:   INR 240/$16

Reviewer: Wani Nazir

Creativity, or to say precisely, poetry (a sublime and lofty form of creativity) is brought forth out of an encounter - an encounter of the poet's within with the without and the poet's within with his within. When the poet, an artist ideal, is at odds with the meaninglessness and eerie silence filling all the vacancies of both the worlds - inner as well as outer, he labours with both the ghosts until he forces the meaningless to mean, and makes silence answer, or to put it this way, he makes Non-being be. James Lord, being a friend of Alberto Giacometti, has brought forth a valuable monograph about the encounter that occurs in creativity in his rather small book, "A Giacometti Portrait". In the book he reveals the great degree of anxiety and agony is generated in the artist (Giacomette) by such creative encounter. It is thus anxiety and agony, born out of the creative encounter, that a work of art is born. 

Perveiz Ali's debut collection of poems, "Fractious Mind" can be produced as a fine example of creative work born out of such creative encounter. The title of the book, too, hints at the poet's mind and being bearing the brunt of anxiety and agony. Perveiz's mind is fractious only because the environs, the outside world, especially his valley seems afflicted with meaninglessness, bleakness, and absurdity - the maladies of any conflict ridden land and her people. All this has pushed the pen of Perveiz to dabble in scribbling this absurdity and meaninglessness.

Like Hamlet, Perveiz Ali too senses 'Time is out of joint. O cursed spite, / that ever I was  born to set it right! But unlike the Prince, the poet uses his pen as a mighty weapon to 'wage a war against the sea of troubles'. He dares to throw the gauntlets by vociferating so vehemently against the breach of the promise made to the people of his homeland.

What has the UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors
The saviours who have us fractured.

(Kashmir delirium)

He writes in a fit of the paroxysms of pain and agony, he bleeds and so does his pen. The words seem like drops of blood and gal of the liver as they express both pain and anger.

Our Garden of Love is now a land of gravestones
Who shall mourn with me over the Paradise lost?

(Paradise Lost)

Perveiz's heart doesn't ache for his valley only but for the humanity at large cutting across the borders of sex, religion and geographical boundaries. He wails on the inequality and discrimination sweeping across the whole nation where the unfurling of the flag of peace seems a distant dream. 

The idols of wrongs are worshipped in our land.
Inequality sweeps across the nation
The flag of peace is yet to be unfurled

(Fallacy)

Perveiz Ali, to use the expression of Wordsworth, brilliantly does 'fill the paper with the breathing of his heart". He too lights the lamp with the fuel of his blood, and the poignant line of Mohi ud Din Gowhar. His lines: 

'Prezleu ne Gowhar bael yaroo/ su chu zalan tchangen jigruk rath'

 (Gowhar (pearl) does not sparkle with brilliance, for no reason/He burns the lamps with the blood of his heart)

 fits so expedient in case of the poetry of Perveiz.

There are umpteen poems in this collection which transcend the confines of spatio-temporal ambits, and there are poems which are replete with universal appeal and topicality. In one of his poems, Perveiz's scalding ink melts away the borders and barriers of nations and nationalities. It is in such like poems; he elevates himself to the state where he proves a champion of the whole humanity.

Democracy, Liberty and Civilization...all labels.
Asian blood is cheap and African the cheapest,
American heroes amid western Super heroes,
Why this chaos? And for what do we stand?
Day out and day in ruled by the biggest gun?

(What of earth?)

It is not like that the poet remains wedded to angst and pain for good, he divorces such ugly entities in intervals, and many a time emerges as an optimist and visions silver lining around the dark dense clouds. He, like Shelley's sanguinely hopeful line, "If winter comes, can spring be far behind" divines a golden dawn that shall break from the mountain peaks of the valley. 

Let the old me be remodeled, made new,
Re-energized as my hopes I renew.
I stumbled, I struggled and still I stand,
My faith giving me room to expand.

                                                                                  (Inner secrets)

Perveiz Ali at times delves deep into his sea of being. His inner recesses metamorphose into an oyster that after travails and tribulations brings forth pearls from the sediments in the form of verses - sparkling with sheer brilliance. He hobnobs with the themes like longing, love, separation from his beloved and other such like slew of feelings.


For example, the poem "You" celebrates love and longing beautifully.

I dream of you with passion
To turn that dream into reality,
The joys of realized fantasy:
To be held and loved by you!
                                                            (You)

Perveiz's quill has a grasp over weaving poems in various forms and structures. There are ghazals (despite being so onerous to treat in English), haikus, rhyming couplets, acrostics and other forms, all woven brilliantly.

I am quoting two couplets of one of Perveiz's ghazal which are enough to attest his prowess to treat the form, and maintain radeef and qafiya so brilliantly. 

Equal rights are no more your domain to claim on land
When rights are tethered ruthless; O'man, should I cry!

Open the strangulated lanes of darkness with the light of ink
How ill fated this race is! Blood flows stopless, O' man, should I cry!

(Ghazal 2)

All said and done, reading the collection of the poems is a wonderful experience the reader is through. I wish more creative outpourings from the beautiful pen of Perveiz Ali.

Setu, February 2018

Poems by Master Showkat Ali

Master Showkat Ali

Master Showkat Ali 

HOPE

I know not if I could tell
The tale of stars weeping so well;
For the moon, missing tonight,
For reigning despair and hope out of sight,
In this vale, as no clouds to hide,
Or maybe it has eloped like a bride
In protest, with some planet far;
Against inhuman mire and bloody war
Going on and on, day and night
On planet earth – the unending fight.

This moonless night will definitely pass
As light, awaits this darkness to surpass.
Hope sustains. Never in vain stars weep
The harvest of tears, we shall reap
So awake! Arise! And come away
To welcome – the radiance of coming Day.


From My Writing Desk

Unable to resist, the weight of slumber
Finally my eyelids yielded, and
On my writing desk I had a dream.
The dream left me pondering
As I was told by a known unknown
Voice, “Wake up! Wake up!
Your life is being swallowed into
A life, not authentically yours.”
Uttering this left me muttering
To my own self, till now
Thinking again and again, true
It is. But how can I being sure
Assure me, that you are not the only one.
And none is safe in the morass
Of motivation sans inspiration,
Save the chosen and blessed.
So I melted before Him from within,

With heaved bosom
Helpless and supplicated-
‘like Younis (AS)
Let me come out or let
The leviathan vomits me out,
To write but what I AM…’

Setu, February 2018

Revisiting Lal Ded in Times of Conflict: Discovery of the Poetics of Peace.

Master Showkat Ali

Master Showkat Ali 

Abstract

The problems that currently plague the world are communalism, casteism, war, genocide, terrorism, poverty and ecological crisis. It is trivial, or against the wisdom, to explore only the aesthetic themes at a time when the world is bereft of the avenues of healthy and sustainable human survival. The cause of suffering lies in the conflict present both at individual as well as collective level, and particularly in the personalities and their followers who are influencing the major affairs of whole world. In order to take back the world on the path of peace and human-harmony, there is a dire need to address the issue of conflict primarily at individual level by fine tuning the human “self” with the Self or its Creator.

To a large extent among the different genres of literature, mystical poetry, like that of Rumi (as seen in the West), has got the remedial power to address these conflicts at both the individual and collective level in human history.  In the same context, it has been found that an eminent and influential poetic voice Lal Ded from Kashmir, through her poetry/mystic verses tries to eclipse the boundaries of conflict prevailing both in the human self and life. 

This paper upholds the premise that revisiting the poetry of this great mystic is among the few guiding lights, which can help us find solutions to the various and varied conflicts we are facing today.

                                 

Keywords: Lalla, Conflict, Peace, Self, Suffering, Love etc.

Revisiting Lal Ded in Times of Conflict: Discovery of the Poetics of Peace.

It is sufficient to introduce Lal Ded through a seminal book Great Ages of Man: A History of the World Cultures a 21-Volume historical encyclopedia. One of its volumes titled Historic India edited by Lucille Schulberg and co-editors, documents the main important events of Indian culture and civilization right from antiquity, and its chapter discussing the 14^th Century India titled “Thought and Culture” is based on a single event from whole of India; that is “Kashmiri Female Poet Lal Ded”. It reflects the greatness of our “Mother Lalla” and it is undoubtedly an honour for every Kashmiri (Kaul 2005: 11). One may or may not agree with the content of Lalla’s mystic thought, but the impact and quality of her mystical poetry is widely acknowledged. The unique feature of these mystic verses is that they mostly deal with the make-up of human self or soul. B K Behl writes that the great Kashmiri saint and poetess Lalla, who deeply nourished the Kashmiri thought, speaks repeatedly of the concept of the divine manifestations of the Ultimate and the rapturous relationship of the soul with God. Her philosophy is a synthesis of mystical Shaivism and Sufism, which penetrates the hearts of the masses: that is why she becomes Lalla Arifa for Muslims and Lalleshwari for Hindus. Lalla’s poetic testimonies have become so influential that they are part of today’s collective consciousness. They have entered the global imagination through translations. That is why even those commentators who are hostile to mysticism or mystical-poetic thought readily accept the central importance Lalla has played as a pioneering Kashmiri poet in inspiring the sustainable human harmony while renouncing the dividing line based on caste, creed, status and religion. She always comes out as a spiritual messiah for all and sundry, emanating peace and harmony with emphasis on humanity rather than religiosity and universal brother-hood. She never discriminates between a Hindu and a Muslim. Her poetry lays more stress on recognizing one's own self, which is the true source of knowledge regarding God and the world created by God. She says:

shiv chhuy thalyi thalyi rav zaan

mav zaan hyond ti musalmaan

trukh hay chhukh ti paani prazaan

sway chhay tas siity zeenyiy zaan

God abides in all that is, everywhere;

Then do not discriminate between

                    a Hindu or a Muslim.

          If thou art wise, know thyself;

That is true knowledge of the Lord.              (Kaul 107)

Keeping in view the spiritual malaise of current times, Charles Taylor a living Canadian philosopher and theologian in his book A Secular Age while writing the critique of modern culture and faith asks a valid question, “why was it virtually impossible not to believe in God around 15^th century, while towards the end of 20^th century many of us find this not only easy, but even inescapable (10).” One understands, after going through the writings of modern and post-modern theologians like Soren Kierkegaard, Paul Tillich, Karl Barth, Karl Jaspers, and Gabriel Marcel who have criticized modernity and post-modernity and its value system from a religious-mystical point of view, that this change is not due to a lack but abundance of religious and scientific knowledge and the conditions of “belief” in our age. The modern world is a pluralist one where many forms of belief and unbelief jostle, and due to lack of proper social structures, one is prone to skepticism. As a result we are settling into somewhat a state of comfortable disbelief, suffering from a deep-seated psychological disorder, melancholy and angst. We have distanced ourselves from the central unifying essence that is God and God-consciousness, and our buffered self has reached to a stage, where our common situation mainly shares three features: huge diversity, huge movement, and huge capability to be shaken by other positions. We as modern men want to eliminate the transcendent dimension of our life and yet not suffer from suffocation in the two-dimensional world – mainly based on material progress – a self proclaimed creation which we have crafted for ourselves. We want to kill God and yet remain human, which is a contradiction precisely because man can remain human only by being faithful to his theomorphic nature. Kierkegaard calls the so-called progress of modern man “blind progress” but at the same time sees glory of the human condition primarily in our ability to choose. It is the ability to choose ourselves by choosing God that fulfills the human telos (an ultimate end). But this choosing only finds its fulfillment when we achieve a synergy/communion with what God chooses, which is that we become who we truly are.  

Around 700 years back Lal Ded leaves the same message for the coming generations that social emancipation can be achieved only through self-realization. For Lalla, in essence the human soul is one with God. He is the only reality behind the changing phenomenon of the world. She understands that the secret of attaining union with the Ultimate lies hidden in engagement of fathoming the human “self”. This attraction and love within one’s self towards the Divine gives birth to the realization that this life is very short and its pleasures are transient and that one is not created only to eat, drink, clothe, marry, and build home or to boast of one’s prestige and power among mankind. Lalla makes us realize that when one makes a shift from the outer world to the inner world, all the veils of ignorance are removed and one begins to comprehend the real purpose of life. She talks about the same in her vaakh:

Gwaran voninam kunuy vatsun

Nyabri dopnam andar atsun

Suy gav lalyi mye vaakh ti vatsun

Tavay mye hyotum nangay natsun                (Lal Ded 84)

My teacher taught me but one lesson,

Odyssey from the without to the within

This is what I say in my songs,

And I wander about without a guise.

In our times, we have been prompted to believe that technological advancements and modernization will produce for us physical comforts and through these comforts we can attain inner peace and external harmony. Pursuing the same goal, we are selling our souls in a Faustian manner to gain dominion over natural and human environment; and we are creating a situation in which the very control of the environment is turning into our own strangulation, bringing in its wake collective suicide (Nasr 04). And Lalla in her mystic and creative seclusion makes the diagnosis of the human malaise where intuition reveals to her that the self needs to be a keen observant of the guile of distractions in the outer world. Instead, one should focus on one’s own self with love and devotion to have guidance guiding towards emancipation and eternity:

Lal bo draayas loolaryey

TshaanDaan luusum dyan kyoo raath

Vuchum pandyit paninyi garyey

Suy mya roTmus nyechtar ti saath

I Lalla set out with the fervor of love,

Spent days and nights in the search;

Finally I found the Pandit in my own house,

A good auguring moment it was for me        (Shauq 61)

In another poem like a true mystic, after unveiling the covers of ignorance, she accepts herself as a nonentity before God which brings humility as a result of self-effacement while resolving every kind of conflict in life. She says:

Mukras zan mal tsolum manas

Adi mya lebim zanas zaan

Su yelyi DyuuThum nyishyi paanas

Sooruy suy ti bo noo kyanh

As the rust of the mirror of my mind is removed

Full recognition of the self I attain;

I discover Him so intimately near,

All is He, I am nothing.  

According to Jaya Lal Kaul, Lalla does not observe the formalities of ceremonial piety as she is “vehemently critical of orthodoxy, its dogma and ritual, its hypocrisy and exclusiveness (03).” Through her poetic verses Lalla tries to eclipse the boundaries of conflict prevailing both in the human self and life. Her verses continue to guide those who are in search of a way out of the darkness within which modernism and post-modernism has confined us, and to grapple with the corrosive forces which threaten the very existence of global peace. For her peace is not to attain the quietest state in one’s life, but true peace is that emerges from inner poise and silence and leads to action for the promotion of an egalitarian society. Her poetic utterances, pondered over seriously to speak to herself, mostly maintain a dialogue with herself. This contemplative act of her poetry makes it penetrate deep into the soul, and evoke contemplative states in its hearers and readers to bring about a transformative change. She propagates in her vaakhs the message of love while saying:

myithyaa kapaTh asath troovum

manas korum suy vwapdyiesh

zwanas andar kyiaval zoonum

anas khyanas kus chum dwe-ysh

         

I renounced fraud, untruth, deceit;

I taught my mind to see the One

             in all my fellow-men.

How could I then discriminate

              between man and man,

And not accept the food offered to me

              by brother man?                                       (Kaul, p. 107)

What prevents one person from welcoming one’s fellow brethren without making any kind of inhuman discriminations? Lalla identifies the monstrous instincts present within every man and guides us how to exterminate them permanently through meditation. The beasts like lust, anger, desire and pride thwart the possibility of mutual love at both local and global level as she says:

         

maarukh mari buuth kaam kruud luub

nati kaan beryith maarnay paan

manay khyan dyikh swa vyatsaari sham

vyishay tyihund kyah kyuth druuv zaan

Slay the monsters of evil – lust, anger and greed,

Before they slay you with their deadly darts;

Feed your mind with the silent meditation,

Know thoroughly the meaning of these forces.     (Shauq 81)

The main thrust of Lalla is on the individual self wherefrom both vice and virtue, good and bad, envy and content, love and hate emerge. The individual needs to keep vigil over the satanic forces by keeping them in control otherwise he will turn inhuman:

hye gwaraa parmyeshwara

baavtam tsye chhuy antar vyod

dwashvay vwapdaan kandyi puraa

huu kavi turun ti hah kvi tot

O my preceptor, O my Lord,

Tell me for you know the hidden secrets;

If both emerge from the same body,

Why is “hoo” cold and “haa” so warm?        (Shauq 105)

Lalla understands well that both vice and virtue are embedded in human-self, and virtue dominates only when man remains conscious of the divine imprint on his soul. She is aware that this earthly life is ephemeral and temporary, then for what earthly things, man should become egoistic and proud. Once man realizes this, the vicious instinct of conceit or ego as a matter of course vanishes and the feeling of pride in “I” dies forever. The renunciation of ego becomes the directive of truth for the seeker to achieve an existence filled with peace, purity and bliss. As Lalla puts it:

azipa gaayatri hamsi-hamsi zepyith

aham treevith suy adi raTh

yemy troov aham suy ruud paanay

boh no aasun chhuy vwapidyesh

In mantra of silence restrain the breath,

Renounce your pride, be absorbed in Him;

One who gives up conceit, is sure to be oneself,

Say no to ‘I’, that is the advice.                        (Shauq 99)

The counsel given here does not imply that one should reduce one’s self to nonentity, but saying no to ‘I’ means weighing oneself ‘nothing’ before God. This kind of realization commences from ‘within’ to allow the individual’s spiritual growth. And in the words of Shafi Shauq:

All her probing into the boundless depths of the self led Lalla to the conviction that, in spite of the earthliness of the corporal life, man’s being in the world is to be respected as it is the only and the inevitable stage in man’s finite existence that makes possible a leap toward the infinite. (21)

In the words of Nasr every mystic “dies to the world inwardly while outwardly he still participates in the life of society and bears the responsibilities of the station of life in which destiny has placed him (88).” Lalla realizes the same and shoulders the responsibility by propagating the message of social involvement for uplifting the humanitarian values. She rises far above the plane of formal worship and rejects adherence to the ceremonial practices if they are bereft of creating fellow-feeling and universal brotherhood:

          tryieshi bwachhyi moo kryieshyinaavun

          yaan tshyeyiy taan san-daarun dih

          phraTh choon daarun ti paarun

          kar vwapikaarun sway chhay kray

          Do not let it crave for water and food,

          Replenish your body when it feels wearied;

          A delusion is fasting and opening the fasts,

Keep helping others that is your noble deed.

The problem of modern man lies in his Machiavellian belief that ‘this world is the be all and end all of things’. This belief categorically blinds his vision in seeing the whole of mankind as creation of one God. This gives rise to the unethical behaviour, where man compartmentalizes humanity into haves and have not’s, developed and un-developed, civilized and un-civilized, black and white, Hindu and Muslim, elite and outcaste. Lalla makes us realize that it is only the service offered unto humanity that counts and opens the way to create an inclusive composite culture that includes all and excludes none. The life we live just to hoard things of earthly comfort for ourselves counts nowhere, as nothing from these things is able to postpone or avoid the scythe of death for the individual who runs after them throughout his life. Agreeing with Nasr mystics, “have always taught that man is in quest of the Infinite and that even his endless effort toward the gaining of material possessions and his dissatisfaction with what he has is an echo of this thirst, which cannot be quenched by the finite (80).”  And Lalla reminds the same when she says:

          

          tsaama,r che'tir rath simhaaasan

ahalaad naaTye-ras tuli paryienkh,

kyah meenith yeti sothiri aasun

kavi zan kaasi marniny shienkh

A royal fly-whisk, canopy, chariot and throne,

Merry revels, pleasures of the theater, a cushioned bed –

Which of these, you think, will go with you

   when you are dead?

How then can you dispel the fear of death?

To conclude we can say that the mystical poetry of Lalla has got the power to regenerate the blessed mood in which mundane interests are shelved and forgotten. It has over the centuries helped us to produce and nourish a spirit of understanding, tolerance, fellow-feeling and an acute sense of religious humanism. In order to bring back the world on the path of peace and human-harmony, there is a dire need to address the issue of conflict at individual level by harmonizing human “self” or creature with the Self or its Creator. By revisiting Lalla’s verses we can discover the poetics of peace and find solutions to the various and varied conflicts we are facing today. Time and again she makes one realize that one’s achievement is not in seeking earthly comforts but in seeking the right path to join back eternal life after death, as no one is able to escape it. Further she opines that one should always focus on how to return successfully while earning currency by serving humanity, to pay wages in spiritual terms to the ferryman to carry one across the river of existence, so that one accomplishes the ultimate goal of merging the individual soul with the Soul that is God, when she says

aayas vatyey geyas ni vatyey

suman swathyi manz luusum dwah

chandas vuchum te haar ni athyey

naavi taaras dyimi kyah boo

The right path I came, the right path I did not go,

My day ends as I reach the shore;

I fumble my pockets and find no money,

What shall I pay the boatman to take me across? (Shauq 64)

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The Wise Sayings of Lal Ded.    India: Gulshan

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David F Swenson. Princeton: Princeton University

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Kaul, Jaya Lal (ed).  Lal Ded. 5^th ed. Srinagar: J&K

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Setu, February 2018