ദീപാവലി

 

Years ago, or rather, decades ago, during a personal interaction with poet Kamala Das (later known as Kamala Suraiyya) at a literary workshop, she referred to a poet as “someone who is hurt.” She said that a poet has “this feeling of hurt inside him”. Or, simply put, a poet hurts.

In this poem, Deepavali, the “hurt” poet comes to the fore. The festival of lights fills the poet’s mind with a kind of darkness that conjures up the plight of the children who labour at the firework factories of Sivakasi. The poem is a sad contrast – a poetic chiaroscuro – of the brightness of a single day as against the darkness that stretches across the entire existence of the hapless children.

They go through a sheer hell of a life only to create a heaven of the skies with bursts of sparkling firecrackers, all for the rest of the world to rejoice. For the world to celebrate this festive day, they work through the year on starving bellies. Most of them burn out their lives young. Some are blown out in accidental explosions. And then more of their like, poverty-ridden, come to fill the dark, empty spaces left in the wake of their unjustifiable sacrifice. And the new brood lay their charred lives at the pyre of labour for whatever its meagre worth.

Not for them the sweetmeats nor the silken attires of festivity. But what of the smouldering explosives they carry in their hearts? When will they burst, for burst they surely will? When will that day arrive when they will rise in the energy that waits to explode in their souls? When will they uprise from the curse of penury to celebrate their lives with their more fortunate peers? Until such a day, the poet says, “let me sing an ode to them and to the caskets of fire they carry in their hearts, as the world revels!”

The poet hurts. His pain is a melding of sadness, guilt, helplessness, and rage. He cannot relish the joys of the festival for the miseries of those who make the joys available to him. He feels helpless against the world, which is not within his control, and its systems that follow their own course, at their own will. He is disquieted by the injustice of it all. The sizzling embers of his conscience refuse to burn down. Indeed, they are relentlessly stoked by the persistent mirthful explosions that surround him.

Arundhathy Varma’s rendition carries the suppressed pathos that pervades the poem.

SW · Deepavali | K. T. Krishna Variar | Arundhathy Varma | PC: Tim Oliveira/Pexels.com

ദീപാവലി 

ഗർജിക്കും ദീപാവലി-

     പ്പടക്കങ്ങളിൽ, പൂക്കും

മത്താപ്പിൽ, കതിർ വീശും 

     പൂത്തിരിത്താരങ്ങളിൽ, 

കണ്ടു ഞാൻ ശിവകാശി 

     തന്നിലെത്രയും തുച്ഛ-

ശമ്പളത്തിനീ സ്വർഗം 

     വിടർത്തും കിടാങ്ങളെ.

ഒട്ടിയ വയറുമായ് 

     വെടിക്കെട്ടുകൾ തീർപ്പൂ 

മറ്റു ബാലകരെങ്ങു-

     മുൽസവമാഘോഷിക്കാൻ.

അഗ്നിബാധയിലവർ 

     വെന്തുചാവുന്നു വീണ്ടു-

മെത്തുന്നു ദരിദ്രന്മാ-

     രൽപവേതനത്തിനായ്,

ഹൃദ്യമാം ദീപാവലി-

     മധുരങ്ങളും നല്ല 

പട്ടുകഞ്ചുകങ്ങളും 

     നേടാത്ത ഹതഭാഗ്യർ 

വർണപേടകങ്ങളി-

     ലമർന്ന വെടിമരു-

ന്നൊന്നൊന്നായ്പൊട്ടിത്തെറി-

     ച്ചീടുമദ്ദിനമെന്നോ?

മർദിതഹൃദയങ്ങൾ-

     ക്കുള്ളിലെ വിസ്ഫോടക-

ശക്തികളുയിർത്തെഴു-

     ന്നേൽക്കുമദ്ദിനമെന്നോ?

ശപ്തന്മാർ നിഷ്‌ക്കിഞ്ചന-

     രാകുമിപ്പൈതങ്ങളും 

മറ്റിന്ത്യൻ കിടാങ്ങൾപോൽ 

    കൊണ്ടാടും ദിനമെന്നോ?

അവർക്കായവരിലെ 

     ത്തീക്കുടുക്കകൾക്കായി-

ന്നൊരു ചിന്തുപാടുന്നേൻ 

     ദീവാളി തിമർക്കുമ്പോൾ!

© 1990 KTK