Monday, November 1, 2010

Manohar Lalgami talks to Satish Vimal

An Interview With a Native Man of Letters

                         An interesting interview with a native poet and author  Satish Vimal
‘In this darkest period of our history I see the hope for a new dawn’

Satish Vimal was born  at Booch village of Tral in south Kashmir’s Pulwama district. He is among the few known Kashmiri Pandits who went against the tide and decided to stay put in the Valley despite huge migration of Pandits from Kashmir after the outbreak of militancy in the Valley in early 90s. Presently working with Radio Kashmir, Satish became a household voice in the Valley during his tenure as a presenter of its current affairs programme Shehrbeen. He has many books to his credit as a poet and translator. He’s also the recipient of many literary awards. Satish spoke to Manohar . Excerpts:

In 1990, most of the Kashmiri Pandits left the Valley after the eruption of anti-India insurgency. You have chosen to stay back, any specific reason?
When guns started rattling in the Valley in 1990, amid chaos and confusion most of the people from minority community left to take shelter in the hot regions of Jammu and other parts of India. I don’t blame them but seeing this mass exodus I made a resolve that I will stay in my land no matter what may come. Because to do otherwise, would have been a mute submission to the elements who were bent upon polarizing the society at that time. I work in Radio Kashmir and I had some mild and acute pressures which could have contributed towards my migration but I refused to be guided by the fear.

When Kashmir is mentioned anywhere in the world, instantly a picture of human suffering comes to mind. As a poet how do you see the present situation?
We are passing through a very dark period of our history. Every sphere of our lives is filled with darkness. Naturally this darkness has a very distressing effect on our lives. Suffocation is everywhere and a breath of fresh air—free from fear—is a thing of the past, but what keeps my hopes alive is the belief that darkness means that a new dawn is in the offing. In this darkest period of our history I try to do my bit at a vey small level by lighting small candles of hope wherever I can.

What is your contribution?
It is the moment which decides what is to be done at a particular time or what to say to a particular person. I do not go about planning everything in advance. I don’t have energy for that stuff. I do not calculate things beforehand because life is a game of uncertainties How much one may prepare oneself, make decisions, calculate, think and plan, but the actual moment belongs to God…I do only what I feel right under the given circumstances.

What has been the influence of the prevailing conditions on your writings?
Naturally, conditions have an effect on it, but for me poetry is not only the expression of anguish but real poetry dives deep into everything which deals with the human heart and every human condition and give an expression to it. (Long pause) No, no, not an easy thing to explain in words…it is beyond words…better left to individual’s discretion.

What makes you a poet?
This is not some thing that is easy to answer. In fact the question is so personal that I don’t know the complete answer myself. But you need something to write so here is what I feel makes me a poet or to put it differently…puts me into poetry: from my teenage I developed a taste for solitude and unlike other children I started to spend most of my time studying not only my text books but other things not related to my usual studies. As I was not like other children in my behavior and tendencies, my mom too was not like other moms. Fortunately or unfortunately she was not alarmed by reclusive behavior of her son. In fact she encouraged me in my adventures…adventures if one may call them…more of mental than physical nature.

I believe this is what made me a poet because that exclusion in my younger days made me to plunge into the only depths that were available to me in my solitude that is myself and this exploration created such a sensitivity within me that it is not now possible to leave it even if I want to. This sensitivity is organic rather than psychological. It is not a make believe thing.

However, I am not of the view that to develop into a poet all you need to do is to put him in a secluded place and provide him coffee like my mom did. May be what has become of me happened despite myself .What I just said is what I think may be the reason. It may not be the real one, only God knows…hands up…I surrender.

Among the contemporary poets who has impressed you the most?
Amrita Pritam has impressed me a lot with her ability not only to express herself with clarity and precision but everything about her is her own. Her experiences are hers so is her way of expression. Even her songs which are sung in Punjab everywhere across the dividing line even by the women in fields are pregnant with depths of human sensitivity. Her poetry is open like the vast sky and it is devoid of any division or escapism.

Her poetry has the juice of her uniqueness and fresh drops trickle everywhere in words and the content behind them. What irritates me about some poetry is the evident phoniness. I am not able to digest secondhand experience and second hand expression. It is intolerable. Poetry is the thing of one’s own experience. To copy the content or expression is to destroy the whole thing. It is ridiculous. Poetry is giving expression to the felt experience so when I see it being taken as jugglery of words I am hurt, really hurt.

Poetry for me is not song-making. It is a different story all together. Poetry for me is to connect to the depths of ones being its flow and express the same with simplicity and preciseness using words economically as more words means more confusion. Mixing up words to make them lyrical is a different thing for me it not poetry. The same thing has entered the poetry in our Valley also. The originality or the lack of it is being buried under the dust of meter and measurement of non-essentials which basically are meant to make a song easy to sing. Gazal is a beautiful form of poetry but it has its limitations too. It is a descriptive poetry while in free verse a poet gives expression to experience. Lala Ded is the zenith of our poetry but her poetry does not fit into today’s descriptions.

What worries me is that many poets have lost their own song in the rate race of trying to confirm, that is, make a name for themselves. They are singing somebody else so as to sound big, but all this is proving futile because poetry is not an exercise in mimicry.

We are heirs to a rich heritage of Sufi poetry. They never bothered about who likes what they said, and paradox of paradoxes, we all have ended up not only liking them but having a great regard for them even up to the level of reverence. So when a person claiming to be a poet goes from door-to-door seeking approval and acceptance, I just…shed tears. That is the only thing I can do without bothering for its correctness.

Why does this happen?
There is confusion in some quarters that poetry means a group of words made to rhyme by design, better the design better the poetry. For me this is some thing I loathe. Poetry is the expression of that felt sense we all are dimly aware but usually not able to express. A poet is able to give expression to this part which is usually hidden in our day-to-day affairs…You remember the famous Emerson saying “In genius we find our own rejected thoughts.” Poetry is not simply words but something more…It is not easy to put it in words the expression of the paradox of life. Life which is always a beautiful combination of opposites, a hard thing for our logical minds to grasp which always insists on either this or that, while life is much more complex. Those who enter this domain to gain name or fame have a bitter disappointment waiting for them no matter how much they earn out of it.

You write in different languages like Kashmiri, Urdu and Hindi. Do you decide it first in which language to write?
No, it is not usually my decision in which language to write. As I said earlier it is the moment which decides. As I am not a commercial lyricist, I can afford the luxury. It is the mood which has a dominant role at the moment, and the words emerge. So I am not to be blamed or praised for it, as you see the decision does not rest with me. I first started writing in Hindi, Urdu started to flow and finally Kashmiri. It is all circumstantial.

(Published in daily Etela'at from Srinagar,Kashmir)

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Satish writes in Hindi,Urdu,Kashmiri and English

Kashmiri poems translated by ASHFAAQUE LONE


IMPRESSION


          Clichés have a way of cropping up every now and then. Talk of translation and the cliché goes like this: Translation is all about finding a middle path between beauty and faithfulness. Genuine practitioners of the craft however have a different viewpoint. They believe, and rightly so that translation is an exercise in recreation. Actually since every language boasts a peculiar idiom and diction, semantic barriers are likely to arise while translating from one language to another even if the languages belong to the same country. Being perpetually in a state of evolution languages have a shifting temporal and spatial ambit. A serious translator is thus required not just to be conversant with the imaginative usage of languages he works in but also have a distinct feel for the spirit of those languages. Successful recreation of a poem into another language is possible only when the poet has a highly developed and chiseled sense of what the translation is intended to represent and convey.
          Personally it has been a rewarding experience to translate Satish Vimal’s poems for they are striking, multi-layered, pure and purposeful-all at the same time.
                             Ashfaaque Lone

                                       POEMS OF SATISH VIMAL
Which is why
Long tresses have rivers flowing in them
Which is why
Long-haired can wash their heads really well
Long tresses have fires blazing in their shade
Which is why
Long-haired can light up numerous lamps
And dispel all darkness within
Long tresses have heavens
Woven in their plaits
Which is why
Long-haired can soar very high

Rags have embers concealed in them
Which is why                                                               
Rag-wearers are immune to cold
Every single spangle on a rag
Stands for non-conformism
Which is why
Rag-wearers enjoy the pleasure of boundlessness

All dimensions of time and space
Get absorbed in rags
Which is why
Rag -wearers unravel secrets of the world beyond

Long tresses are a thick montane forest
Which harbour the herb of abiding life
Which is why
Longhaired fear not death

Rags are the shrine of a great saint
With doors and windows ever open
Which is why
Rag-wearers see hardened woes melt away
Along their hemlines

From long tresses emerges
The glow of dawn
From tattered robes
Comes out a quaint evening
Which is why
Longhaired wear rags
And rag-wearers allow their tresses to grow.

THE WELL
In his hand
Consecrated by holy beads
He held my forehead
With the radiance of affection
He had showered with gentle moments of his fingers
Through my hair
And asked
“Tell me what is remarkable about my palm
If you answer correctly
You will get whatever you want”.

On the highways of my sensibilities
My thoughts ran wild
And in the level palm of my hand
I could feel
Depth unfathomable
But couldn’t dare say it
The hallowed-being had however
Felt the reverberations within my soul 
He said “There is a well
In the palm of my hand
A deep well
Filled to the brim
Come
Try to descend into it
Gingerly
Then plunge into it
Whatever you find there would be yours”.
Holding the reins of my consciousness firmly
I got into the well
Slowly & steadily
And then
Sensing its depth
Plunged deep down
In this well of mysteries
Every single drop held for me
A sea of uncertainty
I was completely drenched
While climbing back
My false ego was rung off my being
Drop by drop

And when I came up
The hot furnace
That would burn in my head was quelled
I was feeling relaxed
But I felt cold as well
Kissing my forehead
He gifted me a little heat
From the bountiful reservoir
Of his well earned energy
The heat gave me wings
I soared high above
Traversing the skies
I couldn’t forget though
The deep well in the palm of his hand.

DO YOU KNOW?
Do you know why
I wrote the poem?

I was quite distracted last night
The lights had gone out
And while groping for a candle
In the dark
I accidentally struck
The photo-frame hanging on the wall
It fell and broke into pieces
The lone picture of my mother was torn
I couldn’t sleep the whole night
Felt like a million glasses had broken within me
Like a vacant frame
I remained hanging
On the wall of my existence
And felt despite hanging
The pain of crashing down
Getting strewn
Gnaw at the core of my being
The pristine rays of early dawn
Kissed, caressed and embraced me
But failed to ignite
My frozen being
Standing listlessly by the window
I could sense the ebb and flow of life
But couldn’t make
The pigeons perched on my own branches
Fly
So, I felt desperate
And wrote the poem.

JOURNEY AND THE  STAR 
Life was at its usual best
When I ascended
While walking on a straight level road
Those few steps
That took me through breath route
To the heavens

There I met the brilliant star
That had nurtured for years and years
In its radiant lap
A million expressions

It took hold of my hand
Carried me to the first rung of its being
And taking out
From its rich stock of expressions
The expression of the origin
Handed it over to me
In the record book of my eyes
I copied the image of the expression

Innumerable are the rungs
Immeasurable is my desire
To progress to sublimity
The record book of my eyes
Is gradually turning into a holy book

Until the sweep of my vision reaches its zenith
The journey should continue
That is what I wish
While the brilliant star
Promises to take me beyond heavens.

UNBAKED VESSEL
‘Love means perfection’
I reposed my total faith
In this observation of hers
And submitted
The unbaked vessel of my existence
To the raging furnace

There I came across
Not just the purifying fire
But heaps of garbage
Loads of dirt
Smoke
And stench
Keeping however
The flame of her inspiration
Alive within me
I continued to brave
The heat outside
Continued to get perfect

The furnace is quelled now
And I am
Completely perfect as well
The furnace will be opened
And I will be taken out
‘A fully baked vessel’
That could be immersed
In any kind of water


I crave so eagerly to be held
By her radiant hands
And get dipped
In the river.
WHISPER
This time round
The voice that travelled all the way
From the valley of voices
And entered my bedroom
Turned out to be
A mere whisper


It took me a little while to wake up
But once awake
I didn’t feel like relapsing
Into dreamland

For the first time ever
I sensed
That a whisper is the ultimate voice

This low-pitched sound
Didn’t strike against me
Nor did I need to get strewn
It walked in calmly
And at a little distance from me
Played peacefully

Paying obeisance at the shrine of my soul
I realized
That the ultimate voice
Is not meant to be heard
But imbibed


Moving forward
I caught hold of this low-playing whisper
And there I found
An unending odyssey of whispers
I plunged into it
My whole being was cleansed

Having traversed the entire length
Of the world of whispers
I now crave to listen
Songs of that silence
From which I was born
To be consigned
Immediately thereafter
To this loud mad city.
LIKE A DEVOTIONAL SONG
Disturbing maze
Of a million  thoughts
And I
Lying uneasy in an easy-chair
In my decked up bedroom
Trying hard to unchain my heart
Suddenly a devotional note full of life
Travelling all the way from a hallowed shrine
Entered the room
And stood right before me
In all its divine glory

I hadn’t seen a note before
That too in pitch dark
The note caressed me
And made me sense its being
I wrapped my whole form
In its magic
My heart was unchained and the maze of thoughts
Resolved
That day in my pitch dark room
I found many lyrical lamps light up
In their cool glow
I peered into the eyes of the note
My heart began to spin
Amid the radiance
That burst forth from its eyes
And some sublime expressions were born
Within me
My age-old reticence was gone
In a moment
I submitted myself to the note

Now I get rendered
Like a devotional song.

FIELDS & POEMS
O friend
I am glad to hear
That my fields are still filled
With the odour of my sweat
After so long do I feel blessed
To get the aroma of my own soil

O friend
I still prefer
Cultivating poems on paper
To growing crop in fields
My poems have been accorded
The majesty of sun’s rays
In the form of cool, moist beads
Which is why
Every word in my poems
Has a saintly halo about it
And so
I am as passionate about my poems
As I am about the crops in my fields

O friend
I want to be a poem
Like one of my own poems
So that
The majesty of sun’s rays
Gets imbibed in me
In the form of cool moist beads
And I achieve
A meaning, a purpose
Like the crop in my fields

O friend
Tell my fields
To pray for me.

EFFULGENT MOMENT
Time holds in its kitty
A few such moments as well
Which have suns bathing
In the oceans of their hearts
Time always hides in its kitty
Such moments
From public view
One way or the other
Such moments are averse too
To open display of the ultimate truth

When the tick tock of the clock
That holds time in its snare
Finds place in a heart
Time fishes out one such effulgent moment
From its kitty

The effulgent moment
Strikes a chord within the heart
Somewhere at the back of the tick tock
Doors open wide
And the heart becomes an ocean
This effulgent moment
Grants a dash of its brilliance
To the eyes of the heart
The eyes travel out
From the open doors
At the back of the Tick-tock
Into the silent realm
Where time keeps moving
In spite of being static
And remains static despite being in movement
Where eyes see everything
Yet cannot see anything
Where all differences and distances vanish

That is where
The effulgent moment
Inspires sunrise
In the ocean of eyes of the heart
Time immediately conceals this heart
In its kitty.
JOURNEY OF THE RAINBOW-1
Carrying in my heart
The passion of the journey of seasons
I had set about to analyze
All light and deep hues
Gathered in course of the journey
When whiffs of cool air
Adorned the being of my consciousness
With wings
Crafted out of sun’s rays
And I
Suffused with radiance
Embarked on a journey through the world of colours


I traversed
All seven colours of the rainbow
In each one of its colours
I found thousands of rainbows
Having in each one of their colours
Thousands of rainbows yet again
On my return from the journey
I had metamorphosed
Into a rainbow
Carrying in my heart
The passion of the journey of colours
As I counted the seasons gone by
You undertook a journey
Within me
And become a rainbow
Like me
Some day someone else will
Undertake a journey
Within you
And so on
Until the day
When we all would embark on a journey
To the heaven’s eye
As a huge caravan of rainbows.
JOURNEY OF THE RAINBOW-2
That day
The wind showered fragrance
In all lanes and bye- lanes of the milieu
And then
The star descended
From its celestial abode
With an urn filled with the offer of prayers
And became a guest
Of the milieu
All hues of its being were spread
Here and there



All lanes and bye- lanes of vision on earth
Where the wind had showered fragrance
Were not just able to observe
Different hues of the star
But have them as well


The dreams and aspirations
That were painted in these hues
Were given a generous sprinkling of acceptance
By the star
From its urn

Every eye teeming with fragrance
Boasts a small rainbow.

FRAGRANCE
The day
Gates of my mind
Opened up for me
I could feel
For the first time ever
The fragrance of sensibilities
Later
When I embarked on you holy trail
I could feel
The fragrance of journey
For the first time ever
On my return from the saint’s shrine
I saw
A halo of fragrance over my head
And when I burnt
The incense of my being
In the name of the ultimate truth
I tasted fragrance
For the first time ever
And felt
That the zest of fragrance
Is simply matchless
At each step of the ladder of zest
I found
Choicest fragrances etched
 In the language of the mind
The smoke that wafts across
From the burning incense of mind
Heralds fragrances
In the language of silence
I listen
And then feel
The fragrance of silence.

VIJDAAN
In the thread of this craving
I arranged
Moments of high intellect
That resembled
Gusts of freshness from a rich, green forest
And wore the garland
In a moment
My spirit touched its zenith
I found
In this state
The reward of every broken bond
Unqualified by the specious dictates
Of mental grasp
A worldful of look was cast on me
And I became free
From the evil influence
Of antiquated seasons
An array of cool lamps lit up
And I was bathed
In a worldful of brilliance
Choicest roses blossomed in my being
Wearing their fragrance
I am reaching out now
Slowly and steadily
As fragrance itself.



How I craved
To break free of my fetters
To move in gay abandon
With unmindful winds
And thus bid adieu
To the cross ways
Of the antiquated season within
When suddenly
Some moments of high intellect
Appeared in my sealed room
Like gusts of freshness
From a rich, green forest
And I
Breathed in
A wholesome breath
After so long

One wholesome breath
Is enough for a lifetime
But after one wholesome breath
I craved for another breath
For yet another lifetime.

ROSE
Rosy mornings are the loved one’s moments
Rosy evenings are the tale of rendezvous
Rose is the warm cheek, the hot lip
Rose is the moon abode, the nights grin     
Rosy countenance plays
Confidant to the cynosure
Rose kindles pass an in the vale of solitude
Rose of the fragrance of seasons gone by
Rose is the hope of moments fleeting by
Rose will bring to me
The aroma of rendezvous
From that fragrant robe
And stoke the desire of my eager eye
For a rendezvous soon
While I share with the heavens above
My cherished thought for the meeting born
Luscious youth would sway night and day
Dreams of virgin love would be happy and gay
The first rose would blossom
On the branch today

Reflections

Extracts from a few reviews of Vimal’s poetry


“ I read a few of Vimal’s poems and met  the lost ascetic of Abhinav Gupta’s times who carried with him a pot full of nectar of self-containment. I sang a few of his verses and an illuminating path took me to the land of intoxicating tunes. I danced with them…”
                              
                                     Amrita Pritam, the Indian Punjabi poet of international fame.
               
 “Vimal’s poems are thought-provoking……..It is the saga of our age…….These poems have universal appeal…………”
                               
                                   Dr Jamsheed M Danish, a Canada-based literary commentator.

“Satish’s poems are the poems of all times. These poems establish my conviction that modern India has more literary freshness than many others. These poems lead us to a very fertile poetic genius.”
                                 Patricia M, the American poet and critic.

I read English translation of Vimal’s poems and felt the taste of the original. I found very powerful pieces of creative symbolism. Many of his poems have the potential to remain valid and meaningful in future also.”
                                
                               Prof Shrikanth Pillai, literary critic and translator.

“Vimal’s The Road is a very impressive philosophical piece with poetic freshness and virginity of expression. The poem carries a hidden lyricism throughout that ornaments the blank verse.”
                               
                 Jayant Mahapatra, the veteran Indian English poet and critic on the poem The Road.