Villagers protesting against the construction of the Koel Karo Dam in Ranchi in 2001 Villagers protesting against the construction of the Koel Karo Dam in Ranchi in 2001 An Introduction

I don’t know politics but I know the namesOf those in power, and can repeat them likeDays of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.I am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,I speak three languages, write inTwo, dream in one.Don’t write in English, they said, English isNot your mother-tongue. Why not leaveMe alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,Every one of you? Why not let me speak inAny language I like? The language I speak,Becomes mine, its distortionsqueen777, its queernessesAll mine, mine alone.It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,It is as human as I am human, don’tYou see? It voices my joys, my longings, myHopes, and it is useful to me as cawingIs to crows or roaring to the lions, itIs human speech, the speech of the mind that isHere and not there, a mind that sees and hears andIs aware. Not the deaf, blind speechOf trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or theIncoherent mutterings of the blazingFuneral pyre. I was child, and later theyTold me I grew, for I became tall, my limbsSwelled and one or two places sprouted hair.When I asked for love, not knowing what else to askFor, he drew a youth of sixteen into theBedroom and closed the door, He did not beat meBut my sad woman-body felt so beaten.The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.I shrank Pitifully.Then … I wore a shirt and myBrother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignoredMy womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girlBe wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sitOn walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, betterStill, be Madhavikutty. It is time toChoose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.Don’t play at schizophrenia or be aNympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud whenJilted in love … I met a man, loved him. CallHim not by any name, he is every manWho wants. a woman, just as I am everyWoman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry hasteOf rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tirelessWaiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself IIn this world, he is tightly packed like theSword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonelyDrinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,It is I who laugh, it is I who make loveAnd then, feel shame, it is I who lie dyingWith a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,I am saint. I am the beloved and theBetrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, noAches which are not yours. I too call myself I.

Kamala Das, Kerala

(Born in Kerala on March 31, 1934, Kamala Das was an influential Indian poet. Das commenced her literary journey with her poetry collection, Summer in Calcutta, in 1965. Her poetry was deeply personal, exploring desire and the complexities of womanhood. Fearlessly confronting societal taboos, she explored sensuality and relationships with raw honesty.)

Mol (Worth)

He glared at me and said:You two-pence whore!I stared back at him sharplyDidn’t utter a wordJust weighed his worth with my gazeIn my eyesHe wasn’t even worthA single penny.

—Translated from Hindi by Nikhil Pandhi

मोल 

उसने मुझे घूरा और कहा:दो टके की औरत।  मैंने उसे गौर से देखा कुछ न बोला बस आँखों से तोला मेरी नज़र में वो टके का भी न रहा।  

Poonam Tushamad, Delhi

(Poonam Tushamad is a Dalit feminist writerqueen777, poet, academic and activist who is the author of several publications, including Madari (2019) and Hindi Dalit Sahitya Mein Jantantrik Mulya: Ek Adhyayan (2022).)

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