Neerav Patel

( 2 December,.1950- 15 May,2019,ed.MA,PhD)  is considered one of the pioneers to launch the movement of Gujarati dalit literature, publishing the first ever dalit poetry magazine Akrosh in 1978 under the auspices of Dalit Panther of Gujarat. Followed with that, he edited a number of dalit literature magazines, namely Kalo Suraj,Sarvanam, Swaman, Aahwaan, Vaacha, all of whichare now defunct.Burning from Both Ends(1980), What Did I Do to be so Black and Blue(1987),Bahishkrit Phoolo(2006),Gujarati Dalit Kavita(Anthology Edited for  Sahiya Akademi,Delhi)and Severed Tongue Speaks Out (december 2013) are his books of dalit poetry.

If the Sudra intentionally listens for committing to memory the Veda ,

then his ears should be filled with molten lead and lac.

if the Sudra overheard the Veda or ventured to utter a word from the Veda, the king shall cut his  tongue in twain. If he has mastered the Veda, his body should be cut to pieces..

( from Manusmriti, Chapter 3,  Shloka 4 )

And what is his reason? I am a Jew! Hath not a Jew eyes?  Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections and passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble in that.

( from  ‘The Merchant of Venice’ by  William Shakespeare )

To

My  Professor Emeritus

at  Sardar Patel University, Gujarat

Dr. D.S.Mishra saheb

with immense respect

my rain

who knows,

does He feel gratified by the holy fire of the yagya

as do  some corrupt deities of heaven

or by the dance of naked virgins yoked to the plough

as do some landlords of this Earth.

but when it really rains,

they slip under the umbrella

or close the glasses of their cars quickly.

or enjoy the rainbow tamasha

floating coloured  paper-boatsin the streams.

the rain-god strikes his blessings on me

with all his vengeful might,

with thunder-storm and lightning.

like an old camel fatigued with unbearable burden,
my hut collapses.

and becoming a stream of soil
flows  into Gordhan Mukhi's farm-pond.

the pond that waters his fertile farms.

the Megh-god of rains has become mad :

my Kaniyo has gone to graze village cattle

at the banks of Jamuna.

my Bhani is washing her petticoat in the Bhadarva stream,
draping in turn the sari she got as gift

from a high-caste corpse.  

i remember and take solace in the children story :

the God made the pigeon pluck a peepal leaf

to rescue the drowning ant.

i too had faith that they would come
as they had come to welcome the rain-god,

as they had come,

with food packets and water bottles,

to save their caste brethren from floods.

but they were praying the rain god for more and more:

our charmkunds,the tanning-pits overflowed

with their yajnakunds, the  holy fire-pits

they hoarded  the harvest to their heart's content
in their rivers and lakes.

some one filled  his water-parks

some one his 14th floor swimming pool  

some one filled his fishponds full

some one watered his paddy fields

someone sold filling Him in water-pouches

who knows

in whose field my part of God is raining

who knows

who is harvesting my part of crops

who knows

whether the clouds had burst upon the trees

that i had planted
or to water the fistful of grains

i had scattered in the hope to fight the famine  

who knows?

the cycle of time

many were oppressed in the country

where the holy Ganges flow :
rushi Shambuk was slain by the king,
abodes of Allah and Ishwar were demolished,

Sita was put on fire, 

Shoorparnakha was be-nosed 

Shyam thought:

let me run away to the desolate banks of the swallowed Saraswati

and immerse in the studies till i turn into Valmiki's anthill !

with bamboo-bin and broom in her hands,

mother took him to their donkey- seated deity Shitalama.

‘blessedbe my son, what do you want?
shall i give you trishool diksha( trident-degree) 
or talwar-diksha ( sword -degree) ? '

'no, mother goddess', said mother,

'give him instead kalam-diksha( pen diploma) ,

he will help himself and others too. '

Shyam learned ABCD of his dialect

under the umbrella-dome

of kshatriyani sati Roopkunvar's tomb,

playfully dragging like toy-cart

the dead dog or cat at times,

enjoying the cocktail supper of leftovers mother begged.

small Shyam passes through the Rajmarg

with mother carrying on her head the nightsoil basket

and the Jodhpur king's entourage Gajrajsinh take it as omen

‘mother, why all spit on us, howl at us here and there?’

‘keep mum, my son, we are untouchable Bhangis, that is why’  

Shyam, lost in thought, asked himself in anger:

' shall i take kirpan-diksha (dagger diploma) or kalam-diksha ?'

and the student Shyam wrote a petition on his brethren's behalf :

1. every Valmiki sweeper will be given

one Anna per day per person and two fresh rotis

2. no unpaid forced labour for any work

other than sweeping and scavenging, extra wages to be given

3. no night-soil on head a wheel-cart must be given to carry the excreta

but Lord Manu's statue

planted in the precincts of the Rajasthan high court,

was chuckling at the Ambedkar law 

and scoffing at the blind-folded goddess of justice.

but unlike Ekalavya,

Shyam aimed only at Dronacharya's head,

and a scholar extra ordinary, became a don with doctorate .

and came 29 February, 1996
the most auspicious day in the life of all untouchable Valmikis !

Shyam remembered the day
when black Olympian Jesse Owens wore 4 glittering gold medals 

and crestfallen Hitler ran away, with his tail between his legs

with droppings of crows and kites,

the Manu statue was looking downcast :

a Valmiki had become Vice-Chancellor

and the Jodhpur king was waiting with the garland at his fort palace.

one Chamar girl has become Chief Minister of an Indian state,

one dalit diplomat is President of whole of Bharatdesh,
once called Aryavart !

the time has taken full circle. 

( poem inspired by a real life story of Prof Shyamlal )