Friday, August 6, 2010



A Poem of Protest

Revivifying a few Vedic motifs, detracting Pauranic Aakhyaans, questioning the verdict of Dharmashtras, enquiring into reasons of exploitation, suppression of uprising protest of masses and finally the domination of long prevailing ‘chaturyogas’, Ashok Aatreya’s ‘Innocent Anarchist’, is a poem of protest.

Belonging to the traditional family of Tantriks, Ashok remains a dissenter since beginning. He, throughout his career, has been a nomad, never settling anywhere. He, in this poem, has an independent vew of does not his tradition, family-value & virtues-

“From the day the golden egg came into existence to this day, I have seen the wheel moving singing a song ‘Charaiveti-Charaiveti’....

“……for the edification of the masses in that relentless ethical war in meaningless struggle/as the duty bound postman delivers letters/as wounded soldier embraces the motherland when falls/… …..‘‘Sorry- I was not a crusader...”…

“My youp was without any association of horse

As I did not intend to sacrifice the poor animal

In the name of Ashwamedha…”

Therefore, Ashok’s Ashvamedtha is without any horse- as he does not intend to sacrifice the poor animal for the yagya.

The panorama of grand tradition could be better visualized by a visionary poet, by dispassionately comprehending an aerial view of parched and green zones-both. The disgraceful vast stretch of poverty, ignorance and sufferings of people has transported the poet away from the pretentious world of poetry. He feels within himself -“not a ritual or a myth for them/ perhaps my angst for words was an act of infringement for them/ my ingenuity was a hoax/ call against their masquerading behavior”…..

The protest of the post-independence English poetry never proved worthy of the expectations, as poet-critic, Kunwar Narayan and Gokak have also accepted. Marxism in 50’s and 60’s had a powerful influence on world literature, its attachment with grassroots realities, on social, economic and political equality, concern for elimination of poverty and exploitation. That a common man’s anguish could be alleviated by effective political and economic action to turn socialism- the great utopian dream, into a reality….

The new Indian poetry in English, as compared to its Hindi counterpart, is not so equipped and smart enough to explore the anguish of the people around. The new poets of post independence era are in direct encounter with stark realities of life: the problems of existence,, perversion , corruption, degeneration, morbidity, insecurity, terror, bloodshed, pain ,agony mockery of idealism- the overall hypocrisy.

an Anthology of protest poetry of 1975-1977 published during Emergency, express poet’s fear of his own cowardice, his cautious sidelong glance of the tyrant; the sardonic smile of the unbowed power, but also mocking the pretension of the established. The poet of Dilip Chitre depicts the trauma of oppression, and detention in poem- ‘‘A patriot beyond question/ For all this/ You might still preferred to be a traitor/among stupid people.’’

Kamla Das –– ‘‘Tomorrow they may bind me with chains, rape me with bayonet, and hang me for my doubts….”

Or the assassination of Rajan, poet Amrit Gangar rises rapidly…

“I am Rajan/Kerala/Where is my burial/why didn’t wail with me/Kerala/when they perpetrated on me.”

In this context, some offshoots of post independence English poetry – produced such sensibilities in poets like Jayant Mahapatra, Nissim Ezekeil , Nag Bhushan Patnayak, Keshav Malik etc.

Thus the post Independence English poetry could advance only a ‘half step’ forward- but after emergency- the so called English protest poetry could not pickup the required strength of apt creativity as compared to Hindi verse Poets like Nagarjun, Muktiboth, Kedarnath Singh, Rajkamal Chaudhury, Chandrakant Devtale, Shamsher Bahadur Singh, Srikant Verma and Raghuvir Sahaya are worth mentioning . The resentment of the regional poets like Malaya Rai Chaudhury, Salman Rashdi and emergence of ‘hungry and Beatnic’ generation have had a greater influence on the post independence literature.

In this context Ashok’s ‘ Innocent Anarchist’ comes out with a prolific promise in creativity, constructing the strong edifice of his own journey of protest.

We can take a note of the world map around 19th & 20th century, when the war of Independence was fought in America against the colonial rule of the British led by Abraham Lincoln & George Washington cutting down the yolk of slavery of hundred of years and establishing the rule of Democracy of native Americans, Negros and Red Indians. Freedom movements from the colonial rule were seen to take place in China and Russia under the leadership of Mao and Lenin and in both the countries the popular revolutionary communist governments were established. In the similar historical perspective India was also successful to liberate from the chains of British colonial rule by a unique way of a non-violence led by Gandhi, Tilak, Nehru and Gokhle etc.

Unfortunately with this political freedom the dreams of people were ruthlessly disowned and shattered by their political leaders.

It was strongly depicted in the poetry of Robert Frost, Walt Whitman in America and Mayakovski, Yevtushenko, Solzhenitsyn, Pasternak etc. in Soviet Russia.

In American poetry Walt Whitman wrote in ‘‘Salute and Monde”-‘‘ You ,who ever you are/You daughter or son of England/ You of the mighty Slavic tribes and Empires! Russ in Russia/ You dim descended blacks/Divine souled African/Large…in equal terms with me.”

On an another occasion Whitman writes-‘‘If I build God or Church/It shall be a church to men and women/If I write hymns they shall be all to men and women/ If I become a devotee it shall be to the men and women.” In the poem ‘‘God 1870’’ the poet squarely declares-‘‘Perfect comrade…be thou my God/The ideal man be thou my God (He might have seen that perfection in his own father.)”

But when the dreams of people are defeated and crushed, the poet’s cry rises alike -‘‘Adieu dear comrade your mission is fulfilled, but I more war like/ Myself and this contentious soul of mine still on our own campaigning bound/ Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined./Through many a sharp defeat and many a crises often baffled/Here marching ever… marching in a war fight out aye here/To fiercer, weightier battles give expression…...’’

And finally he rebels against the profiteer or the so called leader of the Democracy-‘‘I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race it becomes all mine. The utter defeat upon me weighs all lost- the foe victorious.’’

Ashok further entangles himself in speaking images-‘‘I thought about the bed of river dried …about the irregular period of my beloved/Ascendant of my horoscope afflicted in the seventh house” and somewhere Ashok dwells in greater imagery of a Yagya and sacrificed horse, sympathizing-‘‘seems all sensibilities petrified becoming urine of a frightened horse employed for Yagya, therefore he summarizes in these words-‘‘ Good if we don’t epitomize all that/ Good if we look back/Good if we remain silent spectator/

And in the list of other ‘goodies’ the poet further says-‘‘because the call is eternal/ you are in a fresh lease of life…’’

…..‘‘Where Kalam’s thinking hut is destroyed to protect the Imperial grandeur…/ The broken springboard of bicycle hanging over the red petticoat or ‘langot’ making no sense suddenly become alive and meaningful.”

Ashok, as a maverick protest poet, against the ‘feel good factor’ under the tragic situation expresses -‘‘From the point of no return/this is the only spirited moment of a maverick traveler/When the entire crowd is busy with politicians and scrubbers of Democracy/when the scriptures and constitution are used as toilet papers/…..the feel good factor becomes a pittance of a poor man.….A proxy of the people/ even a traitorous activity/The vanguard losing faith of people/”

Under his appropriate expression mixed with phantasmagoria, Ashok ‘‘glides in a jungle surrounded by clouds and hills lost in dust and darkness…by animals birds trees huts houses and hospitals in men and women…I saw such creatures never on earth…that is his Aboojhmaad.’’ Which is almost transformed…/

The poet in Ashok’s long poems intimately feels this transformation in real sense as he writes-‘‘The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosoms / But a single flower of Mahua pinned/…They come with tags of Ernesto Che and Mao on their hearts”….and so on so forth, ultimately facing the stalk reality when he concludes his poem-‘‘Oh my mother, my son my daughter my wife my comrade/ Why you all were not aware of all this/Still singing songs in admiration/Perhaps you still waiting for the judgment day/Still believing in the stories of fish incarnation/Still assured that lord Shiva would appear again to kill Andhak to bring peace on earth/The Ganges would free sons of Sagar from the curse/’’

‘‘But you believe in truth and also say truth is beyond and beyond/Can not be achieved in one stoke/…then for whom you proudly sing Jan Gan Man...Who ruin you...!” and here the curtain falls of this poem-‘‘Innocent Anarchist.’’….



f rom tthe day the golden egg, the cosmos came into existence

and changed different forms and meanings

From the day the earth was freed saved and settled

By the Boar-God

From the demon Hiranyakhsa

From the day the life and death appeared

From the day the first war was fought between good and bad

And from the day the good begot good and evil begot evil

From the day the human race emerged

From the day the dynasties of Sun and Moon began

And civilizations took roots

From the day nature itself rejoiced and revenged

The auspicious and inauspicious happened

To this day

Today I am seeing the wheel moving

Singing a song ‘ Chareiveti…chareiveti…chareiveti…’

And in the witness and commemoration

I also grounded a pole

For the ‘edification of masses’

Or in crises or in confusion or in absurdity

In that relentless ethical war or worship or meaningless struggle

As a duty bound postman delivers letters

As a wounded soldier embraces the motherland when falls

Priest sermons a psychopath suffers

A poet jewels words or a stalker captures the prey

(Sorry I didn’t know what exactly my identity was at that moment)

(But I knew it very well; I was not a pantheon or a crusader)

The pole was enough for me

A wooden pole

Called in ‘Vedic’ term a Yoop

My yoop was without any association of / with a horse

As I did not intend to sacrifice the poor animal

In the name of ‘Ashwamedh.’

My pole was hollow without any flag or insignias

But it was decorated with innumerable peacock-feathers

Representing a hill God

It was an installation in my drawing room

No act of reliquary

As the place was lonesome cut off from the masses

It only bounced my lonely heart

My mind moved in roaring success

As if some rivulet appeared on my head

But they did not feel or care as it was not a ritual or a myth

Perhaps my angst for words was an act of infringement for them

My ingenuity was a hoax-call against their masquerading behavior

I attempted in distress to meet the long lost beloved the freedom

Declaring I was still alive

Seeking poetic license to embroider a tale of hope

But to my utmost surprise and in reaction soon the world changed

From earth to sky everything was possessed by evil forces

Distorted and displaced Gods –Goddesses in bad shape

Weeping laughing dancing perspiring

Running in the smoky sky covered by bloody rains and crying clouds

Informing of the loots and blood-shed

Throwing flags and war-weapons in surrendering postures

Their heads sunk in distress



Who said it silently?

I don’t know

…Perhaps it all started with my birth

Or with the pole

Not always…some time far away

Was it again a blasphemy?

Or a blandishment

Or a point of no return

I whispered and the play began again

I was surrounded by clouds and hills

Lost in dust light darkness

By animals birds trees houses huts and hospitals

In men and women

I saw such creatures never on earth

An inner jungle opened in me

I closed all doors and windows of cunning passages and corridors of life

A new intimate flow of emotions and intellect

Changed shapes size images memories

All was like a war unending

The geography history the map and the men

The trees and rivers repeating life and its shadows

Murmuring sound of my shoes mixed with the memories of Gods

Gandhi or Godsey or a gorilla

The dead ‘mummy’ show-cased for years

‘Ramayan’ wrapped in red cloth in kabadi market

Gods goddesses leaders patriots temple mosque gurudwara church

In broken glass frame thrown out of window in dustbin

Kalam’s thinking hut destroyed to protect the imperial grandeur

Kite-flying and masturbation running together keeping in view the next door woman

House lizards and pigeons in copulation

tricolor in the hand of a child inverted

The broken spring board of bicycle hanging over the red petticoat or ‘Langoat’

Making no sense

Suddenly become alive and meaningful

In the permutation and combination of words and images

In contrast of colors and spaces

In contingency plan of poetic diction or a story yet unexplored or told

I thought about the age of my grandmother when she died

I thought about the bed of river dried

About the irregular period of my beloved

Ascendant of my horoscope afflicted in the seventh house

I thought about the palmistry and the mound of Venus and the last kiss taken illegally

On the last election day

I thought about the martyrs who gave their lives

I thought again and again about the dead wall cloak the unused Hammer

Three empty bottles of ‘Bhringaraj’ oil and the old and gold gramophone’ Choodibaja’

Left unattended for years

I also thought about the vote-bank the poor folks without any reference

Or frame-work this moment

I Often thought about the dialog between the two individuals: Whether it disturbed me in Purohitji ka katala or in Ravi-studio…whether it excited me with Banarasi baee or provoked me in the company of Tanoo maharaja or in national anthem behind the class mate right palm in the trouser connecting something privately…no clouds

The trousers please! The matter of investigation was a matter related to leisure time theory which I never wanted to understand …no please for god’s sake no words of battle anywhere any more)

I thought about the possibilities of other space or time

About the death of my father or mother or a friend or a terrorist

A godly man or a thief

Whom I should hold responsible for all that is happening?

Whom to connect or disconnect?

ALL born would one day perish

Fire burns their sins

Their attachments their commitments obligations

Until and unless they travel inwards truly

And that is perhaps the most unknown path

May be most obscured

But the only way…they again and again assure

Time is not a roller-cast they say

Time is progressive they say

Time is in circle they say

But time is not life


And my dear friend the trouble is with life

Which never fits in the heavenly attire?

Or in hellish justice

It is for paupers for nou-veau riches both

It meets at any point of time like hackers in cyber space

And in the game of life

I and you and everyone is alone

All strangely sunk

Nobody knows where

All roads eternally closed crowded webbed by murderers’ opium addicts’

Rapists politicians magicians prostitutes and poets

All in one line to be hanged their sinful act disclosed

Everyone to meet the same end

No small or big no good or bad no one in prayer or heinous act saved

If called

No mercy petition no bribe no intelligence no emotion nothing goes with it

But the bare life meaningless

To be taken and buried in the remotest reach

To be hidden and kept in unbroken lock

To be taken or not taken

To be touched or left

To be seen or unseen

To be or not to be

We may only humbly feel the gravely beautiful teeth

That death advance and embrace us all without discrimination

And when everyone is without shelter

The showy silent fleets enter the lonely chamber

And in a bustle take

All lively things away except the swollen existence

All that was hidden for years plundered

All that was epitomized in the name of name and fame in memories in love in hatred In perseverance in perversion in hic-cups of poetry art religion culture in transition

All like shattered dream of a plonker

Nobody is prepared for that game

Everyone wants one minute

But that all proves mere luxury

The soil the water the fire the air the sky the mind the intellect the ego

All pervading

As far as light

As close as darkness

And meaningless

No deity no spirit no installation no formulae no ritual

No mediation no repetition of incantation

No ceremony no language no Mudra no gesture help

All stories told and untold conveyed or not conveyed all the Navarasas

Become poor man’s dream

Giving no clues

Whatever seen heard experienced prayed thought of indicative of future

Arising out of human sensibility

Becoming urine of a frightened horse employed for ‘Yagnya’.

The passing clouds break forth acidic rain inauspicious delivery

Dogs and jackals howl to the right of the ‘Yagnya mandap’.

All temples closing the doors

Declaring death of the main priest

Widows weeping striking against the door

The journey withdrawn

Yes the vigorous fight between the good and bad

End still undecided.

Nobody can win this game by power and thought alone

Or by mercy or grace or hollow rejoice

The lid covered by gold and always in unknown hands

Surrounded by venomous snakes

Call for great sacrifice…

Good if we do not epitomize all that

Good if we look back

Good if we remain silent spectator

Good if we search anything under the Parquet

Good if we forget our follies or parodies

Good if we keep away from universal evil eye and black tongue

Good if we forget sorrows and generate cheerfulness

Good we attempt to open the golden lid

And for that let us search for Adi Ganga flowing unruffled in us

Slow even motionless

Catch hold of it

Becoming free from all baffled despair

Do you know from where it is coming?

Meditate rise and see what is above

She is all pervading

Pervading cosmos

Help help help

Fulfill the dream

Observe but in silence

All bunches of trees of ‘Tamas’ are fallen

The heavy-storm of ego is over

The darkness of hell is diffused

Plunge plunge plunge

Hear sounds of crickets

Hear sound of drum beats rumbling of dark clouds conch shell bell and flute

Touch the nucleus of energy

Feel a fountain opening

The sacred touch of stream

Washing all dirt

Sacrifice sacrifice sacrifice

Take deep dip in the purest water of divinity

And get the blissful embrace and motherly love

But for the god sake don’t be in a hurry

It’s not a call from any market Guru or lady of easy virtue

No management funda no magical solution no absurd slogan no lack lustre subject

Beware my friend of wolves in lamb’s clothing’s

At the time of mortal agony anything can happen

Hence wait wait and wait

Watch like a dog

See like a vulture

Listen like deer

Live like fish in water

Sacrifice selflessly like a moth in the fire.

The call is eternal and it is not for monkey tricks.

Feel you are in a fresh lease of life

But have ghost of a chance

And over and over again surrounded by black foxes and pimps

Seeking opportune time everywhere

Be aware you are your own enemy

Be sure you run a risk of pillage

Be aware if you are in hodgepodge situation and no Coventry to support

No doubt the situation is bitchy

Yet not out of control

Nostalgia is not over

And people are fed-up of unkind and scurrilous gossips

So sooner is better

Let’s start again

Again and again

Against the stream

From the point of no return

This is the only spirited moment of a maverick traveler

When the entire crowd is busy with politicians and scrubbers of democracy

When the scriptures and constitution are being used as toilet papers

When the masses have taken in hands guns in place of scythes

When the pen is dry or used as vibrator to arouse market-whores

When the clerics merchandising sex and power in philandering posture of religion

The saturation point the indicator the call for those has come

Who can take this journey and the challenge thrown to them

In a saunter way…striking again and again

Different heights and valleys

Like a monk revamping the old monastery

Waiting for ultimate laurels

Whispering the lines of Frost-

‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep.’

And like that of Monk’s mind

Everything seemed hopeful

Everything in good shape

Everybody seemed relieved

But this all feel-good factor

Can come to a tragic end

Can become a pittance of a poor man

A proxy of people

Even a traitorous activity

The vanguard losing faith of people

All ideals becoming vaporous

And the hero proves a Vampire bat

It is all mournful

Ordure of our expectations

Up-setting all

Such Monks often come and go

To reverse the process and progress

In the name of leaders and statesmen

In the name of freedom fighters

Unsung heroes

Product of podiums or procession or prison

Poetry or Art

There are blind followers deaf and dumb crowd

Dirty politics absorb all and after use they are thrown in dust-bin

That is nothing but the game of exorcism loved and played by power brokers

And the victims live it irresolutely

They are thrown in the streets as stray dogs or as used expiry date drugs

Such rag-tag band of party rebels or misfits or unfortunate ‘people’

Become a force of incivility and flushed through the gutters of

Floundering democracy in most heinous manner

Remember Elliot telling us-

‘this is the way the world ends…

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper…’

Whose whisper is all that

What makes you inhuman?

How suddenly some poltergeist becomes active in you

Why can’t you hear the inward inexorable words?

The solemn pronouncement of self realization

Being freed in the infinite

That your soul now seeking new clothes

Think think and think …

Think again

The time is melting in Salvador Dali’s Paintings.

It’s neither in linier nor in circular motion

Then whose time is this?

It’s yours…it’s mine…it’s everybody’s time

Melting like wax melting like life

How more cruel a spring may be?

The discovery of the Pendulum

The electric clocks

The atomic clocks

Reckoning time in naino seconds

Yet the time remains away from the reach of people

They remain backward hungry sick lost in depression

A plunderer still following the seasonal migrations of the reindeer

The tribes uproot themselves

In search of rich grasslands

Never guided by clock

But by life’s remarkable rhythms

The poor-fellows left out of extinction

When blue-eyed grass blooms

There is no regulation still

Except the clocking of nerve impulse

Of uncountable birds animals men-women

For unfathomable creatures of sea

Accept call of the Mother Nature

Oh Albert Einstein, are you still stretching and shrinking time

A paradox for everyone

When the life can roll forward and backward

Anytime like a film in minute camera or a movie

When the brown haired damsel

Comes out of the city beauty parlor

When foliage and flowers express in ingenious and decorative way

The meaning of time

When great poet Kalidas calculates people’s time in love and romance

Clouds like messengers telling tales of beloved lyrical hearts

Then think about fire

The same fire

The ever first stolen by Sisyphus from heaven for which he was cursed

Un-tiring labor toiled on him

Absurd punishment imposed

With a heavy rock on his shoulders

Ascending and descending the hill very high day and night

For his act which saved humanity

Think about fire in horse representing the creator of cosmos

Fire in fish saving entire stock of culture in a pot

Fire in stone saving civilizations till this day

Fire in cow the sacred goddess not an animal

The world around us is made up of Fire and Som the divine drink ‘wouldst thou had’

The world that weaving words through the fire in poets pen

For whom Tagore writes-

‘My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand

At the portals of my ears

Silently to listen to thine own eternal- harmony’

And most unfortunately that very fire again and again lost

From the singing and dancing shoulders of hills

Answered by the flutes

In the dark summer nights of devils world

When lives become uncomfortable and at high stake

When that divine light become pale

When the lord of the Universe known as ‘Virat purush’

Lord of legends with

Hundred heads hundred eyes hundred arms

Adores this Universe by his grand posture of only ten fingers

Leaves the place

The hills Madia Kingdom also comes to a halt suddenly

The fire clothed virgin earth doesn’t weds the Yogi

Who creates and destroys this wonderful cosmos

It’s a moon-less mid- summer night of sloppy hills and sleepy moot populace

The oldest civilization on earth with ‘woeful agony forced me also to begin the tale’

Remembering Coleridge at this juncture I politely quote:

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.’

Thank you my favorite poet

Thank you for telling the story which is Universal

I pray, for I can not but pray

As prayers sustain me

Come to my rescue O great Lord of the Universe

Let the gates of my inner temple open

Let the fire glitter in the hearts of the same people

Let the jungle wake from the dreadful sleep

Let there be light of thousands of Mashals (Torch)

Let there be tides of peacocks dancing in unison

Let’s see the come back of thousands legs ups and down in rhythm

With the beats of Drums

Let their decorated shoulder horse jump with jubilant orientation

Let the oval shaped ‘Parang’ drums in the vest- line

Dance in tune with the ‘Tirooth’.

Answered by the hills…tadak…tadak

Where all that gone with the venomous air?

The music of Bamboo like thunder bolt

And at the same time someone very close

Whispering your ear-

You also buy a drum and learn how to love.

Love in ‘Ghotul’

That paradise of lovers looking like wild Bison shaped attic

And the mystic attached to that mating point

Is again its roistering but fascinating environment

Created by imaginative presence of reptiles like snakes and alligators

Forming part of its architectural grandeur

Feathers of gorgeous bird Peacock associated with lord Krishna make the roof top

Beauty with utility is the key word of their world

And this all inviting

In the night house made of broad bones of fishes

The entrance decorated with ‘siliyari’ flowers

The floor layered by ‘urad’ pulse

‘Enjoy loving your spouse on the back of crocodile’

How exciting would it all be?

Under the shadows of tall ‘Saal ‘trees

This all is unseen and a fantasy

Angidev inviting you again in the democratic world of love

Intoxicating ‘Mahuwa’ inviting you

Select your life partner your love bird

And go deep into the forest

After formal permission from ‘Belasa’ and ‘Sirdar’

Become ‘Chelic’ and take your ‘Motiyari’ with you.

After the scorching heat the sun is setting

They all start …re…re…loyo…re…re…la…re…re…re…la

Dance is their life

The entire hill dance

Young lovers offer tobacco to each other

Boys give combs as special gifts to their beloved

And again fire plays major role in joining them

In the Ghotul courtyard they enjoy ‘Chaungi’.

The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosom

But a single flower of Mahuva pinned

Symbol of love and protection

By her bosom friend some time steal the scene

Where you lost where my dear Aboojhamaad…?

I am not a witness of the torture you have lived loathsomely

I am not a witness of the deep wounds of your centuries sufferings

And at the same time your greatness fascinates me as you live

In the profundity in your miseries

From stone - age to the age of Republic

You have lived and let live others hidden in the deep Sal-Saj and Palas forests

Culturally alive behind Vindhya mountains

I could only see you from distance alone in coiled existence

Crying helplessly and not answered by anybody

Sometime in the grave till my neck in the darkness

As light refused to reach you ever from have-not heaven

I was ruined and silent

Feeling for the moment myself Aboojhamaad

Part of Narayanpur.

I being the ‘Vahi of Angadev’

Would make my house outside the forest

Would try to understand myself in terms of their life

Would roam in hot air like a Good Samaritan

With body scratched I would cry

An angry- guerrilla jumping out of my own eyes

Part of the changing time

But every time my effort of promulgation would turn into a fiasco

My eyes my mind my ears my skin my entire body would scream

My dreams burnt death stood above life no one was to mourn

Leaving behind my caravan of hopes again and again all alone

Unfortunately ‘they’ lulled in sleep left starved people pale and worried

In spite of ‘horrid warnings gaped wide’.

And then not suddenly but slowly the world changed

‘‘They’ come with tags of Ernesto che and Mao on their hearts

Rifles on their shoulders declaring guerilla war

From tooth to nail in arms men and women

Targeting Raids and Rescue Missions Police and Peoples Enemies

A new killer ‘daring –do’ instinct replaced hunger deprivation and misery

Still everyone who had taken arm was not a communist

But killing the innocent brothers and sisters in train and buses

Exploding Rail-lines and bridges burning of farmer’s corn fields

Merciless killing robbery and rapes

Was an attempt of coward people not an act of bravery?

Not in culture of the age old free republic

And still unfortunate is the new line of reaction

Plans of so called responsible order

Combing operations thunderbolt search and cordon

The new language of new Millennium

Being spoken and understood in the porous red sand of ‘Iravati’ today

Unfortunate is the forgotten world of seven ascetic ladies

The swings of snakes ‘Lingdev’ becoming

Grandiloquent thought and fantasy

You can trace still Maria and Muria’s in Republic Day Parade in New Delhi

With Bison heads and colored pheasants feathers

Beating independence by their singing foot-steps and hollow hearts

But not in their homes

As now the people are in their peremptory exile with their own demy-god


This is only one part of the whole derelict India that is Bharat

Their ‘Incredible –India’ product of five-star op-pop silken beds

Eating drinking and believing in marry-go- round couture

Is no match to what they address cattle class.

They are the fortunate children meeting only in climax

In the so called ‘Gramvasini Bharat Mata’ show

With their unfortunate poor brothers or sisters

Or in their blogs or tweeter

Anyway one has to decide on which side of fence you stand

State or people

Have or have-nots

Exploiter or Exploited

Privileged or un-privileged

Militia or Peace Processors

The game is strange

Sometimes terror tops the ‘Agenda’ sometimes ‘Peace’

Then there are derailing strategies involving both sides and people

Tall claims made that ‘’trust deficit’’ would resolve ‘’outstanding issues’’

And like that talks… talks and talks work… work and no work

Become a process of conciliations not conclusions

From time immortal these round table tricks help in reaching no solution

Only nausea tic notions futile fracas boring boomerangs

Only sugar coated or foul- mouthed words register as chartered language

And then definitely we feel ourselves free forced to fuck the constitution judiciary

Parliament Executive Press and are declared in one word…Terrorists

My dear friend world is not that simple and good as it looks in globe

Or so beautiful from space

Things and situations are really formidable

The water is gone very deep and disappeared

The sky is wounded

The air polluted

The sun the source of all energy is sick like an old man

And we too busy in conferencing theorizing and other ‘Herculean’ tasks

Unfortunately we are not living on land but on map

Unfortunately what we call ‘it’ as constitution is but a simple scrap-book

Unfortunately what we oath as preamble is nothing but a cry of a corpse

Unfortunately what we speak or hear as our fundamental right is a cacophony

Unfortunately what we eat drink smell touch is an attempt of suicide or honor killing

Unfortunately we say we live but we exist only

We know our prayers and poems all cornered

No bliss no safety no assurance no faith no appeal no commitment no wonder

The gods’ one to all left the place or gone far away defeated or forgotten

The Rudra without herds the Lokpal without kings and knights

The Skand and Visakh without Commanders and chiefs

The Vishnu the Vasu the Indra without gods and goddesses

The Ganpati the Vishwakararma without leaders and architects of the Universe

And the deities representing all were slaughtered and raped by the swords of fanatics

You know it I know it we all know it that

Our hills have been sleeping like ‘Kumbhakarna’

Our forests encroached and looted by men and not by Demons

Our lands becoming future burial grounds of humanity

The fire extinguished

The earth becoming odorless

The water the hapless victim of exploitation

The sun inglorious the air scuffling light gods screwed-up looked real ogre

Crusading wars against ‘their’ people

And in this chaos

No place to live or to die peacefully

Oh my mother my son my daughter my wife my comrade

Why you all were not aware of all this

Still singing songs in admiration

Perhaps you still wait for the judgment day

Still believing in the stories of the fish-incarnation

Still assured that the lord Shiva would appear again to kill Andhak

To bring peace on earth

The Ganges would free sons of Sagar from the curse

The Bhagirath would come forward to take the lead

And life would revive and retreat

So like all human creatures you believe in truth

And say the truth is beyond and beyond

And cannot be achieved in one stroke

It is beyond the limbs of body and mind

Are you not innocently anarchists…?

Adoring eternal Vedas Bible or Koran

Proudly singing ‘JAN GAN MAN

After all

For whom?


Sorry…. my dear sorry…!!!

The End


Ashok Aaterya

Ashok Aatreya was born on 26th December1944, in Bikaner, in a renowned family of south Indian Andhra-Pundits. Even as a college student, he showed exemplary orientation towards literature and fine arts. As a graduation-student, he started contributing short stories and articles on art and aesthetics in almost all renowned Hindi magazines and newspapers during the sixties and 70s. Soon he established himself as an off-beat short story writer in the literary circles of contemporary Hindi literature.

Mr. Aatreya, because of his familial artistic and literary background, was naturally exposed to contemporary modern trends in Art. He not only wrote sensible criticism on the art activities of Rajasthan for years together and brought into limelight, certain significant trends and potential artists, but also developed his distinct identity as a modern artist cum-art-critic.

As a keen and research oriented cultural Anthropologist, he wrote a column called “ Kesar-Kyari” for more than 15 years on the art, architecture and the culture of Jaipur. Similarly he contributed another historical-cultural column in Daily “Rashtradoot” under the title “Shahar-Sawaya”. Both these series contain more than 2000 exclusive articles on History, Art, Architecture, places and life and people. He has also published his Art- criticism / exhibition-reviews and articles on Indian Art and articles in English in “Times of India” and “Hindustan Times Live”.

He has written a novel- “All the beautiful daughters of Mara” and a long story- “Seven Summer Nights” which are published in the e-literature in “Book-Rix, USA. Both the works are being published shortly by Divine Publications, Ahemdabad

In 1966, 1968, 1974 and 1996, he organized in Bikaner, Jaipur and Delhi his solo/ group shows of paintings done mostly in mixed media. His last show of mixed media paintings was held at a famous art gallery in Sri fort area, at New Delhi, inaugurated by well known modern artist Ms. Arpna Kaur.

Mr. Aatreya has been an active art-organizer too. With the inspiration of his internationally acclaimed artist friend, Mr. Daniel Fillod of Carol (France), he performed a miraculous feat by getting painted a 100 feet long and 12 feet wide canvas at Jaipur in 1994. This large size canvas was painted by 14 eminent Jaipur painters including Mr. Fillod and Mr. Aatreya, and unveiled by the British High Commissioner to India at Jawahar Kala Kendra, Jaipur.

He also has a long experience of working with internationally acclaimed NGOs and social-work institutions like Sewa Mandir, Udaipur, Social work and Research Center Tiloniya, and Ce-Coi DeCon, Jaipur etc.

Mr. Ashok Aatreya has also has shown his creative talent as a film Director and producer of certain art-films, focused on the life and works of renowned modern painters and poets.

Apart from making tally films on Social work institutions, Surat’s Diamond cutting industry, A film on the City of Ajmer for Television, Gujrat Cyclone tragedy followed by rehabilitation -work, he has made a full length documentary film on the most secret Shakti Puja Paddhati of present Shankaracharya of Dwarika (Gujrat).

Lately in 2007-2008, he wrote a series of 13 episodes for Doordarshan (Indian Television) tiled as “Bhartayan”- which consisted of the glimpses of History of glorious Indian Freedom Movement. This series, telecast on National network of Doordarshan has fetched him wide applaud from innumerable Indian TV viewers.

As a modern play writer he wrote, directed and produced his own installation play- “Bhookha Bhookam.....sponsered by WZCC and CZCC, at Lok Kala Mandal and Darpan Sabhagar, Udaipur.

Mr. Ashok Aatreya has had a long innings of working as creative journalist. He was associated with numerous national level newspapers and News agencies in various capabilities as the Chief sub- Editor of “Hindustan Samachar”, Editor of weekly “Akshar Bharat”, Editor of Daily Haryana Patrika, Special Correspondent and Feature Editor- Dainik Bhaskar, and regular cultural-columnist of Daily Navjyoti.

Shri Ashok Aatreya was picked up by a few international publication-houses and broadcasting agencies like “Life- Time Books”, as marketing Officer and “Voice of America” as South Asia stringer-reporter respectively.

Mr. Aatreya has published some collections of modern Hindi short stories, Mere Pita Ki Vijay, monograph Time Fiver (Sahitya Academy Rajasthan), Udaharan ke liye, Vivek Publication, Jaiur Dharti Ka Swarg, Alankar Prakashan Jaipur and a book on Tantrik Tradition of Lalita Archana, a long poem on the social and cultural tribal life of ‘Aboojhmaad’ (Prena Prakashan Jaipur and many books on adult literacy for which he was awarded by ministry of human resource development, New Delhi. Some of his novels written for children, have been awarded by Ministry of Human Resource Development, GoI.

His Permanent postal address is: D 38-39, Dev Nagar, Tonk Road, Jaipur Rajasthan India -302018 Telephone Nos. are 0141-2707555.

He’s reachable on his mobile number- +91-9828402226.

A poem of Protest

Ashok Aatreya’s “Innocent Anarchist”, is a poem of ‘protest from all fronts, revivifying the vedic motifs, detracting Pauranic Akhyans, questioning the judgment of the Dharmashtras and finally the long prevailing chaturyoga’s domination of the imperialistic rule of exploitation of the large section of people and suppression of the uprising mass protest.

Very much belonging to the traditional super-fluent sect of Tantra family Ashok remained a protester since birth. He has moved from one city to another like a nomad never settling anywhere throughout his career and did not cherish any tradition family value & virtue.

“From the day the golden egg came into existence to this day I have seen the wheel moving singing a song Charaiveti-Charaiveti..../for the edification of the masses in that relentless ethical war in meaningless struggle/as the duty bound postman delivers letters/as wounded soldier embraces the motherland when falls/… ‘‘Sorry- I was not a crusader...”.

Ashok is a maverick traveler hoping of a feel good factor but the situation is tragic-‘‘From the point of no return/this is the only spirited moment of a maverick traveler/When the entire crowd is busy with politicians and scrubbers of Democracy/when the scriptures and constitution are used as toilet papers/…..the feel good factor becomes a pittance of a poor man.’’….A proxy of the people/ even a traitorous activity/The vanguard losing faith of people/

The poet in Ashok’s long poems intimately feels this transformation in real sense as he writes-‘‘The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosoms / But a single flower of Mahua pinned/…They come with tags of Ernesto Che and Mao on their hearts”….and so on so forth, ultimately facing the stalk reality when he concludes his poem-‘‘Oh my mother, my son my daughter my wife my comrade/ Why you all were not aware of all this/Still singing songs in admiration/Perhaps you still waiting for the judgment day/Still believing in the stories of fish incarnation/Still assured that lord Shiva would appear again to kill Andhak to bring peace on earth/The Ganges would free sons of Sagar from the curse/’’.

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