{"id":4182,"date":"2020-03-20T16:03:30","date_gmt":"2020-03-20T10:33:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/?p=4182"},"modified":"2020-03-20T16:03:30","modified_gmt":"2020-03-20T10:33:30","slug":"indu-kilam-tethered-to-roots","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/editors-take\/indu-kilam-tethered-to-roots\/","title":{"rendered":"Indu Kilam: Tethered To Roots"},"content":{"rendered":"<\/fb:like>\n

Indu Kilam Waxes Lyrical<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tethered To The Roots  <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

By <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Z.G. Muhammad <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

It was\nperhaps the twentieth day of the lockdown. I had lost count of dates and days,\nsitting in my small ten by twelve feet study, like my ancestors the pit dwellers,\nI had no idea about the world outside. Dead landlines and lifeless cell phones\nhad gathered dust as thick as scum on the stinking pond in the heart of the city,\nonce a turquoise spring-fed waterbody gasping for breaths. I had no idea what\nwas happening next door. I had no news about my friends Dr Ahad and Dr Javid, living\njust across the stream, at a distance of three minutes crows\u2019 flight from my\nhome. My friend Hamid, a retired police officer, had sent his PSO, on his bike\nto know about my welfare. And if my stock of insulin and life-saving drugs had\nnot exhausted, but I had no news about my elder brother also dependent on life-saving\ndrugs just at a distance of five kilometres. I had no information about my\nother siblings. It was only after   \u2018donkeys\u2019 days\u2019 when mobile communication\nshutdown had got partially restored; I heard their voice. The excitement was no\nless than that in NASA when it establishes its contact with a lost spaceship –\nsomething one sees in the Hollywood films. It was on this day, a bicycle\nstarted ringing at the gate of my house, and it was after weeks a guest was at\nthe door, it was none other than my classmate and friend Mohammad Maqbool Bhat,\nliving at fifteen minutes\u2019 walk from my home. My heart thumped, if everything\nwas okay; what makes him pedal on the deserted and desolate streets and make it\nto our colony fenced on all entry points by razor wires with ever alert men in\nolive green guarding them. A stainless steel milk pot told the story: milk\npowder of his grandson had exhausted, and he wants to buy fresh cow milk from a\nsmall dairy in our neighbourhood. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

  • \"\"
    Poet and Writer<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/li><\/ul>\n\n\n\n

    In a\ndesert of despair of isolation, seeing an old friend always bursting with\nlaughers and filling the air with guffaws was no less than realizing an\nEldorado that too with a good tiding. In a weird atmosphere as intense as in\nthe city of \u2018C\u2019,   in Jesse Ball\u2019s 2010 novel \u2018The Curfew\u2019; in\nwhich  William, a violinist who has been\nforbidden along with the rest of the country to play music lives under\nperpetual fear with his mute daughter Maqbool had come with a rare gift. A\nrecently published collection of poems, \u2018New Gods\u2019 by an old friend and\nclassmate, Indu Kilam. Maqbool had received \u201cNew Gods\u2019 on   August\n4, 2019, some ten hours before the mid-night lockdown proclamation from the lap\nof Zabarwan hillock.  During the dreadful\ndays that followed the declaration \u2018New Gods\u2019 might have taken avatar of Elpis-\na metaphor for hope for my friends; as all poetry of protest, resistance and\nempowerment have been for me. The collection comprises over one hundred and sixty\npoems spreading over one hundred and sixty-six pages. Aditya Publishing House,\nKolkata have published it.  It opens with\nthe quote, \u201cTheir relationship consisted in discussing if it existed\u201d, from a\ncontemporary poet Thom Gunn (August 29 1929 \u2013 April 25 2004) known for his\n\u2018enjoying the bohemian lifestyle\u2019 He considered as one of the important poets\nof America. I have not read the poet, and my knowledge about him is\n\u201cWikipedic\u201d, and a couple of newspaper articles so cannot say what inspired the\npoet to start her work with a quote from him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

     I must say with all frankness in a disparaging\nstifling atmosphere; almost every poem enabled me to work off my feelings- the\ncollection is cathartic.  The very first\npoem \u2018Guests\u2019 loudly speaks about the spiritual void inside and loss of the\nroots that torments the poet.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Yes, the lane was the same,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    but there was no presence of the <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    naked fakir on the pavement,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    looking at nothing<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    and occasionally crying Allah-hu.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I saw a uniformed shadow, <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    peering through a bunker.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Had my fakir exchanged places with him<\/em>?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I don\u2019t\nsee any symbols, similes or metaphors used in the poem but only a painful experience\narticulated by the poet on a revisit to her native land. An experience of all the\nnatives wedded to the centuries-old mystical past and ethos of the land. That\neven gusty winds have failed to erase. There would rarely be some in our generation\nand generation before who may not have his experiences of mystics, fakirs,\ndervishes, mutoos, saints and majzoobs. The names like Nanda Mutoo-Pandit Nanda\nLal Mastana of Nonar, Lassa Bab of Nowhatta, Sultan Saib of Budsgam, Ahad Saib\nSopore are etched in our memory.  Many\nother unnamed fakirs lived in shacks on the roadsides and blessed the\npassers-by – and with the increase of boots on the roads their abodes made of old\ngunny bags have disappeared. Indu has beautifully versified this experience. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I would\nleave the literary qualities and failings to the critics of English literature\nto judge\u2018. Nevertheless, as a reader, I believe \u2018bursting the bonds of stanzaic\nform, and metric pattern has enabled the poet to express her feelings, emotions\nand thoughts with clarity. That makes the poetry of protests and resistance communicative\nand gives it sinews to expose grim truths and raise consciousness. \u2018Shut\nWindow\u2019 is one of the many poems that bring out collective pain of Kashmir, and\nexposes the dark truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u201cHas an evil eye cast its dark gloom<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    on this once beautiful city? <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Where are the joyous songs, <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    ————————<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Why don\u2019t the temple bells ring anymore?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I have come to the wrong place.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My land was full of colour,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Were we sang together<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    the songs of love and peace.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    This can\u2019t be my home.\u2019 <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    The\nprotest is embedded deeply in the bosom of the poet, like all other poets of\nprotest  she has many questions \u2013 with a\nquiver full of questions,  she speaks\ntruth to power:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u2018amidst darkness a few women<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Huddled together,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    talking in whispers,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    and the occasional soft.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u2026\u2026..<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I dare to ask:<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Why do I see only old?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Where are the young?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    What do the old do?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Where are the blooming roses?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Why this Iris?#<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Besides\nspeaking truth to power, she  questions\nthe society in the poem \u201cTraders\u201d for its apathy towards its fellow citizens:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Her wails for her lost Adonis<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    makes her life speechless.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Can we put to price her tears, <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u2026. Yes, there are traders,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    trading in misery and tears.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    The pain\nof mothers losing their blooming children to the strife is most agonizing to\nthe poet; it soaks most of the collection in tears. And there is a deep urge in\nthe poet to see an end to young dying and wailing mothers nursing a life long\npain.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u201cEach day I see young children laid <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    into muddy graves.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I see mother\u2019s wailing.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I see the bowing sun,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    redden sky in shame.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My leaves fall on the graves.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    The unbloomed flowers question:<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Isn\u2019t there an alternative?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    In\nMotherhood, she feels earth is shivering on hearing agonizing cries of mothers\non seeing their children buried in graves and put on pyres. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Going\nthrough \u2018New Gods\u2019, reading poem after, couplets after couplets of Agha Shahid\nresonated in my mind, shivering me down the spine: <\/p>\n\n\n\n

                              From windows, we hear<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    We hear grieving mothers, and snow begins to\nfall on us, like ash.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Someone\nhas said it and said it rightly, \u2018an unshakable sense of identity is life\u2019s\nmost prized possession\u2019. And the loss of identity is psychologically\ndevastating, emotionally disturbing and politically catastrophic. It bruises\nyour pride when someone alien to your culture, tradition, ethos and history asks\nyou for an Identity proof. Getting uprooted from one\u2019s native land whatever the\nreason as Edward Said says, \u201cis strangely compelling to think about but\nterrible to experience. It is the unhealable rift forced between a human being\nand a native place, between the self and its true home: its essential sadness\ncan never be surmounted.\u201d Of course, there could be nothing more painful than\nrootlessness and loss of identity to Indu, a poet tethered to her roots,\nculture and ethos. And she articulates her \u2018crippling sorrow of\nestrangement\u2019   in her poem \u2018speechless\u2019.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u201cLooking at me, an unknown old man asks: <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Who are you?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Wherefrom are you?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    What is your mother tongue?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    What do you eat?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I want to answer.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I have books of my six years old history.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    But alas! I fumble.\u2019 <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    It\nreminded me of   ID Card\u201d a poem by one of the most exceptional\nresistance   Palestine poet  Mahmoud Darwish:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Write down:<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I am an Arab,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    A name without a title,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Patient in a country where everything<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Lives on flared-up anger.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My roots\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Took firm hold before the birth of time,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Before the beginning of the ages,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Before the cypress and olives,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Before the growth of pastures.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My father\u2026of the people of the plow,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Not of noble masters.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My grandfather, a peasant<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Of no prominent lineage,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Taught me the pride of self before reading of\nbooks.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My house is a watchman\u2019s hut<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Of sticks and reed.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Does my status satisfy you?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I am a name without a title<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

    In Indu\u2019s\ncollection, there are poems where she has rendezvous with her soul, and there\nare poems where she sounds like John Donne in dealing with death. During the\nlockdown days, while I drew some strength from reading Faiz louder and louder,\nI also found some solace in reading my classmate and friend. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

    #Muslim\nin Kashmir traditionally plant blue and white Irises on the graves.<\/p>\n<\/fb:like><\/span>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    Indu Kilam Waxes Lyrical<\/p>\n

    Tethered To The Roots  <\/p>\n

    By <\/p>\n

    Z.G. Muhammad <\/p>\n

    It was
    \nperhaps the twentieth day of the lockdown. I had lost count of dates and days,
    \nsitting in my small ten by twelve feet study, like my ancestors the pit dwellers,
    \nI had no idea about the world outside. Dead landlines and lifeless cell phones
    \nhad gathered dust as thick as scum on the stinking pond in the heart of the city,
    \nonce a turquoise spring-fed waterbody gasping for breaths. I had no idea what
    \nwas happening next door. I had no news about my friends Dr Ahad and Dr Javid, living
    \njust across the stream, at a distance of three minutes crows\u2019 flight from my
    \nhome. My friend Hamid, a retired police officer, had sent his PSO, on his bike
    \nto know about my welfare. And if my stock of insulin and life-saving drugs had
    \nnot exhausted, but I had no news about my elder brother also dependent …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4183,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[3,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4182","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-editors-take","category-kashmir-talk"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4182"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4182"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4182\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4184,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4182\/revisions\/4184"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4183"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4182"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4182"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/peacewatchkashmir.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4182"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}