Go, fetch water from the river!'
She commanded,
But you resolutely rowed the ferry
Further downstream.
The pot balanced carefully on your head
You returned, to your mother in-law screaming,
Accusing you of infidelity;
Then she hit you with a stick.
The pot broke,
The weeping waters fell to your feet,
Turning riverwards;
But your poetry is where the water
Still flows, Lal Ded.
Naked, you wandered,
Searching and searching,
Discarding all codes;
While we armed ourselves
With yet another ode.
Embarassed, a merchant offered you
Two bales of cloth
To cover your naked body.
You carried one on each shoulder;
For every barb, you twisted a knot,
For praise, you entwined another.
Returning, you asked him,
‘Which is heavier?'
With every bullet the vales of your breasts bruise,
With every savage explosion
Your thighs ravage;
I ask you O Lalla,
How much cloth do I need
To cover my own shame;
For is it not my fellow-being
With another name
That they maim?
Your Sufi spirit lives
In the rustling of Chinar trees
Whispering your name,
Rivers carry the water that
Floated from that smashed urn;
Only a poet can turn,
The gory events into peace.
That smashed urn—broken pieces—
Over which we wage war;
Staggering over barbed wire,
Interspersed with staccato fire;
It's only your deep words of love
That live on, still inspire.
You who worship at the temple of stone
To an idol set in stone,
Can you possibly atone
Your sins towards humanity?
Your words to the malevolent priest
Of authority,
Are a feast
To my ears,
Deafened over the years by
The siren of war;
O, what a charade they play
As they flay,
Your spirit,
The soul of Kashmir.
Sagari Chhabra
[An award-winning author and film-director]