[Pash was a radical Panjabi poet whose actual name was Avtar Singh Sandhu. He was born in Talwandi Salem, a village near Jalandhar, in 1950. He was, of course, arrested on various charges and imprisoned for two years. He edited a magazine named, Siarh (The Plowline). In 1988 he was assassinated by Khalistani militants.]
❈ ❈ ❈
The Most Dangerous Thing in the World is the Death of Our Dreams
The most dangerous thing in the world
is not the theft of your labour
the most dangerous thing in the world
is not torture by the police
To be caught in the coils of betrayal and greed
is not the most dangerous thing in the world
to be arrested without a crime
is certainly terrible
to shrink into a fearful silence
is certainly terrible
but not the most dangerous thing in the world
To remain silent in the face of widespread corruption
is certainly bad
to read by the light of fireflies
is certainly bad
to sit with clenched fists and let time go by
is certainly bad
but not the most dangerous thing in the world
The most dangerous thing in the world
is to become numb like a corpse
to accept everything
and not feel the suffering
The most dangerous thing in the world
is to leave home for work
and return home from work
The most dangerous thing in the world
is the death of our dreams
The most dangerous thing in the world
is when the eye does not see
the dull routines of time
The most dangerous thing in the world
is when the eyes trapped by
the shabby routines of the day
forget to look upon the world with love
The most dangerous song in the world
is sung like a sorrowful marsia
with the swagger of goons
before the doors of terrified people
The most dangerous moonlight
shines over desolate courtyards
after every murder and
does not sting your eyes like red chillies
The most dangerous night under the sky
fills life with hooting owls and howling wolves
and shuts the doors and windows of the soul
in everlasting darkness
❈ ❈ ❈
Grass
I am grass
I grow wherever
you are
whatever you do.
Bomb a university
turn a hostel
into a heap
of rubble
break the roof
of our huts
over our heads
but what’ll you do with me
I am grass
I grow on anything
and everything.
Destroy Banga
erase Sangrur
reduce Ludhiana to dust
but green blades of grass
will continue to grow
and after two years … ten years
passengers will once again ask the conductor
‘What is this place?
Drop me at Barnala
where dense grass grows.’
I am grass
I will do my work
I will always grow
wherever you are
whatever you do.
❈ ❈ ❈
Our Blood Is in the Habit of Celebrating Life
Undisturbed by all seasons or occasions
mocking even all the songs of gallows
our blood is in the habit
of celebrating life
Even when words are bruised
as they flow over rocks
our blood is in the habit
of singing
Who makes the pain of cold winter bearable?
Whose hands give comfort in ruthless times?
Our blood is in the habit
of caressing the flow of days
and breaching the walls of time
This celebration
this song is enough –
enough for those
who till yesterday
were swimming
in the silent river our blood
our blood is in the habit
of celebrating life.
❈ ❈ ❈
(Translated by: Alok Bhalla, noted critic, translator, editor and poet, who retired as Professor of literature from the Central University of English and Foreign Languages, Hyderabad, India. Courtesy: The Beacon, a web-based only feature magazine of writing and reading that believes in confluences more than in consensus.)
