As I listen to Ham Deḳheñge,
June 2020
Dipanjali Singh
Woh din keh jiskā wā’dah he,
Jo loḥ-i azal meñ likhā he
Jab zulm-o sitam ke koh-i girāñ
Rūi kī taraḥ uṛ jāeñge,
If on a loafing March morning you were to enter the gates of the Delhi School of Economics,
and walk further down, you’d find a mulberry tree. The ground below would be smeared
red, or blue; purple, or reddishly blue- we never could settle upon an answer. It’s strange
now, the abundance in these talks: bursting, leaving the palms sticky with sweetness.
Ham maḥkūmoñ ke pāoñ tale
Jab dhartī dhaṛ dhaṛ dhaṛkegī
Aur ahl-i ḥukam ke sar ūpar
Jab bijlī kaṛ kaṛ kaṛkegī,
Strewn all over the scene would be students and teachers in conversation, iced-tea in hand,
sitting inside the badly ventilated canteen with fish-shaped mutton cutlets and glass bottles
of Thums Up. Pasted in the corner somewhere is a flimsy sheet with a statement- some
young things will have you know they are watching. They decipher the pulse of the earth
simply; they ask you to put your ears to the ground.
Jab arz-i khudā ke kā’bah se
Sab but uṭhwāe jāeñge
Ham ahl-i safā mardūd-i ḥaram
Masnad peh biṭhāe jāeñge
Professors have begun to disappear. They have been made into sinister, threatening, seditious scribes. The tyranny of lawful desires- wronging of rights- sentries galore. When does this
end? Who knows! God knows! Those forsaken by the aegis of the mighty- only their God.
Sab tāj uchāle jāeñge
Sab takht girāe jāeñge
Bas nām rahegā allāh kā
Jo ghāeb bhī he hāzir bhī
Jo manzar bhī he nāzir bhī
They asked questions- too damn much. Just who could risk answers? Not now, not here.
A single snag and the whole edifice could crumble. Inside a classroom, a professor looks at a
group of 250 students herded inside a room with 150 chairs. The sun dips, the class
ends. The students have learnt their lessons well. And demand: a course intimidated out of
the currciculum be brought back, a torrid day thrown into relief, a movie screening, more
chairs, some risky answers.
Uṭhegā ‘an-al haq kā nā’rā
Jo maiñ bhī hūñ, aur tum bhī ho
Aur rāj karegī khalq-i khudā
Jo maiñ bhī hūñ, aur tum bhī ho
Witness, Iqbal Bano sings. Her black saree fetches fire and tyranny burns- who knows for
how long. Listen, she holds the promise like marigolds locked in the palms and breaks it
open as quietly as prayers to the river. Look how the marigolds float!
Ham deḳheñge
Lāzim he keh hum bhī dekheñge
Dipanjali Singh is currently pursuing a Master's degree in English at the University of Delhi.