Editor's Note: Naked display of dissent straddles the boundary that separates fear from revolution. For India's Dalits, this proclamation of dissent has assumed many forms, both passive and combative. It has mutated over the millennia before BR Ambedkar prodded the word Dalit into mainstream consciousness, and transformed anew since then. Some things have not changed — songs remain the sinew of Dalit protest in almost all its configurations. And the lyrics that sew these together continue to serve as a manifesto of resistance. The poems in this series, drawn from Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Bengali, Gujarati, Marathi and curated by Krupa Ge, founding editor of The Madras Mag, represent the prosody of contemporary Dalit literature. They are accompanied by Chennai artist Satwik Gade's illustrations.

Bards-of-Resistance

In this eighth edition of the column, read the poetry of Christina Thomas Dhanaraj. She is a third generation Christian Dalit woman from Bengaluru. Christina is the co-founder of the Dalit history month collective (Dalithistory.com), and a volunteer for #dalitwomenfight. She currently works as a business analyst, and holds a Master’s degree in Chemistry from the National University of Singapore.

***

The pieces I have presented here are not Dalit Poetry — if there is anything such as that. To identify as Dalit and to live through oppression does not automatically make my art any kind of a labelled commodity. I write this because I’m well aware of how our (Dalit) identities, in literature, art, and politics, have been reified; only in order to make it consumption-ready for the neoliberal elite.

When I write poetry, I bring into it my very being, my lived experiences, and my dreams. My poetry is thus simply, my poetry. This, however, does not take away the fact that my poetry is written, not only from the place of me being Dalit, but also woman, Christian, Tamizh, and others. I invite the reader to understand this nuance, without which my art cannot serve its liberatory purpose.

My pieces here primarily focus on the effect oppression (based on caste, class, and colour) has on the emotional psyche of an individual, such as myself. We seldom realise how oppressive systems play on the minds of the oppressed; how it normalises suffering and forces us to accept brutality as an inevitable feature of everyday life; how it shapes the way we express and understand love; and how it ultimately tires us out, resulting in some sort of an emotional fatigue — a resignation, if you will. The inter-generational deficit we face isn’t just about land, capital, and resources; it is also about social acceptance, and by extension, a sense of belonging in the world.

My first piece here, titled The Half Life, should not be taken in the literal sense — I do not consider myself, or anyone like me, a half-life. It is a rather sardonic take on how an avarna woman is perceived, and how often she finds herself disadvantaged when it comes to love. Although all women are expected to be just right to ensure that they don’t lose out on love; I believe avarna women, who don’t come with the privileges that savarna women do, have to operate along a behavioural band that is far narrower and far more unforgiving. Politicised avarna women are labelled as angry and militant; they may also be penalised in ways that are markedly different from that of savarna women. The rebellious-but-sexy image is reserved only to the savarna woman, who is acceptable and desirable along many other parameters (skin colour, caste, class, etc) that an avarna woman is not.

My second piece is more personal than political. I wrote this after having done something embarrassing to the one I was in love with. In the course of writing it, I realised how generously loving I am but that I can do it only with a quivering, timid heart. I like this piece very much; I believe it brings out a certain kind of quiet resilience, taking me back to a time when I thought I could never be in love again. My heart proved me wrong, like it does every time, like it does to each one of us.

Thank you for reading.

The Half-Life

Honestly?

I would give anything to leave my place.

Desert this ink, this paper,

These stray thoughts,

that come unannounced,

Like a stranger who knows you;

knows you well.

I want to run away,

shedding my sun-burnt skin on the way

hoping to run into hope,

who might consider latching onto me,

at least for little while,

until I sleep the dream away.

I foolishly wonder

how the savarna made it.

How did that girl,

with her porcelain skin,

and sophisticated nonchalance,

who belittles my very being,

is fighting for my people’s rights

on a wall that offers instant amnesty?

Maybe it’s the hate,

that gets conjured at birth.

A dark-skinned vagina.

Penurious and Avarna.

Inadequate. Disadvantaged. Unequal.

Must strive to get accepted,

should curb anger, lest you get labelled;

avoid conflict, lest you’re unfriended;

dress down, lest you’re lusted;

speak when spoken to,

lest he leaves, lest she leaves;

don’t ever, ever leave when bruised;

lest you get unloved.

Perhaps

the savarna can do all this and more,

have that streak of rebellion,

allowed by her privilege;

that turns on the men and the women,

of all varnas and colours and hues.

She can swear and still be,

She can hate and still be loved.

Unlike me,

the half-life; who lives,

but shouldn’t know what it really means to.

I Love You

I won't be all over you

not me, no

I won't be that one

writing poetry and notes

long ones, short ones

not me

I am quiet in love

deeply embarrassed

and terribly frightened

of having fallen

I will count my mistakes

like a little boy, his coins

just in time to buy his toy

just in time for you to leave

I will give you my all

hoping my all is enough

hoping my all isn't too much

I will goof up

like a little girl playing hopscotch

missing her step

falling on her face

profusely apologising

for playing, for being

but I won't play with you

not hopscotch, or hide and seek

I will only love you

like I have always wanted to

like I know nothing else

I won't shout it on the rooftop

I may not even tell a soul

but to you I hope my heart will speak

like a white lily

on a rainy day.

Copyright © 2017 Firstpost - All rights reserved