Paa, Papi And Poetry

How do you connect the three

Paa and 3 Idiots figured among the must-see Bollywood movies – which I heard from my children, and our cable walla aired them late night. The movies proved what a good team –comprising story writer, script writer, director, makeup man, song writer and actors, can do. If allowed to opine let me tell you, those youngsters and elders, who can hum I want to grow up once again, throughout life; will find viewing of the two together beneficial. All is well  is a good mantra, especially in drowning  shrieks of tense times, though at times sab theek hai call -of jail watchman; used sarcastically in a movie (I can’t recollect its name presently) of my teenage days after hangman does his job, sends shivers down ones spine because all is not with my valley-people.
 

Story of Phontsok Wangdos and Chhoto Rancho focuses on the education system and 90% students who flock the coaching capital of our valley yet fail to gain employment or good things of worth will relate better to 3 Idiots & so will their parents and teachers. Today I will not dwell on it but on Paa, alone.

Amithbh Bachchan as Auro

It was great viewing; watching AB doing the role of the 13 year old the child, budha- bacha, named Auro- born out of wedlock and AB that of the father who sired him. Very existence of the child had been kept a guarded secret by the unwed gynecologist mother (mama/ ma) because soon after conception he had asked her to get it aborted; parliament was his ambitious goal. The child was afflicted with premature-aging; a genetic disorder that helpless mother had to coup with, besides the sufferer. In school the word bastard; when uttered by mates, made Auro faint and subsequent heart attack took his life, though the mast girl- turned into a courageous mother and the hero-inwardly coward ever surrounded by personal body guards, do confess in the reality show/ face the truth situation of life and undertake half-circle pheras while Auro is about to die and grandmother- bum instead of badi ma, recites the shaadi ka mantra.

In this fast track world, relationship is a casualty and learning lessons in a hard way may be illustrating the dictum- recompense for the wrongs committed, proportionately but since I am not standing on any pulpit for doling sermons of a particular group, I haven’t started this write up for talking about extramarital relations. Whether the child is 50% unwanted – Auro or 100% dream-kids with more familiar names like Armaan & Tammana it makes in real sense no difference, because the institution of marriage has a social dimension that has been nurtured since centuries-even when viewed as a contract, essentially between two individuals. Violation is not tolerated by conditioned people, even by those couples who wouldn’t wish to see each other’s face in next Jannum & agree that all relations are based on some sort of comprise. Greeks floated the concept of a different type of commune and people like Osho tried to experiment on different lines but nothing succeeded in reality. West is more liberal, of course, but is it an ideal situation? What price do these stray individuals pay? As of present the word sin haunts them and the bye-product of such dalliance swoons on hearing the word 'bastard'. Label matters, though in essence a child is a child- a Hindu or a Muslim, boy or a girl, gifted with right package of genes or otherwise. Owning the ‘mistake’ may be the first step but life and the harsh circumstances & social set up around derive its pound of flesh. Not many years have passed since we heard of the genomics, creating animals-Dolly the sheep? Had Einstein and his lady friend been lucky enough to be born at a point of time where the possibility of inheriting good looks of flirty Ma and the Grey matter of Einstein would be 100% out, instead of the reverse that he feared, world would be richer. But till then better not to yield to temptations. Watch out.

In this context today I  present to the readers the translation of Nida Fazili’s poem titled Walid ki waffat par / On His Death, besides quoting some lines from poem Daddy written by American poetess Sylvia Plath (1932-63AD) -as these two are equally shocking and telling narratives on human relationship.
 

Sylvia wrote:

Plath

…Daddy, I have had to kill you….
..i thought every German was you
And the language obscene….
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
….I was ten when they buried you
At twenty I tried to die…
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

 

Now here goes the free translation of Nida Fazili’s nazm.

I did not come / To offer prayers on your grave
For I know / You could not die.
A liar he was who / Spread the true news of your death.

Swayed by the air / A dry leaf fell down . .
.. no that wasn’t you.

My eyes are caged / By your images.
Whatever I see / Whatever I think
That is the same world of your ignominy and fame.

Nida Fazli

Nothing has changed, anywhere.
Your hands / Breathe in my fingers.
Whenever I lift pen and paper
To write
Seated in my chair / You / I find.
The blood that fills my body
Flows / With your faltering and failures.
Your mind / Hides in my voice.

In my ailments you live
And
In my helplessness, too.

Nothing, but a liar, is he who
Wrote your name / On your grave
For there I lie / Buried / In your grave
And / You live / In me.

Come to offer Faatehaa
If ever you get time
(O’ Father).