Who is Jayant?

Born October 11, 1954, Ahmedabad
Urdu poet and painter
Writes in both Urdu and Gujarati

Publications:
Aur 1999
Pencil aur Doosri Nazmein 2006
Maanind 2007

Awards:
Sahitya Akademi Award,Urdu 2008
Bhasha Bharati Samman 2006
Gujarat Urdu Sahitya Akademi Award 2001
Gujarat Urdu Sahitya Akademi Award 2006
Gujarat Urdu Sahitya Akademi Award 2008
Kumar Pashi Award 2001
Bharti Dalit Sahitya Akademi ,Madhya Pradesh 2002

Translations in English, Hindi, Punjabi, Kannada, Marathi, Bengali and Telugu
Working in a Bank, Ahmedabad

Address: 12, Shantiniketan Society, Radha Swami Road, Ranip
Ahmedabad 382480
Telephone: 079-27524234®,
Cell: 09427700736
e-mail: jynt_parmar@yahoo.co.in

Pen, Inkpot and I : Sahiya Akademi Award Acceptance Speech

At the age of flying kites in the sky, the lads of my community begin working on a tea shop or labor. I used to paint on the mud walls with coal; the coal that was also used for tooth powder. From a short distance the azaan rhythm from the mosque would dance in my veins. Off and on there were programs of Naat and quawwali in the street. The eid was celebrated with such mehfils whole night. Nasir from Jaipur would sing all night gazals after puffs of charas. The same rhythm was inscribed in my brain. I do not know what is behre ramal or behare rajaz . Every Thursday a faquir with the sound of chimta would pass singing ghazal of Mir,

‘Faqirana aaye , sadaa kar chale
Miyaan khush raho hum dua kar chale’

I had painting as a hobby from my childhood days. in Urdu titles on the movie screen and in the aayats inscribed on the mosque walls, I saw paintings. This is why after learning Urdu I am fond of calligraphy. I love black color that is like truth of the darkness.

Only the darkness is close to us,
closer to us.
even if you see with closed eyes,
one can see clearly. The darkness is closer

The hobby of canvas too, was expensive. I could get poems from junk shops. I got ‘Urdu script teacher’ from one such shop. I learnt Urdu on my own. I continue to learn Urdu even today. I began writing verse. But whether I wrote correct in Urdu script, I would know only after I got them published.
The diction of my poetry was absurd somewhere, surreal somewhere or sometimes of a language of a common man or sometimes that of abuses. This is the reason why my dalit poetry was thrown out in the editor’s waste paper basket. Though that is what I had inherited as the style of language from my surroundings.

When a sensitive human being becomes simple, a common man, poetry is born within him. Pash and Cherabanda Raju, Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou  are the ones who stepped on sharp swords. Stalin is buried within the pages of history but the locale of Anna Akhmatova’s Requiem is still alive with me. The documents that tell the world of the horrors of Nazi concentration camps are rotting in the record rooms. But Miklosh Rodniti and Dan Pagis still scream within my blood. The poetry of Namdeo Dhasal and Yashwant Manohar  fill my eyes with embers. Reading them in solitude, I keenly feel intense pain, helplessness and longing for life.

I have suffered the acid life of caste system thousands of years old. The pain of anti-reservation movement has accumulated within me and when they revealed themselves as poetry, they are not mere descriptions of events or analysis or just passing through things. They were the search for their roots, too. These memories frozen in the rib cage wanted to closely examine them, wanted to transform them.

The language is a mystique and the words are the social heritage. The words are rooted in our dreams and memories. In a poem every word speaks. Every word is a isme aazam, a Mahaamantra. The poet has the same love and bond with words that a potter has for the clay. The word that is created lives forever and becomes universe itself. The intensity is the prerequisite of poetry.  For me poetry, more than an art is the longing for life. It is a brush of life that expresses our joys and sorrows; we can see the shadow of present so intensely.

I have felt that all the similes and symbols are born from the experiences of life. I consider them part of realism only. I see, hear and feel warmth of the word; I am bored with stereotyped style of thinking and writing. In the creative moments I hear the soft sounds and growls that come in and go out, come in and go out and select them. I cannot write anything that has emerged only from the world of dreams and is far off from the truth of life. All the epics that deny existence of human beings should be thrown away in ocean. The true poetry is that which inspires and heartens human being in their struggle of life.

When I take pen
In my hand
There emerge
Black screams …
In the black ink
Perhaps
Live
Souls of black people!

Jayant Parmar

(Translated by Dr.G.K.Vankar)

In Indian Express:Adil Mansuri, Jayant Parmar: Multiple geniuses in their own right

T

Tanvir A Siddiqui
Ahmedabad, June 16

Multiple genius is a rare thing that was quite common in the past. In the case of Adil Mansuri and Jayant Parmar, this happens to be the common thread that runs through their persona; both have a high standing as poets in the literary world, but at the same time they are accomplished artists in their own right, as well.

The similarities don't end there. Both have Gujarati as their mother tongue and have earned fame in Urdu, a language alien to their families. Adil Mansuri is dexterous at home with Gujarati and Urdu when it comes to writing poetry. He is also a calligrapher par excellence, be it line drawing or oil painting. Elsewhere, Jayant Parmar, a self-taught Urdu poet, has an enviable handwriting in that script. Besides, he is also adept at playing with colours and lines, which have a charm of their own.
Mansuri, also a playwright and a US citizen for decades, is currently on a visit to India. Incidentally, he belongs to Ahmedabad and had started his career from a local advertising agency before moving to New Jersey with his family.

It was a pleasant coincidence last weekend that he released the third collection of Jayant Parmar's poetry titled 'Maanind' in Vadodara under the aegis of the 'Anjuman-e-Ashiqaan-e-Sukhan,' run by poet and academic Shakeel Qadri, who also runs a Gujarati journal 'Shaheed-e- Ghazal.'

Mansuri has been recently conferred with the Vali Award of the Gujarat government, which carries a cash prize of Rs 1 lakh and a citation. Jayant Parmar won accolades when he received the national award from the Central Institute of Indian Languages, Mysore, a body run by the HRD Ministry. He is the first Urdu writer chosen for this award in the category of those who write and excel in a language other than their mother tongue.

He has also been honoured with the Gaurav Puraskar for his contribution to Urdu poetry and the Vali Award for his contribution to Gujarati poetry. But his name has been struck off from the Gaurav Puraskar awardees bandwagon due to his radical views on the award money for the Guarav Puraskar and the vague official stand on the restoration of Vali's grave.

Adil Mansuri is of the opinion that the conferment of the Vali Award should not be restricted to Gujarati poets only as Vali was not a Gujarati poet but an Urdu poet and therefore, two awards should be announced every time: one for Gujarati poet and the other for Urdu poet simultaneously.

He says that appropriating the genius of Vali to Gujarati language is a half-truth. "He has to be mentioned as Vali Deccani-Gujarati and Urdu ghazal writers must be given their due," he says.

Amjad Ali Khan’s Sarod Recital

In the first
Brisk shower of rain
In a light drizzle,
Smiles a red rose,
A sky of mist and cloud -

Turning back
I saw
A shadow
Hunting me
And suddenly
Merging in
Its own shadow.

A rainbow
On the wall,
Whole universe frozen
In my window -

From the fingers flows
A river of shining rays,
Someone draws me
In the festival of melody.

From ‘Aur’

A window to the sky

One day
I found
A window
in the wall of darkness,
a very old window.
In a moment
it threw open to the sky.
a sea of lights
waved in my breaths,
in the courtyard of my eyes
rainbows formed.


From ‘Aur’

A Blackbird

A blackbird
Soaring
The blue skies
Imperceptibly descended down
Entered through
A secret door,
Came to my bed,
Settled on my chest,
Listening to my heartbeats
Returned to the sky.


From ‘Aur’

Temple

All the sacred rivers
Flow in my veins.
Sun
moon
stars
twinkle
in my eyes.
All the places
of pilgrimage
lie within it.
I have not yet seen
a temple
more beautiful
more radiant,
than
my body.


From ‘Aur’

M.F.Hussain

Tall
Like a cypress tree,
White beard
Like a sheet of snow
On a tree.
You spent evenings
On Bombay pavements,
Dealt in horses, made films,
Film posters sheltered you
From the scorching sun -

In your paintings
I hear
Heartbeats of colors.
Your strokes embody
Sharpness and skill.
The strokes on canvas
Has brought Hussain
to a point where
His signature
in itself
is
a painting.



From ‘Aur’

My poetry is a sharp, stabbing knife

Be it
A lane, crossroad or
A street.
Sniffing my words
Police reaches
Ahead of me
As if terrorists were to strike!
Whole lane and street are
Crowded with khaki,
My poetry is
Recorded by police.
They are afraid,
My poetry is a sharp stabbing knife.
Some day
it shall plunge
in the bosom of night!
On that day
Every page of my collection
I shall put in the hands of the wind.


From ‘Aur’

A Night in Ooty

In the river of cold winds
flow trees
fnd from trees
oozes noise.
The earth lit with fireflies,
like twinkling stars
framed in the window.
The eucalyptus trees
inscribe verses of fragrance
on the pages of dark winds.

At dawn -
a flower of sun
emerged from the mountain rock.
How silent stood the trees.
The green shawl of grass
patched with clouds.
The mirror of stream
Shattered!
A star was setting!!

From ‘Aur’

Marina Beach

As the evening sets in,
Dislodging
The burning stone of sun
From its shoulder,
Tired from the day long toil,
Releasing
colorful balloons in the sky,
Whistling,
On the Marina Beach,
for the stroll
There comes
Barefooted,
The blue sea.

From ‘Aur’

Kovalam beach- a landscape

In the distance
The blue sky
Kisses the water
Of serene sea.
On the shore,
The waves
Like the white mane of
A neighing horse.
Roar like a lion,
Frothing at mouth,
Coming close
They dig their
Long, sharp nails
In the body of sand
and
Kiss calves of a girl
Lying in the silvery sand
Nude.
In the coconut grove
My shadow is breathless.
In my breaths swirls the blue sea.
If I could come out of this frame
How would I talk and talk
about Kovalam beach!
But alas I am
Captive of this landscape.

From ‘Aur’

Beyond Seven Skies

The earth shies away
carrying my load
As if it were sky on my shoulders.
Things do not see me clearly
Shadow collides with me
I am imprisoned
in the walls of bygone years
The time
is like the wrinkles
on the face of an old fakir.
Let me shake it like the ashes.

From the corner of my house
Let me throw out
The torn wings of the bird of peace.
The butterflies of letters
that are imprisoned in the book
Let me fly them off
to the blue sky.

Like the French poet Rimbaud
In rage
Some day I too
Hiding the clenched fist
in the torn pocket
will go far away
Beyond seven skies…




From ‘Aur’

An evening in Simla

Spread in the distance
Fields Mountains,
Sheet of snow
Covers with
Body of mountains.
In overcoats
Tall, very tall pines
stand
With bottles of mist
In their hands.
Aimlessly, the white clouds
Glide to and fro
As soon as the window opens
A rectangular piece of cloud
Rushes in the room,
Takes me from the chair
To Mal Road,
In a bar
It puts
Half a peg of whisky,
Before me
Laughs and utters,
Cheers!


From ‘Aur’

Still-life II

Like a miniature painting
The eyes like fish
When dip the pen in the inkpot
How they drown
in the colors of poem.
The flower vase on the table
And the green tablecloth
with dancing peacocks on all four edges
Under the inkpot
in the middle of the table
a book -
on the title page burns
Van Gogh’s tree -
- Would the fire of my heart
burn like this!
And in that fire
the hands of darkness burn!!

From ‘Aur’

Still life 1

Half-asleep
The sun from the east
from brown, blue sky
moving the curtain of window
Enters the room
And slowly draws the cane chair
Near the table -
The cup of moon has taken coffee,
Sugarless.
From the small pond of cup
An ant is drowning struggling to come out.
The strong winds
Flip the yellow pages of diaries.
The pencil draws the pictures of mirages,
The unripe dreams dreamt in unripe sleep.
The birds sit on the trees of meanings
On the long dark roads rise
The thorns of noises.


From ‘Aur’

The audience

If no one
keeps me company
Let it be.
A red bird,
a green branch,
a drop of rain,
the grass
will not refuse
to hear my sad tales.


From ‘Aur’

Hariprasad Chaurasiya

On the waves of air
Swims
a blue boat
of rhythm.
How many pictures
In the pictures of water!
Sometimes shining,
Sometimes like swift waves,
And sometimes like drizzling clouds,
Like the rainbow.

The evening wet with rhythm
Covered with fragrance of roses
Descends the ladder of moon
From the high mountains
As if a spring is falling.
In every room of heart
The colorful butterflies.dance
Around the candle of silence



From ‘Aur’

Hussain’s horses

 









You have painted
Horses
Black and red
On the canvas
But you don’t know -
The horses made by
Oblique lines
on the canvas
Never neigh!

From ‘Aur’

Photograph of maternal grandmother

Like the rough skin
Of a tree trunk,
A face of autumn,
Two eyes
like white papers
In a deep well
With water of light lost,
Like a pale plate of marble
Like two candles
about to be blown out,
I miss them so much
On the tin stove
tea prepared with tulsi leaves
The sweet smell
of ghee-jaggery-roti
Arrives in my room
And torments me.

From ‘Maanind’

Hands

I had asked for a home
And they buried me alive.

I had asked for a small piece of land
And they put a stone of migration on my head.

I had asked for bread
And they put live coals on my tongue.

I had only asked for a book
And they poured the molten lead in my ears.

I raised my head
And they chained me.

When I passed from that road with banner in my hand,
They chopped and flung my hands away.

But one day
the earth will soften with my blood
And from those hands
will sprout
thousands of hands
And that shall be
the last night of the atrocities.


From ‘ Pencil aur doosri nazmein’


 

Thousands of Hands

I asked for a homer,

And they

Buried me in the ground.

I asked for a small patch of land,

And they burdened my head

With the rock of exile.

I asked for bread,

And they

Put a burning coal on my tongue.

I asked for a book,

And they poured

Molten lead in my ears.

I raised my head,

And they

Chained my neck.

When I came out

With a flag in my hand,

They severed my hands.

But one day,

My blood will moisten

This barren land,

To grow thousands of hands:

My hands.

Thousands of hands,

And the last night of tyranny.

Tr. Baidar Bakht

Depression I

 

A black dog
Sleeping in a corner of my heart
sometimes
wakes up suddenly
Opens its eyes
In its eyes
there is tumult of ghosts
It barks
Without any purpose
In an empty room
With its shining eyes
With sharp teeth
It sows
the shadows of terror
within me.

The black dog
Is afraid of
the tip of brush in my hand,
the knife of words,
And all of a sudden
Watching
Lights shining
In the empty house
Imperceptibly vanishes
Through the window of darkness.

From ‘Maanind’

The Hands That Dream

The hands that dream
Give dream to the bamboo
Beautiful dreams
Boat
Flowers `
Elephants, horses and camels
Sun, moon and stars
Table pen and inkpot
Made of bamboo…
I prune the same bamboo
To make spear
Bright sparkling spears of bamboo

In the hands
that wash the tea cups
In the hands
that count the tired horses
In the hands
of those who carry
the container of shit on head
In the dark hands
of untouchables
Those spears of bamboo
will shine
against
the thirty three crore Gods..

From ‘Maanind’

The shoes

The shoes
Take me
To the icy rocks
To the pine forests
To the villages,
towns,
cities.

The shoes
take me
to the new lands
across seven seas,
to the new worlds
beyond the skies.

The shoes
Take me
To the parliament
To the United Nations.

The shoes take me
To the gurudwara
To the church
To the mosque
To the holy fireplace

But when the shoes take me
To the temple
I am thrown out
like
The shoes
themselves.


From ‘Maanind’

Three poems on death of mother

1.
The last words
Struck
The tin roof.
Like the black clouds
The dark air shivered.
The curtains on the
Windows were silent
The body of ice.
The feet of stones.
The sky the stars dead
At last
The words freed their meanings
Tulsi withered its leaves.

From ‘Maanind’



2.

In the morning
She folded the sleep
and kept in the cupboard,
switched off
the lights in the veranda
She lit the clay stove
by blowing air
Prepared tea
Mended the shirt with button
Kept lunch box
in the knapsack
She found out the wallet
That was lost
from the table

And in the last
She threw away
On the string cot
the chadar of her body
worn and torn.


From ‘Maanind’

3.
In the scorching sun
The forest of bamboos
Embraced her
the flames kissed her
coarse sole of feet,
slowly a piece of sky
Turned into ashes.
As the evening sets in
In a corner of my house
I see a shadow mending
The gudari.
In the
Stone mirror
Of mortar
I see
A star,
Lusterless.

From ‘Maanind’

Depression II

Whenever
Fragrance of flowers
embraces me
I am terrified,
I search for
A cemetery
That surrounds me.

From ‘Maanind’

They will hang me tomorrow

(For Osip Emilyevich Mandelshtam)

They dragged you
clutching your collars
And took you far, far off.
Far from palaces of dreams,
Far from
trees, mountains,
the sea and stars.
There were no birds chirping
No flowers blooming
in the seasons.
Behind the gigantic bars of ice
Where light does not stop
Even for a second
In the blind wells of eyes.
In the feet of time
ring the chains.
They dragged you,
took away.
O my fellow poet,
My dearest one!

Beneath your lips
Songs of love
Of peace and comfort
Song of a native soil.
Converting the bondage chains
into a stanza
You always laughed at your wounds.

My dearest one
O my comrade
You are a supreme poem
You will be hanged tomorrow
Only this night remains
In the cold hands of night
remain
twinkling stars.
And you continue to count
the vanishing stars.
In your passionate eyes
There is no shadow of terror
On your lips
the moonlight of pride
You are face to face with me.

O my fellow poet
Don’t be upset by my pain.
This moment is great
It’s possible that
I will be hanged tomorrow
It’s possible
only in my native land!
Let me count
the vanishing stars
Tomorrow,
they would not wait for me.

From ‘Maanind’