Ajmal Khan is a poet from Kerala, whose collection of poems The Mappila Verses was published recently. TwoCircles.net here reproduces eight poems from the collection. Read about his journey as a poet here.
Ajmal Khan, TwoCircles.net
Native Son and Mother Land
My mother
My own mother asks for my documents
Like a foreigner arrived at the port of entry
I look for documents
My document – umbilical cord
Her colour – my skin
Her blood – my veins
Her black mole – my birth mark
Her long hair – my trimmed
Her vagina – echo of my first cry
She – suspicious
Do all mothers ask for documents from their own children?
My mother – suspicious of my birth
Our names are mixed with Arabic letters along with Malayalam
She looks at the grown beard – the way I speak
She looks at my menu card
She asks me to open my pant zip
Do all mothers ask for documents from their own children?
Like my mother land.
……………………………………………………………………….
Portrait of a Bastard
Your collar bone protrudes like a Somalian Child
and the arm muscles anemic
but Lungi, from the Malabar Coast.
Texture of your skin is the mixture of Pulaya and
Cheruman converted to Islam
sweat with a scent beyond Arabian sea from Dubai, Abu Dhabi or Saudi Arabia.
How do you speak English this well?
You guys rebelled against them
and boycotted even their language.
How did you get this resilient yet deep eyes
and rage? somewhat remotely similar to Palestinians and Kashmiris
You were never occupied.
Your chin remotely resembles
a clever north Indian Bania man
which disappear like a mirage.
They murmur, you are a bastard
in the confluence between the Arabian Coast
and the Malabar before Portuguese and Dutch mastered maritime.
Do bastards have documents?
Of the unholy nights
Or they and their children and their children and their children remain bastards forever?
……………………………………………………
Where do we go?
Where should we go after the last frontiers?
Where should the birds fly after the last sky?
Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air?
Mahmoud Darwish
After the Isha Namaz
Chanting prayers sitting in her Musalla
Keeping her copy of Quran aside with the Thasbeeh, she asks
Where do we go if our names are not in the list?
Where do coconut trees go when their roots are declared illegal?
How does Hibiscus flower if you ask them go back where they come from?
Can you ask Tapioca to go back to Brazil?
Do you ask tea and coffee to go back where they come from?
Where do Great Pied Hornbills go when you tell monsoons are illegal to them?
Where do Mackerels and Sardines go when you inform them, they are illegal in the water?
Do Malabar elephant have identity card to enter Maasai Mara?
Where do Lion-tailed macaques go if they are asked to vacate the Silent Valley?
Can Mundakan and Puncha paddy be cultivated in Saudi Arabia?
Which water Giant Danio’s swim if rivers are made illegal to them?
Is there a list of snakes that are allowed only on the Western Ghats?
On which seas Hassinar fish if you ask him documents to enter the Arabian sea?
Where do we go?
The sword breaks my silence, she asks again
Where?
I reminded
“For your father, Adam, was created with dirt from the surface of the earth.
You also will be returned to the earth”
We came from soil
We go to soil, until then
We live here.
……………………………………………………………………
Mappila Verse
The first step in liquidating a people is to erase its memory. Destroy its books, its culture, its history. Then have somebody write new books, manufacture a new culture, invent a new history. Before long that nation will begin to forget what it is and what it was… The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.
Milan Kundera
Centuries ago
Even before Baba Sahib was born
My ancestors search for caste annihilation – they became Mappila.
Malik Dinar came to my coast with light
Cheraman Perumal – lit Diya
Cheramaan Juma Mosque – first masjid on the subcontinent
Two lights merged between the Mecca and Ponnani.
Quadi Muhammed weaved songs when Portuguese arrived
Like Cannons on my disposal
Before anyone know anything about songs of resistance on my coast.
Kunjali Marakkar, Variyankunnath and Ali Musliyar
Might sound just Muslim names for you
– the light houses of self-respect and freedom for my land.
The brave children of Eranadu and Valluvanadu who poured their blood
The land that showed chest to the cannons in 1921
The brave children of Eranadu and Valluvanadu who poured their blood
The land that showed chest to the cannons in 1921 – My lullaby
Anglo- Mappila war – My bed times stories
When my ancestors fought against the sons of the empire
On which the sun never set
On another sunset Wagon massacre paintings were removed from Tirur railway station
How do you remove the wounds?
This land is built with the blood of my ancestors
The water we drink – their sweat
Their blood on my nerve
You – stand stable on their dead bodies.
Overnight,
I have become orphan at my own home
Or it wasn’t – home?
I now dig names graves and blood stains
Of my people to get all of us free – certificates of loyalty
I stand alone at the Ghat of this country
With all the documents and history
For my citizenship approval.
After the Isha Namaz
Chanting prayers sitting in her Musalla
Keeping her copy of Quran aside with the Thasbeeh, she asks
Where do we go if our names are not in the list?
Where do coconut trees go when their roots are declared illegal?
How does Hibiscus flower if you ask them go back where they come from?
Can you ask Tapioca to go back to Brazil?
Do you ask tea and coffee to go back where they come from?
Where do Great Pied Hornbills go when you tell monsoons are illegal to them?
Where do Mackerels and Sardines go when you inform them, they are illegal in the water?
Do Malabar elephant have identity card to enter Mazaimara?
Where do Lion-tailed macaque go if they are asked to vacate Silent Valley?
Can Mundakan and Puncha paddy be cultivated in Saudi Arabia?
Which water Giant Danio’s swim if rivers are made illegal to them?
Is there a list of snakes that are allowed only on Western Ghats?
On which seas Hassinar fish if you ask him documents to enter the Arabian sea?
Where do we go?
The sword breaks my silence, she asks again
Where?
I reminded
“For your father, Adam, was created with dirt from the surface of the earth. You also will be returned to
the earth”
We came from soil
We go to soil, until then
We live here.
After the Isha Namaz
Chanting prayers sitting in her Musalla
Keeping her copy of Quran aside with the Thasbeeh, she asks
Where do we go if our names are not in the list?
Where do coconut trees go when their roots are declared illegal?
How does Hibiscus flower if you ask them go back where they come from?
Can you ask Tapioca to go back to Brazil?
Do you ask tea and coffee to go back where they come from?
Where do Great Pied Hornbills go when you tell monsoons are illegal to them?
Where do Mackerels and Sardines go when you inform them, they are illegal in the water?
Do Malabar elephant have identity card to enter Mazaimara?
Where do Lion-tailed macaque go if they are asked to vacate Silent Valley?
Can Mundakan and Puncha paddy be cultivated in Saudi Arabia?
Which water Giant Danio’s swim if rivers are made illegal to them?
Is there a list of snakes that are allowed only on Western Ghats?
On which seas Hassinar fish if you ask him documents to enter the Arabian sea?
Where do we go?
The sword breaks my silence, she asks again
Where?
I reminded
“For your father, Adam, was created with dirt from the surface of the earth. You also will be returned to
the earth”
We came from soil
We go to soil, until then
We live here.
………………………………………………………
On the way back
Staring at stars, cosmos and beyond
We went to colleges and universities like curious children following constellations.
Some of us – the only one of our kind
The rest had something similar – their surnames, parent’s jobs
Or the names of the cities they hailed
The kind of dress they wore, the way they spoke English
The brands of cigarettes they smoked and the scent of their sweat.
Some dropped out
Few missing
Others came home as dead bodies like – Shambuka
Those survived were picked up and
the remaining – untouchables in the job market.
On the way back to the village
The road is long with the heavy burden of degree certificates.
…………………………………………………………………………..
Papyrus citizen
The tree they made paper out of
Stood in front of the citizens tribunal verification
Like an illegal immigrant – to verify the papers of its legal status.
……………………………………………………………………………….
Not Your Mia
“I am not your Nigro”
“The history of America is the history of the Negro in America
And it’s not a pretty picture.”
James Baldwin
We were chopped into two in 1947 by an English man
And the wounds still bleed
Sometimes heavy and other – steady.
They wiped the blood with blood – on both sides
As more than a million-blood dropped – many disappeared.
1964 – the city of joy sleep with horror
Of the dead bodies and the wounded.
Eid prayers at Moradabad in 1980
Unknown numbers – bodies
Known names – mass graves.
Babur Ki Auladon Ko, Bhago Pakistan Ya Kabristan
Echoed at Bhagalpur – 1980
Kabristan was flooded with bodies in Kafan.
Nellie is the name of the memory of 1983
For the 2000 and more
That got erased between the border with Bangladesh.
1987 is written with the Kafan in Hashimpura
We thought those letters will fade like a thunder lightning
Thunder still echoes – increasing everyday like the early monsoon.
1990 the yatra on Rath for Ram
Ramlala Hum Layenge Mandir Wahi Banayenge.
Bombay should have less Landya to be cosmopolitan
Hence, 1990 and 91
And from that ashes Shiva’s avatar takes birth and – Mumbra.
The flames reached Hyderabad
Many more went to Jannat and Jahannam.
If Gujarat is the model from 2002
Either face or the mirror needs to be changed
Or my head – to be chopped off
I am trying hard to forget Gujarat.
Muzaffar Nagar still weeps in crisis
Like lost children – of those who are alive
Rest weeps from haven as rain.
The Indian flag hoisted at Shaheen Bagh and the Preamble of constitution
In 2020 Delhi
Desh Ke Gaddaron Ko, Goli Maro Saalon Ko in the background.
The pretty picture has scars – where there is Mia
Like deep bullet marks on a big banner
Sachar commission report – the holy text after Quran
Waiting to be chopped off from the list
As D-voter or D-citizen
From the midnight to no sunrise
I stand looking at my own pretty picture between the search for documents.
………………………………………………………………
Write me down, I am a Mappila
After Mahmoud Darwish in Palestine and Hafiz Ahmed in Assam.
Write me down
I am a Mappila.
Write it down
My name is Ajmal.
I am a Muslim
And an Indian citizen
We are seven at home
And more is on the way
All are Indian by birth.
Do you want documents?
Write me down
That I am an Indian.
I am a Mappila
My ancestors were untouchables
Hindus in your language
Slapped on the face of Manu
They changed their names
When they were given dignity
Centuries ago
before forefathers of your ideologues were born.
Are you suspicious?
Write me down
I am an Indian.
My ancestors tilled the soil here
They lived here
And died
Their roots are deeper than the roots of these Banyan
And Coconut trees
Though they weren’t land lords
Only peasants
This land is their root.
The scent of their root is the scent of this land
The colour of their skin
Is the colour of this land
Do you want documents?
Write me down
I am a Mappila.
Do you still need documents?
Then I will dig the graves in Malabar
and many others
I want to show you the boots and bullets
On their chests
When they fell down with the British guns.
Do you still need documents?
I know what documents you have
The copy of a confession in Cellular jail and
The blood stains of Gandhi on your hand
Do you want me to remind you of more stains?
I say
Shut the fuck up
If you ask me for documents.
Write me down
I am a Mappila.
Remember
I have not forgotten
You sent people to demolish Masjid
But now
You have demolished the constitution
The soul of this land.
I am angry
How dare you?
How dare you?
Write me down
I am a Mappila.
This is my land
If I have born here
I will die here.
Therefor
Write it down
Clearly
In bold and capital letters
On the top of your NRC
That I am an Indian.