Neerav Patel

Mess

when you call me dher

i am hurt

and wish to kick you in the belly

when you call me an untouchable

i am offended

and wish to slap you

when you call me harijan

i am humiliated

and wish to spit upon your face

when you call me a member of a scheduled caste

i am insulted

and wish to make faces at you

when you call me rustic

i think i am barbarous

and wish to howl phoren damn-bloody-backward

 when you call me  brown

i suppose you call me black

and wish to scratch my skin and show i am red

when you call me  white

i imagine my mother slept with a savarna

and wish to be an oedipus

when you call me  brother-in-law

i think you called me father-in-law

and wish to tell you you are none of my kith and kin

when you call me friend or  brother

i think you are neither serious nor sincere

and wish to thrust my deadliest foe at you

when you call me man

i think you are sarcastic and meant woman or animal

and wish to thrust my whole being into your mouth

 when you call me  neerav patel

i am annoyed that you neglected me altogether

and wish to call you back to call me something

when you ask me what to do

i look blank and throw the question back at you

and wish to be interred like sita

yes, its all a mess since the very beginning

like the tale of the seven-tailed mouse.

The age of transition

the earth caves in under my feet

and buries me neckdeep

the sensuous breeze from the pages of

pritish nandy

and the fragrant similies of kamala das,

however,

soothe my eyes romantically

and swell my desire between my thighs

night comes like menaka,

beautiful and bewitching

starry fluids shoot up in the bleeding milky way

dripping down my legs

drained and drab

i wet the land i am interred into

today i turn 29,

a little gray and a little gay,

cast in the twin roles of atlas and sisyphus

i am bewildered by the twentieth centuary civilizazation

of oppression and injustice

the sun is the bastard father

of my untouchable shadow,

it cuts into the scriptures authority

and bleeds perennially

i instantly turn into a rebel

only to be beaten , bruised and killed

yes, they would cut off my head

as children pluck mushrooms in monsoon

ma used to sing a lullaby:

stick to the ground my son,

air travel is as foolish and futile

as building castles in the air

i neither killed the albatross

nor insulted the deity-

be it manu or kanu

ma i am burning from both the ends

and between my thighs

Journalistic apathy 

its neither glossy nor glamorous,

not chic, not debonair,

like a surrealist’s imagination of anatomy

its clumsy, distorted, nauseating

but the bleeding wound on the forehead

is not read

as the deep romantic chasm

in the centre-spread of mod mags

it was just hopping on the ground

like a severed chicken- head

before a moment

the eyes were aglow with tears

(alas, they were as dead as dumb-bells now)

the sensuous lips are turning muddy brown

like a rotten apple

it never claimed a headline or a hotline-

the teleprinter went on tick-ticking the sport-flashes

the camera feasted on the nude beaches.

the poor head of a harijan

it is as compassionate as the

wrinkled face of mother teresa

darkness has settled like dust

upon sad face of agony-

it craves for limelight

miss anees jung ,

make it a cover-page agony

Dr. bhaga  manga m.s .

                                        And dr.mhera mohan f.r.c.s

With bamboo baskets on their heads

And hopes in their hands

Dr. bhaga manga m.s.

And dr. mhera mohan f.r.c.s.

Lifted open the lid of an overflowing manhole

And slipped into the netherland

Without gloves or gumboots,

Aprons or stethoscopes

They prove more brilliant and diligent

Than the b.j.medico boys

Expert In  art and skilled in science

The real schwitzerian tribe-

Acting upon every letter of Hippocrates

The humblest of docs indeed!

The municipality supplies

A pair of blue shorts of khaddar

and a half-sleeved, ash-coloured tennis-shirt

the very outfit of the harijan volunteers of yester-years

hogs graze upon the earth

or lick excreta  

 and dr. bhaga manga

and dr. mhera mohan

play ping-pong with dirt!

This ahmedabad

Is a case of multiple malaise

But has its daily dose of dialysis

Thanks to dr.bhaga manga and dr. mahera mohan

They clear the cotton –wools

Forgetfully flung by the meritorious medicos

And the honourable citizens

But it is different today

The doctors diagnose a tumour :

 A tender bud sprouted from

Innocent love-making

Perhaps it was a nuisance to the virgin belly,

Or the world was too much with it!

The doctors decided to go in for an autopsy :

From the rotten bundle issued forth

Noxious gases in guffaws

Like miners

The suffocating doctors pulled the sos string

But dr. mana mehtar (abc in sanitation)

Was sleeping off the lattha he had lapped up

With the ordr. dani

Chain –smoker dr. bhaga manga

Longed to light a telephone brand bidi

As soon as he came out

But dr. mhera mohan was a little romantic by instinct

He had promised lakhadi to take her

To watch a fillum :

Jai bhathiji maharaj!

They did not clog

The nether –system of the city

But smoothly floated out fo the drains

Into the sewage farm of Sarkhej

One frog-yellow

And the other milk-white

And cleaned and thousands of their children

Still descend into the blind bowels

Of the city

Living they die,

Dying they live

Pimpamma yellamma

“I will quench the thirst of thirsty,

I will feed the hungry

And I will shelter the homeless.”….

The bewildered girl

In a skirt of leafy neem twigs

Takes the oath before yellamma

Amidst the smoke of burning camphor and coconuts

The entranced devdasis

And the exorcising jogitis-

All swaying

And screaming

And blabbering

And she will entertain the lingam dutifully-

First the pujari

Next the strongman

And the stranger

And on the next megh poornima

She will return to the red-light slums

To the all-embracing lap of pan-chewing garwali

The fiery deity perennially

Plucks the pubic hair of little yellammas

To ease into the penetrating thurst

Of lust and hunger

Jai ho pimpamma yellamma!

Dr.Neerav Patel
Ph.D. in English literature , Dr.Neerav Patel, born 2 December,1950, is a well-known dalit poet and editor. He edits Swaman, a journal of dalit writings, notably pieces of autobiographical prose.
Along with Dalpat Chauhan and Praveen Gadhavi, he initiated Gujarati dalit literature with publication of Dalit Panthers’ 'Kalo Suraj' (The Black Sun).
A bi-lingual writer, his collections of poetry are 'Baghishkrut Phulo '(2006), 'Burning from both the ends' (1980, in English), and 'What did I do to be black and blue' (1987 in English).
He served as a Bank Officer, after his retirement he devotes his entire time to dalit literature and activity. His Phone no. is: 079-26821938, Cell: 09909264914.
e-mail: neerav50@yahoo.co.in