Bhagat Singh ki Murat (Statue of Bhagat Singh)

There is news from Delhi
 alas! Alas!!
 What a mess they have made
 Of Bhagat Singh
 In the Parliament Complex!

For sixty years they petitioned
 The British rejected him
 But YOU! Our own government.
 Erect his statue
 in the Parliament Complex
 At last the government thumped its chest
 and said why not!
 and erected the statue in the Parliament Complex.
 But when the veil was lifted
 You discover it is not Bhagat Singh
 That 24 year old beautiful lad
 Nor his young limbs that they could not properly burn
 On the fateful night when they hanged him.

It is some 60 years old guy
 Flabby and tired looking
 With upturned mustaches
 Oh what the hell is this.
 This is not our Bhagat Singh
 In the Parliament Square
 Who the hell is he?

Ha ha ha! Dear friends
 Wipe your tears look closely
 At all the other statues in the Parliament
 Is it the same Jawaharlal as he was?
 Is it the same Gandhi?
 The same Abul Kalam Azad?

The in-coming and out-going respected parliamentarians
 Have made an omelet of their reality
 And gobbled them up long long ago.
 In this grand square
 Only cissored and edited versions
 Can find a lasting place.

Bhagat Singh was the child of his time
 And times have changed. He loved Urdu poetry and Ghalib
 And Glaib, getting rid of his robe
 Is Ghalib now, winking and singing some trashy “gazal”
 Aishwarya Rai is dancing on it
 So kind of her.

And in his city Lahore
 Bhagat Singh is a Sikh
 Who perhaps migrated to India in 1947
 Such names make people nervous
 Is the god-damn man coming back?
 to claim his property??
 We shall never let that happen
 After all we left fields and barns
 shops and houses in Ludhyana.

Bhagat Singh was a pure Indian
 His times are swept away with the wind
 He was a purely Indian earth-song
 Light in the water
 Rustling in the wind
 He was a purely Indian passion of his time
 And times have changed.

Let his statue remain where it has remained for 60 years
 Across both sides of the border
 In a heart or two.
 There every morning
 Longings as innocent and ignorant as little children
 Cover his young body with fresh garlands of marigold
 Bathe his limbs with tears of love and adoration
 He belongs there
 He is happy there.

[This is a rough translation by me of my Hindi Kavita.—F.R.]