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.]