Copyright 1996, Sudipto Chatterjee. All rights reserved.
Click HERE to see Note at end. Dated September 1996
OR back to the Bibliography of "Indian Women and Violence."
| 1. FORGIVE US, ANITA DEWAN
by Suman Chatterjee |
| [Anita Dewan was a social worker who was raped and brutally
murdered by hoodlums in Bantala, a poor neighborhood in suburban
Calcutta.] |
|
I hear the cries time and again Cries that my heart penetrate Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit within my head. Foul and filthy Bantala is but Another Calcutta neighborhood Three women are assaulted with Three hundred men in pursuit. Manhood now makes me shameful Before myself I hang my head The blood of the three women sits In our conscience, still and dead. Does Anita Dewan's carcass Make Civility feel some shame? I have put my shame in song You can, for yourself, do the same. I hear cries time and again Cries that my heart penetrate Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit within my head. The real mark of barbarism lies In this silence of heads without torso Calcutta, meanwhile, dances dirty, Celebrates three hundred years or so. Your enjoyment puts me to shame A shame that is too, too dogged Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit within my head. There's blood in your new apartments In water faucets, at dusk and dawn, It's the blood of raped women that flows, Blood telling tales of the land goes on. Look! it's blood upon the snack-bar, On your mutton-roll! it's blood It is, again, sprinkled blood that My bowl of fish curry floods. The same invisible blood has now The flag of the same color wetted The colored world of politics Is stained in blood unabetted. Anita Dewan's blood will not Erase itself, it is so obstinate Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit in my head. Blood is on your raga Malkosh Blood is in your music chambers The harmonium's wet with blood Blood rehearses melodic numbers. Blood stains your culture and Blood is in your juvenile memory There's blood even in Tagore-songs Rape becomes your identity. Covering blood with painted design Is that your civilized barbarity? I am of the same order, too, I am Calcutta; the mega-city. |
| 2. PAAPRI DE
by Suman Chatterjee |
| [Paapri De was a four year old girl who, after swallowing a pen-cap in play,
first suffered from lack of treatment and then died when a certain Dr. Mal
injected her with adult dose tranquilizers since it was very late at night.] |
|
Little Paapri is too foolish Ate something other than food That's how in the little throat The pain got stuck and stood. Gulp it down little girl, gulp The pain stopping your breath Life in this land only means Swallowing the pain of death. Little Paapri is too foolish A little dull, I have to say, Else she'd know such things Are happening everyday. Little Paapri is too foolish Hasn't learnt to swallow pain, How dare you spend, little girl, The country's time in vain! Little Paapri is too foolish The medical tools are gone Out-of-order; so what? Democracy lives on! "Little Paapri is too foolish," Thinks Doctor Mal, "Why be a doctor this late, With no sleep at all?" Sleep, little Paapri, go to sleep. Why at all were you born ever? I've made and sung my song, Now with a sigh I'll slumber. |
| 3. WHACK! THE SUN SLAPPED... by Suman Chatterjee |
|
Whack! the Sun slapped the Sky across the face Scared Dawn, unwillingly, stays out of the race. Understandably flushed is the Cloud's forehead While Morning smiles like a girl newly wed. Smile, my Morning, the newly wedded bride, You'd remember if you really were a bride In this country your father had to sell his land, To make you a bride on another man's demand. Your man took his dowries without a blush Hard cash, jewelries and a shoe shining brush Because the skin of your face is quite like a shoe The scars on your face must be kept shining, too! The scars on your heart you'd hide with a smile (This country is, after all, a foreign land defiled) Lying on the bed that was your father's gratuity, With a smile you would rip apart your virginity. In this land that swears upon the Mother goddess Hair flowing, you'd rock your baby without recess. Rock, you would yourself time and time again Your father died with your dowry unattained. But your kid's father wouldn't stand such a flaw; An undowried groom is no less than a tiger's paw! One day, graced with the same tiger-paw's blessing, Hung by your neck, you'd dangle from the ceiling... As a ghoul, you'd see your dangling corpse turn And laugh as the night would fade into morn. The Morn has blushed, actually, out of shame; Has turned to the Sun for justice, all the same.... And having seen the plight of the human race Whack! the Sun slapped the Sky across the face. Copyright 1996, Sudipto Chatterjee. All rights reserved. However, these translations may be used for educational purposes, provided this statement is included in any reproduction.
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In response to Heather Dell's posting, here are the texts of three songs on women and violence by Suman Chatterjee (a political singer from Calcutta) that I have translated. At Frank Conlon's suggestion, I do want to make clear that these translations are under copyright, but may be used for educational purposes, so long as the copyright statement is included.
Sudipto Chatterjee
Dept. of Performance Studies
New York University