‘Pott Daari Pethan’ (Anthology of poems)

Agar tcha panunai vajood gharahakh / qasm dayes path, kamaal karhakh

(If you chisel your own existence/By God you would do wonders)

Short-sightedness sends foggy signals. Cold blood denies existence. A narrow heart affects bonds. But if simplicity is in one’s nature, it helps one bloom. If life becomes just a play, the misfit would be kicked like a football. Satirically, the poet says that without apprising our own capacity, we try to touch the skies and thus we are dwarfed. Instead of stretching ourselves, we ask the heights to shrink.

The poet is pricked by her loss of identity as she is away from her dreams and memories. The dreams become dreams themselves. Sunita Raina strenuously searches the roots and background of her being. The bag of karma is filled with action after action. Sadly, the negativities go on adding fast. The losses are heaping. The only option left is either to cease or accelerate the actions to lessen the burden so that the balance differs with lesser margins.

There is nothing outer or inner. No win or defeat. The tragedy is that the roots are already cut off to a large extent. Thus, the debate remains unfinished. The poet never surrenders to the circumstantial eddy, but she has not lost hope. Circles of friendship are different today. The luminous circle of the burning candle doesn’t escape the curse of a large smoky influence. The misfortune is that there is an absence of analysing oneself because the other draught has nothing of its own and is using the brains of others. The result is that if the poet forgives, it will in fact be punishment:

farz karov mae zi bakhshui soarui/astaanan laarakh nana vorui (Suppose I forgive, naked feet you will run to the shrines) ………………

lookan manz naahaqa lookha hew pakaan chhukh/thazar chhonireuk attas, tav ken thakaan chhukh..

vasakh thhasraayi koh tsaet tsaet zameenas/ samakh joyi manz ta henran manz rukaan chhukh.

(Among the people you behave like them, on your back is the load of emptiness. Hence the tiredness. Dashing you will come down to earth cutting the cliffs. you are blocked in the dead waters. Thus, unable to join the brook)

While going through Pot Daari Pethan, it becomes evident that the poet is deeply entangled in a complex web of relationships—one filled with smiles and tears, success and failure, fidelity and infidelity, love and hate. For the most part, the collection reads as a dialogue, though it often manifests as a one-sided oration addressed to “Him/him.”

This poetic outflow can be interpreted on multiple levels: a interaction between the finite and the infinite, soul and mind, lover and beloved, mundane and spiritual, self and shadow, the inner and the outer, or most notably, a reflection between I and I—and at times, a conflict between two opposing ideologies.

Throughout, she expresses genuine surprise at the multifaceted nature of man, and accusations frequently permeate these connections. Worn out by the monotonous yet erratic behaviour, she feels herself slipping away on uneven, desolate ground. In a melancholic tone, she questions why time seems to stand still, even as she unveils truths from the recent past:

myaani hisa kanh shaam oasaa/ yath dilas aaraam oasa

(No beautiful evening was in my store. There was never any solace to my heart)

She questions his endurance, comparing it to her own: does he have the capacity to bloom, fade, and rise again as she does? She believes she could have unravelled the knots of their conflict had he been as wounded as she is. Ultimately, she suggests that if his true character were laid bare, no one could bear the tragedy of his infidelity. She hints that he lives under the shadow of death—devoid of the spiritual earnings needed to die a king’s death, a treasure that only the poet possesses.

Nevertheless, time will inevitably change, turning everything topsy-turvy. Though he remains firmly imprinted on her retina, societal traditions restrain her from holding him in her heart:

achhan manz chhukh magar zan kesri fol hew/ dilas manz jaai karnatch chha na rewaayat

(You are in my eyes but indelibly irritating. There are no traditions to keep you in the heart)

People blessed with a rich heritage and a vast treasure of past and present experiences carry memories that continuously evolve alongside time. Conversely, there are those with brains like blank slates, possessing nothing to remember and nothing to exhibit:

kenh chhaa tchetas mashraavihe/ tas oas kya yus raavihe

(He has nothing to forget, nothing to show)

The poet firmly believes that all that glitters is not gold. In contemporary society, hypocrisy and magnifying trivialities have become the norm; turning zeroes into heroes is gaining momentum, while true heroes are drowned out in the din. Ultimately, however, truth prevails, and authenticity endures. True bravery is in the blood, and courage cannot be concealed beneath any cover. Genuine talent requires neither duplicity nor boastful displays. In the end, inner aptitude, determination, courage, resolve, depth, and intellect cannot be buried beneath debris—reality eventually erupts:

vuddav chhai jaanwaaras fitratas manz/ pakhav chhaa nata labaan parwaaz prath kanh

(The flying is in the nature of the birds. Everybody can’t fly with the wings)

The poet symbolizes herself as the petals of a flower, which are showered both on Lord Shiva and on sacred funeral pyres. Even after being scattered, these petals never go to waste.

She writes poetry and chisels out a portrait of her era; she is history itself, bearing the burning fire of time. He represents the passing thoughts of the era, yet he moves uncertainly on two pedals. Shame itself is humiliated when nature and human lives are commercialized, turning someone into the most infamous merchant of the age. Few realize that the poet finds her dearest one only to lose him again and again, spending her days dying with every passing moment while the time maintains a stoic silence akin to Bhishma.

If he is not pure nectar, neither is he pure poison. He speaks through closed lips—partly a friend, partly an enemy. His outer facade never reveals his inner self; at times he glimmers like gold, at others silver, and sometimes heavy like lead. This constantly shifting character creates deep confusion. Sometimes he appears pious, sometimes impious; sometimes present, sometimes non-existent:

yi chhukh ti maa chhukh/tcha kus amaa chhukh

(You are what you are not. What are you?)

The poet stresses the urgency of playing the final hand in the game of life, especially as life and death play their own tricks on us time and again. Undeterred by existential hurdles and mundane restrictions, Sunita calls upon those whose purpose is to fulfil the mission for which they were sent. It is the opportune moment to shoulder this responsibility and embark on the journey toward the destination without being swayed:

Gar shinyah sara karna draamut chhukh ta naer/yot agar kenh karni aamut chhukh ta near

(Move, if you have to examine the void. Move, if you want to do something)

The poet grows frustrated with veiled behaviour, eroding values, widespread corruption, wretched and degraded politics, gender disparity, declining literary ethics, dying languages, and general moral decay. People dive headfirst into the vast ocean of words without understanding their basic principles or foundations. She performs a thorough post-mortem on these societal ills:

noatan voatan vothi purkhaash/ pata paanas paanas saree/

(Only the notes and votes value. Otherwise, nobody is of anybody.)

Ultimately, the scar of exile remains unhealed. Acute nostalgia is the poet’s central ailment, leaving her body and soul divided between two worlds. While she acknowledges that constant weeping is no solution, it remains equally true that the deep pain of nostalgia will be with her until her very last breath:

ba yeti ba tati zan misaal sapzas/ ta yemi sadee heund sawaal sapzas

(I am an example here and there. I became the question of the century)

(The author is a columnist, translator, poet and reviewer. He is the author of yaad jo aate hain voh din and Refugees from Fullai. He is the co-editor of the books From Home to House and We Had Everything)