Pratishtha Pandya

Sharmila Joshi

Editor

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As the sun sets behind the rugged hills of the Eastern Ghats, the shrill calls of the hill mynah in the adjacent forest are crushed under the heavy sounds of boots of the paramilitary forces. They are patrolling the villages once again. It is the evenings that she fears the most.She does not know why she was named Demathi. “She was a fearless woman from our village, who chased the British troops away, all alone,” mother would tell the story, excitedly. But she was so unlike Demathi – she was timid.And she learned to live with a stomachache, hunger, without much water, without money in the house for days, with suspicious eyes, threatening stares, regular arrests, torture, people dying. But all through, she had the forest, the trees, and a spring by her side. She could smell her mother in the saal flowers, hear her grandmother’s songs echo in the forests. As long as she had them, she knew she would survive her troubles. But now they wanted her out, out of her hut, her village, her land – unless she could show a paper that proved all that she knew. It was not enough that her father had taught her the names of various trees and shrubs, barks and leaves, that all had healing powers. Every time when she went with her mother to collect fruits, nuts and firewood, her mother showed her the tree under which she was born. Her grandmother had taught her songs about the forests. She had run around the place with her brother, watching birds, echoing their calls.But can such knowledge, these stories, songs, and childhood games, be proof of anything? She sat there wondering about the meaning of her name, and about the woman after whom she was named. How would Demathi have proved that she belonged to the forest?

Vishwaroop Darshan*She sat there, laughing, in the picture on the mud-daubed threshold of her little hut. It was her laugh that dyed the carelessly draped kum-kum coloured saree a shade darker. It was her laugh that made the old skin on her bare shoulders and collarbone   shine, bright silver. It was her laugh That traced the green patterns of the tattoo on her hand. It was her laugh That blew the locks of her uncombed yellowish grey hair like sea waves. It was her laugh that lit her eyes with memories  buried behind the cataract.A long time I stared at her old Demathi laughing teeth loosely hanging.  From an opening between her two big front teeth she pulled me in into the abyss of her hungry stomach.A scorching darkness as far as eyes could see and beyond. No divine crowns No diadems No clubs No discus With a stick shining with the light of a million suns blinding the eyes stands the fragile frame of Demathi and coming from her and disappearing in her are Eleven Rudra Twelve Adityas Eight sons of Vasu Two Ashwini Kumars Fortynine Maruts Gandharva Gana Yaksha Gana Asuras and all the accomplished Sages. Born of her are forty Saliha girls eight million four hundred thousand Charan Kanyas** all uprisings all revolutionaries all dreamers of dreams all voices of anger and protest all unyielding mountains the Aravallis   the mount Girnar. Born of her merging into her are mother, father, my entire universe! Translated by the author from her original poem in Gujarati.You can read the story of the original Demathi <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/articles/when-salihan-took-on-the-raj/">here</a>.Audio: Sudhanva Deshpande is an actor and director with Jana Natya Manch, and an editor with LeftWord Books.  Cover illustration: Labani Jangi, originally from a small town of West Bengal&#39;s Nadia district, is working towards a PhD degree on Bengali labour migration at the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences, Kolkata. She is a self-taught painter and loves to travel.*Vishwaroop Darshan is Krisha&#39;s revelation of his true, eternal form to Arjun in the 11th chapter of the Bhagavad Gita. The chapter describes this form with a million eyes, mouths, hands holding many weapons, encompassing the infinite universe including all forms of Gods and Goddesses, all things living and non-living. **Charan Kanya is the title of one of the most celebrated Gujarati poems by Zaverchand Meghani, about the valour of a 14-year-old girl from the Charan tribe in Gujarat, who chases away  with a stick  the lion that has come to attack her hamlet.

P. Sainath

So many Salihans now, all dreamers of dreams

अब तो इहाँ सालिहानेच सालिहान, सब्बो सपना देखेइय्या

ఇప్పుడెంతో మంది సాలిహన్లు; వాళ్ళంతా స్వప్న స్వాప్నికులు.

ಕನಸುಗಳ ಕನಸು ಕಾಣುವ ನೂರಾರು ಸಾಲಿಹಾನರು

હવે કેટકેટલી સલિહાન, કેટકેટલાં સપનાંના જોનાર

സാലിഹാനികള്‍, സ്വപ്നങ്ങളെ സ്വപ്നം കാണുന്നവർ

সপোনৰ সোপান বগাই কত যে চালিহান

ਇੱਕ ਸੁਪਨੇ 'ਚੋਂ ਉਪਜੀਆਂ ਕਈ ਸਾਲਿਹਾਨ

স্বপনে স্বপ্নীল আজ অগুনতি সালিহান

खूप साऱ्या सलिहान, सगळ्या स्वप्न पाहणाऱ्या

கனவு காணும் அனைவருமே சலிகாவை சேர்ந்தவர்கள்தான்

ଏବେ ତ ଅନେକ ସାଲିହାନ, ସମସ୍ତେ ସ୍ଵପ୍ନାବିଷ୍ଟ

अब तो यहां हैं ढेरों सालिहान, ख़्वाब देखना ज़ुर्रत उनकी

اب تو بے شمار سالیہان، سبھی خواب دیکھنے والی

Ahmedabad

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So many Salihans now, all dreamers of dreams

A tribute to Adivasi freedom fighter Demathi Dei Sabar who led an uprising against the British in Saliha village of Odisha’s Nuapada district in 1930 – and to the many young Demathis of that region today

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