Poetry, Narayan Surve and mill lands of Mumbai

Hello readers! I read this fascinating piece about a thief breaking into a house and stealing taps, a TV, etc. On their second trip to steal some more, they saw a picture of poet Narayan Surve in the house and pasting a note in Marathi saying:

“I did not know that this was the home of Narayan Surve, else I would have never stolen from here. Forgive me! I am returning some of the things that I have stolen, including the television. Sorry.”

Here’s the news report:

Thief returns stolen TV after realising house belonged to Marathi poet Narayan Surve, pastes apology note:
https://indianexpress.com/article/cities/mumbai/thief-returns-stolen-tv-after-realising-house-belonged-to-marathi-poet-pastes-apology-note-9456304/

I had never heard of Narayan Surve, and had to look him up. I am sharing his poetry (which vividly depicted the struggles of the urban working class), a film and a brief bio.

Bio from the Speaking Tiger website, Jerry Pinto translated his poems into English:

Abandoned soon after birth, Narayan Gangaram Surve (1926-2010) was brought up by mill workers, but left to fend for himself once again at the age of twelve in the chawls of Mumbai. He grew up in the streets of the big city, taught himself to read and write—working as doffer boy in a textile mill, a sweeper, a peon—and became a school teacher and a celebrated revolutionary poet. An abiding allegiance to the workers’ movement was the thread that ran through his extraordinary journey. His poetry was thus as much ammunition to fight the good fight as it was art. It evolved a new idiom, written in the Marathi spoken on the streets, freely borrowing words from Hindi or English, unafraid to break literary conventions upheld by the cultured elite. As he puts it, the people were ‘my holy books, my scriptures, my gurus’.

Here’s where you can listen to his poetry in his voice. This is in Marathi but they have English translations.

By way of introduction
- Narayan Surve
(translation: Jerry Pinto)

I’m run ragged, in and out.
My daily bread is my daily doubt.
I am a worker, a flashing sword,
Set to slash through the literary horde.
Don’t you quiver, don’t go “Tut tut”,
My sins will be venial, Mr Saraswat.

I’ve watched, I’ve heard, assessed it all.
I turned it into what you’d call my signature scrawl.
All those learnings, losses, all that mess,
As I live, I write, so I confess.

Bread is dear but I need more.
I burn my brand into your door.
To my words, I offer flowers.
I give them swords, release their powers.

I’m not alone; our time has come.
Beware, what follows is the storm.
I am a worker, a flashing sword,
Set to slash through the literary horde.
Don’t you quiver, don’t go “Tut tut”,
My sins will be venial, Mr Saraswat.

Please make time for this fabulous documentary on Narayan Surve and mill lands of Mumbai

That’s all for now. More next week.

Warmly,
Indu