The Profane by Satyajit Sarna [A collection of poems] [Review]

Title: The Profane

Poet: Satyajit Sarna

 

The Profane: An Intriguing Hand

Imagine that you are at a Taash scene(1) i.e., Teen-Patti (a type of 3-card-poker), and The Profane by Satyajit Sarna is the hand that can both tackle, and, if need be, assimilate the joker in the variation. It begins innocuously enough: the cards/poems are dealt. As you begin to go through them, one realizes that this hand can meet anything dealt across the table. The final outcome of course depends on the skill and the discretion of the player.

        The Waterfall: a type of variation in taash

known for its flipping jokers.

This collection of poems appear to revolve around the perceptions of the millennial. Sarna's observations are, at points, soothingly savage and delightfully vicious.  The common theme cutting across each poem is that Sarna says the things that are considered taboo by many and are, well, usually artfully ignored for the “greater good” of “society”, specifically Indian society. Yet he does this without sounding like a boor and more out of fascination, compassion, hindsight, anger, exasperation and, above all, love.  The beauty of Sarna’s writing lies in the fragility of the subjects and in the corresponding (re)action(s), albeit even the violent ones.

Some of the poems that struck a chord with me are listed below in no particular order of preference:

Kaleja was a testament to the ironic truth of certain colloquial nicknames (and their more well known cousins, the mohavaras i.e. the proverbs) and how we begin to appreciate their veracity as we grow older. It was a touching tribute to the unique love of grandparents – the embodiment of givers.

In Old Man Wisdom the last stanza is the clincher.  Sarna rips apart the nothingness of certain wisdom(s) that repeatedly shriek to be passed down through generations - a burden on the shoulders of posterity with it’s veneer of demanding unquestioning obedience when, in fact, this regurgitation is more to defend the mess that has been created by hubris and hypocrisy. While it is correct to respect the past, let us not forget that at some point, practices such as Sati and excommunication for marrying outside one’s community were also considered “wisdom” (2). 

The guile and vulnerability in Shirts reminded me of how we always underestimate the pain of feeling too much. It took me back to 2001 when Shivani Singh jumped off the 4^th floor of the Indian Habitat Centre, thereby permanently shutting down access to the upper floors of the complex forever. Loving deeply sometimes leads to hurting deeply, until death arrives to relieve one of the pain.

Her Boredom was a delight in how it elaborated the pains taken by amours to impress what is considered to be the quintessential city girl (in this case it appears to be the Delhi Girl)(3). “Lines off the moon for her nostrils” is more truism than metaphor given the frenetic lengths taken at all hours (odd and otherwise) by the lads. The intoxicating captivation by her polite cynicism, which turns the head, then the stomach and then the world around for the recipient. The poet has clearly had his fair share of experience and success, given that he is well aware that this is merely armor. 

Morning Coda describes the melancholy that some may experience from a sexual encounter. This catapulted me to a conversation that I had with an old friend, in 2014, regarding what he had termed le petit mort (and then he had emitted a delighted chuckle..... and I am still not sure if he was merely trying to tease me by being outrageous while narrating his escapades) . A bit harsh but entertaining nonetheless, just like this poem. Juxtaposed with this, the poet’s dry observations in Tall Boys made me burst out laughing. It held forth on the archetypal fascination with height that, at times, lies with both sexes (albeit for completely different reasons).

Cobra,Child bluntly exhibits the contradiction that lies in the aptly termed Hatha yoga position assumed at sunrise i.e., the 'Cobra' (one of the many yoga positions that train the body to seek spiritual peace and oneness),  and how the word is also a trigger regarding the darker side of Hinduism i.e. child saints and creepy God men. A must read but perhaps ought to be avoided by the fanatical.

Certain poems might resonate more with those who live in Delhi and its surrounding cities, such as, Allah Hu the Gravedigger of Okhla, Let Me Tell You About Delhi, Yamuna Bank and Matyrdom(4)

What I would like to see more of in Sarna’s future work, is that he delve deeper into his mind and heart and go beyond the pale of beatific observation and clipped rage; that he invite the reader into the recesses of pure unadulterated emotion and thought... tickle the Id a bit more as it were. Glimpses of this were seen in We Do Not Need Big Dams, Picture Peleus, Bottocelli’s Anunciation, Poets, Door and Palm Tree Ballads.

Given that India is still a land of learning-by-rote and prompt verbal regurgitation, this collection might not appeal to those who must read reams of reviews and commentaries about a poet and his work before forming an opinion. That is because Sarna is very much alive and this is his first collection of poems. So basically one might have to exercise some independent and original thought. For those who do possess such faculties, this collection will definitely catch the eye.

 

(1) Taash, or Teen-Patti is the name given to the game of cards that is traditionally played during the month of Diwali: the Festival of Lights. For those who may not be familiar with it: Taash is a mix of poker and bluff. Usually 3 cards are dealt per player. The dealer changes at each round and each dealer can decide the variation i.e., the jokers for said round. A variation can be anything from simply passing a card to a player on one’s left to placing rotating i.e., changing/flipping jokers, with each players withdrawal. The catch in Taash is that seldom is a hand impervious to a joker. 

(2)That being said, please note that I like Socrates.

(3)As thrilling as I find life in the city and it’s travails, it is nothing without the peace and beauty of the countryside: “ And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow/ Dropping from the veils of morning to where the cricket sings/ There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow/ And evening full of the linnet’s wings” - The Lake Isle of Innisfree  by William Butler Yeats. 

(4)1984 riots should never be forgotten. To forget is to repeat.