Reads the title of an article in today’s Indian Express. The simple line says, A thief walks into a house. The rest is history.
A burglar walked into a house in Maharashtra, Raigad district. He takes an LED TV, cooking oil, utensils & taps. On his way out, he happens to come across a life size photograph of the former owner of the house- Marathi poet Narayan Gangaram Surve ( 19226- 2010) – catches his eye.
The rest, if one were to borrow Surve’s words, would read as ‘ I’m run ragged, in & out. My daily bread is my daily doubt. Don’t you quiver, don’t go ‘Tut tut, My sins will be venial, Mr Saraswat’.
When the poet’s family returns home, waiting for them is the TV set & an apology letter ;’I wasn’t aware that the house belonged to Narayan Surve, or else I would ‘ve never stolen from here.’
It is a rare gesture, but his admiration for the poet is understandable. Considered one of the greatest of his generation, the poet led a hard life. His poetry speaks to & for everyone who has struggled, lost & never stopped looking for better days or a revolution.
Abandoned in infancy, he was brought up by mill workers in Mumbai’s chawls. Working as a sweeper, peon, domestic help & a doffer in a textile mill, he taught himself to read & write. Found employment as a school teacher. ( Imagine being in his class & getting a piece from his adventures)
Renown as a poet came later , through words advocating for those on the margins of society. When we fail one paper or one exam, we get disappointed so easily. Can’t we have a model like him or start looking up at him & others like him who have struggles, really struggled???
The thread that runs to the story is the evocative appeal of poetry & it’s ability to salve & soothe. ( What circumstances led him to steal? The thief is well versed in poetry. The law may take care of his deeds. But the question is why was he there? Was he poor or unemployed ?)
The beauty of the poetry doesn’t lie in the tedious demands made by the critics on how it should be read, rather how it makes one feel. We have forgotten to read or live poetry. To like enjoy it.
It also lies in realizing what another poet , Sylvia Plath, put as the ‘old brag’ of the heart : ‘I am’ & how that matters, in whatever meager, inadequate way possible, making one worthy of receiving & dispensing grace.
I have loved poetry since ages & I naturally love all those who appreciate good prose. One who appreciates the good work of another individual is a evolved being. We need to appreciate it. Facilitate it.
Asian Entertainment 