Mitti Jo Maktab
By Dadan Saqlain Lashari
Kanwal Publications, Hyderabad
ISBN: 978-9692252331
224pp.

We know not of ego as we are made of clay
The clay that we belong to, put on, embrace, with which we play

These healing and thought-provoking lines mark the beginning of a debut work of Sindhi poetry, Mitti Jo Maktab [The School of Clay], whose ghazals, nazms, waee and geet place Dadan Saqlain Lashari firmly amongst the new generation of writers and poets garnering acclaim in the realm of Sindhi language and literature.

Lashari is Assistant Commissioner in the government of Sindh but, despite his work commitments, has managed to keep up with literary pursuits that include literary criticism, sub-editing the magazine Voice of Sindh and composing poetry.

Creating verse is not a great feat in itself, but implanting the precise feeling the poet experiences into the hearts of readers is the crowning achievement of the art. The English poet William Wordsworth famously wrote, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” and with Lashari, one finds oneself transported into a world of imagination, where human plight, hope and despair, passion, longing and the relentless quest for eternal peace dance together.

A debut collection of Sindhi poetry candidly narrates the problems of the present day and elevates them to an artistic pedestal

Linguistically, Lashari’s diction allows readers to probe deep into the dark recesses of the human heart. He throws a pebble into the tranquil waters of Sindhi poetry to shake and awake, introduces novel themes and rhymes and hits upon ideas that have rarely been discussed before.

The chief merit of his poetry lies primarily in narrating candidly the baffling problems of the present day and elevating them to an artistic pedestal. He voices the genuine concerns of an already downtrodden section of society groaning under the harrow of myriad socio-economic setbacks and brings to light the blatant violation of natural human rights:

The edifices of the affluent have blocked my air
How then would it reach the huts
The air is too costly!

He writes of the shambles of our justice system:

The single trace of my innocence, if found
What if, by the judge, it is burnt down!

And of the unequal distribution of resources, a practice rampant in Third World countries such as Pakistan:

It is the time of bataaee [division of produce between landlord and tenant], but for a single paisa lent
The cultivator of the crop stands with an empty hand

He is tormented by the pervasive intolerance on racial, religious, linguistic and sectarian lines, and the disregard for difference of opinion. He chastises such divisive trends and calls for national unity in which lies our ultimate remedy:

Forbidden to us are the celebrations until our gardens emit fragrance
For the sake of the beloved land we have ceased to rejoice

And he voices the miseries of the impoverished:

How would he fathom on an empty stomach
The slogans of revolution?
What does a famished pauper know of politics?

Some of Lashari’s poems present vivid images of rustic country life. Others speak of the transitory nature of life. Yet others depict the the heartbreak of broken families as crestfallen wives plead with their husbands:

Our children are enquiring about you
What to make them understand
Their questions are like knives
How long will I pretend!

Or of the anxious longing for a beloved:

Winter has arrived
The biting cold has come to reign
Tired of burning sticks I have been
Send me some warmth of caresses
As there is no passion left in the embers

Laments about violence against women, their sufferings, their being forbidden from education and from participation in civic life find generous room in Lashari’s verse:

Under siege is the dignity of women
Butchers have men become
O my father, my dear father
I will not step outside the house!

So do cold-blooded murders at the hands of myopic men in the name of ‘honour’:

O Bhitai, keep playing the tambooro,
So that I can slumber

The screams of Kari [women killed in the name of ‘honour] killed and washed away in the river

Don’t let me sleep!

The currency of Lashari’s thought gives a freshness to the otherwise static Sindhi poetry of the 21st century, which remains mostly confined to the narrow alleys of romance and the subjective feelings of young poets. He references the recent Russian invasion of Ukraine:

O ye, infected with worldly might
The man who in the head is not right

And, more locally, he refers to the rains of 2022 that proved ruinous for the people of ill-governed Sindh:

As the rain drops patter pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat,
The nests resonate with sobs,
The rain for all is not the same!

Lashari’s debut collection delicately touches all the possible dimensions of his imagination, unleashing creativity that the sobering experiences of life have nurtured in his verdant mind. His poems will appeal to the lay reader as well as the connoisseur and, as the critics pour forth their reactions, one hopes Lashari will pass the litmus test set by Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai, who says in Sur Srirag: “Trade the goods that time will neither rust nor rot.”

*All translations by the reviewer

The reviewer is a poet, translator and civil servant. He tweets @KhokharAsad88

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, July 9th, 2023