The Birth of Poetry

 On the occasion of the birth anniversary of Rishi Valmiki, it is but natural that we think of poetry. His "ma nishad" is the first verse of Sanskrit poetics. As for the Muni/sage himself, fierce debates are raging.  One strand of scholarship denies the 'robber turned sage' tale altogether. Such scholarship maintains that he has always been a proper Rishi himself. 

In the post-Mandal contexts, everything and anything is caste-coloured. Some scholars, hence, maintain that he was a Brahmin who fell on bad days due to a famine, and hence turned a dacoit. The Brahmin bashing brigade (I heard one such  (honestly, hate) speech! Sheer vitrolic it is! Absolutely and ah, yes, absurdly prejudiced!) buyeth not this version. For them, Valmiki represents mythically the down trodden, the down and out!

Another problem with 'Ramayana' is that most people believe in the TV, that is, the Ramananda Sagar, version. Created more for entertainment, this 'Ramayana' is a serial in both the literal and metaphorical mode. Hardly to be believed as authentic.

There are, moreover, many many versions of the 'Ramayana', the Tulsidas  'Ramcharitmanas', the Kamban 'Ramayana', and so on. Each one has its own unique interpolations in the original 'Ramayana' which anyways is tough to locate. Better not get in to such debates as our blog need not be a space of contestations. 

Instead, let us look the poetry aspect. As per this 'Adya' Kavi's 'pratham shloka', that is the first enunciation by the first ever poet, poetry is born in pain and grief. Poetry is, moreover, 'spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings'. It is highly ethical, in addition. It respects the natural order of things. It has a metre, some rhyme, great rhythm and a sparse use of the figures of speech. What a lovely definition of poetry, nay, of literature itself!

In the ChatGPT era of instant (and multiple) versions (which can change as per the 'prompt' given), just a tiny little minority would continue to create such poems. Most would be busy passing off the AI crafted stuff as their own. Poor AI! What else?

Let us end our blog today with a poem entitled "Choice".      

"Life is a labyrinth!                                                  To a new route leads every unknown path.     Each turn, every mode leads astray,                  from the roots away.                                              Thus traverse the feet.                                          Life marches to a frenzied beat.                         Far away there in that wilderness,                      Hums a selfsame tune, sans bitterness!"

Pratima@Literature is life!