Wednesday, August 6, 2025

Lokayat

 

Poem: Lokayat

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An aphorism is, in a way, Lokayat :

People’s science, a path designed for people


“A watched pot never boils” – Perhaps the best companion to the

Copenhagen interpretation


All knowledge, if looked closely

Comes from life and its

Unknown troubadours

Colloquial wisdom can 

Defeat even the most learned


Surgery evolved through 

The work of artisans 

Potters, barbers, craftspeople, and such  

Later codified and expanded in the 

Sushrut Samhita by the 

Venerated king


If Sanskrit is older than Prakrit,

Why is it called Sanskrit; the polished one?

You can’t refine something that doesn’t exist 

(If you say Sanskrit was made by the Gods, 

                                                   Did thieves make Prakrit? )

Even the Vedic Sanskrit 

Which some say predates the Prakrits 

Was built on some common tongue 


Prakrits were called such since they 

Existed, organically


Wise men and women later refined them 

Into a crisp new Sanskrit dialect 

Only for books; never the streets


Much as I adore Sanskrit, Prakrits

Are roaring rivers with sharp bends 

Replete with liquid sounds

Rough at the edges

Beautiful inside 

(If you must go in details

Haalaa’s “Gatha Sattasai” is at places so erotic

It could make 

Fifty shades blush)


The Maharashtri Prakrit 

With its lilt and grace was 

Tailor-made for songs

Kalidas borrowed from it, 

So his Sanskrit plays could croon


Dnyaneshwar refused Sanskrit 

Much to the priest's dismay 

“I will write in Marathi – sweeter than the 

Heavenly nectars”


Mahadamba, Namdeo, Eknath, Tukaram

Founders, poets, rebels 

They chose the people’s tongue

With deliberate resolve 


Aristophanes wrote his plays in 

Street Greek, and 

Chaucer scribbled his tales

In oure tonge 


Peter Bruegel the Elder

Drew the commoner 

In their language 


In the times of Mir and later Ghalib

People freely spoke in Urdu

Or Rekhta, as it was called then, the 

Scattered dialect of commoners

While the gentry postured in Farsi

The language of the Darbar

The elites and the rich 


No wonder Urdu became the 

Ever-giving 

River of poetry 


And no wonder

William Carlos Williams 

Sought to perfect

The American idiom – people’s way 

Of saying things


Most knowledge comes from people, 

The common folk


Intellectuals rearrange it

And become immortals


In the gilded pages of written history. 


-Anant Dhavale



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