Drinking the Inkpot

Chance encounter of fountain pens and a Hindi poet's thirst for writing.

The first time I saw a fountain pen was one of my uncle’s. I don’t remember what he was writing, but I remember being entirely enamored with the nib—a golden nib in a shape that I could never fathom being a pen nib. I asked him what it was, and he said it was a fountain pen. My mind went to the image of an actual fountain. Here is a crude sketch of the same:

The labeling felt necessary because the drawing doesn’t look like water.

I am thinking of fountain pens because of Vinod Kumar Shukl.

It was odd how I had never heard of him before. A Sahitya Akademi award winner, and a prolific poetry and prose writer, and no one in my literature-loving family had heard of him. I came across a small video with his recitation of one of his poems in the background. The poem spoke of despondency and companionship. I didn’t know Hindi poetry could be so simple and so effective in conjuring up the exact poetic image. I could feel that the poet knew what being lonely, giving up, and getting up again felt like. I felt it with him.

Soon after I went and got a collection of poems he wrote in the 60s. It’s a rare feeling to feel seen entirely by a poem. One does relate with poetry almost all the time but to feel naked standing in front of it is something else. I knew Vinod Kumar Shukl felt what I feel every day and so I couldn’t wait.

I opened the first poem in the bookstore and for that moment — I knew I had reached a poet who knew the burdensome weight one bears in living, in writing. The first poem was

लिखने के बाद
दवात में स्याही बची रही
इसलिए उठाकर पीनी पड़ी
फिर ख़ाली दवात के
नीले गहर में घुसकर
मगन हूँ
कि बाहर की सारी प्रताड़ना और रोमांस
क़लम की निब बनकर मुझमें चुभे
और मैं कवि-कर्म निबाह सकूँ।

Now I have gotten into the charm of translating poetry over the past few months. I translated a few of Parveen Shakir’s poetry and it gave me a deeper perspective into why she wrote that particular poem, something very hard to understand by simply just reading it. With Vinod Kumar Shukl’s poem, I understood the moment I read it. I came home and I translated it still and sat just staring at what it takes to be a poet.

After writing
some little ink was still left in the inkpot
that’s why I had to drink it
then in the empty inkpot
entering the deep blue
I am content
now the world’s swindle and romance
will prick me becoming the pen’s nib
and I will fulfill my poet’s duty.

He had to drink the ink and so does anyone who has heard the pen’s screech against paper and in that noise became deaf to himself.

I don’t know what’s to become of me — but if it will be anything, let it be a poet.

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