My Voice

If we look back to the 1960s and 70s, all-night poetry gatherings—known as Kavi Sammelans—were a popular phenomenon. I recall that during my childhood summers in Chittorgarh, the sounds of these poetry sessions would reverberate through the town. These gatherings were typically organized at night near a public square; a large tent would be pitched, and the proceedings would be broadcast using loudspeakers. Although I never had the opportunity to witness them in person, I spent many evenings sitting on my rooftop, listening intently to the voices reciting poetry and shayari. Indeed, in those days, poets were formally invited and compensated for their performances. Vishnu Prabhakar ji, while sharing his reminiscences, once mentioned that people would often approach him seeking his assistance in inviting Bachchan ji to their events. Prabhakar ji shared a cordial relationship with Bachchan ji; the latter would engage in conversation with the person introduced by Prabhakar ji, and then turn to him and say, “You may go now; I will handle the financial negotiations myself.” I once heard Amitabh recount that whenever his father—affectionately known as Bauji—returned home after reciting poetry at an all-night gathering, he would have four hundred rupees in his pocket. People today would find it difficult to grasp the true value that four hundred rupees held in those times. Indeed, back then, even a professional engineer would struggle to earn that amount. The most significant aspect of that era was the deep connection that existed between the poets—or shayars—and the general public. These events were not attended by the elite who had purchased tickets, but rather by the common people, who gathered there free of charge. It was within the precincts of these very gatherings that Bachchan’s Madhushala and Neeraj’s songs first rose to widespread popularity. Much water has flowed under the bridge since then, and today we observe a different reality: while many people enjoy writing poetry, the act of becoming a recognized “poet” now entails self-publishing one’s own books, personally distributing them to readers, and practically begging for their feedback. In fact, contemporary poets often do not even bother seeking out readers; instead, they identify prominent figures within the literary establishment, solicit a testimonial or endorsement from them, and feel a sense of profound validation once they receive it. Furthermore, modern literary gatherings and seminars are no longer attended by the general public, but rather by the poets and writers themselves. It begs the question: how can one expect a person who is preoccupied with writing their own work to find the time—let alone the inclination—to read and engage with *your* poetry or writing? If I were faced with the choice of what to read, I would wish to read everything about which I know absolutely nothing.

 

Most magazines, too, tend to publish only those writers and poets who have already established a name for themselves. Undoubtedly, reading seasoned writers is essential; however, it would also be fitting to provide a platform to writers from non-literary fields—thereby ensuring that poetry, which is fundamentally an expression of the common people, finds its way back to them.

 

Kratya pays special attention to this very approach.

 

In this new issue, you will once again have the opportunity to read writers hailing from fields outside the realm of literature.

 

Rati Saxena