Sadanand Shahi Discusses ‘Sangatarash’
This is the Full English transcript of the Book Baithak Interview, featuring author Sadanand Shahi as we discuss his new poetry collection, “Sangatarash,” a reflective exploration of time, society, and human experience. Hosted by Gaurav Tiwari at Ka: The Art Café, Lanka, Varanasi, this session brings together readers and thinkers for meaningful literary dialogue.
Gaurav Tiwari: Welcome everyone to the ninth session of the Book Baithak series. Today we will be talking with writer and poet Sadanand Shahi about his new poetry collection Sang Tarash. Sir, welcome.
Sadanand Shahi: Thank you.
Gaurav Tiwari: Sir, let’s begin with how you started writing poetry. Under what circumstances did you write your very first poem?
Sadanand Shahi: Look, I am not a formally trained poet, but I do write poems.
The first poem has a very amusing story behind it. At that time, I didn’t even know that what I was writing could be called poetry. We lived in a joint family. My uncle was a very cruel man—what you might call misanthropic. He was an important figure in our lives, but he influenced us in a very negative way.
He would always look for excuses to beat children, and he did so with great cruelty.
Once, during the summer holidays, I was at my maternal grandparents’ house. We were making fun of my uncle, and while joking around, we wrote three or four lines that had a kind of rhyme.
Gaurav Tiwari: So sir, it seems your inspiration for writing poetry began with cruelty—with resistance to cruelty. Now tell us about this new poetry collection. What kind of poems does it contain?
Sadanand Shahi: First, let me say that the full title of this collection is a bit long—Sangtarash and That Sacred Morning of Banaras Which Existed Before Becoming Invisible.
In this collection, too, a particular psychology of cruelty is at work. When I came to Banaras, there was a story in the air: a sculptor from Banaras had disappeared. He was then the Dean of the Faculty of Visual Arts at Banaras Hindu University. He was highly respected not only in India but across the world as a sculptor. He suddenly vanished, and no trace of him was ever found—not even news of his death.
I feel Banaras is a city of many layers. We know it as a cultural capital. It is a very ancient city, said to be the oldest living city in the world. But within it, many forms of cruelty can also be seen.
Gaurav Tiwari: Sir, in the process of writing, what do you feel is the main difference between prose writing and poetry writing, and also between reading ordinary storybooks? As a reader too, what differences do you notice between writing and reading? I ask this because if we look back two or three hundred years, all the literature being created here was composed through poetry. But in today’s times, we see that this has reversed—prose has taken the place of poetry.
Sadanand Shahi: You have observed this quite correctly—that in our country, until quite recently, prose did not even exist. The emergence of prose is a very recent phenomenon.
Books in different branches of knowledge were also written in verse. For example, Ayurvedic texts are found in poetry, medical science texts in poetry, and even books on law and ethics in poetry.
Broadly speaking, prose carries a certain analytical quality. As the struggles of life increased, prose gradually emerged. Especially in Hindi, during the 18th–19th centuries, with the independence movement and even earlier, when ideas about India’s identity began to take shape, prose developed to serve that need.
Poetry, on the other hand, is primarily an emotional response to life’s realities. Poetry has been called the mother tongue of humanity. Human beings began expressing their sorrow, pain, joy, and experiences through music and poetry. As long as life remained simple, poetry was sufficient.
But when life’s struggles grew and the need for ideas arose—it is not that poetry lacks ideas, poetry does contain them—but there was a need to explain them in detail and to reach larger groups. That is when prose developed.
Prose carries a certain intensity. Not only analytical prose, but narrative prose also came into being. Prose works pushed epics and poetry into the background, giving rise to novels and stories. These, too, developed their own tradition here.
Stories had the capacity to encompass and express the larger circles of life. Yet the emotional response that poetry provides still remains.
All in all, in our society and across the world, poetry continues to hold a special place. Even today, poems are being written—and good poems are being written.
Gaurav Tiwari: “With this, sir, I would request you to recite a poem from your collection.”
Sadanand Shahi: “There is a poem—Have Mercy.
Have mercy on those who have never loved anyone.
Have mercy on those who have never loved anyone.
Have mercy also on those who have never received anyone’s love.
On those who never entered the world of love, who never knew—
what the bee gains by sacrificing itself to the flower.
On those who never knew the pain of rivers rushing toward the sea,
have mercy.
On those to whom the fragrance of flowers never reaches,
who cannot hear the sound of birds flying in the sky,
who are not thrilled by the velvet touch of a rabbit.
On those who cannot see buds blooming,
who do not know the taste of fog—
they are in dire need of mercy.
On those who have never seen a face better than their own,
who could not step outside the spell of their own voice—
have mercy on their poverty.
Have mercy, a little on yourself, a little on this world.
This world is in dire need of mercy.
On all the emperors, the kings of this world,
who cannot see a hunger greater than their own—
they too are beggars for mercy.
Have mercy on them.
Gaurav Tiwari: “How do you see the current landscape of Hindi poetry? Is there a new movement or trend emerging in Hindi poetry? What I mean is—what kind of poems are being written today, and what kind of poems are becoming more popular, the ones people enjoy listening to?”
Sadanand Shahi: “What has happened is that in the last twenty–twenty‑five years, the social changes we’ve witnessed have had a clear impact. Earlier, poems were written in the form of movements—linked to specific ideas. That era has, in a way, passed.
The new poems being written, especially by the younger generation, show a tendency to look at the realities of life with open eyes. We cannot call this a movement, though the history of Hindi poetry has essentially been the history of movements. Hindi society is made up of many complexities, and such a society repeatedly needs cultural awakenings.
Our civilization is very old—like an ancient house. No matter how grand it is, from time to time it needs repairs. Windows must be opened, doors replaced. The same is true of our society. We claim, and rightly so to a large extent, that we are a five‑thousand‑year‑old civilization. In such a society, poetry will inevitably carry the experience of movements, and it should.
Here in Banaras itself, poets like Kabir and Raidas emerged. They gave Hindi poetry a vast foundation. For a long time, the Bhakti movement guided poetry. What did the Bhakti movement do? When society grows old and its structures become rigid, the stature of human beings diminishes. Poetry restores that stature, re‑establishes humanity.
The slogan of the medieval period was: ‘Above all is the human being; nothing is greater than man.’ Kabir, Raidas, and other poets together created a movement in poetry. Later, the Progressive movement came, which also showed an inclusive character.
But in the last twenty–thirty years, our social structure has undergone new changes. Consumerism has grown; technology and machinery have intruded deeply into life. In this new economic order and glitter, the position of human beings has once again been diminished.
That is why Hindi needs a new kind of poetic movement. Such a movement cannot be deliberately organized. But in the poems of the new poets, a fresh vision is emerging. We can hope that from this vision, a new movement will be born—one that will once again restore the dignity of human beings.
Gaurav Tiwari: For those who want to start writing poetry but feel hesitant—what advice would you give them? Was there any practice that helped you, or perhaps a book that supported you in writing poetry?
Sadanand Shahi: Your question immediately reminds me of the 12th‑century poet Abdul Rahman, who wrote in the Apabhramsha language. He said that one should write or recite poetry according to the capacity one possesses. At that time, poetry was spoken rather than written. He insisted that there should be no hesitation.
The arguments he gave are very important. I would say he was the first poet in Hindi literature to speak so strongly in favor of the ordinary. He said—if Brahma writes poetry, why should others not write? If the Ganga flows through the three worlds, should other rivers not flow? If the lotus blooms in a pond and looks beautiful, should the gourd vine blooming on a poor man’s hut not flower?
This is the essence of writing poetry. Language is a unique gift to human beings. And today, the greatest crisis is precisely that of language. In the history of Hindi, the way language is being used in social discourse has perhaps never gone so far astray.
What does poetry do? Poetry cultivates language. It brings language into its most beautiful form. Therefore, whoever has the capacity should write poetry. They should contribute to preserving the nobility, excellence, and simplicity of language, because nature has given language only to human beings.
The nobler the language, the stronger and more established our humanity will be. That is why new poets must write without hesitation.
At the same time, it is essential that they read the poems written in history by poets before us, by our contemporaries, and by those who will come after us. That is the way. Just as one cannot learn to swim without entering the water, in the same way, one cannot become a poet by learning techniques from outside without entering the world of writing itself.
Gaurav Tiwari: In the course of this discussion, I would like to add one more point—that in today’s era, language faces another great crisis, that of AI. Nature gave language to humans, unlike other animals, but now humans have handed over that very language to AI. This is in reality a very serious crisis of AI, one that many people do not pay attention to and do not talk about.
Sadanand Shahi: Look, we have already spoken about the civilizational crisis. As human beings, we were given intelligence, language, and along with that, two hands and feet—our organs of action. Civilization developed in such a way that, in the pursuit of physical and material comforts, we began a journey in which we surrendered much of our freedom to machines and gradually forgot the importance of physical labor, pushing it aside. This is very dangerous. One of the greatest problems of Indian society is precisely that physical labor is regarded as inferior.
To escape labor, the solutions we invent often themselves become crises for humanity. In the journey of civilization, the word ‘development’ has itself become dangerous and meaningless.
Our elder Hindi writer Bharatendu Harishchandra once raised the question: ‘How should India progress?’ He said that for some time, we should stop using the word ‘development,’ because it has become hollow and misleading.
This is exactly what poetry does—it takes a word that has been exhausted or distorted through overuse or misuse, and gives it a new arrangement, creating new meanings.
Gaurav Tiwari: “So sir, in conclusion, I would request you to recite one of my favorite poems from this collection—Majli Mami.”
Sadanand Shahi: “I think some of the poems in this collection are quite long. This one is the second longest. If you have the patience to listen, I will read it.
Majli Mami
When she was married and came into the family, we were still small children.
She was extraordinarily beautiful—so much so that, in our childhood eyes, she seemed like a ball of dough.
Fair, soft, delicate—touch her and she would seem to stain.
Later we realized she was more like a fresh apple—touch her and juice would flow.
She was not educated, nor worldly.
In our world then, worldly women did not exist.
But in her rustic grace she walked as though the moon itself had descended, draped in a simple sari.
Her natural beauty left us all spellbound.
In time, she gave birth to four children—two sons and two daughters.
The glow of her beauty lit up the life of our maternal home.
But her own life, as it unfolded, cannot be called happy.
Her husband tried to wash away the stains of his failed ambitions with alcohol.
Fields were sold, honor was lost, misfortune settled into the household.
She endured taunts for things she had no part in.
She saw everything, heard everything, let everything pass—and allowed it to pass.
She tried hard to reform her husband, to make him give up drinking.
Secretly she sought healers, charms, medicines, rituals.
She was not a devoutly religious woman, but she had her own gods to whom she confided her joys and sorrows.
She prayed only that life might return to how it once was.
But all was in vain.
At last a day came when her husband did give up alcohol—but far too late.
By then, the elder son had taken the same path.
One day, poisonous liquor turned his fair body blue and cold.
Soon the younger son followed, and met the same fate.
Thus her world collapsed, and she remained a witness to its ruin.
Yet even after all this devastation, her beauty was never destroyed.
In her utterly empty hands and empty life, a simple smile remained.
That smile, radiating a gentle light of beauty, was what helped her endure every deprivation and calamity.
Once I told her, ‘You are as beautiful as your smile.’
A sorrowful smile crossed her face, and with a deep sigh she replied, ‘It was not my fate.’
The chain of misfortunes did not end, nor did her smile fade.
Then one day a small sore appeared on her tongue, and soon it turned into cancer.
Treatment began—endless chemotherapy and radiotherapy.
The cure was pain, and the pain was the cure.
The illness reached its final stage.
They say one night she quietly rose and stood for a long time before the dressing table, applying kohl to her eyes.
She loved adorning her beautiful eyes with kohl.
She applied it until her last breath.
She had no other cosmetics—nor did she need them.
Death was approaching swiftly.
Her face grew dark.
All the kohl of her life seemed to sink into her face.
First her beauty left her face, then she herself departed.
When she was gone, two things remained on her bed—
a small kohl container, and a sorrowful smile.
When she was carried for her final journey to the banks of the Little Gandak River,
that sorrowful smile seemed to walk alongside.
For her funeral feast, a notice was printed on white paper.
It was then we learned that the woman we had always known as Majli Mami was truly named Pritibala.
