He Lived For Them

[November 9, 2011 marked the thirtyfirst death anniversary of P.C. Joshi, that outstanding Communist who has been aptly described as the only genuine national leader of Indian communist movement far beyond the narrow confines of the Communist Parties in this country. The following poem has been composed by veteran journalist and trade unionist Narendra Sharma in his memory.
In an introductory note to the Mainstream editor, Narendra Sharma explained:
“I wrote this poem with pain and anguish, after listening to CPI leaders at the memorial meeting held at Ajoy Bhavan soon after P.C. Joshi’s demise. I am sure, once the communist movement in India recovers its balance, PCJ’s role in building the communist movement in the country will be remembered.

The poem could not be published earlier (that is, last month) for unavoidable reasons. —Editor ]

He Lived For Them

They buried him alive

he did not die

for thirty and three years he lived.

He lived for them,

for those who buried him,

for those he reared up

for those they together fought for,

for them, for his people, for his country, for mankind.

They ignored him,

they forgot about him

they thought he was dead;

but he was still alive,

for thirtythree long years he lived.

Paralysis struck him down,

with failing memory

he still thought of them, of his people and the country,

may be in flashes

he thought of them all.

Ah! alas! he is no more

his ailing heart stopped.

Lo! Behold!

they sing praises to him,

to his greatness, his genius,

his glorious contributions in the days gone by;

to his blending patriotism with internationalism

to his remarkable organisational ability;

his ability to harness the best talent for a worthy cause;

to his having given them a personality.

They talk not of his failings

nor of his sufferings,

they praise him now for he is no more.

They praise him now that he is no more,

they buried him alive thirtythree years ago.

Narendra Sharma

Footnote: Once I happened to meet Kalpanadi during a CPI Congress, at an adjoining teahouse, where I found her sitting alone. I joined her at the table. I introduced myself. After a brief silence I made bold to say: Kalpanadi, I had written a poem about Joshiji, if she would mind listening it. She nodded but kept looking far away all the while. As soon as I finished, she, unmoved and still looking far away, said: “I had told the Party (CPI) many times that Joshi was doing useful research work and that he needed to be encouraged. But no one bothered.†—N.S.