Poonam Vasam

(Responses of Poonam Vasam translated from Hindi by Pinali Vadher.)
 

Poet Poonam Vasam, in an email conversation with Gopika Jadeja, speaks about Bastar, its beauty, the smell of gunpowder, and the necessity of poetry for change.

Writing in Hindi, Poonam Vasam challenges the marginalisation of Adivasi voices in literature. A sensitive voice in contemporary Adivasi poetry, her poetics challenges both the poetics and sensibilities of Hindi poetry. Poonam Vasam reminds us of the language of the forest, rivers and hills as well as the violence that disrupts their beauty and the lives of those who call Bastar home. She draws on the memory of myths to create a fluid poetics of love that expands our understanding both of the region and of poetry.

When did you begin writing? How did poetry come to you?

It is a bit difficult to say exactly when I started writing. Poetry doesn’t come through a fixed route. Sometimes, it arrives like a tune that keeps echoing in the mind; sometimes, it is born from a visual—a child playing, a woman fetching water, a barren tree, or news of war—something that deeply moves you. Poetry is born from that very moment. It also came to me because the world I live in is still full of sorrow, pain, helplessness, and injustice. You can only bottle up that pain for so long before it spills out. Poetry comes from grief as much as it does from love. It is born in those moments when the mind is completely alert, sensitive, and open.

You write in Hindi—a language often seen as dominant over indigenous languages. How do you navigate between Hindi and Adivasi language(s) in your creative process?

It’s true that Hindi, which itself is an amalgamation of many languages, often becomes a “mainstream” language that diminishes our native words, dialects, and expressions. But to me, Hindi is neither an enemy nor a complete ally. Sometimes it’s a bridge, sometimes a wall. When I write, two voices speak inside me—one, from my mother, from ancestral stories, folk sayings, and proverbs in our native tongue; the other, from schoolbooks, which taught me how to structure poetry and reach a wider audience.

I don’t let these two voices clash. I let them blend. My Hindi pulses with the heartbeat of my Adivasi language. I bend and break Hindi to fit my jungle’s words into it. For me, language is not just a medium of expression, it is an identity, memory, and soul. So, when I write in Hindi, I infuse it with the scent, tone, and soil of my mother tongue. I call Hindi to my ground instead of trapping my experiences in the edifice of Hindi.

Why do you write , and who do you write for?

I often say that I come from a place of rivers, mountains, and forests; from myths, folk songs, metaphors—and also from displacement, neglect, tears, and the sting of marginalisation. I come from a land of bombs, guns, and fire. For people like us, reading and writing poetry becomes a necessity for change.

The battle over language strengthens us. My urgency to write about Bastar—its joys, sorrows, and humanity—is impossible to contain. It is perhaps my way of expressing my immeasurable love for the soil and people of Bastar. My sensitivity is stirred by its surroundings, which I try to express—sometimes linguistically, sometimes otherwise. Poetry for me begins at a personal level and then becomes social. There's no place on Earth beyond the reach of a poet’s empathy.

Do you ever feel pressure to conform to mainstream literary expectations, or do you consciously challenge them?

Yes, the pressure of literary expectations is very real—sometimes it acts like an invisible censor, trying to fit our language and experiences into fixed moulds. But I believe in challenging, not bowing to that pressure.

Where I come from, words are soaked in the scent of gunpowder. Poetry isn’t just about beauty—it is a record of struggle and memory. Mainstream definitions of “good literature” often marginalise voices without power or privilege. I want readers to feel uncomfortable, to reflect on what has been forgotten. In my poems, the forest speaks, a ruined school speaks, a child speaks whose notebook is marked with bullet holes.

If I mould myself to their framework, what will happen to my people, my memories, my words? I refuse to change my voice for the sake of praise. I speak in the voice that has long been silenced. That is both my responsibility and my resistance.

How do you see the role of oral traditions in contemporary Adivasi literature?

Before writing, I listen to voices that never made it into books, whose grammar no university defines. My first classroom was my mother’s lullabies, which held jungles, birds, and an unspoken fear.

Oral traditions are not just storytelling methods—they are entire knowledge systems. They teach us how to speak our grief, recognise our enemies, and remember our ancestors.

Even today, when we Adivasi writers write in Hindi, English, or any other language, we carry the vibrations of those stories told around a fire, the scent of tendu leaves, and the sweetness of salfi. Writers who haven’t cut themselves off from their oral heritage write with more depth and truth because they’re not just writing a viewpoint—they’re keeping a legacy alive.

Our fight is not just about being written, it is about making sure that what was once only heard is now read, without losing its soul.

What has your experience been with publishing your writing? Do you think mainstream Hindi literary circles engage with Adivasi voices?

Publishing, for me, has been more than a professional journey; it has been social and emotional. When I first sent out my poems, I was often met with silence or feedback about “style” and “language” that hurt deeply. It felt like being told: “Write, but not the way you live. Write how we think literature should be.”

My poetry is not polished—it is raw truth. It speaks of women's fatigue, children's hunger, and displaced dreams. Even now, Adivasi voices may be “heard,” but are they heard equally or just as “subjects”? This question echoes in me.

Some editors and platforms have welcomed my voice in its raw form—these places give me hope. But mostly, Adivasi writing is still seen as a fringe sentiment, not a central literary experience.

I write not just to express, but to ask: Do you want me as a symbol, or can you accept me in all my complexity and dignity?

Adivasi identity is diverse. How do you relate to the term 'Adivasi literature'?

The term “Adivasi literature” may sound simple, but it is deeply complex. It raises questions, yet it also gives me a sense of belonging. Is it a style, a language, a narrative? Or is it an expression of experiences that were long ignored but never erased?

To me, it is not a single colour—it is a full palette. It is a collage of voices from various regions, languages, and cultures, all sharing the pulse of expressing their existence in their own words.

The soil I come from—Bastar—is culturally different from Jharkhand or Mizoram. Yet, when we speak of displacement, oppression, forest conservation, and ancestral pride, our voices merge.

Adivasi literature is not a category—it is an ongoing tradition of resistance. It is the voice of those erased from power’s maps, now writing on their terms. It is not a narrow label—it is a wild forest where each tree has the freedom to name itself.

Should Adivasi literature be seen as distinct, or part of broader Hindi literature?

Locality matters. If poetry is a mirror of place, it must carry the scent of its soil. Outsiders may not feel what an Adivasi feels. If your voice lacks rootedness, you are only pretending to stand with them.

Why borrow someone else’s words when we have our own? We have rich memories of Adivasi ancestors, martyrs, struggles, songs, idioms, and cultural clashes. Even our clowns have memory—though they entertain, they carry the weight of our sacred culture.

This literature is not ornamental—it is spiritual. When we write, it is not about linguistic magic—it is about the truth of language. When someone searches our pockets, they should find soil. That is why local presence in my poetry is more vital to me than my presence.

You are also a teacher. Do poetry and teaching intersect for you?

Yes, I am a teacher too, and for me, poetry and teaching are not two paths—they are two directions of the same journey. In the classroom, it is more important to listen to students, understand them, and affirm that their lives have meaning. That is what my poetry does too—it gives voice to the unheard.

My experience as a poet influences how I teach. I don’t just teach lessons—I encourage thinking, questioning, and self-expression.

My poems talk about forests, women, children, displacement, and language—because these are the things I see in my students’ eyes. When I teach, I feel I am among my readers. When I write, I feel I am speaking to my students.

What role do you think Adivasi writing has in today’s world and the Adivasi struggle?

Adivasi writing is not just a literary experiment—it is a historical necessity. It is evidence of a time and society repeatedly ignored and broken by mainstream history.

This struggle is not only about land and forests—it is about language, identity, education, culture, and dignity. Writing can be the most enduring and deep weapon in this fight.

In a world where “development” often means displacement and looting of resources, Adivasi writing is a mirror that reveals the cracks behind the gloss. It tells us who was left behind, whose land was taken, whose songs were silenced.

But it is not just the language of grief—it is the revival of a living culture. It reminds us that being connected to nature is not backwardness, but a rare wisdom.

Adivasi writing does not just resist—it imagines alternatives. It envisions a world where forests and knowledge coexist, where those once marginalised become central.

This writing assures future generations: Your language is literature, your land is a story, and your voice is absolutely essential.