Five poems by Rohini K.Mukherjeehave been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das
Rohini K.Mukherjee
AT THE MYSTICAL SANCHI
An unknown voice beckons At the early hours of the morning. Moved by a new surprise Buddha relapses into meditation. A crystal dawn, cold as marble, Is traced On his hands and feet And his eyes and forehead. Some instant, invisible signal prompts him To turn on his side and sleep.
After Buddha’s Nirvana, Calm settles in the valley, slowly. Thousands of Branches and branchlets Radiate blissful divine light. The trees too, in a lavish growth, Spread out everywhere -- From the earth below to the sky above -- And meditate!
THE EXECUTIONER
No one could predict The next scene. But in the one enacted now The executioner has A prominent presence.
The executioner stalks the moon, His face hidden in the veil of clouds, Knife in hand, a gleam of smile On a phony face, A sharp, keen gaze under the glasses, Exuding the smell of An expensive perfume.
The indistinct footfalls may Prompt one to flick a look back But there would be no one behind Only clouds clad in midnight blue Sailing in the sky. From somewhere far floats in the music Of a mountain stream. Slowly, sorrow dissipates and a Path opens up for the spring, A wonderland of fairies. In his unguarded moments, The knife in the executioner’s grip Glitters in the furtive moonlight. Any moment that poison-coated knife Could find the moon’s throat, The moon knows that well. But it forgives, Because it also knows well That the executioner cannot Hide for long And will be trapped in The moonlit garden of tangled clouds.
THE DEATH OF A HAPPY MAN
One day, the eyes lost sleep And all the locusts flew away,
Not one spectator had guessed That one day The man will sprawl out on On the sea beach sands Washed away by the waves From distant lands.
The eyes lost sleep one day. The flock of locusts flew away.
But no one could guess The pains, the sobs That seared that forlorn soul.
Petals drifted in piles To make him a delicate shroud. The smell of sandalwood came wafting In the sea-breeze from the north. Seagulls flocked around the body, Unintimidated by the crowd in the beach, Drowning the voice of The living men there With their loud squawks of dissent. Ooh! What a long wished-for Happy death On a cool and blissful sea beach!
After the flock of locusts flew away Carrying all the dreams back On their wicked wings, The eyes lost sleep!
ANKLETS OF THE NIGHT
There is still time for the nightfall. But the air tinkles with the sound of The anklets of the night As if someone is retreating from An ineffectual, moon-washed garden, As if someone from the grave Watching the landscape, Or someone standing at the riverside Hums the tune of a departed season, Or someone hurrying aimlessly away To escape the approaching dawn.
It is not yet night, But the night’s anklets ring. You are probably returning To your shelter of old times In search of a new hope. Just take a look behind to see The painting of a conflicting wind Fluttering across the courtyard.
It is not yet night But its anklets begin to jingle in the air.
How cool you appear in your Evening chanting of the mantras! How calm and steady you are In the pure fragrance of the descending steps As you set out on the journey Holding your heart on your palm Like a burning clay-lamp. May be when you arrive there The dawn around you would be sonorous With the notations of Raga Bhairavi.
There is still time for the nightfall But the night’s anklets tinkle in the air!
THEY DID NOT COME
I waited for them, but They did not come, I waited all this time in vain, and Knowingly, let myself fall a victim To the first rays of the sun. The sun’s whiplash spurred me on To the jungle. It forced me to cut wood And tie them in bundles. The hunger of the sunset hour Prodded me back to where I had started. The smell of soaked rice, and the aroma of Onions and oil Drifted thick in the air of my house.
The sun came in, an intruder, Sat by me and watched. Then it devoured all the food, Leaving nothing, Not even a single dried-up onion-peel.
Because they did not come, For me the morning was Meaningless in its futility. I knew I was never one In the list of their ultimate interests When their tenure of life here ended.
The footfall of the light Trod easy on my skin. Days rolled on this way In sun and light. The sun was everywhere, all the time. Whenever the door opened, The sun stood there. When the meteor came shooting down, When words rode over the waves of sleep to float in the air, The treacherous sun always appeared.
And for me, there was No hope of their coming back.
But, one day as I leapt up in a hurry At the Sun’s summon, I discovered the Sahara Desert That I believed had Remained hidden in my School Geography book, Lying face down all these days Under my own hooves!
Rohini Kanta Mukherjee has authored, edited and co-edited several volumes of poetry and short stories in Odia and English. Many of his poems have been translated and published in various Indian languages , broadcast over several stations of All India Radio and Doordarshan . Some of his poems and translations have appeared in Wasafiri, Indian Literature, The Little Magazine , Purvagraha, Samasa among others. He retired as Associate Professor of English, from B.J.B Autonomous College, Bhubaneswar, Odisha.
Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The dragonfly, it seems, wishes to be my companion. Even when October comes, it still hovers close by my side. On a late autumn morning, cloaked in white frost, clinging to a withered blade of grass until its life is spent, the dragonfly loves the fields, loves the sunlight.
As swallows line up in long ranks, packing their final bundles for a faraway journey, news may come from the city of someone’s suicide, yet the dragonfly listens half-heartedly, caring little. Beside the fisherman, beside the farmer gathering beans, following the way of life of distant ancestors, the dragonfly flits about, plays with innocence. And then, from a withered blade of grass, it departs the world as lightly as taking flight— on a morning when leaves and blossoms alike have faded.
From Public Domain
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
His name was “Nandu”. He was a servant in our neighbour’s house, where he did all of the household chores. He was a smallish boy. Who knows what his actual name was. Everyone just called him Nandu.
Sometimes he would finish his work in the afternoon and would come sit with me. Although he was from Garhwal, he spoke Punjabi well, albeit haltingly. His face always made it appear as though he were laughing. We gave him the nickname “Laughing Man.”
“Nandu, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Four sisters and three brothers. All of the sisters are older than I am, and the brothers are younger.”
Then Nandu fell silent. It was as if he were thinking that if his brothers were older, they would be working, and Nandu would not have cuts on his hands from washing vessels all day at such a young age. Nor would he have been forced to leave his small house nestled in the mountains.
“Nandu, how did you manage to leave your parents and everyone else to come here?”
Then he smiled, and his lips spread out. “Who knows why?” he smiled, but it seemed as if the smile was trying to convince me that it doesn’t matter whether you want to or don’t want to do all of this work, you still have to do it. Right?
“Madam, back there, we barely eat twice a day. We cooked once a day, and we ate the leftovers for a second meal. Moreover, I was not free there at all. I would take the cows outside for grazing. I also bathed them sometimes. I would also feed them fodder. When my mother would milk the cows, I wanted to drink the milk fresh from the bucket. But madam…if we don’t sell the milk, then maybe we won’t even be able to cook one meal.
“And there, people must have their own lands?”
“What kind of lands, Madam? Just small parcels. And then you have to pay land tax and interest on the loan.”
When Nandu spoke like this, it seemed to me that this child was a fifty-year-old man. Yet he was hardly thirteen years old. He was eight or nine when he ran away from his village to come here. Perhaps, he couldn’t tolerate hunger. There had been a time when he had been self-respecting. He would go on saying, “Where I used to work before, the old woman was angry with me one day. And I left.”
I was astonished that now he is verbally abused all day long, but he has gone nowhere. The reason may be that he had grown accustomed to it.
Nandu only spoke Punjabi. He would say that he had forgotten Garhwali. And he never posted letters to his family. He would say that he only knew his father’s name and the name of his village. Nothing else. And the villages in Garhwal had such long addresses. Sometimes he would become very sad thinking of his mother and father. Once, I saw him outside, wiping his eyes with his dirty Ludhiana shirt. But usually, he would try to hide his pain in a smile from which his broad lips would stretch wide. He said carelessly, “According to them, I died long ago.”
Our neighbors were Sikhs. And Nandu bought a gutka[1] with his salary, even though he was completely illiterate. (He only took that part of his salary that he needed for necessities.) He also bought a picture of Guru Gobind Singh Ji and wrapped it in his spare shirt to keep it safe. When the shirt he is wearing gets dirty, he washes it, wraps the picture of Guru Gobind Singh in it, and wears the other shirt.
Over time, he began imitating the children of his boss, a Sikh man, and began wearing a turban. He also got the worn-out turban of his boss’s youngest son. For two annas, he bought some grey dye and dyed the turban. He also acquired a small kirpan[2], which he did not remove while bathing or sleeping. He went from Nandu to Nand Singh.
One time, a man from his village came to find him.
“Does someone by the name of Nandu live here? “There’s no one here by that time. You’ve come here by mistake,” Nandu said with deliberation. He was already afraid that if some man from the village recognised him, he would have to send money home. And maybe he would have to return to that place, where, after caring for the cows all day, he got only one meal, and for the second meal, he was given dried pieces of roti. Here, he could satisfy his hunger at least twice a day. He didn’t need to worry a bit about work. And what about scolding and abuse? Ultimately, a person learns to tolerate these things.
Even though Nandu’s face had completely changed, seeing his wide laughing lips, the man from his village recognised him. He said something to Nandu in Garhwali. Nandu began to say somewhat angrily, “I don’t understand what you are saying. Don’t talk nonsense. Speak correctly.”
And the next day in the afternoon, when he told me that he no longer understood Garhwali, I suddenly let out a sigh. Maybe I sighed because Nandu had forgotten his mother tongue, which must have been the first words he heard when God threw him on this planet, thinking him to be disposable.
“What did he say to you, Nandu?”
“Nothing. He said only that ‘your mother is missing you a lot.’ But I know no one is crying for me. She must be thankful that there is one less hungry mouth to feed. She used to always say to me, ‘May you die.’”
But that man from Nandu’s village kept coming around. Over time, Nandu’s heart softened. Nandu remembered his mother, he remembered his elderly father, who must no longer be able to work the fields. And Nandu remembered his small, dirt shack, whose outside wall was plastered with rocks. The fragrance of fresh soil and paste made of cow dung and mud floated to his mind. And now Nandu was constantly sad. In the end, he was still a child, all of thirteen years old.
Then one day, who knows what happened, but cysts appeared near his ear. The boss, the Sikh, was charry of the illness, thinking no one would keep a sick man in his house. He tossed Nandu out. While leaving, Nandu cried copiously! He gave me the gutka and the picture of Guru Gobind Singh. He was going back to his village. He said he would take them back when he returned from his village.
So much time had passed without hearing from him. On several occasions, my eyes would well up looking at his things. Poor Nandu.
Then one day, there was a knock at my door. It was the afternoon. I opened the door. A smallish boy was standing there wearing a dirty hat and a filthy shirt, and in his hands was a smallish bundle. I thought someone must have come to meet our servant. But seeing those wide lips smiling in his laughter, I immediately recognised him. It was him. Nandu.
Nandu had cut his long hair. Now his name was Anand Ram. I asked him how he was doing and gave him some water. He spoke haltingly. While speaking, he said some words that I had difficulty understanding. In the end, embarrassed, he began to explain that due to living in his village, it was hard for him not to speak Garhwali. In the end, he was still Nandu, who had come to me in the afternoon and to tell me all of his sorrows.
“Your things are still with me, Nandu.”
“You keep them.” It seemed as if words were not coming to him. He didn’t know what to say, “I have another photo.” He began to open his bundle. There were a few pieces of clothing from which Nandu withdrew a picture. It was a picture of Lord Krishna.
I kept on thinking that hunger knows no religion. Wherever one gets food, one adopts that religion and that language. Then what is the essence of a person? A cog that has to fit into every machine because a cog outside of a machine doesn’t get oil, and it becomes rusty. And Nandu? What was Nandu? A thing without life? He was a ball rolling down the mountainside, which, moving very quickly down the hill, would get stuck on a rock momentarily, then again begin rolling. Maybe Nandu was like that same wind-up doll that my little brother has. The only difference is that the wind-up doll is fat, whereas every one of Nandu’s ribs could be counted.
After two years, Nandu came yesterday. There was barely any difference in his build. I recognised him immediately. But he could not recognise my little brother. In those two years, he had grown a lot. The wheels of time leave different marks on different people.
Now Nandu spoke Hindi. He spoke some words very quickly, which I had difficulty understanding.
“So Nandu, where are you these days?”
“I’m working for a woman from Madras. She’s terrible. She harasses me a lot. Otherwise, everything is fine. Initially, I couldn’t eat their food, but now I can.”
Then I thought he was doing this just to keep his belly full, just like sparrows and crows who eat to keep their bellies full. Just like wild dogs roaming the streets to fill their bellies. What is a meal? Whatever you get, you eat, whether it’s leftover food or something else. Something just to fill one’s stomach. But to feed himself, one has to sell himself.
I had thought that Nandu had sometimes become Nand Singh and sometimes Anand Ram. There was a time when he kept a picture of Guru Gobind and a gutka. Now he keeps a picture of Krishna. Sometimes he spoke Garhwali, sometimes Punjabi, and now Hindi. But Nandu kept on washing dishes. Nandu kept on sweeping. He kept on washing clothes. He went on cooking. And he continued to be scolded. Still, he’s a child. Poor Nandu!
“Sister, are you still writing stories?”
“Yes, Nandu. I’m writing now.”
“And you were saying that you were going to write my story?”
I smiled. Feeling demoralized, he began to ask, “But who will read it?”
Then it occurred to me that Nandu couldnot read his story himself, but many others would read it.
“Nandu, the people of future generations will read about Nandu and thousands of Nandus, just like the Bible. And these stories will be worshiped just like you worship these pictures. Because you all strengthen the foundations of the new world.”
Who knows whether he understood what I was saying, but he smiled.
[2] Small dagger, a ritualistic thing carried by Sikh men
Ajit Cour
Ajeet Cour (born 1934) is an Indian writer who writes in Punjabi. She is a recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award and the Padma Shri, the fourth-highest civilian award by the Government of India. She is the author of twenty-two books, including novels, novellas, short stories, biographical sketches, and translations. Her novellas include Dhup Wala Shehar (The town with Sunshine) and Post Mortem. Her novel, Gauri, was made into a film, while her short story Na Maaro (Don’t Beat) was serialised for television. Her works have been translated into English, Hindi, and several other languages.
C. Christine Fair (born 1968) did her Ph.D. in South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago. She is currently a professor of Security Studies at Georgetown University. Her translations have appeared in Muse India, Orientalia Suecana, The Bangalore Review, Borderless, The Punch Magazine, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and The Bombay Review.
Five poems by Aparna Mohanty have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das
Aparna Mohanty
STAR
A tiny star watched me As I groped my way in a blinding darkness Nudged to tears. It sparkled white Exactly the way my mother’s face did. The tiny star was about to climb down When I saw it and waved, stopping it. I knew it could easily understand My unvoiced pleading. So, I closed my eyes and beseeched, “Go back! This is no place For a star that holds such Pure whiteness in its soul. See, how pride and ego here Hiss and howl Cloaked in a guise of false modesty. ‘Selfishness’ is brokering deals In the trade-fair of power Pretending redressal and help. Truth is ineffectual here, So is love! Go back, dear My little lodestar Because I can’t bear to see them Smudge your serene whiteness, Defile you and seat you On a dazzling platform of deceit, And announce ‘Here is one of our bright ancestors We borrow our light from!’”
IN JUST AN INSTANT
Do not hold her in your devouring desire. Hold her in your soul Let the woman be safe.
Do not take her as a prize won, Treasure her with love. Let the woman be happy.
Make her not a commodity. Treat her as a virtue. Let the woman feel elevated.
Just as much— Assure her of Security, happiness And elevation, A vast world of love and compassion. Free from terror and savagery, she Thrives on just that much assurance! Wombs await great souls And there is a promise of A healthy, wholesome future That carries pictures of a million hearts Steeped in love.
Just for once, Unfetter a woman’s body From the scaffold of lust And put it on the altar of worship. You will then see How in more than half of the world, Shrines of love will come up in just an instant.
FEAR
Too many restraints, Numerous forbiddances. “Do not sit here Do not laugh like this Don’t ever dare enter the forest To taste the mangos, There the tiger sits stalking, Fear the tiger!”
I wonder if ever my movements Were easy and unrestricted Like nature. I wonder if the constraints Were ever chosen by An individual autonomy. I am a soul deprived, and Defined in obedience. I drag myself on by your will Slouching under the load of your Approval and disapproval. I lie burning on an untimely pyre At every intersection of the streets, At every city center, Where animal-howls echo day and night. Who knows better than you The trick of championing self-interest Through a pretense of love? You lock me in your embrace To mould me in a pliable shape, Render me spineless, Leaving no strength in My arms to protest. You gift me a heart that wallows In fear and defeat every moment. Why do you hold my Easy growth in check? What are you afraid of? Do you fear that the arms of All the Dusshasanas* will be attracted once I let my hair loose? Do you fear that the spear will pierce the chest of many a Mahishasura* once I let my clothing drop? Do you fear that many a ‘Lanka’ of gold will burn to cinders once I step beyond the ‘Lakshaman Rekha’?
*Dusshasana was Kaurava from Mahabharata who disrobed Draupadi, the wife of the Pandavas. *Mahisasura is an Asura or demon who was killed by Durga *Lakshman Rekha(line) in Ramayan was the circular border drawn by Lakshmana to keep Sita safe. Once she stepped beyond the border, she was kidnapped by Ravana.
THE WOMAN IN THE LAST ROW
The woman sits in the last row lost in some strange unhoped for possibilities. Light and shadow play hide and seek on her face like scenes shifting alternately between a verdant paddy field of Bhadrav* and a gloomy Ashwina* sky.
The lines of mirrors in her front never catch her reflection inside their gilded frames.
Neither has she the time nor the wish to adjust her image in varying postures at every little maneuvering of her body, She just sits there lowering her face, her eyes downcast, speaking to herself, playing with herself, contented in her own company. The woman who sits at the extreme back row could hold anyone’s hand and pull that person to the delicate loneliness of her playhouse.
And, when the meeting disperses amidst accolades and applauses, the great ones stand up weaved in blandishments like mountains tangled in the creepers of Malati* raising their proud heads. Not a single glance is flicked at the last row. No one would know when the woman in the last row had disappeared, stealing the silence from there. No one might believe a river flowed there just a while before.
*Bhadrav—August-September *Ashwina – September -October *Malati – a creeper with pink and white flowers
A SONG FOR THE LITTLE GIRL
The day my little girl Climbed the steps to her green age And reached out to pluck The loveliest flower of Phalguna* And the sweetest berry of Chaitra*, I cried out “Don’t” from below, Stopping her. She heard me and came down To where I stood. Since that day, questions Like the swelling waves Of an unseasonal flood Crash at the edges of her eyes -- Why such prohibitions, why? And I thought, why indeed… My movements would be Held in check. Why must always pain and forbearance Come in my lot?
I am a mother, after all Like all mothers, The spells of Sravana*-showers In her eyes Swept me away in its current… But, will it do if I let myself be tossed away In the rushing flow Of her questions?
I am not a little girl like her. I am rather trapped perpetually In the role of a culinarian That cooks on a holy hearth to Feed the custodians of morals. So now, It is the time to cut and dress my little girl, Cook her to a savoury dish Of her father and her husband’s choice And serve them on a gold plate!
*Phalguna – February-March *Chaitra – March-April *Sravana – July August
Aparna Mohanty(1952) is a conspicuous voice in modern Odia poetry. Her poetry, with its feminist overtone, boldly asserts the significance a woman’s role in the family as well as in the society. They strongly defend the woman against the derogations perpetrated on her by a male-dominated society and defy the societal restraints imposed on her that curb her freedom. Aparna Mohanty has received several accolades for her contribution to Odia literature including the prestigious Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award.
Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Ratnottama Sengupta introduces a prolific, popular and celebrated Bengali writer and an artist
Dhruba Esh; Courtesy: Kamrul Hasan Mithon
“Dhruba Esh, born 1967, is a full time cover designer – and a part time writer. He has authored stories for children and thrillers for grown-ups. A total of 40 books — or maybe more.”
This is from the cover flap of one of the artist’s published works. Cryptic? Yes. But it does not fail to convey the whimsy every Dhaka-based publisher and poet identifies with the name, Dhruba Esh. Read what Humayun Ahmed (1948-2012), a prolific author, dramatist and director of unforgettable films like Ghetuputra Kamola[1], saysabout the designer in Chaley Jaay Basanta Din[2]. “Must get hold of Dhruba Esh. For some unknown reason he’s been out of reach. Pasted on the front door of the flat he lives in is an A4 sized paper. It is adorned with the sketch of a crow in flight and is signed off with these words in Dhruba’s handwriting: ‘The Bird has Flown the Nest.’
“What I need to do is this: Throw away that A4 sheet and replace it with another, inscribed by these words: ‘Come back, Birdie!’
“Dhruba Esh might not know, but a bird that takes to its wings always returns to its nest. Only the caged bird has nowhere to fly off to. Its only reality is to stay put in one location…”
Why am I taking a serious note of what Humayun Ahmed wrote? Not only because Dhruba Esh has penned the biography, Tumi Achho Kemon, Humayun Ahmed? More so because this custodian of Bangladesh literary culture, who continues to be a top seller at Ekushe Book Fair[3], is one of the cornerstones of modern Bengali literature on either side of the barbed wires.
Dhruba Esh is himself a legend in the Bangla literary firmament, I learn from Kamrul Hasan Mithon, a photographer turned publisher cum writer has been instrumental in reconnecting me with my father, Nabendu Ghosh’s roots in Kalatiya, once a village in Dhaka district that is now a suburb of the capital city. Bhaiti, as I affectionately address him, has been writing a column, Dyasher Bari (Ancestral Home), in Robbar (Sunday) magazine published online from Kolkata. Featured in it are all the major names of Bengali art, literary and cinema world — from Suchitra Sen, Mrinal Sen, Paritosh Sen to Ganesh Haloi, Miss Shefali, Sabitri Chatterjee and not forgetting Baba.
“Dhruba Esh is just one of his kind. He does not have a wife, no mobile, nor a Facebook page. He does not even ride a bus or train. If a destination is too long to walk, he travels only by rickshaw. He is most indifferent to money matters. But he is most enthusiastic about painting and designing.
“Starting in 1989, when he was still a second year student at the Dhaka University, he has designed nearly 25,000 book covers. In addition he has designed music albums – and T’s too! Three years ago he was bestowed with the Bangla Academy Literary Award for his contribution to Children’s Literature – with titles such as Ayng Byang Chang[4] and AmiEkta Bhoot[5].”
I fell for ‘Amiyashankar…’ at the very first reading. How effortlessly the surreal narrative etches a contemporary reality obtaining in the land of my forefathers!
Amiyashankar Go Back Home
Story by Dhruba Esh, translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta
Subachani or Bar footed Geese flying over Himalayas: From Public Domain
“Amiyashankar Go Back Home!”
“That’s the title of the book?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Is there a poem by this name?”
“No Sir. There’s no mention of Amiyashankar in my poetry.”
“No mention at all? Oh!”
“Can I send you some of my poems?”
“You may send.”
“Can you do the cover within this month?”
“Not this month. You’ll get it on the 12th of the next month. Only sixteen days to go now.”
He started laughing.
He’s a small town poet. A young professor. I have been to the town where he teaches in a girls’ College. It’s like a watercolour painting. There’s a river to the north of the town. Blue mountains in the distance complete the view.
The geese of Subachani had flown over this town on their journey towards the Manasarovar to restore Ridoy to his human size. The poet was unaware of this. He has not read Buro Angla[6].
“What is the book about? Birds?”
“You can find the PDF on Google.”
“Thanks. I will read it.”
Two days later he called. “Reading BuroAngla has sparked some fireflies in my mind. I’d not read the book until now.”
He was given my number by Rasul Bhai, a poet and a cricketer from the same town. He just about looks after the family publishing business. A good person. Last year I had done the cover for his book of poems, Lake Mirror of the Full Moon.
The poet had emailed his poems. He had said he’d send some poems, instead he had sent the PDF of the complete book. On the basis of Divine Selection I read 13 poems. He cannot be faulted for not reading Buro Angla. This poet writes good poetry. In two days I readied the cover for his book.
*
“Is Amiyashankar a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Why are you telling him to go back home?”
“Because he is Amiyashankar.”
“What?”
“His wife waits for him.”
“He has no one of his own but his wife?”
“He has kids. One son, one daughter.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a teacher in a government primary school.”
I was startled. Subhankar, Tushar, Amiyashankar, me — we are childhood friends. Our Amiyashankar is a teacher in a government primary school. He has a son and a daughter. The poet who lives in another town has never been to our town. He is not likely to have set his eyes on or made an acquaintance of Amiyashankar. Or, is a person likely to know another person through social media?
“I am not on social media,” said the poet.
“Why?”
“I get disoriented. Confused.”
“Oh. Your Amiyashankar’s wife is named Mitra?”
“Mitra. Yes, I did not tell you, sorry. Amiyashankar’s son is called Arnab, his daughter is Paramita.”
“Why are you creating Amiyashankar?”
“I have no friend.”
Our Amiyashankar’s wedded wife is Mitra. His son is Anu, Miti his daughter.
I call him.
“Hey, what’s the proper name of Anu and Miti?”
“Here — Anu is Arnab…”
“And Miti is Paramita?”
“Yes. You know it already.”
Really tough to suffer this.
I mentioned the poet. Amiyashankar did not read or write poetry. He had never heard of the poet.
“A modern poet?” he was curious.
“A post-modern modern poet.”
“Now what is THAT? Good to eat or wear?”
“Eat. Wear.”
“Does it hide your shame?”
“It covers your shame.”
“Good if it hides all.”
“Yes. Right. Where are you now?”
“I’m here, at Moyna and Dulal’s stall, sipping tea.”
“Aren’t you cold? Go back home.”
Amiyashankar, go back home.
*
On the 12th I sent the EPS file of the cover to the poet.
“If you don’t like it you may discard it,” I messaged.
Reply: “Will you design another cover then?”
Reply: “No.”
Reply: “This will do. I like it. There’s no Amiyashankar but one can visualise him. Thanks. Do I pay you online through bKash?”
I sent my bKash number. He sent the money.
End of give-and-take.
*
I blocked the poet’s number. I deleted every bit of communication in the mail. We had an Amiyashankar in flesh and blood. The poet had concocted an identical Amiyashankar. That Amiyashankar did not live and breathe – how’s that? Such convolution and complication! I was fed up of continuously, endlessly, unendingly living in complexity.
Better to shut my eyes and think of uncomplicated glow worms in my mind.
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[1] A 2012 film by Humayun Ahmed centring around the exploitation of ghetupatras – young boy performers, Komala being a ghetupatra.
[6] Book by Abanindranath Tagore (1871-1951, nephew of Rabindranath Tagore) published in 1953. Buro Angul is Thumb in Bengali. This is the humorous story about a mischievous boy, Ridoy, who was shrunk to the size of a thumb. He had to journey to the Mansarovar in Himalayas to regain his original size and meets various creatures, including the geese referred to here.
Dhruba Esh, born 1967, is a full time cover designer — and a part time writer. He has authored stories for children and thrillers for grown-ups. A total of 40 books — or maybe more. This story was first published in Bengali in a hardcopy journal called Easel.
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and writes books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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Five Odia poems by Bipin Nayak have been translated by Snehaprava Das
WITHIN
An equestrian within me Mounts an unbridled horse And plays a violin. A boatman inside me Crosses an imaginary river Again, and again In a non-existent boat.
Within me, there is a wayfarer That refuses to Travel the trodden road And takes a turn.
A lake ripples in me, Waiting futilely To lose itself in the sea, And a waterfall Leaps noisily from above To wet the rocks.
A cloud floats within me, All of a sudden, Flashes a lightning smile And goes back to sleep.
In me, a cowherd Returns home in the twilight Painted in the colours of sunset And lights a kerosene lamp.
A camel inside me Sags under a sack-load of salt, But trudges across the sands Dreaming of a lush meadow.
A mother in me conceives words, Bleeds in labour, Nourishes the vulnerable words With love and care And watches them grow…
PAPER BIRD
My woes pull your neck longer. My beloved words become the air To stuff your insides. I forge your wings from The crumpled paper of my dreams, And mold your beak with my kisses, Paint you in the colour Of my solitary nights…. Trim you with All my fears and frustrations. Because I could not Make a paper-boat of you To sail in the muddy puddle, I lift you up To fly across The monsoon sky. When you climb a little higher Into the air And are drenched out of shape, I, a naked child, Stand here in the rain, look up and cry!
THE MAKING
I pick a few bones of my hardest grief, Scoop some blood Oozing red to create.
I fix a face of smoke or a patch of weepy cloud Mold a nose from the wafting breeze. I fix a pair of eyes, like day and night, There in the face. In one of them, I put a tornado, A bird in the other. With flowers of joy and grief, I shape the lips. The body I try to make Out of a river that hides under it, A fire and a perpetually vain desire To reach the sea or a desolate jungle. I design the limbs from a Lingering surge of green. All these efforts Are but only to replicate What has been made before. I set afloat Because it has been set to drift Much before… And because it has sprinkled A cosmic fervour across A secret sanctum inside me, To bring a god to life, I worship it! I keep trying to create and re-create inside me Because it has made me much before that!
A SKY AS I AM
I have set out to paint a sky of my own -- A sky that is exactly as I am! And for that I have picked up Some nomadic dreams, a sunset, I have collected the blood of flowers, The tune of a stream that has flown away, The chirping of orphan birds, The layers of moss spread over A decrepit piece of rock-writing. I have scooped up A handful of ash from the debris of Perished time, And a wild storm that had retreated After having blown me away. I took out the wet melody from a violin and the primeval music of the insect, throbbing inside the grass. From the reminisces stuck in the sinews I have gathered a few scattered sighs, And from the darkness, the mysteries of nights, I have got warmth from dreams, Sin from pollen grains. With these elements beside me And a canvas in shreds, I sit down to paint a sky of mine A sky that is exactly as I am!
LET THEM SING
Let them sing a song. I do not mind If my wound heals them, Or my tears make them glow, And my blood paints them crimson.
My quick breathing flits about, but I do not mind if someone plays a flute Blowing into the holes of my bones And sings through the lips Borrowed from me.
Let them sing, why must I mind it? The lips are not mine. Nor is the song!
Bipin Nayak
Bipin Nayak (1950), a bold and engaging voice in the literary scenario of modern Odisha, is a trend setter who explored new possibilities for Odia poetry. One of the most significant postmodernist and minimalist poet in Odia, Nayak is a believer in the artefact of words than the meaning and medium. For him poetry is an aesthetic exploration through the fragile, fluid words which could be liberated from its conventional canons and connotations. There is a distinct undertone of metaphysical too in his poetry that hovers over the slim divide between the real and the surreal. Bipin Nayak is a pioneer in Odia auto-fiction writing. His ‘Jatra ra Ketoti Pada’[1], an unprecedented experimental work, that challenges the conventional style through a blending of prose and poetry and does not conform to any traditional literary genre. Besides being the recipient of the prestigious Odisha Sahitya Akademi award the poet has received several accolades for his contribution to Odia literature. Significant amongst them are the Bishuba Jhankar Purashkar, Akhila Mohan Kabita Sammana, Sachivalaya Lekhaka Parishada Sammana and Sammana from Kalinga Sahitya Samaja. He has been widely published in Hindi, Bengali and also in English and has adorned the pages of Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati and other prestigious journals. His major works include Swarachitra (The Painted voice) that fetched him the Odisha Sahitya Akademi award, Nija Nija Barnabodha Apustaka, Sadaja, Bidagdha Bichara, Band Ghara ra Basna.
[1] Translates to ‘how many steps are there in a journey’
Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit.
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Story by Bitan Chakraborty, translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta
Bitan Chakraborty. Photo Courtesy: Kiriti Sengupta
The black smoke rises in a straight line. It will fade into the air as it reaches a certain altitude in the sky. The wind feels still today, causing a grey layer to form. Not long ago, Lali experienced recurrent bouts of excruciating pain, but now it refuses to subside. She tries to relax, her spine loosely resting against the wall of the leather factory. Lali shrinks again as her little baby stretches its limbs inside her womb. In the distance, her husband, Fatik, is tending to their domestic belongings in the dilapidated house. He is vigilant, working hard to safeguard their utility items. He won’t let anyone take away their hard-earned household goods. Fatik does not know what will be put into the fire. A few government-appointed people collect the crushed bamboo walls from the ghetto and add them to the flames. The more they burn, the more smoke rises. At a safe distance, a curious crowd observes the unfolding events.
Fatik packs goods in small quantities and takes them to Lali, who is resting under the shade. He quips, “I could have packed up sooner if I had someone to help. You’re in pain, huh? Hold on for a bit; we will board the train shortly.”
“Hey scoundrels, that’s mine. Keep it there, I’m telling you! Otherwise, I’ll put y’all in that fire.” Fatik rushes to their ruined house. It’s not a house anymore! An empty stretch reveals the impressions of bricks laid down for years. Fatik’s shanty looks the same — a square piece of land with torn plastic sheets and scattered, fragmented earthen roof tiles.
Lali continues to endure pain. Fatik appears exhausted; he is busy organising goods. There’s no point in disturbing him further with another complaint of discomfort. Lali remains silent and attempts to sketch the new place they will inhabit for the next few months or possibly years. No one will be a stranger there; they cannot afford the luxury of exploring exotic living. Fatik once told her, “Shashthida has affirmed that we can come back here once the air cools down.”
It’s easy to earn a living in the city, but finding a job is difficult in the countryside, where opportunities are scarce. Once the flyover is built, Fatik plans to return and set up a small eatery for the evenings. In a tone filled with love and care, Fatik tells Lali, “No one can resist the mutton curry you cook. All visitors will become regular customers at our shop.” Lali adds a touch of sass to her response, “I won’t. I’d rather teach you the recipe. You can then cook and feed them.” Gazing at the ceiling with wide eyes, Fatik remains lying in bed.
Lali does not believe in Fatik’s words that they will be able to come back here again. A few minutes ago, Hema came to see her, “My bad luck; I won’t get a chance to see your child. But you never know if I will meet you again somewhere else.”
“Won’t you come back here?” Lali asks.
“They will not allow us here again,” Hema replies. “The officials informed us that they were planning to build a marketplace below the flyover after its construction.”
Mum’s the word when Lali relays the news to Fatik. He murmurs, “But then Shashthida[1] has assured…”
“You can pursue a small shop in the proposed market,” Lali advises.
“I can’t say; they might ask for a cash lump sum as advance payment.” Fatik appears worried.
The pain shoots once again. Lali flings her legs aimlessly. The dusty floor reflects her movements. She remains silent. On the other side, Fatik gets into trouble with Dulu and his family. Dulu’s mother seems to have taken Lali’s rice pot. Lali raises her voice, “The pot is mine!” Unfortunately, her words go unheard.
2
Fatik knocks Lali with his bag, “Come on, the Hasnabad local is at platform eight. Walk along the straight direction.”
Lali has heard of the Sealdah railway station, but she has never been there. It is a large station with several platforms, numerous trains, and huge crowds. Passengers jostle against one another. With great caution, Fatik quickly walks across the platform to board the train and get into a compartment by any means necessary. There are likely a few travelling ticket examiners around, but during this time, they usually don’t enter the coach. Lali is unable to keep pace with Fatik and remains far behind him, but she compensates for the distance by tightly gripping one side of the gamcha[2] draped around his neck. Fatik collides with the commuters approaching from the other end, and a few passengers express their annoyance with a word or two of irritation. Fatik does not respond at all. Lali pulls her saree to cover her breast. She has no control over the saree girded around her head, which has now slipped onto her back.
The train will start in ten minutes. All coaches are full; not a single seat is vacant. Fatik quickly decides on a favourable compartment and boards the train with his wife. Lali cannot stand any longer, so she sits on the floor beside the door, her hands resting on her belly. Fatik arranges their bags around Lali. An elderly gentleman asks, “Where will you get off?”
“Barasat,” Fatik answers.
“What the hell are you doing here? Get inside the coach. Have you lost your mind or what? How can a sensible man board the train in such conditions?”
Fatik turns to his wife and whispers, “There aren’t any vacant seats. Do you still want to go inside?”
Lali refuses to move. The spasm has taken over her body and mind. She cannot stand up. She wants to stretch her legs to give her baby more space. However, the situation does not allow for that privilege. With each passing minute, more passengers crowd the coach, and the draft is cut off. In a dry voice, Lali calls out to her husband, “I cannot breathe. I need some air.”
“Wait a moment. The crowd should thin out after we pass two stations,” Fatik says.
As soon as the train departs, more than a handful of late passengers hurriedly board the coach. They will travel a long distance and want to get inside. The bags and goods piled around Lali create an obstacle to their movement. One of them raises his voice, “Is this a place to sit?” Another man from the crowd yells at Lali, “Stand up, I said!” Someone empathetically informs, “Try to understand; she is carrying.”
“Oh! This is horrible. Hey brother, you aren’t pregnant, are you? Better you stand up. More passengers will enter the coach at Bidhan Nagar and Dum Dum. They will smash you to death.”
Fatik gets anxious and follows the instructions. Lali shrinks in fear, feeling breathless. In her womb, she carries their only child, who waits to see the world — as if the baby complains, “I cannot stay in this small dark space anymore, Ma!” The passengers become frightened as Lali lets out a low moan of pain.
“Are you okay?”
Fatik bends toward Lali as much as possible to ask, “I’m sure it’s terrible to bear any longer.”
“No air; it’s suffocating!” Lali sounds fragile.
“It won’t be long; I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as we reach there. Shashthida has shared the address.”
Lali’s facial muscles contort in extreme agony. Fatik isn’t sure whether she has heard him. Intoxicated, Fatik had seen her suffer from pain before; during those times, he did not feel her distress. Lali wept profusely. Fatik never intended to hurt her but lost control as he downed liquor. The very next day, Fatik committed to his wife, saying, “I won’t trouble you anymore. All I want is a son!”
With a hint of dejection in her eyes, Lali poked, “Right! So, he can run a liquor shop you longed for.”
“Shut up! I’ll make him a real gentleman,” Fatik readily addressed her concern.
3
Several travellers board the train as soon as it stops at the next stations. Lali, who somehow remains seated on the floor, gets pressed painfully against the legs. She feels worse than ever. Fatik seems restless and cautiously peeks out from behind the crowd to read the station names. At times, he turns to look at the goods around him. A few passengers become irritated, saying, “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you stand still?”
“Be careful, dada! Take care of your pocket. You never know…Dasbabu lost three hundred bucks yesterday only.” Someone from the crowd airs the words of caution.
Fatik understands the meaning of such lines. He does not utter a word, for he knows if he begins an argument, they will forcibly push him out of the coach at the next station and beat him like hell. He requests the passenger beside him, “Dada, please let me know as we reach Barasat.”
“We are currently at Cantonment. Please be patient; it will take another thirty minutes or so to reach Barasat.”
4
Lali wants to scream. She feels thirsty. Amid the numerous legs visible to her, she cannot identify Fatik’s. Even when Lali looks up to see the faces, she is unable to locate her husband. The child in her womb revolts; it will not tolerate the torture to which the mother is subjected. The baby twirls, rapidly changing positions. Lali realises that her child is responding to the world — specifically, the passengers in the coach. The tiny tot wishes to emerge from confinement to greet them. Lali is afraid — will they treat the child as lovingly as their family?
Fatik bends down and says, “We will get off at the next station. Several others will disembark. I’ll first grab the bags, and then I’ll help you off the coach. Be careful.”
Lali gathers her courage and prepares for the exit. She moves her palm over her belly, saying, “A little more waiting, Baba[3]!”
The train halts at Barasat. Passengers disembark from the train like a vigorous flow of water. Fatik feels puzzled as the bags scatter. A few passengers are still getting off. Meanwhile, many commuters waiting to board the train begin to enter. Ignoring the chaos, Lali tries to stand but fails. Fatik quickly gathers their bags and helps them to ensure a swift exit. The passengers ready to disembark push him out of the coach. Fatik cannot withstand the force and is shoved away from the train. The coach has room for more passengers and fills up quickly. Lali crouches toward the gate and cries, “Help! I’ll get off; stop the train.” People leaning out of the coach warn her.
No one can hear Lali. Fatik rushes to the coach to grip the gate’s rod, but he fails every time he stretches his hand to grasp it. A guy leaning out of the coach holds it in such a way that Fatik cannot access the rod. He refuses to give up and keeps running alongside the train. The thick crowd challenges his swift movement. Amid several passengers inside the coach, Fatik sees his wife’s hands and the two pairs of bangles she wears. He reaches the far end of the platform.
Fatik breathes rapidly. He is exhausted and sweating profusely. He shivers while keeping his head lowered. A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead and falls onto the tip of his nose. Fatik can see the passengers hanging out of the coach, trying their best to get inside. Amid their relentless efforts, Lali’s hands disappear.
[1] Dada/Da: In Bengali, the elder/older brother is calledDada(Dain short).Dada or Daissuffixed to the first or last name when addressing an acquaintance, relative, or stranger during a conversation. Bengalis also suffix Babu to a name (first or last) to show respect.
[2] A traditional, thin cotton cloth (generally, a handloom product) of varyinglengths used in Bengali households to dry the body after bathing or wiping sweat. It is also used in several Hindu rituals.
[3] Baba is father. But parents often use this word affectionately to address their sons.
(Translated from the original Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta. First published in the EKL Review in December 2021)
Bitan Chakraborty is essentially a storyteller. He has authored seven books of fiction and prose, translated two collections of poems, and edited a volume of essays. Bitan has received much critical acclaim in India and overseas. Bougainvillea and Other Stories, The Mark, Redundant and The Blight and Seven Short Stories are four full-length collections of his fiction that have been translated into English. He is considered one of the flag-bearers of Indian poetry in English, being the founder of Hawakal Publishers. When Bitan isn’t writing or editing, he is photographing around Rishikesh, Varanasi, Santiniketan, among other places. He has successfully participated in the 3-day-long Master Class on Photography led by the legendary Raghu Rai. Chakraborty lives in New Delhi with Jahan, a pet Beagle. More at www.bitanchakraborty.com.
Kiriti Sengupta has had his poetry featured in various publications, including The Common, The Florida Review Online, Headway Quarterly, The Lake, Amethyst Review, Dreich, Otoliths, Outlook, and Madras Courier. He has authored fourteen books of poetry and prose, published two translation volumes, and edited nine anthologies. Sengupta serves as the chief editor of Ethos Literary Journal and leads the English division at Hawakal Publishers Private Limited, one of the top independent presses established by Bitan Chakraborty. He resides in New Delhi. Further information is available at www.kiritisengupta.com.
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Leaning on her cane, limping along, An old woman steps out to bask in the spring sun, And though February’s chill lingers, The alleyway feels warm.
She tends her garden alone, Feeds the fire in the hearth… And so, in the countryside home, Swallows still build their nests.
Though the mulberry fields have turned to sea, She lets pumpkin vines climb the fence. And all summer long, Balsam flowers bloom in the yard.
With pumpkin vines and swallows, A garden and balsam flowers under her care, She is an aged queen, Ruling over an ancient land.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Last night, in the bitter cold, the bird died. We decided on a five-day funeral, debating whether to bury or cremate, and finally chose a sky burial on a sunlit grassy hill. After preparing the body and finishing the rites, we headed to the burial site. A green parrot, untimely lost, died unaware of the season. Leaves had just begun to sprout, and the spring wind blew across the bright meadow. Driving the hearse to the site, we scattered grains for the journey, and laid the body gently amid the dry grass. In the distance, clouds billowed like funeral banners, and after a few sparrows came to pay their respects, the funeral was over. The bird had died, but its flight lived on. When we returned for the third memorial, the bird was nowhere to be seen— its rain-soaked remains had dried and scattered in the wind.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Poetry by Atta Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
Had we known the fate of tomorrow, Today would’ve not slipped So carelessly from our hands.
Alas! On the gallows of follies, Desire stands condemned.
True — it is the heart alone That bears witness to God’s existence, Not the eye, For each reflection is a slave to sight. But what the heart feels — That alone is the truth: The rest is illusion.
Some walk with reason, Some, in a dreamlike haze, Yet all are bound together, Step by step, Carrying the weight of longing In the folds of a thirsty soul.
In the vast realm of my imagination, Stands the idol sculpted by my own hands. I bow before it— This endless expanse but remains devoid of the Divine.
From being, nothingness emerges, And from nothingness, The being is born, over and again.
The lament for yesterday, The hopes for tomorrow, The wealth of ages In search of unseen wisdom, Wander upon the shores of today. Either the flood shall wash them away, Or the shore shall stand unshaken Before the surging tides.
Where lies the end Of this unquenchable thirst?
From Public Domain
Atta Shad(1939-1997) is the most revered and cherished modern Balochi poet. He instilled a new spirit in the moribund body of modern Balochi poetry in the early 1950s when the latter was drastically paralysed by the influence of Persian and Urdu poetry. Atta Shad gave a new orientation to modern Balochi poetry by giving a formidable ground to the free verse, which also brought in its wake a chain of new themes and mode of expression hitherto untouched by Balochi poets. Apart from the popular motifs of love and romance, subjugation and suffering, freedom and liberty, life and its absurdities are a few recurrent themes which appear in Shad’s poetry. What sets Shad apart from the rest of Balochi poets is his subtle, metaphoric and symbolic approach while versifying socio-political themes. He seemed more concerned about the aesthetic sense of art than anything else.
Shad’s poetry anthologies include Roch Ger and Shap Sahaar Andem, which were later collected in a single anthology under the title Gulzameen, posthumously published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2015.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights of Atta Shad from the publisher.
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Borderless 