Poems & Prose of Hungryalist Icons

Poems & Prose  of Hungryalist Icons

Phalguni Roy

Nonchalant Charminar

      ma, i can’t smile well-scrubbed twisted-smirks in your noble society anymore

in the godly dense ocean of kindness with krishna’s duffed up white teeth      with studious eyes of the devil i can’t

anymore    in a ramakrishnian posture     use my wife according to the matriarchal customs

      substitute sugar for saccharine and dread diabetes no more   i can’t no more with my unhappy

organ do a devdas again in khalashitola on the registry day of a former fling.

      my liver is getting rancid by the day   my grandfather had cirrhosis don’t understand

heredity    i drink alcohol  read poetry my father for the sake of puja etc used to fast   venerable dadas in our para

swearing by dharma gently press ripe breasts of sisters-born-of-the-locality on holi

      on the day ma left for trips abroad many in your noble society had vodka   i will

nonchalantly    from your funeral pyre    light up a charminar thinking of your death my eyes tear

up    then i don’t think of earthquakes by the banks or of floodwater   didn’t put my hand on the string of the petticoat of an unmarried lover and didn’t think of baishnab padavali ma, even i’ll die one day.

      at belur mandir on seeing foreign woman pray with her international python-bum veiled in a skirt

my limitless libido rose up   ma because your libido will be tied up to father’s memories even beyond death      i this fucked up drunk am

envying you   carrying dirt of the humblest kind looking at my organ

i feel as if i’m an organism from another planet   now the rays of the setting sun is touching my face on a tangent

and after mixing the colour of the setting sun on their wings a flock of non-family-planning birds is going back towards bonolata sen’s

eyes peaceful as a nest – it’s time for them to warm the eggs –

( Translated by Souradeep Roy )

Samir Roychoudhury

Open ended

You said to women

come my way but don’t follow,

there starts deconstruction…

she said, there

is a safety pin left behind

by the Sannyasin in washroom…

But you said the Sannyasin left behind

an open safety pin

then unending mystery starts—

deconstruction follow.

( Translated by Subhankar Das )

Human armour

Manushyakabacham

Each word

Hring Hring look sun rises

a mantra.

Within seeds of words a sound

which carries meaning…

Utter Hri only then a deer visits

sun disappears—

The deer afraid of tiger

but creates the domain of escape

An escapade beyond the clutch;

Yes, Shiva with snakes around its neck,

wisdom flows from

his tousled matted hair, the

Counter text.

( Translated by Subhankar Das )

Sandipan Chattopadhyay

Whore

There would invariably be a mirror in a whore's room, wall to wall mirror, small size or big various cheap mirrors, a few of them decorated. Rarely I have seen food, but there would be utensils.

Glass, enamel, bell metal or bronze utensils. These might be certain essential information about whores, that 1) she loves to receive gifts; 2 )  she has a soul; ) her shamelessness is like truth; 4) she is original idiot ; 5) she is as if there is no one in front of her.

For her there is only one thing to be deeply considered. When her body is used by someone, what is her state of mind. She feels happy one someone comes to her, feels disgusted, also hates him.

She never is jealous of anyone. When the 'man' makes her naked,

she feels disgusted, once she is naked she feels comfortable, she feels easier. But most of the men do not disrobe together, before the lights are off, he retains his underwear and inner shirt. He enjoys the nakedness of the whore, but does not allow her to see his nakedness. Thereafter they follow certain rules, whores,

at that time they are helped by God or Satan,

that is way they rarely suffer losses.

Binoy Majumdar

A Radiant Fish

A radiant fish once went up in the air

sank back again in spectacular blue, but truly

transparent water - watching this pleasant sight

fruit ripened red to severe juices of pain.

Imperilled swan, escaped ceaselessly,

since everyone knew, underneath its white plume loom

excellent warm meat and marrow ;

it pauses for short stalls on wearied mountains;

water songs evaporate, however

at the moment you, dear seafish, you, you

or look, the scattered ailing trees

foliaging expansive greenery of the earth

churn it up with their deep deep fatigued sighs;

and yet, all trees and flowering plants stand on their own

spaces at a distance forever

think of mating's breathless chronicle.

( Translated by Shankar Sen )

Saileswar Ghose

I Plucked a Single Flower

I plucked a single flower it was enough to break my world

Every day I find my clothes ill-fitting on my body

I killed a bird whose song was meant to wake the world

I will be released after destroying every faith.

Memories of sleeping with her father figure makes a monk woman seek more darkness

The grass knows the lightning that strikes its breast is a play of power

At last I know that severing the stalk is the creator’s finest act.

When there’s celebration on the ground we’re made to fear shipwrecks from a height

Our life is to watch, mesmerised, the male character playing the eunuch

An ascetic had to lay down his life because his heart had overflown with love

All the flowers that blossom from my deed are witches used to worship you.

I open my eyes to see the swan writhing in pain from the embedded arrow

When I nurse it back to life the hunter wants half of what I’ve saved

Peace descends only at those moments when gold and iron cost the same.

When I pluck the flower I’m a terrorist - I have offered my senses to the world

On the last train I heard the professional whore’s enchanting singing with the thieves

All weapons are off on pilgrimage now – murderers have located their personal sorrows

The gods we have come to adore change their positions every day

Satan coils himself around a young girl like a serpent to drink from her breasts

The form in which I saw my mother from the womb burns bright in my memory

Life demands to know from life, are all forms of violence your children?

I plucked a single flower it was enough to break my world

A single tear falls on my face from space – I only gaze upwards

All the streams flowing from my body have gathered in a river

Many kicks await you still if the scars from the shackles remain

The moment terror was born, the world split into two, proponents and opponents

When the deluge begins every exponent of life seeks safe sanctuary.

Thrust your son into the wedding bedroom, father, stand guard with your stick

Over the iron bedroom, tonight he will be born and die soon after

The shortcut to heaven passes through hell.

I plucked a single flower it was enough to break my world

A droplet of light lay down its life to reveal the image of my darkness

( Translated by Arunava Sinha )

Subo Achrya

Sanjukta and the seventeen horsemen

I don’t know what you were doing then

A wrinkling of the nose curling of the lips then phooey?

Dismounting one by one, the seventeen galloping horsemen

Bowed their heads and turned to stone

The horses cantered haphazardly

Towards the lake

I don’t know what you were doing after that

You wound up a top and let it spin

Gathering diurnal and annual momentum it revolved around you

Sinking to their necks in the mud the horses

Stretched their necks to neigh in unison

And the helmets of the seventeen soldiers began

To fling themselves at your feet

And then

When you could not find a single unbloomed bud

In your belly, breasts or anywhere on your body

Tying themselves into a knot, your nerve-endings

Took you swiftly beyond joy and illness, to a place

Where you kept giving birth, one by one,

To seventeen horsemen, and climbing upon a dome

Touching the sky, you dried your hair with the sun on your back

And when the sunlight died you narrowed your eyes

Shielding them with your hand you began to search

For the seventeen cowards from your womb.

( Translated by Arunava Sinha )

Selim Mustafa

Hiroshima

Coils of smoke on ruined earth

Over the smoke millions of years

Of enchanted nights

This night is Hiroshima

This night is Nagasaki

The moonlight comes up the stairs

Climbs down the stairs

The antenna shivers

Sorrow too has its staircase, its history

This night is Guernica

This night is Bibhutibhushan.

( Translated by Arunava Sinha )

Malay Roychoudhury

Homeland

Can’t say my Uttarpara ancestral home isn’t my homeland,

I know unidentified bodies, their eyes plucked out, float by in the Ganga.

Can’t say my aunt’s Ahiritola isn’t my homeland,

I know abducted girls are bound and gagged in Sonagachi nearby.

Can’t say my uncle’s at Panihati isn’t my homeland,

I know who was killed, and where, in broad daylight.

Can’t say my adolescent Konnagar isn’t my homeland,

I know who was sent to cut whose throat.

Can’t say my youth’s Calcutta isn’t my homeland,

I know who threw bombs, set fire on buses, trams.

Can’t say West Bengal isn’t my homeland,

I’ve the right to be tortured to death in its lock-ups,

I’ve the right to starve and have rickets in its tea gardens,

I’ve the right to hang myself at its handloom mills,

I’ve the right to become bones buried by its party lumpen,

I’ve the right to have my mouth taped, silenced,

I’ve the right to hear the leaders sprout gibberish, abuse,

I’ve the right to a heart attack on its streets blocked by protestors,

Can’t say Bengali language isn’t my homeland.

( Translated by Uttaran Dasgupta )

Shakti Chattopadhyay

Art & Bullet

No daredevil is there who would come and piss in my mouth,

knows I will bite, knows if limb is lost who would reconstruct

Lord Buddha, other than mad Ramkinkar Baij ?

Only once in life I told lover of art-lady,

playing with surplus piece of the naked, what do you think ?

Is Art enough ? Why then a bullet is hung from body ?

( Translated by Shankar Sen )

Utpalkumar Basu

           [ VERA PAPA MORTUUS EST]

  A Hungry Generation message on the death of Pope John XXIII

      While looking at the red yellow glass window

suddenly that day

      during the moment of slovenly afternoon I

      untangled

      staring at the sunrays

         'Pope's kingdom and

      his illness's

mysterious germ's elasticity

      in finger a big

         globe of earth

      showing the circular circumference

         I had told you at Kolkata

'Pope's kingdom

      and his illness's mysterious germ's elacticity

         may be measured.'

      Do you not want war against germs ?

         At least I do not

      because if that war is not a holy war then

         In the darkness of whose open mouth at Kurukshetra

           seeing the image of a smaller globe I

      would be like a surprised

      playing doll of the Kauravas ?

Will I not be like a bag myself

shaken the inside

germs' terrorism's shilling-pound's sound,

       of rolling I would make you listen to ?

      Like many other men this twentyseven twentyeight

years of puny aggrieved life's unending

      membrane veins innards

      in profound love with body

      repeatedly descended

         why did we waver ?

         With real drunkard, sinner,

theologian, pious and thief I could not engage myself.

      Could not travel far on boat

         love did not become strong--

         no disagreement took place on canal side--

Reader, now, from the pulpit of Rome

staring at the far away window

      it seems the halo is extinguished

near Catholic mission

      for the malnourished children of India I

      would easily request for powder milk

after the death of forty ninth Pope in shrewd knowledge

forty Pope's germ free longevity returns-- with this sense.   

         But ours as well

like many other men

       another twenty twentytwo years' lifespan is available.

Till that time I would sit at the air port

       see the departure and arrival of air planes

or visit the printing press and tell them my poems

do not print thumb imprint do not print or

       marks of tail's hoof

              do not print or

       change me

in the main window of mystery

when in darkness yellow blue various colours

are wiped out Pope's kingdom today

      atomic like a germ

           innumerable, shrewd and soft

headman God appeared with retinues.

( Translated by Abhijit pal )

                 

Rabiul

TEN MYSTIC PLASTIC BUTTON HIDDEN IN TEN STARS

After flashing a rocket cracker with fire stars in the sky giving publicity to silent days nights its measurement keeps equilibrium with ear this monotony my words your words vehicles toilet my your urinating hiss suddenly sound probably may be I was drawing your portrait or a line of a poem--pornography is actually your commencement of birth

                          Parents'

       inside dark room

       inside mosquito net

art for arts sake of our earlier life

       Spider spider you go to the sea

       go into water

       knit net and knit life

       catch fishes with that net

       catch whales and catch shipcutter prawns

       and catch submarines of etc countries

Mom Mom do not stare at me like that

       if I look at your eyes

       I see your vagina

       then I stumble upon at sad locality

Shiva Shiva with your third eye

       observe properly

       is that really your third eye

       or it is a seal of my glance

Suddenly each line feel surprised with water's colourless ink turns into wounds I get puzzled due to fear of words poems turn stories in fear we become brave in fear we get up from sleep in fear we shiver in fear we start shooting with machine guns because of fear we go to war due to fear we go to Masjid due to fear we go to temples due to fear we go to urinate due to fear we go to toilet due to fear we read namaz due to fear we perform puja due to fear we piss in our pants due to fear we shit due to fear that gosh whether Masjid temple toilet are all dirt of mind and body's dirt are always left 0ver food is not of use in life peacock feathers art art Art art Aesthetics dirt dirt dirt dirty kerchief where are you save me come sit on my nose go sit on everyone's nose start business of clothes why kerchiefs are always square change your Body circular triangle square all types of forms gradually gradually gradually gradually you become invisible and that is why I do not keep you in my pocket I have not learned using you till now my heart bleeds with your bad smell named hole has so much bad smell bad smell bad smell my heart bleeds in dirty smell my heart bleeds my heart bleeds .

Again that relentless sound when my ears started gathering moss to get rid of usual words jamming becomes redemption of more strong sounds which become cracker festival in sitar sarod become air plane sing in sky's voice lane bye lane sun earth's another hemisphere in houses and houses darkness intercourse's orchestra sigh orgasm shrieks middle aged men women girls and boys' youth centric sighs loneliness is really solitude body a jet flies through its body everybody tremble in fear I rise and take side in bed stood up on earth hanging like bats head below legs up in air as if stuck on earth a lizard crawls around on ceiling we are also a type of lizard species of cockroaches if there was a higher species it would have called us race of cockroaches.

Abani Dhar

ONE BREAD ONE SHOT

From London to Hamburg port. Only a few days sailing. Here there is no semblance of a jetty. Only one jetty fallen apart. Our ship was anchored there. Around the port warehouses and homes destroyed. Broken crane around, mountain heaps of cars and iron scraps. Busy sounds of ferrying trucks. Stub faced airplanes overhead flying with throttled voice. It is very cold here. Snow flakes are falling. Urine instantly turns into ice.

With the dock whistle several workers climbed up the ship. As if they are wooden dolls---does not move this way or that way. Behind them sounds of pairs of boots. No one wishes Good Morning to each other.

Breakfast time. We are having bread and tea from the store. Saw, bread arriving in sacks and tea in drums. Helmet head uniformed persons with rifles on their shoulder started throwing pieces of bread. The labourers are snatching them and eating with tea. An old labourer approaches them and beats his belly with hands. Probably wants another piece of bread. They wave there hands and say No No. Old man does not move. Seeing him still standing there a soldier goes to him and kicks him with his boots. His piece of bread is thrown off from his hand. The old man falls with his arse up. Other labourers immediately fell on the bread piece. As if children were running to take hold of a kite, then they started fighting with each other. I could not make out who got the bread piece. I saw, few of them bleeding from nose and lips. From among the labourers someone whistled...suiii...suiii...

The labourers secretly visit our cabins. They exchange mouth organs, safety razors for bread and sugar from shipmates. I also exchanged a bread for a mouth organ. Thought of getting a few more. I'll gift them to my maternal cousins. Shipmates advised me, 'save the breads, take us to the shore.' One shipmate showed his breast and said, 'there would be lots of girls on the shore you know--- one bread one shot. The words made me jump. I could not believe it. Though I am novice. These uncles have grey beards. I saved my bread without eating it.

Got a letter from mother. I wrote to mother---' I have come to Germany from London. I talk to the foreigners in English. What a luck, I am able to visit so many countries. These are because of your blessings...'

Advance money was not doled out to any shipmate from the ship. I thought, what is the use ? Like in London I kept in my pocket two tins of cigarettes and bread and followed a group of shipmates to the shore. I shoved a packet of cigarettes to the police at the gate so that we were not searched ( you are not permitted to carry cigarettes without unsealing the tin or the packet ).

Hands and legs are freezing in biting cold. You can't make out whether it is day or night now. Hands in pocket I walk hump back. A few horse cart or cars are moving on the road, but no person is seen on the road. Rotten cotton, bloodstained bandage, cap, vials and bottles...littered on road. Not a single house is intact in view. Everything is broken tattered burned battered...A truck while passing by us applied brakes and suddenly stopped. We stood still. No, nothing to be scared of. We are shipmates who have come from London. From the truck they dumped a few white ladies on the street. Looking at the white ladies I took out my bread from pocket and kept ready in hand. It appeared that none of the white ladies are able to stand properly. They ladies crossed the road somehow as if in slumber. Thereafter I could not see them. The truck made a bhraaaar sound and disappeared blowing smoke--- while dropping empty liquor bottles. I felt sad. Thought why would the white ladies eat ship's bread ? They must have eaten good food in the company of white men.

We entered a lift and crossed the river through a tunnel. Thereafter, we entered a lane after treading a little. Destroyed highrise houses on both sides. Found a shop beneath a two storied building. Upper floor was hanging. Lower floor bricks have come out of plaster. Burn marks on walls. Windows and doors are covered in tarpaulin -- there are no door planks. The shopowner smiled and stood up with the help of crutches after seeing us. He does not have a leg. After entering the shop with shipmates a white lady came out from inside the house. She is one eyed. Burn marks on face. A younger white lady beside her is chewing dry bread. She does not have marks on her face. I also sold two tins of cigarette to the shop keeper. The shop keeper looked happy with the deal. Thanked us repeatedly. I looked at his daughter. A shipmate said in low voice--'when I came last time, I had told the one eyed tart I want that young girl. The tart did not agree. Wants more payment.' The girl went inside with the tins. The lady wished 'Good Bye' when we left the shop.

The main road after further walking. White men white women, cars horsecarts, shops kiosks, houses juggling for space here. Everybody can talk in English. It is four in afternoon. Shipmates were talking among themselves that there is no use going to that side before evening. 'What should we do now ?' Far away were posters of naked white ladies, I asked, 'is a film being shown there ?' The uncles laughed and said, 'do you want to watch dances of naked ladies ?' I waved my head ans said, 'no uncle'. He said, come we shall show you dance of naked white ladies.

My ticket was purchased by the uncles. The show has started much earlier. Somewhat faint light. One white lady is dancing with music, heaving her bum and waist. Completely naked. A flower in her hand. While dancing the white lady covers her back or front and does not allow to see the real thing. A little later a white man danced whirling on stage. Thereafter holds the white lady in embrace. The man is also naked. Both of them pressed each other's breast belly and stood still with lips on lips. Audience started clapping.

We get out and drink beer at a bar while standing and walked back to the other side. Torn pant stitched coat, torn cap, torn shoes an old white beard man looked at us with open mouth. He waved his hand to call us and we neared him. A big broken building. The old man looked at us and had a deep sigh. Touched his palm on his forehead  and said--'all kaput'. The old man knew that we are Indians and do not understand his language. When the old man looked at the sky and made ang ang ang ang sound. Pointed to the broken house and said-- "boom boom.' Pointing at the holes on the wall he said, kaput kaput, and started crying. He goes away in drunken stupor. I stare at the old man with controlled expression. I was feeling a little warm. Cold might have receded. I did not notice that shipmates have left me alone and gone away. 'You son of bitch, shout makes me look at them, and found shipmates have gone far away. 'Uncles uncles' I shouted back and ran towards them. They appear to be angry with ma. They abuse me by saying,...'what the hell you were searching there ?' Showed me his trouser and said, 'now here my penis has started wetting, shall I put them in your back ?' I start laughing like a fool to reduce the anger of uncles.

A few white ladies were standing at the entrance of a lane. They invite us waving their hands--'Hello Johnny, come come.' There is no light in the lane. One may see things faintly. Following shipmates I also stare at the white ladies closely. They start pulling us by our hands, and say

--you good

--me bread, you fuckie...

--come come

Following the white ladies in the lane they suddenly ran away. Sounds of boots on ground. Police is coming. We enter another lane by the side. Total darkness. I started feeling scared. Does anybody stay here ! Uncles are walking quite freely. Calls made by white ladies made the uncles stop. We entered the dilapidated house in front of us. There is a hall inside. It does not have roof over it. Pillars are half broken, iron rods are protruding. Half burnt chairs tables benches strewn all around. Nothing is clearly visible. When gradually my sight adjusts to darkness, the ladies are seen jostling at far away corner. None of their faces is clearly visible. After getting closer to them an uncle lights a matchstick but it is put off with breath. Probably, fearful of police. My own fear has disappeared by then.

Shipmates picked up one for each and pushed on to the wall. I also picked one up and pressed her on to the wall. A broken cross was hanging near the wall. The moment I gave a bread to her from my pocket the white lady started kissing on my cheeks. She lifted the skirt with one hand and ate the bread with other. I was on the verge of ejaculating. Saw the white lady saved a portion of bread inside her blouse breast. I stand erect and press her teats with two hands. She tries to avoid the centre of her breast so that the bread does not fall off.

( Year 1951. I had gone to Germany in Class McLillan's ship. I was third mate at that time. Age 15-16. Our ship had anchored at Hamburg port just for a day. At that time I had also got down with other shipmates. Whatever I experienced at that time is recorded here. It is a true story.  I wrote the story after joining the Hungryalist movement ).

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

Arun Banik

DOG SYSTEM

Characters :

Three big dogs and their assistants.

Mohitosh

Poritosh

Nibaron

Mohitosh, Poritosh and Nibaron's wives and children and members of their family and a beautiful lady may be Mrs Patel or Mrs Bajaj or at least Mrs Basu.

Before curtain is raised ( one minute may be ) from behind the wings voices of three dogs are heard in the guise of lectures in between supporters of other dogs' approval with Oh Yeah would be heard and gradually the curtain will rise. From a far away place someone's recitation would be heard somewhat on the lines of Sbayasachi's 'Bidrohi' gramophone record or Sukanta Bhattacharya's 'Lenin' or 'Bodhan' and even if those are not available other musical gramophone records may be played such as 'There Flies The New Age Flag', or a song of rebellion may be played. The moment curtains rise three dogs are found standing at three distinct spot on a high pedestal ( just like LUX soap may be folded in red coloured kite paper it would be better if LUX sign is visible ). If the director so desires he may replace the three big dogs with three big men wearing dog masks and for assistants he may use 12-16 year children and everyone should have multicoloured tail ; if the tails of the dogs are made to wag with the tempo of their lectures then you know the dramatist understands that the act may be appreciable on stage, and if that is not possible then the tails may be presented before the audience in an attractive manner. From three spots red blue and green light would be gradually radiating and the radiation on each of them would not be systematic but it would be better if the dispersion of rays  are disorderly. In case technical experts face difficulties then red blue green light may emanate with time gaps first to explain each spot quite clearly maximum one minute for each may be given after that light and sound may focus on the three spots simultaneously and for this exhibition 2/3 minutes may be approved; after this the three big dogs would stare at each other quite meaningfully and they would give direction with their sight to their assistants and instantly audience would form a disciplined queue to get ready and the big dogs would wave their heads like wise men and with winning gait and joyous howl or pieces of howls they would recite with exemplary bravery and haughty style artfully strong method and in this position they would encircle the stage. There would be explosions on stage, baton charges by paramilitary. Big dogs would flee bravely small dogs would whine and run away and at the end a trolly somewhat like the trolleys of municipality would enter the stage and sweeper like two men would pick up five six dead and wounded dogs on the trolley singing "god gives penance...our flowers" such a Hindi song would go away their faces would reveal drunkards' ultimate extacy but there would not be any behaviour of their legs that they are drunk the light may go off for 2/1 minutes. In between a middle class drawing room cum bedroom cum dressing room would appear with at least one dressing table a few chairs, if possible a sofa on the stage and again when the lights are on it would be seen Mohitosh in his Bengali dandy dhoti-kurta dress combing his hair quite carefully. And singing mildly a song which was popular a decade back for this old gramophone record of singer Satinath Mukherjee would be very helpful.

( Translated by Abhijit Pal )

Alo Mitra

DRUNK FEELINGS

I do not know when darkness encircles, helpless

mountains pierce through chest -- immobile indifferent

sometimes faint giggles are heard -- blown up

like a balloon complex breath from the folds of ribs, concealed

stream---

blood's suppressed self-esteem form rows of crowd

darkness encircles --squeezes helpless mountains

gloomy death's gloomy yellow eyes

drown

a bunch of flowers and rotting corpse in river

Sky human being and complex glands of man -- of disturbed life

indifferent breezy hair -- in air--

who knows who would hurtle down where, how

One morning the jungle flowers find the human monster

steely heart

opening himself in blue stream of love

I feel

life's dizzying drunkenness.

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

Debi Roy

CORPSE NEAR WATERFALL

On the fast flowing stream of Ramti river

so many corpses float by

It isn't a doubt, man, doubt

only of anxiety

what if nature waves its crown ?

Over the demolished plateau ?

Where people once resided

here and there quite big

ownerless boulders

Where is the forthcoming help ?

Entire Yeblong is covered in mudslide

This side is like a vast flatland of burning pyre

tarpaulin on shoulder rice bag on head

one or two men are rarely seen

Corpse near waterfall

or whether that boy, he also

is in the cradle of waterfall, sleeping peacefully.

( Translated by Abhijit Pal )

Arunesh Ghosh

WAITING FOR DEATH

In this wait what type of

ultimate infinity of fear-silence reside

that even forefinger directed

will have to be shown in sinless mirror ?

The hangman in strong footsteps as usual

path shower of killing field

you wanted loneliness-- this is its substitute.

Your character does not suit crying and weeping, neither sighs

any anger, sharp wail, exploding hatred

or any naked girl's giggling calm

At this time those things do not come into mind.

Suburb's dirty smelling roads during lightning

golden chariot made of women's bone on way to sky

nothing bothers

but those things remain-- in what depth who knows.

But we do not know death.

We know about walking toward death.

Never wanted to exchange places

with the murderer who is walking ahead

or his master, his master, his, his as well

spitted on the floor

avoiding the silent fall of the leaf

though all portrayal was sanctioned for him

really strange !

But you selected crowbar, hammer, chisel

in a damned country spawned on stone

feel embarrassed in front of golden plate full of consumer goods.

( Translated by Abhijit Pal )

Subhash Ghosh

MY HYPNOTISM

Exactly what it is -- already it is dark when I left my room -- I can not guess. A few steps only and suddenly my legs stop : Geese -- geese behind me, geese before me, geese all around, millions of geese; what a scene of geese ! I can not move ; I see their wings, feathers; the whiteness of their feathers covers footpaths, streets, garages, tram lines; every corner they cover. The geese move their heavy reddish legs : everywhere I can hear their rhythmic footsteps. They flock together, they make a gathering; what a lot. These geese eat red lotus, pluck them : pluck and eat and throw the petals to each other. They brush their bodies with the lotus. ; they brush and take rest. A white fire like mercury slips over the footpaths, houses, cars, garages, and squares. These unclaimed, white feathered, resting geese over the red lotus make my thought process stop ; it becomes barricaded, my eyes tied by a kinkless wire to the Nadir and Zenith points. Even the unmindful lamp post guards in fear. Geese pluck lotus and eat, eat and pluck. I can not understand why they are so despotic, these unclaimed geese!

Suddenly I whistle ; only the geese hear; their bodies shiver, necks straighten, ears become alert ; they open their red beaks slightly; then and there gigantic turbine begins to roar within my head.

Even the hair of my body get excited : hairs become burning flame on my head. I hang my handkerchief over my breast and I begin to tremble, shiver in my hands and legs. Only they, only the geese, see my handkerchief ( specially designed and coloured ), straighten their necks, shake their wings and feathers. A faint call emanates from their throats. They are with the SOUND, with the CALL -- the one I heard 12, 13 years back, back in the days of my puberty when I got a sickness in the blood -- this call of the past, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 years, awakes the whole sphere of my limbs, penis, penis-end, the physio-libido system, silver fire, houses, roads, rows and squares. My limbs, head throb; my blood pressure rises. I see these innumerable geese, wings and feathers. I begin to wave my handkerchief around my head; the mad handkerchief waves like a pointsman's signalling flag, moves from east to west, from west to north, from north to south, on all sides and in all direction. The unmindful, frightened lamp posts begin to turn, they break into a thousand parts when dashed against the hidden waterhill. I see all around me by my searchlight. My hands continually signal. The geese straighten their white necks; each has turned its head from the red lotus, and I become restless with this sudden discovery. Looking at the handkerchief, the stir their beaks and necks; they swell their wings and feathers. The turbine which has stopped earlier begins again its turmoil within my head. I take the blue bottle from my pocket and spray the fluid over each and every geese; at once their bodies become limp. They begin to approach my shadow, as if hypnotized; they assemble around my shadow. My hands attempt to lengthen and try to catch them, one by one. But I control myself and begin to advance like a flute-piper; the hypnotized geese follow me. The flying handkerchief signal spreads. From time to time I see my trodden path by the searchlight. Each geese follows my footprints, follows me; they advance, and in my hand the restless flag of a pointsman.

We do not know when we come under the great sky. I see nothing but the white flames.The green grasses are burning. The geese quack in choked voices. In the white fire they burn their past, stir their wings, and take off their clothes. And the turbine in the head roars higher. Now and then I see the geese at my back, the handkerchief flying overhead. Suddenly my eyes are captured by a pond of lotus : like a loadstone it attracts me. Gradually I approach it; the geese follow me, dumb and blind. On the four sides of the pond of lotus monument size Shiva Phallus grows. Within moments they become stiff. And once again I see the geese behind me. They too become restless, seeing the pond of lotus. I take quick steps to the other side of the pond; I move the handkerchief; following the rhythmic signal of it the geese step into water of the pond. They eat lotus, they pluck lotus, they plunder lotus. They make as much turmoil in the water as they like. I see their drunken wings to the furthest corner of the pond. They worship the blind God. They throw all their ornaments in the red fire of the lotus, unhesitatingly. The turbine in my head roars ten times louder. Then, seeing their undisciplined manners, I am taken by the idea that in how many ways, in how many maximum ways, how many and how many maximum eggs I may have from them and getting these eggs I shall make them featherless, sickly, pale and when shall I drag them by their necks out of the lotus pond ? Only determination begins to grow gradually with a waterfall-sound, in the turbine blades.

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

Arani Basu

GRAVE SLAB

Think about him once

who wanted to stir this jailhouse with his rickety hands,

he who wanted to love mankind and hankered for others' love,

who used to sing songs of liberty in free voice,

who held a great open sky within his breast.

Think about him at least once,

whom you gave nothing other than ridicule.

Whom adroit people exploited in  guise as he was a simpleton,

who used to be doubted for his crime of true words,

whom you compelled to become old

                                               before he reached his youth.

Think about him at least once.

He is lying by his side.

He was a true poet.

( Translated by Shankar Sen )

Arup Dutta's poem ASHES OF DREAMFALL ( Translation of 'Swapnopatoner Chhai' )

I have entered a heated earth

alone in a crowd of friends and enemies

air returns after bouncing on chaotic sea waves

pale breaths from fallen leaves

sex starved moon in dark fortnight of female orgasm music

coloured insects descend in this storyless light

and nameless fly species

I see in the belly of heated earth

unhinged doors of creation

no traveler seeks solace here

uninterrupted language of dawn holds forth the neck-vein

no strange cloud bursts

love's last fall is atomic dusts

mixed in burning grass

My body and soul shiver

in unredeemed heart the hurts are life's only

bloom like incomplete clearance

This stream of burning alphabets--

stare at lava which can not be crossed

Apollo and Saraswati

not possible to unite in this life

my incomplete letters have burned into ashes

banned music of a lost world,

which covers my incompleteness in pain of loss of grief.

Debojyoti Roy's CONFESSIONS OF A RELIGIOUS OXEN ( Translation of 'Jabanbondi, Dharmer Shnarer' )

People say, I am foolhardy

bohemian, do not have much intelligence

move from this to that locality on my own

when instinct makes a knock behaviour undergoes a change

as if my virility is total farce, serio-comic;

I wag my tail, forage on grass, fire billows inside

Far away from cowsheds' hay and husk's memory

lonely road's dust, tired hooves,

wound on back struck by stones.

There is no luxury in selecting food;

in my own independent rhythm

religious people attain emancipation.

Effect of food and sharpness of horns--

their combination result into landslip

on the breast of smiling Shiva's mount in calender.

stoic conduct, with renounced cognition

walking towards Shiv Purana, Upanishad

I leave behind secret confessions--

this language is blue with poison, revenge similar to cobra

On surface everything is calm, still, reactionless.

Bikash Sarkar's poem THE HEAD OF KANISHKA ( Translation of 'Konishker Matha' )

While we both were about to start a story of unending love

all of a sudden flashed the head of Kanishka

a beam of powerful rays sparkled through his eyes

like terror bubbles flying in air.

Excited, I drew out her palms

she held my hand in horror.

A ghostly meadow sank in a supernatural weather

and the soul of the meadow.

The queer touch of her soft breast froze my left hand

a touch of her thighs and lips

made a skeleton spring up in open air...

Her palms made deep throbbing murmur on my hands.

Once she disappeared

it was only Kanishka's head that was awake

and a beam of powerful rays sparkled through his eyes

like mystery bubbles in air.

Bikash Sarkar's poem THE CALL ( Translation of 'Daak' )

Someone called me, 'Bikash Bikash'

it seemed the call was not for me

the invitation is to a lifeless boulder.

Flowers raise their voices against me.

Crickets of drunk night have vanished

stabbed in the desolate alley

the wild deers conspire and plot

against me, to murder me.

It appears all calculations are incorrect

as if, a fountain of errors

sprang into action, or else

I am pressed heavily against

the boulder of errors

like fossils.

Yet a mysterious girl seems to call me

like a fresh breath of breeze, and

she hails me, 'Bikash Bikash'

before she prepares to kill me.

Appa Bandopadhyay's story WHY DOES IT DRY UP ( Translation of 'Shukiye Jai Keno' )

Now this 9th September my head got wounded, what shall I call it ? Accident, danger, or I did not hold the handle properly ? Somewhat funky funky it seems. At that time I was brooding about my being a poet, a poet. Moreover gossips of those three idiot boys, in my mind an ego spewed up, my poetry, some such happening. I held my hair in right fist, like a poet tread a long step, in compartments two doors, I walked to the right. Since those buggers were chirping I thought of doing something, something should be done, I was not at peace with myself, thinking that I was not at peace with myself, put my foot on the first step and spread by breast to the breeze after standing legs apart, holding the handle. Was feeling pain in wrists of two hands. They were still busy in gossips. How Tarun, of all persons, became chummy with those two idiots. Inquired  pointedly, are you going to the same girl at Park Circus ? Bastard, your intelligence has opened up. Quite pickled, aren't you ! But you keep on rubbing your hands without a drop. For three years I am trying to convince you, tell your Dad, otherwise you would be in trouble, your pickle may dry up, I've heard. When the time comes you won't be able to ejaculate. Let funeral etc go to dogs, otherwise you will get a spat from your wife. Just laughs like a pimp-- will not marry at all. No, why should he marry ? Will rather keep in the trap. Disgusting. I had to convince cajole put fear in him to take him to his step father.

There is no fun to intimidate. Always crumpled. While studying pre-University, tried to explain-- his brother in law had fist fights with ghosts. Not one ghost was hurt. All slaps fell on the mosquito net. It sat on his chest after knocking him down. For about a month used to bring a pot at eight, from bringing magic water from Rabi Kundu. Rabi tailor is similarly crooked. Never allowed him to leave before ten or half past ten at night. I used to return through dark garden quite creepily. Deliberately I took him through short cut path of the garden-- and if you masturbate at this time no semen will come out-- this will prove to be bad in future, I used to tell him like a bosom friend. At night falls flat in fear. During day no utterance. As usual during daytime.

Tarun's Dad looked in a way a small time policeman stares at an ordinary thief. How come this ugly man is looking at his own face while shaving his chin. Black arse. Tall, face and eyes are so ugly they could not be described. Small hair from above ear looks like jute field. Erect nose is at a distance from hanging upper lip. Black caterpillar brows make eyes haphazard. Plowed face has stuck skin on face bones. What the hell. We are waiting for long in front of him but he does not look at us once. I am restless---Tarun has made his place behind the chair. Now he is arranging his things--dettol bottle, soap foam. Putting the blade inside box.

---Why are you standing there ? Go and sit in the room.

---No uncle. I had to discuss something with you.

---What do you want to say ?

---I wanted to talk about---Tarun's---well...

Looking at his face like a fool I could not decide how to start. These things can not be discussed directly. Bloody unnecessary problems. I talk to my self---what was your role---now face the music. Tarun, standing like wood, is playing with his palms. As if has never played such a happy game. Why don't you tell---you are not able to ejaculate. Dad, dole out some money, doctor has to be consulted. Tarun's sister, on way out from kitchen, waits in doubt. She is smiling mysteriously at our predicament, with her hand at the back of the chair. Why are you waiting here ? Go. I felt light after a chance to talk. Now I have to blurt out something. I mean...his natural juice from body ejaculates once in two three months. Other than nature's course, when tried artificially, nothing comes out. It may turn into powder in due course in his testicles. I have heard it happens. At this age of nineteen if things are...

Tarun becomes nervous at my explanation. Try to bring to his face a shade of shame and fear. I am also excited. I could present the case quite properly---natural juice etc.

---Why try artificially ? I feel scared at his voice. But suppressing my fear I say---in natural course it takes so long that it is a matter of dread.

---I do not find it dreadful.

---Uncle, would it not be proper to consult a doctor ?

---It is no problem at all. It will work at the proper time.

---It will work at proper time ? Like a fool I childishly blurted out and then warning myself I talk to silently, will it work at proper time ? Will it, for sure ?

---You know, we go through erasing our semen continuously. We may not know about it---gets out with urine or in other ways such as through nose in the form of phlegm or from mouth with cough--- there is nothing to worry about.

---We are very much scared after he talked about it.

---It is quite natural to get scared at your age. Facing Tarun he says--- you can do one thing---go to Mr Bimal---in such matters best is homeopath.

My face suddenly takes the form of a donkey, long and misfit like Indra's Gandharva. Why this man's copulating fluid never stops ? In that case Tarun would not have suffered.

His face looks punctured, has he not seen, his indifferent children Khenti, Kelly, Chhemri, Keka, dressed in khaki half pant, squatted in front of enamel erased plates, tumbling over like potato ? Did he not see the toilet  in a tiny room surrounded by tall dried grass, chest high sacred plant in public space ? Has this man never flied pigeons ? Or has he not chirped like us on architectural theatre stage steps ? You are doing injustice to my friend. For this I will spoil your daughter's marriage. I will not allow Chhipu to get married. ( In that case shall I saver her by marrying her ?-- No why should you die marrying her ? What is the meaning of a twelve year old girl's love ? ) If Chhipu is not married then nothing is going to happen to this old haggard. He will sit on Tarun's shoulder and have his drink and food and then vomit. After him there are four more lassy sissy. Oh ! I can not harm any one, other than myself. Even if I have proof I will not be able to convince the groom party--- his Dad's name should have been Jogipada Kundu instead of Sadhucharan Khastagir. This man Sadhucharan, at the time of partition, came in tatters with a four year old daughter, and was being transferred from one police post to another, which had cropped up along the border. And eating crabs in hotels. Luckily got a wife who had fled from her husband. Would have got another daughter, but thought that for a seven year girl it is better to stay with her maternal uncles. Got a three year old son named Tarun . Tarun could not claim like his sister, 'my Dad is fair complexioned'. Tarun's step sister was not that easy sissy. Recently got married to reduce complications. This guy Sadhucharan, apart from those three problematic children has sired with his own power Khenti, Kelly, Chhemri and Keka. Their Dad was never married. It is a historical truth.

Being disgusted with myself I tried to get up in anger. I leave Tarun at his Dad's pad. And walk the whole journey back singing choral--- Vidyasagar's progeny's name is Naran Pit. Vidhyasagar's son's name is Naran Pit.

For bringing medicines I sat behind on his cycle carrier. Bloody Idiot, may your testicles bear the pressure of double carry. Let them become sweetmeat balls. I always sat back. Never pydled myself. Though I know nothing harmful happens cycling. I am giving him chances to develop his thigh muscles. I did not hold even the tiny vial of globules. During cycling regularly talks about his half-Dad. I tell him-- I am also not loved by anyone. Mother just throws bread on my plate. When I was in mud-room, like entering in a cow dung cake bag, severe winter, several nights were spent in wet courtyard. Sometimes during night if she felt like, she used to call, come come like a dog, to throw four breads on my plate, and slept in a chipped plank door room. I have never kicked at that brittle door and said-- take me into the room--- I shall never do anything wicked---why should I sleep inside a cowdung cake bag, cowdung pasted, salty, mud portico ? Such sleepy type fool I had been. He is your own Dad. You get financial help from him just because you carry his surname. Your mother condemns you because the person who keeps you and your mother, certain revenge is taken. And look at my case --- my own mother--though she occasionally tells me-- when fleeing from Pakistan hiding in one after another bush, my own mother left me on a riverbed wrapped in cheap clothes. I was crying like a crow ; at that time you know, mother, was feeding brother pounded rice and date-palm jagary hiding in bushes  while fleeing. Hearing my cry they thought a baby vulture was crying. What an absurd event-- mid night. In half moonlight mother peeped from the bush and saw on bright seabed a pair of human baby legs dancing and crying. May be my mother had fled after being chased by border police. Or might have been kidnapped into police camp. From that time onwards I am mother's son. And our elder brother's sweat money. Eroded with continuous hunger. Every night at the time of studying I stoop in drowsiness. I feel tired after whole day loitering. Thumb print for relief---begging for loan here and there--walk for two miles to get wheat crushed---in school Nani teacher would spank after taking me on his lap---in the evening while playing hide and seek they always made me the thief. Like monkeys we played hide and seek on Barun's garden trees. On holidays marbles.Working as a labour----a veal---engagement at nineteen---marriage at twenty---wife's baby shower at twenty one---son when thirty two---daughter after ten months. Until I cried in fear of mother's scolding--till then, up to two or two thirty--they would exploit me surreptitiously. They were very wicked and tricky. They used to go back home only when they saw I was being beaten up by mother or I am standing in a corner in fer of mother hearing her making cooking sounds in kitchen.

Huh, where is the cycle and where this train. Yes, I have sailed in breeze, my hands are paining. Drizzle has started. I do not want to look at their faces. I am different--from Tarun and the other two guys I am somewhat different-- I have to prove. Without looking at them I can make out they are staring and talking about me. Both hands on handle. I lay backwards and whistle. This is really peaceful. I am learning about life. Quietly I might think about death. But what is the use of thinking about death. It would visit one day and take away my clothes. There is no hurry. Let me enjoy my feel-good space. But exam results keep on peeping. Both of them are going to Kolkata. They would ring up university to find out. The train will enter Sealdah station at five. Shit, whether they wag their tail or horns--I have nothing to do. What even if I get through in exam. I lick my fucking finger. Same shit thing. I do not understand how Tinu licks his finger.At this grown up age does that habit stays ? May be there is a good feeling. Pushing and pulling the finger in mouth--dripping saliva creates a satisfaction. During his grand fathers funeral he was practicing the habit while arranging for the funeral. Studies in eleventh class. What an idiot was he. Mitu, his elder sister is my maternal niece. No, I am confused---I am sort of a maternal uncle. At that time I have received admission paper for entering college. Though we resided within about six miles we met rarely. Her age was fourteen at that time. Quite buxom female attitude. Huh, remembering that period reminds me of mud-goddess. God knows from where she has found a  loafer dude ! At twenty eight years he is four son's Dad. Has developed a bit of bulge-- quirky fucker. I had gone after three years.

I remember during evening myself, Tinu and her grand father's son Swapan or Kamal, we were gossiping hanging our legs at the outside portico. Her grand father's son after a few words-- smiled at Mitu who was going to burn the lamp at the cow shed. He used to wear dhoti. His mother, my elder sister, is a serious Vaishnavite. At such a young age has lots of replica of gods arranged in her room. His father has been absconding for long. Sister has as a result tied herself with gods. Having handed over the daughter to a dude quite early became servant of gods.

Who bothers ! Tinu's grand father's son said, he and Nitu, both have done something to Mitu at the cow shed--they asked me whether I was ready to participate. Mud-goddess is  praying with the evening lamp--- and smiling beautifully. She is eager to talk. The ten minutes past eight train has not yet gone. Why should I be absent because of night ? I can not, at last arrangement of nephew with niece. Tinu is only ten or eleven, Mitu is her own sister. Well, what is the use of these thoughts ? They have started learning about their body, moreover she is a girl and he is her mother's son, own brother. I visit the kitchen--- can not go away without informing. Sister is putting water in a pan. While climbing to kitchen I felt I saw Sister's dude hubby in the dark. They call me. I get angry. My God, Mitu is also here ! I thought I shall get away, that is why I went there. Mitu, I do want to spend the night here. But her mother looking at the mud-gods did not restrain me.

I left behind sister's rumbling, Mitu's veal stare, now what shall I tell mother. OK let Mitali cinema halls show end. Let ten minutes past eight train leave. I shall catch the ten thirty train. Walking, I went to the market. Past some time kicking at empty coconut shells. Then at the shore of Ichhamati river. Slept on the fishmarket bench, fishy smell. Sang a song on Ichhamati, then went to see whether Milani market is about to close. I might meet them. When we came we had gossiped a lot. I would take Binay with me and tell mother that we had gone to see a movie--- I have met them. One year passes looking at film star Uttamkumar's face. Crowd as if leaking. I feel nauseating. Laughable. All guys are coming out of their mother's door. So many men, so many sperms. I have read about it, the spermatozoa. Sperm is everything, parties of sperms. My sixteen years' sperm is me, born out of the dirtiest job of my Dad. I feel laughing. Where is the dirt ? My body gives me good relief, from wherever it has come, what is the use thinking.

Binay had explained everything.That is why I had stopped talking to him for many days. He had played mischief with me. When in ninth standard I did not look at the face of school Principal.  I did not believe---my godly Principal Mr Subodh---has got his black tummy bloated son and daughters with the same method. Banay took me to Kali temple to convince me--we are the same. This, this way, we were born. I told him mother does not play mischief with me like him. I have touched my mother's navel, the navel which seemed dug up. When mother applies oil to my hair, I have inquired on several occasions, looking at her navel, Mom, how was I born from your tummy ? There was no cut mark on her tummy. Mom said from her navel. If one goes to hospital you get brothers sisters, sons and daughters. Is it, if one goes to hospital, you get children ? Foul mouth Binay gave me a heavy slap, on my cheek, removing his hand from bald Shiva's black head. I could not see his making of faces at me. Falling, I hold the brick wall of Shiva's roofless portico. I get angry and apply a few fists on his chest. I was not able to win fighting with him. With muscled body he used to sit on my chest and choke my throat. I somehow manage to free myself--leave me--you study in seventh standard--- I would not talk to you. He holds more tightly and says---since you are in ninth standard do you think you know everything ? You need not talk, let us go to elder Dipak. If Dipak says that school Principal's children, me, you, and your siblings are all born out of their father's liquid--then I will give you three kicks. OK, I'll also give you seven kicks.

We both run to elder Dipak, he was taking bath at the pond. His mother, looking at our dusty post-fight faces was trying to delay asking questions. Binay and me, we were restless. We run toward the pond. But where is elder Dipak, after shouting his name, he comes out of the garden. Arranging his loincloth, he gets angry, you buggers have arrived here as well to disturb me--- what has happened, why were you howling like foxes ?

Elder Dipak is our hero, studies in college. Made of a different sharpness he is our locality's Big Brother. Looks handsome in bare body. Binay started---you would not beat us if we say something--- you have to answer correctly. Before elder Dipak starts talking-- I blurt out-- just as Kochi and Khoka had done in Kundu garden--- the reason for which we did not allow membership of our club to both of them. If Moms and Dads perform the same thing then children are born, is it a fact ? Binay is telling me you, myself, our Bhabesh teacher, everybody, we were born out of this method. My anger gets reduced after I embrace elder Dipak. Elder Dipak stares at me for a few moments--looks at Binay-- thereafter quickly goes down into the pond water, raising bubbles. Muddy water circles him-- wingless fishes run away directionless. In water up to his waist-- after finishing---while coming out treading on date palm trunk steps-- washes his feet on the bank. After coming up holds my hand. Says, come, you will go to standard ten after a few days. I say yes, and get my hand out of his clutch. Enters his room through the flower garden. Sits with knee up---takes out a book after removing layers of bed covers from his cot. Gives it to me--give it back after reading in a couple of days. When we were passing through the flower garden, he said, our parents do not know these, probably they do not know where do the mystery lies. You would know many things-- where are the real liquids, how, how to. Binay, you come here. Elder Dipak takes Binay with him to the garden.

Shankhapallab Aditya's poem MAHARAJA BRAJENDRAKISHORE OF MUKTAGACHHA ( Translation of 'Muktagachhar Moharaja Brojendrokishor' )

These days newly married boys,

after looting full moon's light

do not sell it at higher price to any lady,

the pacer horses also do not have  

the same saddle and syce

from the looted moonlight's money they get drunk

after purchasing faint moon of Howrah and Chandpur's Hilsa fish

how  many bright young men unnecessarily

awaken their wives ?

During middle of night even at Mouri's gazal garden

snake's hisses will not be found

in Kishoreganj's burning heart.

No feet are there beyond the atlas design

and out of them some are religious and some egret

today nobody walks around with Neelvajramani's watchman

in Gaharpeta's lotus river

self-declared Brajendrakishore Maharaja

is confined to his own limits

human being's courage is gradually diminishing

left and right arteries and blood cells are becoming smaller

but poisonless hiss of egotist bottle's foam

is not abating.

Jibotish Das's poem IN THE DARKNESS OF NIGHT ( Translation of 'Rater Andhokarey' )

Close friends all

one by one from my side

in the darkness of night

disappeared !

Like innumerable stars

the night which is completely dark.

Lightning streaks,

river water wail upwards

the same terror engulfs

snatches off, so many days'

carefully nurtured priceless life.

In silence one has to bid Ta Ta in night's darkness

to proceed to distant stars.

Binoy Majumdar's poem A RADIANT FISH ( Translation of 'Ekti Ujwal Mach' )

A radiant fish once went up in the air

sank back again in spectacular blue, but truly

transparent water - watching this pleasant sight

fruit ripened red to severe juices of pain.

Imperilled swan, escaped ceaselessly,

since everyone knew, underneath its white plume loom

excellent warm meat and marrow ;

it pauses for short stalls on wearied mountains;

water songs evaporate, however

at the moment you, dear seafish, you, you

or look, the scattered ailing trees

foliaging expansive greenery of the earth

churn it up with their deep deep fatigued sighs;

and yet, all trees and flowering plants stand on their own

spaces at a distance forever

think of mating's breathless chronicle.

Subimal Basak's story DURUKSHI LANE - THE FINAL ART ( Translation of 'Durukkhi Goli - Sholo Kala' )

Autumn has passed, it is winter's end-- Durukshi Lane's condition has deteriorated. From the appearance of the shop it does not appear once it was full of customers. At present it is literally Dark Moon-- shop is not opened, just a little dusting. Short pray to god. Radio is on, news from dailies -- no way out. In Parliament, only discussions arguments, counter arguments-- external affairs, economy, internal condition of the country, discussion thereon. Same picture everyday, this way or that way, Nehru, Krishna Menon, Morarji Desai. Actually what is happening , workers can not make out head or tail of the issue. Other businesses are more or less going on, during war whatever dread was there---prices of rice lentils oil had increased, higher, at present calm. No money in pocket, moreover prices of essentials are quite high. Can't think of way out of the mess, totally bewildered.

Though war has stopped, crisis is not yet over. Emergency period. Deep crisis in goldsmith's trade, sword hanging from above. Discussions take place in Sitaram's shop as well, long after evening, a shawl over shoulder. From Chinese war to backwards Freedom struggle. Partition of country, refugees, culture-rituals-- everything destroyed. Invention of atomic bomb has made powerful countries spread their claws. Has development taken place in any race by partition of the country ? Internal feud for capturing power. Such discussions. Heads dance beneath dim lamps, sounds of hookah pipe.

In such a gathering, during an evening, 9th January 1963, Dangerous news broadcast from radio. Dangerously dangerous-- in a hoarse voice radio declares--Parliament has passed the Ordinance just now :

                               GOLD CONTROL

The news spreads like wild fire in winter night. Next day in news papers, Bengali Hindi English, headlines in bold big letters-- GOLD CONTROL. Ordinance issued, Bill passed. Mister Vaidya, Haripada Roy, Ramchandra Johri, Badri Prasad, Parvaticharan-- Patna District Gold and Silver Workers Society's members are moving around. The issue has to be clearly understood. Condition of goldsmiths had reached a low from the time of Gold Bond Scheme, Gold Control will devastate Shop-owners and Lenders as well. If lenders are in dire strait, there is no way out for workers.

Government notification has been issued, from now on each shop will have to maintain record of each deal. Is it possible to run business of gold without maintain records ? Rules of the trade, details of dealings. There are three types of gold. 24 carat hard gold, 22 carat guinea gold and 14 carat mixed gold.Form Government's mint 22 carat gold is the rule. Workers have to maintain record of use and make of hundred grams gold. This has been notified by Government under Shops & Establishment Act. Inspectors may visit any time from their office. Maintenance of record is essential for all goldsmiths, otherwise cafes filed and fines imposed. Books, bill-receipt-inquiry. Difficult to run a business by opening a goldsmith shop. Purchaser's name, weight of gold, for what purpose--these are also supposed to be recorded ! Which truthful honest customer will order for work after all these difficulties ? Bills used to be given earlier also, but they were hand written. not on approved format.

Being pulled from both sides--- no way to escape.

It did not take many days-- everything became upside down within seven days. With workers drowning owners and lenders faced difficulties in business. Badriprasad brought news, shops are closed in the city, many have closed and shifted to other business. Younger ones have started selling cakes in glass boxes, some have started carpentry, some have started learning driving of motor cars, some are helpers of masons. Epidemic all around. Devastating condition.

Arya Jewelers has bifurcated their shop for selling papers from other half. Reams of paper, paper boards, exercise book, pencils, etc. Stationary shop. Parvaticharan looks after them. Gold shop in other half. Hopes that days will change one day.

M K Roy's old shop has maintained half and started medicine shop in other half.

Raj Rajeshwari Jewelers has completely changed in to Raj Rajeshwari Sweet Shop. Front showcases contain various types of utensils containing sweets instead of gold jewelery. Beni oversees work. Narayan Pal spends time in his bed at home, most of the time is spent thinking of olden days. Cries intermittently. Neela soothes her Dad with her hand on his head, she sits by his side. She herself is pregnant, may have to be hospitalised any day any time. Mona Ghosh has stopped sitting at Braja's shop with sweetmeat items, sweet curd, sour curd.

Ramjivan Dutta has gone back to Bardhaman after observing the situation for few days. Will look after cultivation land crops. Dutta Company has pulled down their board. Have sold off seat stools weighing scale show case instruments.

Wazed Ali Bux, his son Dalilur has also gone back to Bardhaman. Where gold work itself is closed, where is the question of polish ? Really, what benefit is there in glazing burned face ?

One day Ramkanai along with Krishna statue has gone back to Ara taking along Sarvamangala, his son Subal and daughter. Probably would open some shop there.  

Haripada Ray has started grocery shop in one portion. Has done no other work other than goldcraft  in his life, does not have knowledge about other business,but what is the way out ? Living has become very difficult. From gold shop to grocery shop-- what else than downfall ! Will the customers of Jewelery shop be seen in these shops ? Hole sale items arrive from city, he deposits money in advance. Goods are supplied. At the time of taking down goods, Haripada Ray might be shouting around, but his heart weeps.

Gobinda Saha has opened workshop near Mahendru-- iron bucket, pans, spades, iron rods, window etc are manufactured. Elder son Gokul looks after these activities. It is heard he will open a cloth shop for his second son. They do not seem to have much problem.

Lenders of gold shops loiter around, one day meeting with that minister, the other day discussion with another minister. Empty results from such meetings ; Badray Prasad waves his head, no way has been found out. At Sitaram's house people gather during evening, discussions are carried on. He says, we do not find any political party taking interest in this problem, do they not have any role to mitigate ?

They are busy with detailed discussion about China-India war. Looking the other way. Doubtful whether they are bothered about goldcraft workers.

Suddenly atmosphere becomes tense.

Condition of ordinary workers is pitiable. Young boys, workers, have suddenly disappeared from Durukshi Lane. Two three days passes away, their absence is noticed-- hey, we do not see Goura, has joined somewhere or what ? Has Nitai left this place ? Young workers wherever they could-- they have joined. Gopal goes to various places but does not get work. Nobody dares. Majaffarpur, Samastipur, Chhapra. Once had had worked for them, but the owners have refused immediately after meeting him. Let some days pass. Meeting family expenses has become very difficult. Owners push a few bank notes in his hand. A rich man from Majaffarpur, owner of a cinema hall at Patna, allows Gopal's son in law Balaram to sell snacks in cinema hall. At least would not die hungry. Balaram's problem gets settled-- what about the old man and his wife's night and day ? Purnalakshmi weeps morning and evening. At a biscuit factory in Sabjibagh makes two kilo sugar powder for which he is paid-- eight annas or half rupee. Had begged for a work and got it. Is it possible to work physically at this age ? Father looks after Khagen's tobacco shop. Gets food. What else could he do! Most of the time he is out of senses with folded hands on his knees.

Makhan Babu's son had entered gold work, after arrangement with Badya Babu, has no work now. So, back to tailoring business. He is a worker at his father's shop now, tailor's job.

Other young men are helper of lorry truck in New Market, shabby with dirt, with the driver right from morning, in New Market there is Swadeshi Sweetmeat Shop, sweets are served in plates on tables. Some spread mattresses on footpath in front of B N College and sell children dresses, some with vegetables in Nayatola-- brought at whole sale price from Musallahpur market, here they sell in retail. Gold colouring expert Pranballabh, joins a Marathi painter's shop for drawing on walls as well as painting signboards. Climbs up on bamboo scaffold and applies brush strokes on walls.

People do not have time to talk to each other, when they meet in Durukshi Lane, just how are you ? One who is asked points towards sky indicating fate. In Durukkhi Lane morning arrives as usual, sounds of weeping, but no sign of billowing smoke from ovens. Even children seem to be aware of the situation, suddenly their sixth sense has become sharp. They know, when rice lentil oil comes from the market ovens will be lighted. Govardhan has difficulty in moving around, has erected a wooden room at Muradpur for selling tea.  Bhogi has taken Jabra's two baby daughters. What work they would be given, only he knows, at least they would not die of hunger. Radharaman carries towels on his bac and ferries in Patna's lanes, in Bengali areas, shouts, towels are for sale, towels ! Botha's son has stopped jumping around, face and eyes have shrunk, goes out with a bag on his shoulder-- snacks, peanuts for sale. At Gandhi maidan.

Nandadulal was on way back on Station Road, had gone to Secretariat Office to inquire about progress, now that war has stopped, postwar condition. When walking on Patna Junction Road, applies sudden break to his cycle-- find Sribas ! At a Punjabi fried food shop--- samosa, ghugni, potato chop etc. Small wooden tables and chairs-- Sribas serves water in glass tumblers, places plates on tables. Would you think of it ? Used to sit on goldsmith's mat, that arse is now being rubbed on wooden stool. It is not sure how long he will stay there.

Brajagopal has left home, with his wife and daughter. House rent is due, no work at hand, food is not available--- has left Durukshi Lane. Where he has gone, no one knows, has not informed any one. Even Nakuleshwar does not know. If inquired, says, I do not know, came at night and took twentyfive rupees loan. Required for something. Other friends, who used to gather for playing cards, are no more seen in Durukshi Lane-- they also are not aware of his whereabouts.

Brick and mortar shop, medicine shop, job of servants-- even that would do. Some work must be done, one can't sit idle. How can one run his family without money !

It is visible from the entrance of Durikshi Lane-- peoples gathering, crowd. Niranjan Babu's courtyard, there the gathering is more. Lungi, shirt, shawl. Many people are returning, anxiety on face, uneasy behaviour. What has happened ? What has happened ?

--Cal a rickshaw. Take him to hospital. Shouts all around.

--Has drunk acid.

--What ? Who ?

Many persons at the entrance door, some inside in portico, whisper, controled voices. Ramhari's body is lying in portico, a mattress beneath him, body covered with torn lungi, burn marks on mouth and cheeks. Rickshaw is waiting outside. Someone waived his hand-- go. Not required. Raises his hand upwards to stir the air-- he is no more. Everything is finished.

Ramhari's wife falls down on the floor, with two hands she embraces the man, a few women go forward and separate her from him. Acid drops on face, howling cry, distorted voice. Wobbles on the floor as if someone is beating her with a broomstick. Where have you left me all alone dear, o o o o o. Oh God. Hair disheveled. Four children around her, father, look at us, at least once. Elder daughter soothes her father feet with care, does it with his hands, pulls his hair. Dad, Dad, dear Dad, open your eyes and look at us. They cry loudly.

Hearing at the Lane entrance Nandadulal comes running.

--Who knew he would do such a thing. There is scarcity and hunger in all families. Bits of last gold has gone, even nose ring. Yesterday night he had sold to a Bihari person and brought a little money. Today he went to market, food were cooked, all sat together to eat. Who knew that in that bag he has brought a bottle of acid from market.

--You had planned everything in advance, that is why you ate with every member of family. Oh oh oh. Had I known, I would not have slept outside. Such good food after a long time. My eyes were drooping in sleep. Applied coconut oil on head after so many days.

Ramhari bolts his room to take rest. Wife wanted to know a few times-- why did you purchase so many food items ? You could have done afterwards. But you could not wait. Oh oh oh. Faints.

This took place at three. Oh oh. The moment acid went into mouth, topsy turvy body, could not gulp entirely. Starts burning, shouts, howls, oh mother, oh father, I am going going. Himself somehow opens the door and comes out. Falters at door frame. Wife, children around him, Ramhari falls down on the portico and takes rounds on floor. Like fish out of water. Waxing flesh out of mouth-- driblets, black-maroon, now visible on the cloth mattress beneath. Ramhari stays still, in peace with himself.

Nandadulal's eyes bulge out due to constant crying. Such an unexpected scene, oh, how heart rending, as if he has lost his ability to move. Raises his eyes listening to Ramhari's wife's distressed wailing--- to whom have you left me here ? Nandadulal's power to see becomes unbearable, blurred to further blurred, seated around Ramhari his wife sons and daughters in the descending darkness of the portico, helpless, anxious, brooding, faces of people gathered have turned in to black stone. Nandadulal closes his eyes. His consciousness suddenly gives him a sharp jerk and disturbs him to the core. What is this signal for ? The heart beats violently in his breast. A long sigh sneaks out and spreads in to the dreadful surroundings.

( This is the last chapter of Subimal Basak's acclaimed novel DURUKSHI LANE on the plight of goldcraft workers and gold bullion businessmen during the ill conceived Gold Control order of the then Government which destroyed hundreds of families in India at that time )

nSaturday, 4 April 2015

Nitya Malakar

THESE DAYS SENSE OF ART IN FOOD STANDARD

If hands and legs are thrown about it might be useful to poetry.

But I have not been able to write poetry by throwing about words,

these days with sense of Art, only rice is eaten--

each day, lying down in dark helpless bed

                 I retain light after purchasing it from fireflies

each day pen's needle enjoys luxury, I can not pierce to the root

on the breast and back of hesitating flower lady

why it is not possible for a moment today, self-aggrandizement

                                                                               in poetry

Isn't there anything else other than rice that dowses hunger's fire

Where have you brought me to this foreign land

                                          in corn green golden Bengal,

how would I bear so much rice,

                                     so much snacks

does not enter my brain--- in what aspiration you

exiled me in golden Bengal ?

I carefully walk on dyke, as I would go to town--

as if thinking head hangs in mind's Nabadwip, Coochbehar or

                                                                                Kolkata.

Actually, I do not have that much faith below bellybutton

rather, what a strange dinner beneath clear moonlight,

                                                                   day end stories

seem fine, in this racy Coachland of flowery youth--

              diurnal sense of Art, eating rice, air pleasure;

is not possible even today, false words, in poetry

                                                        self aggrandizement.

Why are you hesitating, place your hand on heart :

in corn green golden Bengal---

              in vegetating rice fragrance today flesh will become

                                                                                    poetry.

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

Sambhu Rakshit

SALVATIOINISM

Those who consider me rickety

my soul to be war hero

my God harmful

my poetry

glossy aristocrat or stray delirium

oh brother dear

they with their commercial incorrect power

capture their nose mouth ear

this mighty republican country

should protect its existence

Those who after penetrating sand

are teaching me child's education

oh brother dear

they may refuse artificial beauty's false borderline

at least give evidence of a puny angel

Fixed disc in a nonfunctional jukebox

of life and broken brick's

unholy war's pain of international chorus

oh brother dear

Buzz between graveyard and township's tunnel

quirky mercy of horse stable

disturbance in between

oh brother dear

Fire colour camera on shoulder

anti aircraft transistor in hand

to pay off another emperor's debt

like moving fresco piercing flesh

these radio-TV-active youth power

dug up night silence of salvationism and grandeur

oh brother dear…

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

    

Basudeb Dasgupta

AIRCONDITIONED GOD

In the dangerous kingdom of silence is our raft floating

hundreds of corpses are visible on the shoreline

burned in sunlight for long they are deformed

those whose life had vibrated till now

in happiness and grief electric current

whose life once while vibrating

from desire to desire

those lives had flown

In this dangerous kingdom of silence is our raft floating

burning sun overhead

on right is golden colour in the river

green carpet on sandy strip peeps

a naked man is seated on that strip all alone

seeing the raft he jumps in water

waves his hand while being washed away by tide

as is wants to say something

know one knows where he drowns in the heavy current

with half ton biscuit and a few saris

this small raft floats downstream

Dark hall-room

lavender fragrance touches nose

many men are running this way trampling corpses of relatives

jumps over for a fistful of food

fights for it with each other

dies

hundreds of incorporeal species in electric light

though goods for charity are not sufficient

terrible dearth of vehicles

and in order to reach the distressed area the administration

never finds a way out

in the absence of diggers between one to one & half thousand

were buried in one pit Sir

payment was Rupees two per day

news further says that four persons in Bhootnath's house

died when the house fell over them when they were sleeping

though his state of affairs was more or less same

happiness was not meagre in that tiny house

today beneath open sky small time truck driver Bhoothnath

stoops with his head between his knees

the Sub Divisional Officer said.

Twenty rupees more could not be given today from poverty alleviating fund

because the person who has the keys to the cupboard has not come.

Sky is crowded with vultures---air is polluted---on twentieth floor signal---cyclone forecast---just now the relief boat has been looted---where there is no death the police hawks---National Highway No 34 is washed away---no piece of land is available so that help could be dropped---an insane girl is beating a tinplate and singing on the runway---missiles would be installed near the capital---quick feet someone has gone to have a nap at the hotel---bullet has been found from someones holed skull---youngest among the rebels was of eight years---our momentary humanity and lifelong crying is drowning in soft mud up to waist---presently inside the ring two bison are  fighting for sexual supremacy---wastes of turbulent sounds---pet piglet has pissed on beautiful lady's nylon---our mother came out with her dead child from jute field---a few nylon petticoat might be the reason for fire---vultures crowd the sky---in every civilization's cupboard a few skulls have been preserved---relief air planes propeller is hit by vulture---far away an insane girl is singing beating her tinplate---she will also die now---

I have covered my ears with both hands---I do not want to listen to outside sound---I have covered my ears with both hands---I am not able to listen to words uttered by me---therefore death--

You see the water turned yellow colour when you go for bath---I have been kept in the lowest hole---you have kept me away from my relatives---I do not have the power to go out---will you perform magic for the dead---will the ghosts come out and sing songs of prayer for you---Do the dead feel your mercy inside their grave---is your magic visible only in darkness---will your religion be ever known in this country of oblivion---our flesh do not have health---we do not have peace in our bones---dread has uprooted us---here everybody wipes his face and says---I have not committed any sinful act---

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

Raja Sarkar

SOME BLACK FLOWERS AND THEIR SORE

There there beyond dawn's window insolvent gambler's sky

and here is that bed---

floating balloon in heavy air ! Earthly life...

One or two men fly towards sun after touching my body

but stll they have their roots in bed

mingled with body in dawn's bed

in slices fresh sunlight--

Songs of which life is being sung ? In immobile silence

which cub's cry enters home cut in pieces ?

...incoherence of trance settles down, and

heavy sighs pick up one-grub men

towards some mystery....this starry imagination !

The life which is between death's calm and pain

at that moment extends two arms and descends

in this scaly body wherein during this journey

some black flowers and their sores were allowed to bloom

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )

Karunanidhan Mukhopadhyay

ABOUT BIRTHDEATH         

My only son Arok died today at 6:45. Broncho Pneumonia. I crossed the river and took him to other side. On the sand spread. Sat at a place and brooded for a long time. Then I tied a heavy stone with his body and dropped him in the middle of Ganges river.

I had to spend two hours in search of a stone.

         I have returned home. My wife is crying incessantly. I do not have any power to erase human sentiments.

         Today there was plenty of time during afternoon.

         I was born at Kashi. Dad at that time was with Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose's group of  Indian National Army. When I was of two and half years Dad took me to Rangoon. Dad left Indian National Army and joined the police. About ten years in Rangoon. Thereafter siren, blackouts, newspaper headlines, hospital. Directly back to Khidirpur on a ship. From Khidirpur to Kashi again.

         Came to know that Dad has married a Burmese women. From then on against society, against culture, against myself fight goes on. Could not get educated. Dad's monetary help stopped when at class ten. That is the time I started to fall. Help! Help !! Help!!!

         During childhood I loved to paint. I was the first boy in class. Everything became jumbled up once I entered the world of drawing. Hired a room at Kashi and opened my own studio. Looking at my paintings people said I was insane. Mother sister and other members of the house called me mad and kicked me out. I was the eldest son of my family. Went to Marriage Registrar and married a Kayastha caste girl. I am not allowed to enter home because I became a Non-Brahmin.

         Nobody is there for me. Nobody is there for me.

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )          

Shakti Chattopadhyay

Border Proposal

A beggar boy had loved to like food

and examined

paddy plants spread in moonlight, at the roots of paddy

like silent waterfilled butter

glossy puffed up paddy in earth's simplicity

will the paddy turn into boiled rice ?

Silent God may talk

iron may melt

like dorsal women on the world wood plank ?

But the beggar boy had loved to like food.

Loved to like, many philosophy in life

even beyond life, intoxicated in cannabis

in life without paddy, without woman, without moonlight there  is    something above.

God is there above all to torture the wayfarer

God is there above all the wandering ascetic

God is there above all for human beings

busy in order to give two bowls of boiled rice to the beggar boy

contemporary like grass, bigger than bus

to carry every and all.

Beggar's good boy was shaved head many bad boys

they did not bother about love

they are also alive they are also clean

there are good fruits on earth like gooseberry

beggar's good boy bad boy has fallen away from beggar father's belly

with amazing disorder fact on earth is now peace for China, liberty depressed

etcetera  wait near war

stop all kinds of war

let natural deaths die

let us die, let us go with our known death

arrange the marriage of Kennedy with Khrushchev

do not allow them to abort their womb's bomb-boys

let their bomb-girls die in their womb

let their be life aborting marriage anniversary each year

if Khrushchev Kennedy is not there will there be progenitress ever?

Then stop violence megaton war firefall

otherwise the hungry will tear off flesh according to requirement.

From the party of snow hyenas disturbed India's border  

lack of religion's red flag with body's limping hunger

and watching  painted hunger drawn on snow hyenas' eyes of women's cheek devouring

Chief Minister, send a posse of Hungry poets

they don't not know how to write, knows extra-mundane methods of how to swallow

they would eat the entire border and discuss in Coffee House

probably there is not much difference in modern poetry and prose

marriages take place in Bangladesh at 30 minutes past 3

gift leather garland of Bentink Street to Jyoti Basu

how was Soumitra's acting in China Expedition

why are not people ready to accept poetry just like boiled rice

will they accept when war is over ? Even beggars are able to understand poetry

why would you not understand Dear Professor, Chief Minister Sen?

( Published by the poet himself in a Hungry Bulletin during border war with China in 1962 )

( Translated by Malay Roychoudhury )