(1)
We, the guards of the Water Fairy
From the depths of the river
As we reached its bank
The last ship of the remorseless merchants
Laden with all the river had
Had sailed away, tearing through the darkness
The waters of the river flowed, over the stains
That stuck to the sands, like greasy
Blood stains
Like thick clots of dry blood
Thickening and growing, over the ages
The Water Fairy became
A woman alive
And she told us and our robbed wretched people, that
‘For long have we stayed silent. Silent witness
To the suffering and suffering of justice long denied.
But today we have got back
Our mind and our strength
Our conscience
And our speech.’
We are guards of the Water Fairy
Alert guards of her water country
History is on our side now.
(In the original, it is Jalkunwari, which could be water goddess/princes/fairy.)
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dr. Manjeet Baruah)
(2)
At dawn, one day
The Old Spirit of the old tree
In the middle of the muddy pool
Stood standing next to the lotus bloom.
His lonely mind in flight, to the
Expanse of the field of the plants of rice
From the field of the plants of rice
Had come carried then, screams of neighing
Of horses of war
And had come carried then, a loud load of music
Of their victorious masters
…and the last cry of a
Dying aged man
Famine struck the people
And famished people famished towards death
They remained no longer human
For human became inhuman
Days passed, and passed into the forgotten
Nights passed, and passed into the past
The Old Spirit of the old tree
His mind took flight, again
To the expanse of the field
Of the plants of rice
At dusk, one day, in the village
The old and the wise
Saw the lifeless corpse of the Old Spirit
In the naked field of the
Plants of rice
Nearby were footprints and hoof marks
Of men and their animals
In the original, it is Burha Dangoria. Burha Dangoria in folktales is an aged ghost/spirit who could be benevolent as well as revengeful upon the people.
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dr. Manjeet Baruah)
(3)
When the birds cried in the blue hills
When the fields of paddy dripped, dripped in blood
The hills and its forests, and its birds cried
People’s hearts burst of pale blood
And the day when the termites sang in the woods
And sang and screamed –
And the ships of the merchants waded upstream
Then the tiny boats and their wounded boatmen
All sank, sank deeper, all boats, and river, and blood and men
Scared, shrunk, the poor countrymen
They lost their speech, they lost their courage
And dawned then the dawn of the eternal night
Of the war for power between those brown and white
On the last day of the war, the crows gasped –
Water, water, water, water –
The riders of the horses pushed, pushed the brown
To one end of the black iron chains
And the other end of the heavy chains were tied
To the hoofs of the horses of the fair
People crawling in front of death
Crawling in the mud of life, growing roots
And metamorphosing into ghosts of glory
Chained around necks, alive in slavery
the ghosts of glory
In the original, it is the wind that blows in the month of Phagun. Phagun is a windy month (February-March) in Assam.
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dr. Manjeet Baruah)
(4)
A gust of the Windy wind
And swept away were dust of the road, old waste of the fields
But there remained beside the ancient pond
Seated our Old Man
A windful of memory held in his restless thoughts
We too were ruminating, studying
… Of lives perished long ago
… Of time that perished long ago.
So we asked our Old Man
What is life: … ‘Momentary water slipping off yam leaf’
And what is history: … ‘Tales of rich and famous
… Of people and country bought and sold’
… ‘Of minds and thoughts no longer one’s own
… Of wasted shorter routes to being bought and sold’.
We asked him again
Who are we?
‘Nothing and nothing yam leaves, crushed beneath their white feet’
‘Muddy waters under stomping hoofs, left behind in the path of riders’
‘Startled souls in fear, at the very ringing of a gunshot’
Then who are you?
We asked again our Old Man
‘I am History: of two lost centuries
Of centuries lost in the time of the colonial
Of centuries lost in the time of the colonized’
In the original poem, it’s Kachari Burha (old man from the Kachari tribe/community), used to convey a folk sense of old man.
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dr. Manjeet Baruah)
Amchoi Memories
That day while walking on the
Dusty hill road
both of us
You were looking for
fruits of which tree
The trees had bowed down
The green leaves had touched
Our unblinking eyes
Beckoned us the
Cold waters of
the Killing River
Even the blue hills knew
About our love
We were holding hands
That day while returning
Between the water and stones somewhere
I lost you
When death would approach
I would remember
The leaves and
The stones that preserve
Your shadow
And you,
who were looking for fruits
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dibyajyoti Sarma)
Confounded 1
Look at the lights,
They fade away as one passes the station
I have left that, my own port. That lone
Current of return is no longer there. Currents
Returning home, do not stop. Do not fall drops of seawater.
I’ve left her. Just her.
What was on her brown eyes
I haven’t forgotten even after leaving the port
How the snows turn to stones.
I am confounded
I have left my own port.
Confounded 2
The only regret I will have in my death,
If I don’t die for love.
This dark night of solitude
This magic night of rainfall
Who arrives, arrives who, Basantasanhita
To light a lamp on this ancient Buddhist shrine
Who is so such desirous?
I am confounded
Is this a lamp of sin
Or a lamp to absolve sin?
You ask them, Basantasanhita
What have they come looking for?
Dead customs, the bones, the ashes
The clay lamps and its doused flames
Do they want the shade of trees?
Dry logs of dead branches
Ashes of dead trees, ashes of dead leaves
Do they search for
The giant, ancient trees of the centuries?
You ask them, Basantasanhita
Have they preserved their grandfathers’ dry ashes?
How long is there –
To end this nigh of traditions –
I am confounded
Trees keep men alive
Or men keep trees alive
Go, tell them Basantasanhita
If they have come looking for
The meaning of life, they
Will have to wait until dawn
Will have to wait until dawn
I am helpless, a bhikshu
Otherwise, how would I pray?
For all of you
The way we pray for human life
Not death
I am helpless, a bhikshu
P.S. Dear Basantasanhita
Light up with your prayers
The threshold of this ancient temple, with your memories
Unlock this temple door
I am confounded
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dibyajyoti Sarma)
I said from a distance
You look beautiful
Damp soil near the river, your home
Dusty road of Panikhaiti, your courtyard
That day after sundown
The toads in the waterhole screeched
Give us our food
Give us our drink
The male toads had found
The way to your courtyard
From a distance, they said
You look beautiful
Slowly, you turned
Into a female toad
We returned
On our way
From a distance you said
You all look beautiful
(The original Assamese poem was translated to English by Dibyajyoti Sarma)