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In the season of coral flowers, it is hard to foresee that
melancholy haunts this little town too.
With the oozing hours, the bridal fingers get stained—
Snakes disappear, emptying her dreams—
Cataract troubles her sight.
Yes. It is easy to numb and dumb them—
to make them clap and trigger them down.
Arrayed in purple, when this town steps into the river
it is hard to foresee that she cannot escape disease, the preface to death.
It seems something surreal—
This town owns— cannibals and butterfly garden
This town owns— a lone post office and numberless banks;
fewer schools and scores of temples.
Until a glance at the mirror, it is hard to foresee that
Autumn never leaves this town unkissed.
Here is winter
Amidst the drifting ruffle of yellow,
solitude is the only ally
I crease and shrink
dwarfing the shadow of my mind
Shaken from the leaf
the dewdrop shimmers no more.
In a nook of my heart
the singing bird that had nested—
shall fly away in search of another Spring
The dazzling sight of the bewitching light
would be a lost treasure to the yearning eyes—
Steely Winter in silent rebellion
shall spread across the sky
The emptiness isn’t void.
Weighed by the smell of the ripe harvest
here is the ghastly Winter.
Drifting in the wind
putrid stench of charred flesh.
The stench provokes greed.
Not the flutter of a bird’s wings.
It isn’t to come.
What flower shall bloom— Sun!
Not yet nothing is burnt to ashen debris;
burnt to clouds.
A long way… to wait.
As if millions of years and ages, today— yesterday…
the same day— the same moment, stand still.
Empty memories— a smoky facade.
What flower shall bloom— Sun!
At one touch shattered the glass chimney.
A naked wick in the wind.
Blind to everything,
holding the vulnerable fire
I run desultorily
I am running— my soul diseased.
How far have I come? I do not remember.
Across rivers and ports— I can’t recall;
except for dusky fragrance of an evening…
Incense and burning resin.
It feels, once again, as if
I am coming back and
swimming in the watery warmth;
As if rapidly slipping down towards a shade of grey
wrapping the evening sky with my ashen self.
How torturous this moment is— desolate… unsinging.
Fading hopes. Perhaps I shall never be able to come back.
Do not bleed your passions in my memory. I won’t dare to
watch flickering and swelling monsoon eyes—
the fluttering flag of scarlet love.
Or you could,
take the road on the left.
Go on… Remember, your steps shape your fortune.
Do not wait to hear the crickets sing…
Or chase after those dragonflies
and the bewitching winged butterflies.
Close ahead lies a forest of scattered, auburn leaves.
When you find it, you’ll know you aren’t lost— Do not whistle here,
nor spit up at the sky— whisper not, to the wind, the ill of the trees,
Else the Wind will see your humanity.
Don’t turn around… but walk on.
There’ll be someone you meet here
with promises to ease your voyage;
deafen yourself — walk on ahead.
Moans and growls will hunt your ears
do not stop for them. Be warned— temptation spells weakness.
Few miles on rests the ruins of a fallen city—
amidst sand and cacti an old necropolis.
By the graveyard the road ends
and there begins a pebbled shore.
The destination isn’t far away.
The path ahead is yours to shape— your desire brings it alive.
Thus far you’ve come— the destination isn’t far too.
Would you turn back now!
A poet by passion and a teacher by profession Diganta Saikia has been trying his hands in Assamese poetry for last three decades. Included in almost all the frontline Assamese magazines, his poetry relates a variety of themes and subjects.
Till now, three collections of his poetry has been published, titled: Ximolur Mudhere Xoroki Ahise Megh; Xuror Kosturi Khotua Ratibur; and Matir Mukh. Besides, Saikia has translated three novels— Love in the Time of Cholera ( Gabriel Garcia Marqueze); The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy); an autobiograpgy— Autobiographia ( Jorg Luis Borges) and a collection of short stories— A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings and Eleven Other Stories (Gabriel Garcia Marqueze).
Saikia has translated works from various authors of universal repute like, Samuel Beckett, Eugene O’Neill, Franz Kafka, O. Henry, Langston Hughes, Robert Frost, Haruki Murakami, Jayanta Mahapatra etc into his mother tongue. He has composed a few lyrics for Assamese Films, Theatres and Modern Songs too. Besides being a Law graduate, Saikia has done Masters twice in English.
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