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Sea
Therefore the sea could never go to sleep
Always
The moon accompanies the stars
To have bath in its heart
The wind wants to sleep with it
The fish and the snails too
The boats and the ships
Dye its heart with vermilion
But it falls in love with
That girl who roams to pick up the snails
And does not go down to its heart
Therefore the sea could never go to sleep.
Translated from Assamese by Abhignyan Anurag
Guest
He entered inside
opening the door to my heart
without bothering to ask
He broke
my vase of Love
immediately after
Where from my friend this pest
arrived first thing in the morning
I fed him
And also
Attended to
Evening rolled in
He is in no mood
to depart
Night descended
The guest fell asleep
on my bed like a log
At midnight
He brought out a packet
from his chest
Handed over to me
And
Suddenly
He readied to depart
Said
He would catch the midnight train
I open the packet
and saw
His shattered heart
As was
My vase of Love
Where from this guest arrived ?
Where did he depart to ?
Where did he depart to ?
Translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury
Shillong, 16th April '89
The world's hardest rock was sleeping
Under a white pine tree. The yellow intoxication of whisky
brought me to this rock. I do not know in whose search
The cracks and crevices of the rock were filled with moonlight,
The crystal body of the rock was sparking like a nude girl.
A yellow wind was whirring in the den of the ear.
My shoes were getting pale in the moonlight. Everybody
wanted as if to be nude in the moonlight, my clothes were
restless. The rock was folding up getting twisted,
bending towards my lips.
The world's hardest rock was
becoming soft for two seconds
under a yellow wind, moonlight and a white pine tree.
Suddenly a wild thorn pierced me
Blood spurted out of my feet and I was surprised to see
that my blood was not red, It was yellow instead.
Translated from Assamese by Pradip Acharjee
The beautiful women
The beautiful women get down from the city bus
And walk along the footpath. The bell in the town rings for eleven times
When the women arrive. The town keeps all of its windows to see the beautiful women. They dazzle in unique warmth when in the wool market.
The beautiful women never try for poetry. They shampoo once in a week and comb hair under the sun. A poet named ‘Hemanta shes’ composes ballads for them. The vegetables like to have a lift in the hand baggage of them. The beautiful women shop inners for their men. They take tastes of phuska in the street. The beautiful women become raring to go home back before sunset. The beautiful women get on the city bus against the rush. The town then fades away in distress. The city cannot follow the beautiful women. But, if they wish, the beautiful women can hunt the city.
Translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury
Traffic Jam
As I drive out from home
Suddenly I forget
Where I was headed to
When I get stuck
into the traffic jams in a hurry
Then I feel restless
And I remember-
where I was headed to
Many people tell me -
'' I saw you the other day
in the traffic jam ''
Yes !
Who was it that saw me in the traffic jam
I have to enter into another traffic jam
To remember one .
Translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury
Rubi Gupta
The underwear of Rubi Gupta had not dried out
On the day the Jalianwala Bagh massacre took place .
While gathering clothes , hung them out to dry
Up in the concrete roof
She noticed
All of her clothes had dried out
Except her underwear .
Frightened she was
Since the evil occurrence there must be
On earth
On the same day
When her underwear
Get dry late.
Now and then
I think of Rubi Gupta
Who lived in a novel’s protracted house
Nobody knew about the world tragedies’ link
With this tiny wear .
Even she cannot let others know it too .
The underwear of Rubi Gupta had not dried out
On the day of world’s terrible quakes,
Volcanoes , tsunamis and massacres .
She was never at ease without underwear
Even without wash .
In her childhood
Her mother taught
Not to stay sans underwear.
Now she only shivered with apprehension
Was her underwear dry ?
She ironed her underwear
On a rainy day.
To save the world
She tried her hardest
Translated from Assamese by Abhignyan Anurag
Rain
Rain raised its hand and stopped the bus.
And noisily struggled into the bus
No seats were vacant
Rain remained standing clutching the handle
And pressed against me
The wind, the clouds, lightening or thunder
None of these companions of rain
Was sitting on the seats
The Men who were sitting
Were totally unknown to rain
In the bumping of the bus from time to time
Raindrops and the rim-jim sound of the rain
Spattered into people’s bodies
Some stretching their necks and some
Over the shoulders of other people looked at rain
Like a restless girl
Standing clutching the handles
Slowly the floor of the bus
Became all over flown with rain water
Even then no one said anything
All were silent
That is why
Rain put an arm on my shoulder
The papers in my shirt pocket
Become wet together with my shirt
And being wet
Spread on a half-written poem of mine
Kept amidst the papers
My lips without my knowing
Sucked drops of water of rain
Just like this without my knowing
Rain went inside me.
Inside me there was a tiny little sky
Having seen the sky
Rain started raining
When being wet from rain
From inside and outside
I am
Rain asked whispering in my ear
“ I hope you were not drenched in the rain ?”
Translated from Assamese by Ajit Barua
The Curve
All the beautiful curves
Of Earth are dangerous
Come , let us get down
At this captivating- dangerous curve
Look
From this curve
One feels like taking entire world
Into an embrace
From this curve
One feels like jumping down to the green
Is this curve
Dangerous
Just because it is beautiful ?
Or
Is it beautiful
Because it is dangerous ?
All the beautiful and
Dangerous curves of this world
Returns us our homes
Come
Let us go home
Tell me sweetheart
Which way is your home ?
Translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury
MY POEMS - FROM OFF STAGE
Nilim Kumar
Although untrue, yet I would say I was born to be a poet. Or at least, that is how I like to think it to be. And inciting myself like this, I am living. Otherwise I would have long died poisoning myself, for I could not find a meaning of my birth. Poetry indeed has saved me.
I grew up bereft of love. My childhood became increasingly tattered for sham human behavior and for the sheer lack of love. And then- I got the gift of an awesome power-solitude. My poems are an ex
Amidst the unending clash with my consciousness while living a life absolutely unwished for, I think, that, to celebrate life I do not have people by my side, what I do have is immense nature beside me. I try to unveil this boundless nature with aesthetics. That is why, you find water in my poems, or moonbeam in the lips of water; and that is why water treads in and out through my house. That is why, you see waves, waves as fishes, golden and silvery like that of an impossible poem.
That is why the oranges entered into my sleep. That is why the hardest rock on earth turned smooth for some tiny flashes and that is why a third breast of woman undulated in wind like a little grass.
My poems themselves recurrently analyze the reasons for the excess abundance of my self-centeredness. Many a critic, many a reader have accused my path of not being correct. Now against the relativity of correctness and incorrectness the path that the diffidence or uncertainty, the dim history and experiences of my life have created I am on that path. The branches of this breath are also limited. Any sound of the universal or that of an epic consciousness is certainly absent in my poems.
The being that I am-just above the inanimate, I deny all potentials inside me. I want to establish my blood and flesh, my hunger and fatigue. Just my presence that I am, and that one day I would stop being.
The uncertainty that I carry within myself, my poetic consciousness emerges from this utter distortion- it defines the meaning as well as meaninglessness of my words. The very meaning of meaninglessness.
But I want to free words from its meanings, from the limitations of meaning. I want the grammar in my poems to be as incorrect as my incorrect journey. I let the language of my poems be intoxicated with my solitude or evil with curses.
Translated by Daisy Barman.
(Daisy Barman is a scribbler and translator. She can be reached at [email protected])
The Poet
Nilim Kumer is one of the most popular Assamese poets. He was born in Pathsala in lower Assam’s Barpeta district in 1961. Some of his collections include Achinar Ashukh, Bari Kunwar, Swapnar Relgaari; Seluoi Gadhuli; Topanir Baagicha , Panit Dhou Dhoubor Mach, among others. He visited France in 2001 under a Indo-France cultural exchange programme at the initiative of Sahitya Akademi. In 1996, he visited Bangladesh as a representative of Indian writers. He is a member of selection committee of “Indian poetry for the young cultural values on the web.”
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