A few poems of Bipuljyoti Saikia
The River Unto Man
1
The river recalls the past for man;
the charming or the ungainly vignettes,
converges all songs and all dreams.
Like a bird the river puts on ageing throats
a youthful strain,
on a youth’s hand the fantasies of adolescence,
puts in adolescent lips
the golden script of childhood.
Caught in the self’s rediscovery
he forgets the divergence of addresses.
2
Sometimes the river sings in man’s veins,
lends him a moment’s immortality
as it surfaces the sorrow in the blood,
gives all the hallowed beliefs of life
to man’s thirsty hands.
3
The river lends the sense of touch,
gives trusting hands, hearing hearts.
When man finds seeds of war in his heart
he rushes to the river,
as the plaintive poet to his woman.
1985
[Translated by Pradip Acahrya]
Chanting The Gita - I
The meaning of this wait itself is travel, dear Parth
Actually, you don’t wait here.
Around you the world moves constantly
The buds one day turns into flowers and fall, the children
One day, tying the knives on their waists turn terrible youths,
The green hills are now furnace of bellowing black smoke.
The rivers that flow inside and around men one day descend as raindrops
The raindrops become rivers again, the unlucky birds that migrated
From their houses return home, the evening shadows of men on the pages of history
Becomes longer, the darkness spreads beyond what the eyes can see.
Oh, my exhausted Parth, the meaning of an indecision like this is travel;
The endless journey through the flesh-and-blood time
Inevitable descend: There is nothing to regret,
This is now your reality.
The reality is not only hard, sometimes it’s absolutely meaningless
But since we have no control over the results of our actions
Since you are just a cause, or in simple words, an actor;
Let’s continue this travel of this waiting.
1989
[Translated by Dibyajyoti Sarma]
Reading The Geeta - II
When the night of time comes to an end
all things come back to my bosom,
king or hermit, man or bird,
the uprooted or the river.
I write time’s diary. Light up the beyond.
I am Brahman; the end of beginning,
the beginning of end,
I am infinite and endless.
I am with you now, your charioteer,
but I am free, Partha;
I tread freely like infinite space.
I rub shoulders with you but I am beyond reach,
I am here with you but I am beyond count;
I myself am freedom,
Absolute.
1989
[Translated by Pradip Acahrya]
Refuge
What easy definition have you of refuge
that you would hand me a house
four walls on four sides
a roof above
What easy definition is there of refuge
that you would waylay a wanderer
and bring him home.
1989
[Translated by Pradip Acahrya]
The River of Forgetting
(1)
The evening too has a sky, all its own,
a solitary sky,
flowing down from beyond even the past
of my reaching.
For me and for my past
so familiar and yet so fresh is this sky
arrogating brightly in the pervading quiet
after the seminaries of dreams false or true
dazed time and my dumb age confront
But do I really have the silver meadows
to gaze at the golden sky?
do my strains stack such abundant grain?
(2)
The egrets are lost. The fields too are lost.
After football and Kabaddi,
now a guitar strums a western strain and many more.
Many a thing is lost. The Golmohur at the gateway,
a sky full of crimson flute notes beyond the afternoon,
and ripe vermilion mangoes dropping on their own,
the shadow of the berry tree by the river,
childhood.
(3)
No sounds. It’s a silence from you to me,
such silence enfolds me,
where would you be?
I am here, the land’s alphabet beckons me,
the boulders on land break my itinerary,
after so many rights and wrongs a lettered dream
that is within living memory.
Where may you be?
At the other shore of many emptiness?
(4)
I too own mistakes, O Time,
I know,
you harbour no evenings under your wheels.
But I am only human,
crazy to adorn the evening’s garb.
One lone man, what could I want?
beyond past clocks, dream women and memories?
What do I have? the corpse of a whirlwind
that would override the magic of roots;
I retrieve festering time and talk to my dreams,
I am Abhimonyu.
Time, you too have erred.
(5)
The tits and bits I would recall
before crossing the river of forgetfulness
the letters that would harrow me
till my arms fall off
the skys that would tease me
till my eyes move beyond vision
the land that would clamour for me
till I am shorn of my legs
the strains that would haunt me
till I lose my voice
the dreams that would nourish me
till the tears dry
the river of forgetting stretches
till the poems are dead.
1991
[Translated by Pradip Acahrya]
My Unborn Daughter
There's a tale to my unborn daughter not being born.
The mother hadn't knit a sweater for the tale.
Didn't even make her a dress,
No question of the buttons being sewn on.
Nor had she saved the heirloom
from her mother's mother and her mother's days
to give her when she left with her groom,
should the tale become a novel.
The tale started as a haiku and one day became a sonnet
after traversing stories and plays
it turned into an exquisite myth
and moonlight from home and abroad
from distant rivers beyond the seven seas
overflowed in our not-yet home.
As it was turning into that exquisite myth
Someone aired my tale
Some saved it in dark cold room
Dust from the road settled on the letters
Someone spilled acid on it
Others carried the tale to alien lands
While others tore it to pieces
Without leaving any trace
Shedding unshed tears
the not-yet mother went crazy
being the not-yet father
I hugged the undying body of my unborn daughter
planted a kiss on her nonexistent forehead
and said:
My child, I won't be born too,
let your mother not be born either
let the sky be unborn
like wind tree and river
and this our world.
2013
[Translated by Pradip Acahrya]
The Road That Leads The Soldiers
Through the road that leads the soldiers to battlefield
we may instead bring back the fertile rivers
The road through which now passes the refugees
of destroyed cities
may instead lead young children to schools
living individuals to art galleries, eager travellers to
forests
The road through which tanks go
the road that leads to deaths and graveyards
we may instead bring back dreams of teen aged seasons
hymns to fertilise the dismal corn fields
And the bright suns of life.
1984
[Translated by Rituraj Kalita]
Come Rain
Come rain
My door is ajar,
Windows are open.
Wash away the monotony
Cover the earth
With the white sea
Let the worshipped ancient sun go down in the courtyard
Wash these dusty hands
So that I could set sail again
Striking with the oars
Not blood , the bluish water of the Yamuna of my sorrows
So that I could open up the vein of the current and look through.
Wash the shadow of the blood smeared face
So that I could drink with the cupped hands the water from the lotus pond
So that I could see the ripe season of the eyes again, clearing the hyacinth.
Come rain
Ajar is my door,
Open are the windows.
1983
[ Translated by Priyankoo Sarma]
To Children
(A few advices like parents)
Live here keeping your eyes shut
here, that we are keeping them open
doesn’t help; we don’t see anything
Don’t ask for air to breathe
this very vacuum
actually is air
Don’t read history
why don’t you see -
how we are reading future?
Don’t listen to anything
don’t speak anything
here that we are listening
here that we are speaking
are actually symptoms of being deaf and dumb
Don’t talk of your parents and forefathers
here that we are present - your father, your mother,
actually we
are not at all ourselves.
1985
[Translated by Rituraj Kalita]
About the Poet
Poet and translator Bipuljyoti Saikia is a scientist at the Centre of Plasma Physics – Institute for Plasma Research, Nazirakhat, Tepesia in Assam. His collections of poetry include Mahakabyar Pratham Pat, Pahoronir Noi and Swapna Smriti Bishadar Gatha. His collections of translations include - Japanee Mrityu Kabita and Anil Sarkarar Nirbachita Kabita. Other collections include Ramanujan, Sonali Sankhya, Leonardo Da Vinci, Ishwar Konika Aaru Ananya Prabandha Albert Einstein Samipeshu, and Ganarpara Bigyanaloi. He has translated a number of books including Bismayakar Chip, published by National Book Trust, New Delhi, Kerketuwa, and Mokora, both Published by Scholastic, New Delhi. Selected poems of Bipuljyoti have been translated into Bengali and published as a book titled Esho Bristi. He was awarded the Anil Kumar Sarma Memorial Award by Asam Sahitya Sabha for his book Sonali Sankhya in 2000.