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Through the apertures of the window-grille
The wind comes in.
It begins to turn over
One by one
The pages of the diary.
And with utmost caution
The wind
Retreats by the way it had come.
Nothing new !
With the bag in hand
I go out to the mart.
By the road
A crowd.
A squabble.
Nothing new.
A little below the spot
Where the road ends
Forging ahead
There's another new road.
The poet hasn't noticed.
The poet hasn't heard
The sound of the flute
That keeps on lilting
Without being played.
The fragrance of the flower
Blooming upon a tomb
Without having bloomed
Hasn't reached the poet.
The tiger of religion
Has kept on rending
The people asunder.
Nothing new.
Amid the fruitless translation
Of flowers stars songs and rivers
The poet's voice
Has faded away.
Nothing new.
A slab of rock sobs
In grief for being a rock.
The mature and tendermost grasses
Whimper
In grief for being trampled to death
The poet hasn't heard.
On a blurry tree-leaf
A droplet of dew
Hangs
On the verge of dropping.
The first snow-fall of winter !
The poet hasn't noticed.
Amid the growls
Of a man-eater
Called politics
A stag by the name of mother-tongue
Is on the brink of death.
The poet hasn't noticed.
On the path
At the mart
In the temple
In the mosque
In the evening-gossips
There seems to be nothing new anywhere !
Through the apertures of the window-grille
The wind comes in
And one by one
Begins to turn over
The pages of the poet's diary.
There's nothing new
There's nothing new
There's nothing new
Nothing new implies
The poet's death.
1)
I thrust my hands into the fire
Both my hands grow frigid
I thrust my hands into water
My fingers begin to burn as ripe ember.
Is it fire or water
Water or fire !!
2)
A butterfly comes fluttering
And settles upon a flower
Is it a flower or a trap
A butterfly or a snake
Whose flight is it in our sky ?
3)
Yesterday morning
While looking at myself on the mirror
I saw you
This morning
While looking at my face on the water
I saw your face
While looking up at the sky at night
Incessant drops of water fell on my body
Was it water or your tear-drops ?
No,
Was there anything by the name of sky ?
Deeming it to be the sky last night
Hadn't I kept watching
Just at the boundless void ?
4)
Last night
I'd entered home late.
As on other days
Father was sitting on the verandah.
Holding my father's hands last evening
I was strolling around.
Father said --
Walking is good
For health.
Yesterday I was sweating from fever.
My eyes saw only smoke around.
I'd begun to drivel.
With his hand on my forehead
All night long
Father sat beside my pillow.
And today
In this sweltering summer noon
I'm sitting alone.
On a wintry noon
I'd lost my father.
Yesterday all day long
Had I been immersed in illusion ?
Yesterday all night long
Had I been immersed in illusion ?
5)
Traveller,
Are you moving forth ?
Or are you waiting somewhere
With the delusion of advancement ?
Saying "I'm waiting for you only"
Or am I just waiting for myself somewhere !!
Traveller,
What have you put in your tongue
Deeming it to be honey ?
Poison !
Is it truly toxic ?
Why is the tuft of flower handed by an acquaintance
So unfamiliar, traveller ?
The mind wrapped up as slumber
Is that of sleeplessness.
How icy cold is the bosom upon which the hands rest
Deemed to be warm !!
I thrust my hands into the fire.
Both my hands grow frigid.
I thrust my hands into water.
My fingers begin to burn as ripe ember.
Listen traveller,
Let me whisper a line into your ears --
People live with illusions.
People are metaphors of illusion.
(In memory of Upal Deb)
As a silky black serpent
The evening lies sprawled in front.
Calm and glum !
I haven't forgotten you.
I haven't forgotten
Your burn-blistered fingers
Covered by a quilt
During winter.
I haven't forgotten
About the thorns pricking your heart.
About the impaling nails.
About your dreams and sins.
And about those secrets of yours
Whispered into the ears of spring,
Those secrets that thrived in the darkness !
I haven't forgotten.
As a silky black serpent
The evening lies sprawled in front of us.
Cold and glum.
The chair in the corner is empty.
A rosgolla
Squeezed dry of its syrup
Lies on the saucer
The books are asleep.
The chair and the table too.
The bed and the bulb too.
The specs and the computer.
You wanted to know
About my love-story.
And with your burn-blistered fingers
Sought to feel my sins.
I haven't forgotten you.
I pick up the glass splinters.
Old raptures
Cry their hearts out.
I open another door
Of fresh woes.
The wintry mists swell.
The eyes' mists too !
What billows
In our hearts ?
What do I save
In the heart's chamber !
What slips through
The fist ?
What do I hear tumbling down.
What do I see eroding off.
In the morns
In the evenings
I pick up the glass splinters.
And in the old pond itself
Deeming it to be a new day
I raise ripples of silence everyday.
---
All the poems have been translated from the original Assamese into English by Krishna Dulal Barua
About the translator:
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