Date of Publish: 2024-07-19

A few poems by Akash Dipta Thakur

The tell of digging out Chenchur

 

Mother, have you ever tasted milk?

The grey coloured cow will give birth

To a calf a month later

So many persons have paid advance

‘Kindly spare for me at least one quarter of litre

For my son aged two and half years’

‘If possible give me half a litre for my father is ill’

‘We are going to solemnise Satyanarayan puja

Two months later

Somehow kindly manage one litre of milk’

‘We always get supply of our milk

So we ned not ask you in advance’

 

The day dawned

The purple sun showed its face in the east

A bowlful of tea and a little molasses

‘ You always run short of milk

Mother forgot the taste of your nectar of breast

Now I am in the 4^th standard

The simple Maina even searches for

The taste at night

You know all this mother,

 

On sooty low bamboo table rested

The colourless mug

Which contains half a litre of milk

The cow gave last year

 

You gave Maina a bowlful of milk

And a half glass to me

Don’t you want to taste a little milk?

 

Two month’s later, father’s death

anniversary be solemnised

Clad in a white as milk

You will pour down

The nectar-like milk of our grey cow

To the devotees in the bowls made of the trunk

Of plantain plants

My father never forgot the taste

 

Behind the kitchen garden is the paddy field

Where you used to step down early in the morning

He equipped with a sickle

After the sun set you return home

With your cheeks painted red

Lottle Maina weeps

Seeing your blood coloured cheeks

At night you remain half fed

filled in your stomach taking impure water

You keep groaning late in the night

Mother, you said the paddy field is goddess of riches

Nectar remain hidden in the bosom

Will you accept the nectar in your palms?

 

Mother don’t get angry?

Putting aside my school bag

I run to the field searching for

Nectar with my younger sister

Taking a thin bamboo stick I dug deep into the earth

and got six seeds to nectar

Mother, the goddess of riches kept them hidden

under her breast

 

They are called Chenchur*

Two of these were eaten by Maina

I have bought you four fine ones

Will you please taste them?

 

Chenchur*-An edible root of grass growing in the paddy field

Satyanarayan Puja—A kind of worship[ solemnised by a caste of Hindus

(Translated from original Assamese into English by Nurul Hussain)

 

Value

An unknown beam rests here and there in mind

Piercing through the wall of silence

dripped down emotions

 

Here and there in the heart-

A constant shadow of grief

A sun bathed yearning

 

Here and there in the body-

Many unexpected thrilling wave

In the inexpressible heart of love

Burn down the oppressed and strange words

 

In the heart-here and there

sprouts the unreasonable expectations of gain

Despaired night behind the curtain

there is hide and seek of money and oblivion

 

In the central nerve-here and there

flows the forbidden subtermean streams

remain motionless in the nerves and sib-nerves

and turned into venomous drops of blood

Here and there-

there is the suppressed emotional pain

Here and there-

there is an ocean of pain and sulkiness

In the hurt and broken wings stands motionless

Here and there-

there is a tender death yearning love

In the extensive area of desert

is the thirsty desire for oasis

and lacerated is the fancy

 

Here and there-is the loss

rests soft ray of the sun in the longing reflection

fragrant less is the dropped flower

in the deem inspiration of faded emotion

Here and there-in time

there lies a cluster of stars glittering in memory

A dim beam of oblivion

Spreads in the bench of dark veil

The limitless emptiness in business

Removing the veil of fog of melted woe

Stands an abstract despair

 

In life - Here and there

Peeps the undesired spring—

The genuine love—

At the end of unexpected pain

Perpetua; is the homeward movement.

***

(Translated from original Assamese into English by Nurul Hussain)

 

Illusion

(1)

The one afraid of being submerged to the neck

In the tide of love, fails to grasp

Even the knee-deep of water

Can’t wet the silver shawl

Flowing across the bosom

(2)

Some moss bosoms secretly in a corner

Everything is as transparent as mirror

Sometimes the reminiscences remain uncovered

with moss

The pesticides abound, long to spread everywhere

The abandoned heart is sometimes turned tender

with some emotions that seem to be lost

or may be indulged in love unreasonable.

***

(Translated from original Assamese into English by Nurul Hussain)

It is the time for making the Biriya^* ready

Kangali^* is already over The paddy field is wearing Jetuka^*

Brother, have you noticed the cinnabaric smile

Do you here the sobbing of the broken granary?

Last year flood washed away all

This year the hunger may be satisfied

In the grey coloured knot of Churiya^*

remains the endeared Hansati^*

that is to be wetted with perspirations of body

the torn of vest^* and your Gamocha^*

studded with ornamental work to be readied

The pan over the hearth is filled in tepid water

The mouthwatering taste of oil mixed with Kaljira^*

The shoulder is inflicted with a painful boil

while pasted it with turmeric,

the yellow coloured paste spread to the back

 

You will make ropes of immature bamboo

The tie of Mukhura^* of the pair

of bullocks is getting loose

The foreyard is covered with dust waving

its hand responsively

In Marali^* of granary the Okhan^* is restless

Maina’s mother pulled out the sickle kept

at the side of reed wall

and wiped it clean

To collect the ears of corn

 

Sarukan, Jetuki and Tara are ready of the Bangiya^*

and they will race to…

with Patidai you will bind the big sheafs of paddy

Lift it up instantly

On the weight of your torn off heels

the calf of legs will keep dancing

producing a rhythmic sound

Brother, so you listen?

It is time for making the Biriya^* ready.

Biriya- A piece of split bamboo used in carrying bundles of paddy on the shoulder.

Kangali-Kati Bihu, one of the three Bihu festivals of Assamese people

Jetuka-A kind of shrub whose leaves are ground to make a paste for painting limbs of body specially by women.

Hansati-A small narrow cloth to keep betel nuts

Gamocha- A kind of towel, used as a token of respect, may be used for other purposes

Kaljira- A very small edible seed

Mukhura- a muzzle for oxen

Patidai-The mat rush

Okhan- A bamboo hook for gathering grains in straw

Marali- A pole of long piece of bamboo supporting the roof of a house

Bangiya- An embankment cross a rice field over which people pass.

***

(Translated from original Assamese into English by Nurul Hussain)

 

The game of bidding Adieu

 

How easy to leave simply bidding adieu!!

The way every moment tickles by…days months and years…

Leaving behind just a feel; some known; others unknown

And some never-to-cease painful moments.

 

How easy to leave simply bidding adieu!!

The way the naked Palash peeping through the Raghumola vines

Becomes the harbinger of Fagun

Letting go the dew drops that battle half-bathed in wintry warmth

 

How easy to leave simply bidding adieu!!

The way the fields in Aghun are left barren

Having wrapped the ceasing golden smiles

The parting that is bereft the Krishnachura’s blaze

The way the crimson morning sun turns into Autumnal moon.

 

How easy to leave simply bidding adieu!!

The way the stream flows breaking the barriers of hills and boundaries

Only to merge in the salty bosom sea,

The way proud love seeks to merge and be one

Leaving scratch marks in flesh and veins

 

Not every leave bid adieu

Perplexed where to keep, how to hide,

The blood that spills out of an injured heart.

Nothing can heal; neither the lapse of time

Not even the cooling layers of medicinal herbs

Palash- The tree that blooms in different shades of red during the months of February and March

Raghumola–A vine which has the capacity to kill the original tree in which it takes shelter.

Fagun- A season just before spring and is characterised by fields that have been harvested.

Aghun-A season when the paddy fields turn golden due to maturity of grains.

Krishnachura-The tree popularly known as Royal Poinciana is famous for its blazing red flowers that blood during summer season.

(Translated from original Assamese into English by Dr. Saba Anish

 

About the poet:

Akash Dipta Thakur is a poet, short story writer and novelist. His collections of poetry include Mela Chilit Kencha Tej, Chayakalpa, Fresh Blood in the Air. His novels are Upakul, Arohi, Sipare Jamuna, Sanjor Tora, Mohana, Rakta Tilak, Aranya Ninad, Nishanta, and Ki Rupe Pokhalo. Kishalaya, Sagnik, Tej Mongohor Sarir are three of his short story collections. He also writes for children. Two of his novels for children are Beliphulor Rong and Rodor Phul Niyarar Rang and Kagajar Nao is a collection of short stories for children.

Akash Dipta Thakur is a recipient of Nabin Chandra Tamuli Nabin Galpakar Bota, 2019 awarded by Nalbari District unit of Asam Sahtya Sabha, and Kiron Tamuli Sishu Sahitya Bota for his novel Beli Phulor Rong. He was awarded Juri Special Mention for his drama in a state level competition of Drama. He read short stories in many literary events including the prestigious Sahitya Academy. His writings have been published in all the leading literary magazines of Assam.

About the translators:

Nurul Hussain is a poet, short story writer and a translator. He served as a teacher of English and Sanskrit in Nakachari HS School and Nakachari Modern English Hish School.

Dr. Saba Anish is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English in JB College (Autonomous), Jorhat.