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(I)
One day I saw, the dead women. One day I saw,
the nipples alive.
I am the restless suspense of inability to nurse a woman. Till now
I have not been able to be a night. I haven't been able to be a night.
I have become a body instead,
that chases itself to the edge of wreck.
I have only been able to become load-shedding, of a melancholy city.
(II)
What else a new city can offer except
for a bunch of rules and regulations embracing death!
Like the night of the dead city, here too the night is pierced. The dead women are burning and,
here too the days of desire are fading away amongst people.
One day when I was young, I thought, I shall be someone worthy of
praise. I was not like those who only engrossed in idle talks. I thought,
I shall be someone else in the city. I shall be someone capable of performing tasks
that make me proud of.
What else a new city can offer except for some reflections of
suffocating memories! I can understand, the dead women are the ocean deep silence.
The dead women are certain scandalous memory in disguise of roaring letters.
But except memory, there remain certain melodies of colourless time, certain tales of the
burning night. Except memory the dead women possess hues. She possesses
a quacking extended rainbow.
The dead women possess a world where they weep and smile. They possess
a commotion of breaths.
Except memory, the dead women possess a pretext to live.
(lll)
A fantasy that spins and spins to a circle cannot be my choice memory.
The dead women can become pitch-dark, and can lay in wait, and can prick
like the prick of hard nails.
One day I saw, the dead women. One day I saw,
dead nipples, died young.
The dead women learn to walk, they kill
the curiosity of their nights.
Whenever they feel free, the dead women walk away. Leaving their own selves,
they become scream, become proud.
How the dead women acquire such a witchcraft that makes them forget women!
How the dead women can endure punishment on her pierced body!
I know, only the dead women invite to the bed of darkness that impedes
the consciousness at the depth being... Deep silence and a little wild darkness
awaken the dead women. But
I get scared, as if the darkness never shall end
And as if the dead women shall die once again...
When the baby, that was engrossed in itself, had vanished in my ownself, I then resembled myself
and resembled my mother too. My mother was a poor lady, and she was angry too.
She kept it her own in certain matters
And with that essence she drew a big red circle on her forehead.
I used to carry that circle with me through.
and I divided it into two and hung these two pieces on the two swelling balloons on my chest.
My younger sister was courageous enough. Breaking the circumference of my mother's circle
on her forehead, she came out and did some interesting works. She told me that
Though she did not witness the real ocean with her own eyes,
She could cross the ocean of her own mind
and she could dumb the stupid guys too.
When the boys grew old enough to place their arms on my shoulders, I was then someone
hungry, poor who was reluctant to leave childhood.
I was like myself, I was like the butterfly that could not sing.
I could not come out breaking the circle of my mother's forehead.
My courage could not inspire me to that extent.
And my beloved was courageous. She was stubborn and a little stupid.
And she was proud of a few zeros that grew in the disguise of circles
Actually she was a little crazy sort of a girl.
Even ignorable issued could make her weep.
My beloved had a few small quarrels with me.
Myself being out of a circle, something that I could not drag it an end
I was like myself, and was
like a life capable of taming the illusions of youth.
Long hours of innocence, and acquiring every year some new bad habits, my wife was
an old woman, whose veins were shaking in demand of my physic
which seemed her to be stable only due to illusion.
My wife possessed a sanitary circle.
She handed that circle to me in exchange for some tricks.
I carried with me the circle which belonged to my wife.
and I divided it into two and hung these two pieces on the two swelling balloons on my chest.
I fail to remember some of the facts. Forgot Suonsiri in the swamp.
As I have entered the river Suonsiri, I met the Deori of sand.
But what exactly the Deori has achieved!
... I fail to remind.
After halting the boat on the sandbank of darkness, I have seen our shaking memories,
Still a bucolic sun rises in darkness.
When did I leave Suonsiri!
I have seen a world that has flown away in the craze to be Dolmora.
The fisherman of Meteka is stubborn in Vanaprastha,
the Deori’s net is stubborn in the sandbank.
Feet trapped in water; the mould trapped in water.
Feet filled with fish; fishes die in feet
Dance! repeatedly dance! Dance the dance of my idiot male fish...
...And I have acknowledged Suonsiri.
In a few breaths
I have drank silence. I remained grateful in the news of Dolpua.
Our world of dreams and nightmares changes it's course,
there is the void interior of a lifeless mind in the sky.
How shall we deliver the news of the melancholy haunted world!
After my departure from Jengrai, I met Bob Dylan.
We munched the song in our minds that we hand-picked from the sandbank.
Note :
Jengrai : A village, situated in Majuli, the river island in Brahmaputra River.
Suonsiri : A trans-Himalayan river and a tributary of the Brahmaputra River.
Deori : One of the major Tibeto-Burmese ethnic group of the Northeast Indian states of Assam.
Dolmora : Pheasant-Tailed Jacana
Meteka : Hyacinth
Vanaprastha : The third stage in the Varnasrama system of Hinduism, which represent the‘way of the forest’
or ‘forest road’
Dolpua : Bronze-Winged Jacana
‘You painted yourself, a thousand times,
As if you never got it right.
You lay awake, with a mirror above your bed.
Your body was your cage, loneliness your friend.’
-Emily Zmira Lubitz
A mighty stroke from Frida Kahlo broke my hand last year. I pulled my wrapper apart.
And in the disabled artist-fingers the world of magic realism died.
And I earned more and more of depth.
Why should I speak of Frida who has forgot the days of her own puberty!
Why should I witness the scratches of her nails on my body!
What embellishment is this?
What kind of refuge is this? What this fantasy is?
Why so numbness! Why such a noise! Frida...
Inspite of knowing everything, I see an enormous cockroach flying in my dream.
Saddened, still sipping memories,
And;
What else is there that I refuse to acknowledge!
In the sharp fragrance of Frida Kahlo, I got my voice husky. I have broken my polite teeth.
And in the shape carved out of the soft voice, the uncertain, dissociated facts died.
What hyper-absolutism is this?
What a commotion? What aphasia? Why so electrifying! Frida...
A few moments later, I shall be boarding on a train. I shall meet Frida Kahlo.
A few moment I shall get to watch the news of my own disappearance.
Shall I really consider it to be fake! What a fantasy is this? A few moments later I shall be in a blast.
Why shall I write about my tryst with Frida Kahlo!
Last night I could not write a single word. And even I was
transformed into a man of darkness and tried to open
the washroom door silently again and again, such as a
thief likes silence during his work.
Last night I behaved like a thief; even
with a whiff-out put the kerosene lamp out.
Many reside in a single self. The woman inside my mother
did perform needle work with thread upon the polyester shirt.
As if a pitcher full of water to quench her thirst my
mother kept on the needle-head just at mid-night.
Last night I have loved silence like a thief,
The one inside me was too dead the awake even with the needle pricks.
Last night I was devoid of any hope; and forgot about the dream
of the tallest man. My sick father’s knocking of the heart at his ribs
Last night I have lost many a thing; such as the sum of belongings
a poor guy has to lose till he becomes a man in darkness.
And I have lost the people in our home.
Thus insomnia makes its passage. Thus augments the tremor of
the siris trees in mind and the cold fire of invisibility.
Last night the fiery love afflamed, I wore a pair of stony spectacles;
and was on a stony bed like the spineless snails on beach.
I could not write anything with my stony hand.
even did not think that stones have their lives, until they break into pieces.
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