A few poems of Mridul Haloi
To a Brother
The grass,
beginning to sprout,
in our winter-fields,
abound.
Like a seed,
in a granary,
my words
silently slumber.
Does yours too?
The mid-day rolling upon
The sundried paddy's mat is
Of those old times itself.
Only the two boys—
Who are running breathlessly
Along the paddy field lanes
Are not us— are like us.
Mangoes are budding
In our homestead land of those bygone years
The warble of a dove
pierces through the evenfall.
And the baritone you left
to my heart to make inroads
lingers till date..
From where the lamps
of our eyes cannot meet,
You, I know,
Still hear the birdie chirp.
And rummage in the grass
for a lost fig.
And here,
I all alone hunt for
the red dragonfly
that eluded us
after a chase of
seven stretched fields.
Thick paddies are swinging in our fields
The sprouts of the preserved words In our hearts are restless
Like seeds in the granary
Your breath cleaves through my heart.
The two boys running after
The red dragonfly
are so much like us of those yester years
The same old fly,
and two lads,
get blurred
by two drops of tears
I cannot keep at bay.
(Translation by Jyotirmoy Talukdar)
HOME
We have chucked in
the old dwelling
and sitting on the
stainless tiles of a new one,
are ruminating upon
the relinquished home
that dad erected before
assigning a sapling the job at its threshold.
And mom as a bride
entered it veiled.
The petals from the sun flew
to the veranda tidied by her,
as she untied her locks
and their umbra.
At the moonlit nights
the sapling branched off
in the reveries of
my genitors.
The areca-nut developed calyxes
for many twelvemonths.
The betels mellowed and withered.
The home
dad protected with
portals and walls
gradually
aged.
We have decamped
from the old home.
The fallen leaves
strewn on its entrance
veil the grass
that has lately turned green.
We no more wade across
the threshold to reach
the deserted lodging.
With novel colours and beams
our new home gleams.
We have knocked together
a new threshold.
Have planted trendy saplings
and fashionable doorways and gateways,
helping it look cosy.
Our veranda is brushed
by the laughters of our boys
like by tides.
A fig drops somewhere.
The home too
slowly degenerates.
And to fabricate the plinth
of another abode
the boys have left.
In the forecourt
of the old dwelling place,
we root out the
obnoxious weeds.
The ripe leaves fall off
the tree
one after one.
(Translation by Jyotirmoy Talukdar)
TALE OF SKY
I knew that sky was only one
Wide and blue sky
Touching earth at its distant end.
Sky where cranes fly
Wind blows
Sky where moon shows
Dripping moonlight.
A sky stared
By the fore-leaves of the paddy plants.
I heard the sky cry every night
The tears fell upon the house-roof drop by drop.
And how hurriedly the wind
Wiped those tears with its cloth!
The sky was all gleam next morning.
Looking at the face of sky
The people knew everything.
They fathomed. everything.
They
Reaped paddy
Cropped pulses
Blossomed mustards.
Just one sky belonged to all
And the houses had no windows.
The fingers of moonlight were thrust by the sky
Through chinks of the sling-door.
It wanted to scratch cheek-and-face
With the nails of sunlight.
How could people carry
So wide a sky
And that sky
Shed tears for everyone.
******
I have completed
Reading this tale of sky Inside my closed room
And opening the window
I long to see the the piece of sky
That belongs to me.
For so many days
Throughout the sky I have seen the many skies
Of those tall buildings.
I have seen the cable wires
, The towers for mobile phones
And the circular dishes of dish TVs.
I've heard a clamour ignorant,indistinctr.
Waking up even in the middle of a night I've heard a ringtone of mobile,
The loudness of FM radio
Honk of the cars, and
Scream of sirens that rends the heart asunder.
And everywhere so much blinding light!
Where are the flows of dripping moonlight
From the fainted moon's eyes!
I should better forget this tale.
Closed windows are better here.
Dearth of sky!
(Translation by Daisy Barman)
THE FALLEN LEAVES OF UNENDING TIMES
The fallen leaves of unending times
I know not, what they cover hidden from me.
I know everything
The sun sets this way
The moon descends by this ghat
I understand everything
At the time of lighting the lamps
Whom I left, is mine only!
The dark from the end of the night and moonlight,
I know not, what they want to store hiding from me
Thawed by pain ,my heart
Drips as letters of poem.
My countless dejected dreams
And the restless thoughts
Have built me into a poet.
How the restlessness of my feelings
Paint the faces of countless people within me
The hands of unfriendly times wipe!
Countless dreams build me
And then shatter again.
Countless people tread in and out
Through my thoughts everyday
And I remain lonely.
I look to the horizon with stunned eyes
Like a tiny grass
I turn my ear in the direction of the tune of an old song.
Coming from distance.
I know not, in which meadow of solitude
I lose my voice.
I dig my mind
I bury myself
I uproot myself and throw
I pick myself up
And put me to sleep.
I know not, what these rivers of still pace
Carry hidden from me
I know everything
Birds fly this way
And the stars make
Their homeward journey everyday.
And maybe only I know this fact that
The torpor from the unblinking eyes
Of the child lying at the edge of the river knows
Through whose thoughts I curve my path....
The fallen leaves of unending times
What could they hide from me?
NOTE:
Ghat-: The edge of a bank of river or a pond.
(Translation by Daisy Barman)
MAY THE CHILDREN BE WELL
May the children be well.
May the frolicking waterfall of life flow forever.
May the pet-birds be well.
May the sonorous songs of
Merrymaking and revelry
Forever be there!
The mothers, sisters, fathers and the brothers of yoursMay
they forever be well!
May the subtle stream of dreams
Gush from everyone's eyes.
The kohl in the women's eyes
And the buoyant red in their lips
May they forever remain well.
May your songs sung in the paddy-field
May the sound from the bell hung on the leaping calf's neck
Forever be well.
You are the holy waters of our life's pond.
May you be well.
Wave at the rain
And call them from amid the dust
Call the wind from amid the smoke
Call the moonlight from beside the fire
Call a torrent of songs from above the fiery rock.
The rivers are not dried yet.
The tear drops of women's eyes
And the flowers from children's palms
Are not withered yet.
The sanguine blood of your hearts is not black yet.
The lamps of the infinite stars
Are not smothered yet.
May you be well
May you keep the children well.
If you stand up in the lost way
Clearing up the meadow grown on our bones
You would see the birds
Flying faster than a bullet.
(Translation by Daisy Barman)
VERSE OF SEPARATION
Tomorrow you would walk afar from my eyes.
You would walk away
To seek for that voice
That placid umbra of affection.
Tomorrow a rain looming above
Would hastily desert my sky.
Boiling heat of the metallic sun
Would burn me thoroughly.
A flock of weaver-finches
Would fly away, leaving behind
The paddy field of my heart.
Who would bring me word of Aghon again?
Tomorrow there will be no dew drops.
Flowers won't bloom.
The banana leaves won't be swayed by the wind.
And on the roof of the house ,
There won't be a pair of pigeon
To play with its feathers.
Tomorrow the throat of the noon will echo
A lonely dove's voice.
And in front of the ringing bells
Of a hill top temple
Two lonesome hands would perplexedly wait.
Tomorrow a boat would plunge into a whirlpool.
An unripe fruit will fall in the wind.
If the evening falls tomorrow too,
What smell would the courtyard carry
Sadness.
If the moon appears tomorrow too
Only Solitude would grace the moonlight.
Tomorrow I would rub off both the stars
from my eyes.
Drown in the ancient nothingness of darkness.
Make the heaviness of a rock the guard of my heart.
Tomorrow with your own hands
you would dislodge mine
You would adorn my lips
With the serenity of unborn words.
I would have no dreams left
Even to decorate the platter for worship.
Tell me with whom would I fall asleep !
You would leave me alone tomorrow
At the end of some desolate street
Seeking for the placid umbra
Of that voice, of that affection.
And then
How would I find myself?
How would I bring back home
The destitute me?
(Translation by Daisy Barman)
About the Poet :
Young poet Mridul Haloi ( 1988) obtained his Master’s degree in Assamese literature from Gauhati University. He has, to his credit, two poetry collections in Assamese – Akale Aso, Kushale Aso ( 2010) and Amar Bhal Hobo ( 2014). He is a recipient of the Munin Barkataky award ( 2013) and Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar ( 2015). A journalist by profession, Mridul Haloi is currently working with the Janambhumi Group of Publications in Assam.