Saturday, December 12, 2009
My publisher tells me the book will be available at the Northeast Book Fair in Guwahati. Here is also a list of stores where they say the book is available in Guwahati. More details soon!!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
We Called the River Red
The advance copies are here! The publishers however say that the book will only hit the market in the first week of December.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
We Called the River Red:
Poetry from a Violent Homeland
That’s the title of my poetry collection to be published soon by Author’s Press, Delhi. I have been talking at various forums – most recently at the ICRC-WFS seminar on ‘Women in Conflict Zones: Survivors and Peace Makers’ on 22 September 2009 at IIC, Delhi – on poetry being both personal and political and on the need for more politically conscious literature. This is my contribution in this regard.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Virginia Mahi
[Published in Dreadlocks Vol 5, 2008. School of Language, Arts and Media: University of the South Pacific.]
Bortee mama (i) and Xorutee mama were the twins and younger than Virginia mahi (ii). Baganor koka-aita (iii) did not name their daughter Virginia. The Christian midwife did. The midwife was a tea-tribal woman who lived in the labour lines and picked tea leaves like all other labour women. Her name was Rojina. Midwifery was Rojina’s “side business” and they said there was no one who knew more about bringing babies into the world than she did. Even Bijon Roy Compounder who was the only medic in the tea estate, had had to take her help in many complicacies.
Anyway, Rojina brought Virginia mahi into the world and predicted that she would grow up to be a very beautiful woman. “Like the virgin Mary”, she said and Virginia she named the baby.
Baganor aita always had a tough time with babies. Had Rojina not been there, everybody says, neither aita nor Virginia mahi would have made it. As it happened, Virginia mahi came into the world safe and healthy and as Rojina had predicted, she grew up to be quite a beauty.
Baganor aita however, was not very healthy after Virginia mahi’s birth. She had always been a frail woman and when a few years later, Xorutee and Bortee mama were to be born, everybody thought she would die. But again Rojina took charge of things and the twins were born and Baganor aita did not die. But then she never really recovered either. She continued to be weak and fell ill so often that nobody was really sad when she died. “It’s a mercy on her,” they said. But I suppose it was a mercy on the entire family, especially on Virginia mahi who had always had to look after her mother instead of her mother looking after her. Our own aita said that in their family the roles of mother and daughter were quite reversed.
When Baganor aita died, koka who loved her very much took a transfer and went off to work in a tea company in Upper Assam. Virginia mahi and the twins stayed back and koka said, “My Virgie is such a capable and responsible girl, she can look after her brothers while I’m away.”
So Virginia mahi looked after her brothers, and when Baganor koka came home on his monthly visits, she looked after him as well.
Only, in the process, she forgot to look after herself. So one month when Baganor koka came home, he realized Virginia mahi was pregnant. And she was only sixteen. Baganor koka felt he could not carry the burden of the shame on his own and he dragged Virginia mahi to our koka-aita’s house and handed her over to our aita. Aita sent for Rojina who also knew more than others about not bringing babies into the world.
After a month, Virginia mahi went back to her own home and Baganor koka had also come back home for good. And when we went visiting next, it was like old times again. Baganor koka gave us rides on his bicycle through the tea garden. He didn’t mind when we put our hands into the pockets of his shorts looking for lozenges. He said he was younger than our koka and so he wore shorts instead of dhutis (iv) like our koka wore. We did not believe him of course, because our koka looked so much younger and was so much more active even though he wore dhutis.
Then Virginia mahi gave us orange cream biscuits, and when we pestered her she also made malpuas (v) for us. Then she sat down with us and told us stories.
Bortee mama was always studying but he wouldn’t mind taking some time off to ask us about our studies. Xorutee mama was hardly ever there. We always went hoping he would be though, because when he was there, he would teach us how to climb trees, pluck fruits for us, and tell us about the leopard he and his friends saw among the tea plants at night when they went there for a picnic. At this, Baganor koka would tell him to shut up and not frighten us kids and Xorutee mama would shut up and walk into his room and not come out for the rest of the time that we were there. That is why we never wanted Baganor koka and Xorutee mama to be home at the same time. They seemed to be fighting all the time.
One day we heard Xorutee mama had left home after a fight with Baganor koka. They tried to trace him but he was nowhere to be found. Our visits to Virginia mahi stopped. Our aita said we were not to trouble her and Baganor koka as they were very sad. We thought we could cheer them up if we went but aita still wouldn’t let us go. Instead, we were sent back home to Guwahati.
Guwahati was a different place altogether with different people and different sets of growing-up problems. And after a while, we quite forgot about Virginia mahi and Xorutee and Bortee mama and Baganor koka.
Then suddenly one day, Virginia mahi turned up at our place in Guwahati. There was a girl with her whom we had never seen before. Mahi said she was Xorutee mama’s wife and could she stay with us for a couple of days till she could catch her train back to Calcutta?
‘Calcutta?’ my ma asked. Yes, Xorutee mama’s wife was from Calcutta. A year after he had left home, Xorutee mama had sent word that he was in Calcutta and doing well. He would not be coming back home again. But he had to come back four days ago to attend Bortee mama’s shraddha (vi).
After we had left Kopati, Bortee mama had joined the xangathan (vii). He had given up his studies to become a revolutionary. And last week, he had been picked up by the army. They had beaten him to death. Virginia mahi cried when she told us she had gone to collect the body but could not make out at first which one was Bortee mama’s. When they had picked up his body to place it on the pyre, his head had rolled back at his neck – there was not a single bone intact in his body.
Baganor koka had taken to bed as soon as he heard of Bortee mama’s death. And when Xorutee mama had come home, he had been taken to the army camp too for questioning. He had not come back since and Virginia mahi had decided it would be best for his wife to go back to Calcutta and wait for news there.
‘And what about you, Virgie?’ my ma asked.
‘I am going back home to look after deuta (viii),’ she said, and left.
(i) Mama – maternal uncle.
(ii) Mahi – maternal aunt.
(iii) Koka – grandfather; aita – grandmother; bagan – garden (here, refers to tea garden/estate), baganor – of, or from, the bagan.
(iv) Dhuti - men’s lower garment; a white piece of cloth tied around the waist.
(v) Malpua - kind of fried, sweet flour cakes.
(vi) Shraddha - Hindu ceremony for the dead.
(vii) Xangathan - literally, organization. It is a common Assamese euphemism for the United Liberation Front of Asom (ULFA), the most prominent separatist insurgent outfit of Assam.
(viii) Deuta - father.
[Published in Dreadlocks Vol 5, 2008. School of Language, Arts and Media: University of the South Pacific.]
Bortee mama (i) and Xorutee mama were the twins and younger than Virginia mahi (ii). Baganor koka-aita (iii) did not name their daughter Virginia. The Christian midwife did. The midwife was a tea-tribal woman who lived in the labour lines and picked tea leaves like all other labour women. Her name was Rojina. Midwifery was Rojina’s “side business” and they said there was no one who knew more about bringing babies into the world than she did. Even Bijon Roy Compounder who was the only medic in the tea estate, had had to take her help in many complicacies.
Anyway, Rojina brought Virginia mahi into the world and predicted that she would grow up to be a very beautiful woman. “Like the virgin Mary”, she said and Virginia she named the baby.
Baganor aita always had a tough time with babies. Had Rojina not been there, everybody says, neither aita nor Virginia mahi would have made it. As it happened, Virginia mahi came into the world safe and healthy and as Rojina had predicted, she grew up to be quite a beauty.
Baganor aita however, was not very healthy after Virginia mahi’s birth. She had always been a frail woman and when a few years later, Xorutee and Bortee mama were to be born, everybody thought she would die. But again Rojina took charge of things and the twins were born and Baganor aita did not die. But then she never really recovered either. She continued to be weak and fell ill so often that nobody was really sad when she died. “It’s a mercy on her,” they said. But I suppose it was a mercy on the entire family, especially on Virginia mahi who had always had to look after her mother instead of her mother looking after her. Our own aita said that in their family the roles of mother and daughter were quite reversed.
When Baganor aita died, koka who loved her very much took a transfer and went off to work in a tea company in Upper Assam. Virginia mahi and the twins stayed back and koka said, “My Virgie is such a capable and responsible girl, she can look after her brothers while I’m away.”
So Virginia mahi looked after her brothers, and when Baganor koka came home on his monthly visits, she looked after him as well.
Only, in the process, she forgot to look after herself. So one month when Baganor koka came home, he realized Virginia mahi was pregnant. And she was only sixteen. Baganor koka felt he could not carry the burden of the shame on his own and he dragged Virginia mahi to our koka-aita’s house and handed her over to our aita. Aita sent for Rojina who also knew more than others about not bringing babies into the world.
After a month, Virginia mahi went back to her own home and Baganor koka had also come back home for good. And when we went visiting next, it was like old times again. Baganor koka gave us rides on his bicycle through the tea garden. He didn’t mind when we put our hands into the pockets of his shorts looking for lozenges. He said he was younger than our koka and so he wore shorts instead of dhutis (iv) like our koka wore. We did not believe him of course, because our koka looked so much younger and was so much more active even though he wore dhutis.
Then Virginia mahi gave us orange cream biscuits, and when we pestered her she also made malpuas (v) for us. Then she sat down with us and told us stories.
Bortee mama was always studying but he wouldn’t mind taking some time off to ask us about our studies. Xorutee mama was hardly ever there. We always went hoping he would be though, because when he was there, he would teach us how to climb trees, pluck fruits for us, and tell us about the leopard he and his friends saw among the tea plants at night when they went there for a picnic. At this, Baganor koka would tell him to shut up and not frighten us kids and Xorutee mama would shut up and walk into his room and not come out for the rest of the time that we were there. That is why we never wanted Baganor koka and Xorutee mama to be home at the same time. They seemed to be fighting all the time.
One day we heard Xorutee mama had left home after a fight with Baganor koka. They tried to trace him but he was nowhere to be found. Our visits to Virginia mahi stopped. Our aita said we were not to trouble her and Baganor koka as they were very sad. We thought we could cheer them up if we went but aita still wouldn’t let us go. Instead, we were sent back home to Guwahati.
Guwahati was a different place altogether with different people and different sets of growing-up problems. And after a while, we quite forgot about Virginia mahi and Xorutee and Bortee mama and Baganor koka.
Then suddenly one day, Virginia mahi turned up at our place in Guwahati. There was a girl with her whom we had never seen before. Mahi said she was Xorutee mama’s wife and could she stay with us for a couple of days till she could catch her train back to Calcutta?
‘Calcutta?’ my ma asked. Yes, Xorutee mama’s wife was from Calcutta. A year after he had left home, Xorutee mama had sent word that he was in Calcutta and doing well. He would not be coming back home again. But he had to come back four days ago to attend Bortee mama’s shraddha (vi).
After we had left Kopati, Bortee mama had joined the xangathan (vii). He had given up his studies to become a revolutionary. And last week, he had been picked up by the army. They had beaten him to death. Virginia mahi cried when she told us she had gone to collect the body but could not make out at first which one was Bortee mama’s. When they had picked up his body to place it on the pyre, his head had rolled back at his neck – there was not a single bone intact in his body.
Baganor koka had taken to bed as soon as he heard of Bortee mama’s death. And when Xorutee mama had come home, he had been taken to the army camp too for questioning. He had not come back since and Virginia mahi had decided it would be best for his wife to go back to Calcutta and wait for news there.
‘And what about you, Virgie?’ my ma asked.
‘I am going back home to look after deuta (viii),’ she said, and left.
***
(ii) Mahi – maternal aunt.
(iii) Koka – grandfather; aita – grandmother; bagan – garden (here, refers to tea garden/estate), baganor – of, or from, the bagan.
(iv) Dhuti - men’s lower garment; a white piece of cloth tied around the waist.
(v) Malpua - kind of fried, sweet flour cakes.
(vi) Shraddha - Hindu ceremony for the dead.
(vii) Xangathan - literally, organization. It is a common Assamese euphemism for the United Liberation Front of Asom (ULFA), the most prominent separatist insurgent outfit of Assam.
(viii) Deuta - father.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Dhodar Ali, Or The End Of Ennui
[Publsihed in Pratilipi, March 2009.]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
Roll over, roll back.
Did you hear the story of these two Assamese bums?
Their house was on fire.
They were too lazy to get out of bed and run.
The flames scorched one’s back.
Pi pu, he said; not in full pithi purise.
The other wanted to sleep on. Xi xu, he said.
Xipithidi xu.
Roll over on the other side.
Yes, roll over and go back to sleep.
Good idea. That’s what I shall also do.
Outside, the Sardar is watering his plants.
The other morning he scared me
Half to death with his howls.
When I went out to see
Who was strangling him, he said
He was chasing the monkeys away.
(The monkeys come from the ridge nearby
They uproot his plants and break his flower pots.
They are his mortal enemies.)
Today he is quiet. Thank god. I can laze in peace.
Dhishiau, Dhishiau.
He he he boss. Police ne tyre mein goli mar di.
Ei chinta mat kar la mobile de.
Hello, JK tyres dial-a-tyre service…
The FM had kept me drifting
In and out of sleep the whole night.
Snatches of Beethoven, Roxette and Udit Narayan
In between muddled dreams of sex
With the unlikeliest persons
And of being back in school.
And now these gun shots.
Somebody switch off the radio.
The radio is the opium of the people.
Was it Papa Hemingway who wrote that?
(You know of course
He did not do half the things he boasted of.
So what the eff? Nobody ever wrote like him.
The existentialist outsider. Read Colin Wilson.)
Today is Friday.
No not quoting Hemingway again.
It IS Friday today.
What difference does it make?
I could sleep through the weekend.
I could sleep through all weekdays.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes. Nobody goes.
This time it is Beckett…
True nobody goes. I can’t go. Anywhere.
Like the lizard on the wall.
Stuck to these four walls.
No, these walls do not close in on me
Like they do in other people’s writings.
It would be a change if they did.
Something different. But they don’t.
They just stand where they are,
Boobs, dicks and all.
There’s Gaugin’s Breasts and Red Flowers.
(Do all Tahitian women have such well-formed breasts?
Why couldn’t I have such nice breasts?
They are called boobs, Ed!
Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich…
She’s got a nice pair I suppose.)
And then there’s David’s dick.
Michelangelo was stingy with his strokes.
David’s dick is too short.
But the Sardar’s hair is too long.
He washes his hair on Sundays.
Then you can see his flowing mane.
On other days, it is hidden under his turban.
He’s got turbans of all color – red, blue, black, brown…
The brown bald patch at the back of his head
Can be seen on Sundays
When he leaves his hair loose.
It looks like somebody cleared
A portion of the forest to pitch a tent.
Ever seen a hill in outline?
Looks like a bald pate sprouting new hair.
There are no decent hills in Delhi.
There were so many hills back home, in Assam.
Did you know that hills are not just about height?
I’m staying one flight down from the moon, Zax says.
Maybe all barsatis are that close to the moon.
But living in a leaking barsati is not the same
As living on a hill. We used to live on Chintachal hill.
That was a long time ago. In my dreams,
I still think we are living on the hill.
But we moved to the bottom
Of another hill some time ago.
This bottom doesn’t show in my dreams.
Others do. Dream bottoms. Bottom of the dream.
How do you get to the bottom of a dream?
Freud didn’t know all.
Last night between Saira’s voice on FM
And maili chadar orh ke kaise,
I dreamt I was ow kuwori. The princess inside a fruit.
Somebody was removing the layers from the ow tenga.
I wanted to see who it was.
But the Sardar rang the bell and woke me up.
I woke up feeling hungry.
I’ve skipped two meals in a row.
This morning’s breakfast will be the third.
My ulcers will start complaining,
My reflux esophagitis will flare up again
And I will throw up some more blood.
But I can avert that with an omeprazol.
I shall have one soon.
Ghadi detergent cake ki dhulai sajana…
Do they have to sing about cakes now?
So long as you don’t remember
You have to eat, you’re ok.
I have to switch off the radio.
Even the lazy Assamese bums built a road.
That is the Dhodar Ali.
I have to build my own.
I also have to xi xu.
I will in a moment….
***
Notes:
Dhodar Ali: legend has it that the Ahom king of Assam mobilized the dhod or sluggards of the kingdom to build a road which has been known as the Dhodar Ali ever since
barsati: Hindi for ‘rooftop apartment’
maili chadar orh ke kaise: a line from a bhajan or Hindu devotional song
ow kuwori: from a popular Assamese folktale
[Publsihed in Pratilipi, March 2009.]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
Roll over, roll back.
Did you hear the story of these two Assamese bums?
Their house was on fire.
They were too lazy to get out of bed and run.
The flames scorched one’s back.
Pi pu, he said; not in full pithi purise.
The other wanted to sleep on. Xi xu, he said.
Xipithidi xu.
Roll over on the other side.
Yes, roll over and go back to sleep.
Good idea. That’s what I shall also do.
Outside, the Sardar is watering his plants.
The other morning he scared me
Half to death with his howls.
When I went out to see
Who was strangling him, he said
He was chasing the monkeys away.
(The monkeys come from the ridge nearby
They uproot his plants and break his flower pots.
They are his mortal enemies.)
Today he is quiet. Thank god. I can laze in peace.
Dhishiau, Dhishiau.
He he he boss. Police ne tyre mein goli mar di.
Ei chinta mat kar la mobile de.
Hello, JK tyres dial-a-tyre service…
The FM had kept me drifting
In and out of sleep the whole night.
Snatches of Beethoven, Roxette and Udit Narayan
In between muddled dreams of sex
With the unlikeliest persons
And of being back in school.
And now these gun shots.
Somebody switch off the radio.
The radio is the opium of the people.
Was it Papa Hemingway who wrote that?
(You know of course
He did not do half the things he boasted of.
So what the eff? Nobody ever wrote like him.
The existentialist outsider. Read Colin Wilson.)
Today is Friday.
No not quoting Hemingway again.
It IS Friday today.
What difference does it make?
I could sleep through the weekend.
I could sleep through all weekdays.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes. Nobody goes.
This time it is Beckett…
True nobody goes. I can’t go. Anywhere.
Like the lizard on the wall.
Stuck to these four walls.
No, these walls do not close in on me
Like they do in other people’s writings.
It would be a change if they did.
Something different. But they don’t.
They just stand where they are,
Boobs, dicks and all.
There’s Gaugin’s Breasts and Red Flowers.
(Do all Tahitian women have such well-formed breasts?
Why couldn’t I have such nice breasts?
They are called boobs, Ed!
Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich…
She’s got a nice pair I suppose.)
And then there’s David’s dick.
Michelangelo was stingy with his strokes.
David’s dick is too short.
But the Sardar’s hair is too long.
He washes his hair on Sundays.
Then you can see his flowing mane.
On other days, it is hidden under his turban.
He’s got turbans of all color – red, blue, black, brown…
The brown bald patch at the back of his head
Can be seen on Sundays
When he leaves his hair loose.
It looks like somebody cleared
A portion of the forest to pitch a tent.
Ever seen a hill in outline?
Looks like a bald pate sprouting new hair.
There are no decent hills in Delhi.
There were so many hills back home, in Assam.
Did you know that hills are not just about height?
I’m staying one flight down from the moon, Zax says.
Maybe all barsatis are that close to the moon.
But living in a leaking barsati is not the same
As living on a hill. We used to live on Chintachal hill.
That was a long time ago. In my dreams,
I still think we are living on the hill.
But we moved to the bottom
Of another hill some time ago.
This bottom doesn’t show in my dreams.
Others do. Dream bottoms. Bottom of the dream.
How do you get to the bottom of a dream?
Freud didn’t know all.
Last night between Saira’s voice on FM
And maili chadar orh ke kaise,
I dreamt I was ow kuwori. The princess inside a fruit.
Somebody was removing the layers from the ow tenga.
I wanted to see who it was.
But the Sardar rang the bell and woke me up.
I woke up feeling hungry.
I’ve skipped two meals in a row.
This morning’s breakfast will be the third.
My ulcers will start complaining,
My reflux esophagitis will flare up again
And I will throw up some more blood.
But I can avert that with an omeprazol.
I shall have one soon.
Ghadi detergent cake ki dhulai sajana…
Do they have to sing about cakes now?
So long as you don’t remember
You have to eat, you’re ok.
I have to switch off the radio.
Even the lazy Assamese bums built a road.
That is the Dhodar Ali.
I have to build my own.
I also have to xi xu.
I will in a moment….
***
Notes:
Dhodar Ali: legend has it that the Ahom king of Assam mobilized the dhod or sluggards of the kingdom to build a road which has been known as the Dhodar Ali ever since
barsati: Hindi for ‘rooftop apartment’
maili chadar orh ke kaise: a line from a bhajan or Hindu devotional song
ow kuwori: from a popular Assamese folktale
elegaic
[Published in Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry. South Africa: The Poets Printery, 2008.]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
in our skies
an emasculated sun
borrows silver light
from leaden birds
while a forgotten wound
is reopened by
a concrete phallus
and it rains green mucous
on the earth
where a grey peacock
spreads its fan
to keep the sun
from our eyes
we cry but our cries cannot
wash away the sky's venom
we laugh and our laughter drowns
the cries of the peacock
[Published in Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry. South Africa: The Poets Printery, 2008.]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
in our skies
an emasculated sun
borrows silver light
from leaden birds
while a forgotten wound
is reopened by
a concrete phallus
and it rains green mucous
on the earth
where a grey peacock
spreads its fan
to keep the sun
from our eyes
we cry but our cries cannot
wash away the sky's venom
we laugh and our laughter drowns
the cries of the peacock
After This Sky
[Published in Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry. South Africa: The Poets Printery, 2008.]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
You cannot sow seeds
in a parched sky
and hope they will germinate.
Just as you cannot
drive along cloudy streets
and hope they will tell you
which way to go.
You have seen naked trees
but you want to believe
you need not cry.
Instead you dream
and your dreams
hold up mirrors of sand
for you.
So what do you do
but make love
under a street lamp
while a lunatic moon
on the loose
peeks in through
the frosted panes
of your car window?
And cry
for bleary streets
for denuded trees
for unwilling dreams
for a jack-in-the-box love
that jumps to life
or fades away
while you join
a voyeuristic street lamp
in watching yourself make love?
For no doubt you know
there’s nowhere to go
after this sky.
***
[Published in Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry. South Africa: The Poets Printery, 2008.]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
You cannot sow seeds
in a parched sky
and hope they will germinate.
Just as you cannot
drive along cloudy streets
and hope they will tell you
which way to go.
You have seen naked trees
but you want to believe
you need not cry.
Instead you dream
and your dreams
hold up mirrors of sand
for you.
So what do you do
but make love
under a street lamp
while a lunatic moon
on the loose
peeks in through
the frosted panes
of your car window?
And cry
for bleary streets
for denuded trees
for unwilling dreams
for a jack-in-the-box love
that jumps to life
or fades away
while you join
a voyeuristic street lamp
in watching yourself make love?
For no doubt you know
there’s nowhere to go
after this sky.
***
Tryst
[Published in The Other Voices International Project, Volume 34, 2008]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
When we met
On the afternoon sands
The Dibong was on fire
And I, my Kaneng,
Was on fire too.
When you let fall
Your ribi-gacheng
At my feet,
I was scalded.
I reached out
For coolness in the shadow
Of your breasts
And I was scorched.
You did nothing to help.
***
[Notes: Dibong: A river in Assam; Kaneng: Beloved, in the Mising language of Assam; Ribi-gacheng: A Mising woman’s clothing.]
[Published in The Other Voices International Project, Volume 34, 2008]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
When we met
On the afternoon sands
The Dibong was on fire
And I, my Kaneng,
Was on fire too.
When you let fall
Your ribi-gacheng
At my feet,
I was scalded.
I reached out
For coolness in the shadow
Of your breasts
And I was scorched.
You did nothing to help.
***
[Notes: Dibong: A river in Assam; Kaneng: Beloved, in the Mising language of Assam; Ribi-gacheng: A Mising woman’s clothing.]
From Exile (1)
[Published in Pratilipi, March 2009]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
Each day is another lifetime
In purgatory.
Immediately as I step out,
I am drowned in a sea of eyes,
Hands seize me,
Breaths scorch me.
Somehow I swim across,
Somehow, I’ve learnt to.
On the other shore,
I am shorn of my identity.
I stand half naked.
They ask me:
‘You eat human flesh, don’t you?’
Nowadays I do not protest
Quietly, I pay the price of being
What they are not.
As I swim back across
Fighting monsters, gasping for breath
I miss life.
I search for an anodyne,
Find oblivion.
But even as I do, I remember,
Tomorrow is yet another lifetime
In purgatory.
The exile begins to seem pointless.
***
[Published in Pratilipi, March 2009]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
Each day is another lifetime
In purgatory.
Immediately as I step out,
I am drowned in a sea of eyes,
Hands seize me,
Breaths scorch me.
Somehow I swim across,
Somehow, I’ve learnt to.
On the other shore,
I am shorn of my identity.
I stand half naked.
They ask me:
‘You eat human flesh, don’t you?’
Nowadays I do not protest
Quietly, I pay the price of being
What they are not.
As I swim back across
Fighting monsters, gasping for breath
I miss life.
I search for an anodyne,
Find oblivion.
But even as I do, I remember,
Tomorrow is yet another lifetime
In purgatory.
The exile begins to seem pointless.
***
A History of Violence
[Published in Pratilipi, March 2009]
[Read some other poems: Tejimolā Forever; Mother Goddess Kamakhya; Manufacturing Memories; For Nilikesh da, Shot Dead; End of Ennui; From Exile (1); After This Sky; Tryst; Would I Be A Poet Still; elegaic; A History of Violence]
A river flowed here
When we reached the valley
Carrying our gods
On the strains of our songs.
Some gods were more enterprising:
Khunlung and Khunlai climbed down on their own
From heaven on a golden ladder)
Our gods were good gods, free gods
They mixed well, changed names, traded identities
Like the river, they ebbed and flowed
Sometimes we too ebbed and flowed, together
On the banks of our river, singing
Luitare pani jabi o boi…
But we were only human
Soon we wanted to be our own gods.
We called the river Red
Because that was our favored color
And we thought the favorite of our gods
Who drank the red blood we offered
And read patterns in sacrificial blood.
We drowned our gods in the red river
Where we drained the blood from our souls
And thought: Now this is how we pray.
The deafening noise of our prayers
Could not be drowned
By the river Red which flowed on
Blood clotting in its heart
Skeletal remains of our sacrifices
Clogging its veins
Till one day, there was a river no more
And our gods died a violent death.
***
Notes:
Luitare pani jabi o boi…: Literally, “Waters of the Luit, keep flowing…” A line from a song by Jyotiprasad Agarwala.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Question of 'Assamese' Identity...
Been pondering on this question for a while. An article published in Dainik Asom on 26 December 2004:
[Also read Identity in Exile, Burnt Flesh and Xewali Flowers, Baptism by Beer...]
Been pondering on this question for a while. An article published in Dainik Asom on 26 December 2004:
[Also read Identity in Exile, Burnt Flesh and Xewali Flowers, Baptism by Beer...]
Terror and Urban Apathy
(For those who could not read the earlier, more emotive Axamiya version: Burnt Flesh and Xewali Flowers)
[Published Assam Tribune, 21 January 2009]
After the devastating serial blasts in Assam, on October 30, – six of which were in the capital Guwahati – everybody in the media and elsewhere was talking about how insurgency there has degenerated into urban terrorism. What very few people were talking about is that Guwahati has experienced such terror before, many times and with similar shocking impact. It is of course true these most recent blasts were of a higher magnitude and much better coordinated than any other that the entire North East with its long history of conflict and violence has ever seen. What is also true, however, is that it is definitely not the first instance of big or serial blasts in the city, nor of multiple casualties and severe damage as was being projected by most media with clichés like terror getting a new face there.
The United Liberation Front of Asom (ULFA) which is one of the groups under suspicion for the October 30 blasts, has on earlier instances also been accused of involvement in triggering powerful explosions in Guwahati and killing many. In 2004 alone, for instance, the group targeted Guwahati five times, one of which included a series of blasts in one upper and four lower Assam districts, besides two in Guwahati. Six people were killed and about 80 injured. But Guwahati has not been targeted by the ULFA alone. No one who has followed the conflict scenario in Assam can forget the 1992 blast in the busy Paltan Bazar area of the city where at least 43 persons were killed and nearly 150 injured. An ex-‘insurgent’ who is currently the chief of the Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC), Hagrama Mahilary, was widely suspected to be behind this blast. Today, Mahilary’s party, the Bodoland Peoples Front (BPF), is part of the ruling coalition in Assam, sharing power with the Congress-led government.
So if any new face was given to terror at all, it was not done on October 30, 2008, nor by the perpetrators of terror alone who have only done what they have been doing for a long time now ever since they traded away their ideologies in exchange for shelter and security. On the contrary, the painting of a new face for terror has been in process for a while now and at the helm of this process has been the state itself which condones such acts, often even legitimises them. Whether this legitimisation be in the form of political power sharing, or bestowing of financial largesse and an above-and-beyond-the-law status – as that provided to many Surrendered ULFA (or SULFA as they are popularly known) cadres – the fact is that nobody has been held accountable for perpetrating such heinous crimes against humanity. On the contrary, they have been rewarded and the powers that be have patted themselves on their backs for bringing ‘the youths gone astray’ back to the ‘mainstream’.
Meanwhile, what has been happening to the ‘mainstream' – whatever its definition? With such criminal elements being pushed back into its midst and woven into its fabric, the very nature of Guwahati society has changed forever. From a predominantly quiet middle class city holding dearly on to certain traditional values that defined it, it has transformed – in the course of much less than a decade – into a brash, garish, confrontative, ugly city that has internalised the discourses of death, destruction and violence to the extent that it has become inured, even apathetic.
Many ‘morning-after’ reports in the media relating to the bomb blasts talked – again in clichés – about people bravely coming out on the streets of Guwahati defying terror and fear, refusing to be cowed down, their spirits uncrushed. I saw these reports on national media, which usually relegate news of such events in the North East to the tickers at the bottom of the screens, or better still, ignores them: like the October 22 blast in Manipur where 15 people were killed and 24 injured. The October 30 Assam blasts however made it big, given their resemblance to the recent spate of bombings elsewhere in India and speculations about the suspected collaboration of Islamist militants. The day before, I had also seen raw unedited footage of the blast sites on TV, thanks to satellite technology. And everybody in Guwahati had seen them too. Earlier – before the North East had its first satellite television channel and insensitive unethical journalists thrust their microphones at burnt, bleeding and grievously injured blast victims and camerapersons blithely filmed charred bodies and mangled limbs and the channel aired them with a cursory ‘unedited footage’ note – the reality of suffering in and witnessing a bomb blast might not have been so palpable. And yet, on the evening of the blast when I spoke to my parents in Guwahati for the ninth time that day – my father had had a close call – my mother told me with horror that she could hear people bursting leftover Diwali crackers!
No news channel, national or otherwise, of course reported this because it has nothing to do with changing the faces of terror. And talking of urban apathy does not go well with the proclaimed political agenda of tackling terror and its perpetrators. So they call the proverbial rose by another name, one that smells sweeter. After all both are ways to come to terms with the blood and gore that defines city life in times of terror. Only, the way my city has learnt to live with the phenomenon seems as inhuman as the acts of terror themselves.
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