Endless
Youth passes. The agony of youth lingers. Suddenly
on a wistful evening the swinging of the seven seas
beats in every nerve. The café no longer holds known faces;
a new city, with unfamiliar streets, friends dissatisfied
dead. Only moans remain. Yet
at the roots whose fingers play!
Young man, alien is your lingo. Young lady, love's in your heart
put away? In the last decade's chains we were
bound. Evenings wrought with meetings and marches
had forgotten in battles, self-destruction, normalcy's
alleged simplicity, ease.
Searching for ways amid conflicts right and left. Yet
sometimes with dancing eyes, jarul bakul in amazed
kolkata laughed. Through that moment's endless
veil, every woman looked enchanting.
In dreams magicians thronged.
That resplendent moment soon passed
into the anxious dark of cunning, half-truth
deception. But the mind at the dead of night
knew that our youth was only that bit,
the rest mere time's serfdom.
Young men and women, your chatter, murmurs,
bearing the fragrance of sudden pleasure's pain,
bring back the mist of some forgotten dawn.
Youth passes. The pain of youth lingers. Whose
desire-drenched hopes play at the roots
on this sudden wistful evening!
From Shantiniketan
Who is she, in loving whom a grievous malady could
wear me away? The Acacia's body trembles
in the shade, on the stones, streets, at Ratankuthi, in the moonlight.
There's no one still awake. No one. Over the Khowai, over the plains,
the winter fog becomes a still image of Rabindranath.
Suddenly the wind blows. Stills. Trembles, the night trembles.
Who is she, in loving whom I could wear away?
Is she poetry? Words? Connotations of form-less sounds?
Maybe. All are shadowy. In Santiniketan, in the moonlight,
all pain, sorrow, tears, grief find body in the words
of Rabindranath's songs. His far-reaching consciousness is spread
over the Khowai, the plains, far and near, over the Acacia's
body and my heart, is infused into every nerve;
who is she in loving whom I could wear away?
Let us go
The air smells of sawdust, in the city
night and day, innumerable saws
cut through the forest's soul.
Let us go
Beside the Ganga there still is some life, some ancestry,
and on bright mornings in unhappy villages
the yellow dherash flower with its red heart
turns its face up to the sun.
Eyes remain, visuals remain,
Yet as if wanting light
all is muddled, crumpled,
or in crumbles
food for aeroplanes, trams, buses.
We eat well, lie on starched sheets,
rolls of fat in every fold or
poverty in every fold yet
self-satisfied in gentility, having bought ourselves
a bit of salt-tinged excitement, for now
we eat well, lie on starched sheets,
in the mornings wash our faces at milk-white basins,
and though we cover our skins with fancy clothes,
at table impossible to hide the fish in the greens.
Sawdust, sawdust, the smell of sawdust,
in the air, in the city.
But no, not villages,
Villages are impossible, corpses, mouthfuls of nostalgia.
It's a garden-city we need, cool with sky and grass,
at the mind's charmed riverside.
Come let us go there, where
in everyone's prized garden,
with songs, with love, with pain,
yellow dherash flowers with their red hearts
turn their faces up to the sun.
Letter
There's no point in dying.
I have seen so many die,
before my very eyes---
young, old, fulfilled, failed.
I have seen how, growing dimmer
and dimmer they faded away altogether.
And when we, who knew them, die,
the last memories of them
will have been lost.
To talk of achievements is laughable.
I've thought much about it.
The moment a thing is done
the link between the doer and the deed
is snapped.
Our children, with different beings, different bodies,
different souls live independent lives.
And so,
like a crumbling cottage
or a towering minaret
like the apple
or the walnut
no matter how, it is good to be alive.
Living means the joy or sorrow
of clinging fleetingly
to a kinetic moment.
The body tires, but the mind is
a tireless labourer.
And besides,
after many monsoons on a winter evening there might arrive
a letter from an old friend.
Sleep
All day has passed in alien, harsh surroundings,
O night, heed my entreaties, be my ally, do not look at me so.
Give me sleep, only sleep; take me to that unmapped land
where memory's corpse lies beneath a thick darkness-knit
shroud; like a pond at mid-day my entire being
is unresponsive, voiceless, steeped in death;
nothing, nothing remains; not this body, nor this mind,
the frowns of everyday, joyless barking of dogs,
or the crooked line of distant desire's embarrassed stream.
Let alone the white lotuses blooming in dream's lake,
let them be. If the sleep to wipe all memory be mine,
I shall float away, drown, fade into the endless deep.
O night, heed my entreaties, my beloved, take pity,
Hold up in your arms my bowed solace-seeking tremulous body.
Leaves fall away
[One of the newer suburbs of Calcutta. Husband and wife sit on chairs, side by side on the verandah. The man is about 65, the woman 60. ]
H: The fish was stale today.
W: Not stale, a bit soft.
H: Stale. It's making me belch.
W: Indigestion. Have lots of lemon.
H: Not indigestion--- it's the fish. Stale fish.
W: Not stale--- soft. There's hardly any fish in the shops, let alone fresh ones.
H: Why isn't there any fish? At the market in Hatibagan----
W: Forget your Hatibagan. That was in another birth.
(After a small silence).
H: Haven't had kasundi for ages.
W: You had some a couple of days back.
H: Chhoh! That was from the shops. What's kasundi if it's not homemade? Nobody makes kasundi these days.
W: Who has the time?
H: I haven't had fried pumpkin-flowers for ages.
W: What a thing to miss!
H: My mother would cook chhechki with coconut and gram lentils. Delicious! And you used to make shrimps steamed with mustard----
W: Oh, shut up! Always talking of food. You Bindigarh people are most greedy.
H: You Raiganj people have sharp tempers.
W: If I had a sharp temper, your home would have been on fire.
H: Are you going to start again about my mother?
W: She's dead---I shouldn't be saying it---but madam indeed had a sharp tongue.
H: You didn't exactly keep dumb either.
W: With a mealy-mouthed husband like you, what were my chances?
H: If I was mealy-mouthed, then that's the reason there was no fire. You did whatever you wanted.
W: My wants!
H: You drove my brother away from his home.
W: I did him a good turn. A full-grown man---no education to speak of---sitting easy on the shoulders of an uncle's son, wife and all. And look at him now---huge business. Two cars. All due to me.
H: Due to you! Your vanity has no limits. Bimle hasn't been here for ages.
W: Doesn't find time. Too many irons in the fire.
H: Bimle's gone all gray at a young age.
W: What young age? He is fifty.
H: Not fifty! A mere stripling he was, just about yesterday.
W: Of course fifty! Could even be fifty-one.
H: Impossible! Phone him.
W: I wouldn't bother.
(A small silence.)
H: Haven't had a letter from Bulu for ages.
W: We had one on Tuesday.
H: Monday.
W: I remember well enough. It was the day of Sumita's daughter's wedding.
H: I remember well enough. It was the day I went to the dentist.
W: Go and get the letter. Look at it.
H: I won't. So they won't come home this year.
W: Upto them. Tablu has six teeth now. In the photo, he looks the perfect gentleman, in a Tee shirt. Oh dear , when shall I get to see him?
H: Bulu has a cold from all this traveling around.
W: Not any more. She was rid of it after they reached Minnesota.
H: You are mistaken. They are no longer in Minnesota. They are in Virginia now.
W: In February, they were in Minnesota. Minnesota is very cold.
H: Extremely cold. There are one thousand lakes. Beautiful landscape. But extremely cold.
W: Who knows when they will come back.
H: Upto them. When they come back, Harit will set up a roaring medical practice.
W: You are wrong. Harit is not a doctor---he is a biologist.
H: He was an M.B. when he was here.
W: Harit is on his way to becoming a biologist. Works with a microscope. Water drops, dental fungus, frog's blood-he inspects everything under it. He has invented an injection for rheumatism. Bulu wrote explaining everything--- you don't even read the letters carefully.
H: It's not so cold in Virginia. Bulu has put on weight.
W: She looks so pretty in the photograph. She is wearing that beautiful Kanjeevaram with the wide red border. I went through every store around here before I bought it from Bhalla. With Sindoor on her forehead, she looks like the goddess Lakshmi. Fabulous.
H: Ramola doesn't wear sindoor.
W: Puts a pinch on her parting.
H: One can hardly see it. Women don't use sindoor any more.
W: Habul has been promoted. He has been made an Assistant Secretary.
H: You're wrong. He used to be an Assistant Secretary. Now he is a Deputy Secretary. Next he will become a Joint Secretary. Then Secretary.
W: Ramola too has a better job now. She teaches Economics.
H: Statistics, not Economics. Involves quite a bit of difficult mathematics. Wonder how women can get a grip on these things.
W: Things are different now for women.
H: They won't wear sindoor. Can't prepare paan. They don't embroider handkerchiefs for gifts. They don't perch on tiptoes to hang out their saris on the drying line. In the late afternoons, they do not climb up to the roof terrace to collect the dried clothes.
W: Forget it. Who has a roof terrace any more. Everyone lives in flats.
H: Did you see Subodh's daughter that day? She was wearing a Salwar Kameez!
W: That's okay.
H: Ugly! And I hear that Binod's sons don't even know how to put on a dhuti---they have graduated directly from half-pants to long trousers. And what tight pants---they tear if you even try to sit in them.
W: The ways of the times.
H: Does Pampa also wear Salwar Kameez?
W: Sure to. After all she lives in Delhi. And she is just a kid.
H: Not such a kid anymore.
W: Just thirteen.
H: Fourteen.
W: Thirteen and two months.
H: You started Bulu on saris at thirteen.
W: The ways of the times.
H: Write to Ramola and tell her to make Pampa---
W: Why should I? They must do what they think is right.
H: Then buy a number of handloom saris and send them on to Pampa.
W: She finds handlooms prickly. She prefers 'nylon'.
H: Ugly.
W: Your eyes have dated.
H: You had a Dhakai sari---faint white lines on pale blue---
W: That was ages ago.
H: Girls wear saris without borders. They don't oil their hair. Some of them smoke. They leave their middles uncovered. Boys don't learn how to wear dhutis. They live apart from their parents even before marriage. They listen to English songs. They drink while still at college.
W: Habul and Ramola. They drink every evening. With their friends. Everyday. Even Ramola. I don't care what else she does, but why drink!
H: The ways of the times.
W: If it should become an addiction? And what about the expense?
H: Upto them.
W: So many marriages are falling apart. Chitra has left her husband and is living with Prithvish. Abinash and Madhavi married recently after having lived together for four years.
H: Fine.
W: People don't even care. People are changing.
H: Better than burning in hell.
W: Not that I see much peace around me either.
H: Your eyes have dated. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-six.
W: You are mistaken. This is nineteen sixty five.
(A small silence.)
H: Will they be coming here soon?
W: Who?
H: Habul and his family.
W: Habul can't get leave till the Pujas.
H: The Pujas. That's a long way off.
W: Brother and sister have not met for five years. Habul has not yet met Harit. Bulu has not seen this house. They could all get together here. Once. I would give them the entire run of the ground floor. Tablu would play in the garden. I would buy him two puppies. A tanpura for Pampa. Pampa is learning to sing the thumri. She has a sweet voice.
H: Wait till they come.
(A little silence).
H: It's hot.
W: Not really---there's quite a bit of breeze.
H: The locality's too quiet.
W: There are no trams.
H: Sometimes there are buses.
W: Sometimes the sound of motor horns.
H: Sometimes the sound of the breeze blowing.
W: The breeze. In Falgun. I like this breeze.
H: Leaves fall away.
W: In our Raiganj, sometimes there would be palash blossoms in Falgun. There was a pond. There were mango trees, jaam and maadaar trees.
H: The fallen leaves. They blow about in the wind.
W: Long afternoons. The Falgun breeze. Bakul flowers. In our Raiganj.
H: Remember Mihijaam? One afternoon. Stillness. The cold clear water in the ancient pond with the cemented ghat. You and I went in for a dip. You were swimming.
W: You were staring at the Santhal girls. They were bathing, naked.
H: You too. A silver sliver in the water before you came up for air. Like a fish. I held you within the water.
W: Three Santhal girls. No shame. You were devouring them with your eyes, yet they did not cover their bodies. They laughed.
H: On the other hand, you were much too shy. You even wore a sari and chemise to bed.
W: You and your brave words. All bark and no bite.
H: Remember the Dak bungalow at Hazaribagh? What terrible darkness!
W: There was no electricity.
H: There were a million fireflies.
W: The beds creaked when you turned over.
H: The rain started suddenly in the night. It grew chilly.
W: We had no blankets.
H: We didn't sleep that night.
W: We fell asleep in the small hours.
H: I made tea and woke you up. Outside the sunlight, the grass. Drops of rain water. The fragrance of eucalyptus in the breeze.
W: Nonsense. You never brought me tea in bed.
H: I made tea for you at Hazaribagh. Then I woke you up.
W: Never.
H: I remember very well.
W: You remember nothing.
H: I remember very well.
W: Nonsense. I've even made a fire with straws and twigs to make you tea. When the taxi broke down on the way to Ranchi.
H: I made you tea over a spirit-lamp at Hazaribagh.
W: Wrong. Not at Hazaribagh--- Deoghar, at the hostel.
H: Hazaribagh.
W: Deoghar.
H: I say, Hazaribagh.
W: I say, Deoghar.
(A small silence).
H: Flies.
W: Nasty flies.
H: The days get warmer. Flies multiply.
W: The cuckoo calls.
H: The dust sifts.
W: Leaves fall.
H: At Hatibagan, we had a cockatoo in our home. He said, ``Barobou, don't be angry, Barobou, don't be angry.'' By Barobou he meant my mother.
W: There you have it! Your mother was the one with a temper, not I.
H: He also said, ``Boudi gouri, Gouri Boudi." I taught him that. Boudi had fair skin, and was called Gouri. Do you remember my Boudi?
W: Of course. She gave me a bajubanda. Ten bharis of gold. Set with stones. But she was not all that fair. Though it's because of her that your family labeled me dark-skinned.
H: Boudi had all kinds of letter-paper. Blue, white, yellow, pink. Thick, interwoven, like bamboo mats. Don't see any like that any more. Boudi had a painted tea-set. Green leaves, roses. Don't see any like that any more. Boudi had Amala Das' records. Kanak Das' records. What songs! Why don't people sing Rabindra Sangeet any more?
W: Everyday on the radio. You don't listen.
H: Not quite the same. People now listen to English songs. Not Rabindra Sangeet. The music is different these days. '`Jhik jhik, jhumjhum, boom boom." Ugly.
W: You have no taste in music. These days, the tunes are much nicer. Rabindra Sangeet is monotonous.
H: Rabindra Sangeet is nice.
W: Monotonous.
(A little silence).
H: Boudi died suddenly. Pneumonia. She was ill for just nine days. No one dies of pneumonia these days.
W: Nor of typhoid. Or Kalajwar.
H: Kalajwar has been wiped out.
W: Malaria has been wiped out.
H: Yet people die. Wedding invites. Shraaddha invites. That day I saw a wedding-hall, with lots of lights and a great deal of fanfare about, and then some people passed by, carrying a body and chanting Haribol. Are you still frightened? By the chanting of Haribol?
W: My fears trouble me much less these days.
H: Remember Hatibagan? Every night, the chanting. And you rigid with fear. I stayed up so many nights with the lights on. So that you would not be frightened.
W: Never. You never stayed up for me.
H: Definitely I did. Plenty of nights.
W: Even if you did, why bring it up? Anybody would do this much.
H: I wasn't bringing anything up. Just remembering.
W: You are a great one to talk. I stayed up night after night, when Habul was a baby. Habul was one of those cry-at-night babies. Get up, rock him, get rid of the mosquitoes, change his nappies. Did you even look at him? Let alone touch him.
H: I fed Bulu milk with a jhinuk-bati. I put her to sleep.
W: I was ill then.
H: Bulu was a very sweet child. Curly hairs. Full of mischief.
W: There you are! I had to go through all the bother; then when they were a bit older, the father materialised to demonstrate his love. Petting, cuddling, but no responsibilities.
H: Babies are too much trouble. Always wailing, yelling. A cold today, a stomachache tomorrow. Stinking of pee.
W: Why didn't you sleep apart then?
H: You separated the beds. Not I.
W: Bulu was growing up.
H: Bulu and Habul could have both slept with mother. Or they could have slept apart in the next room. That's what I said.
W: You would. Men! Never satiated. Not even when they have grown old.
H: I was not old then.
W: When do men ever grow old? When do they ever think themselves old?
H: All to the good.
W: Oh yes! And all that business everyday. Ugly.
H: You cheated me.
W: Nonsense. Always talking big, and not a thing to show for it.
H: Hadn't a chance.
W: No chance! I found the letter in your pocket, remember?
H: What letter?
W: Have you forgotten? You couldn't bear not to see her a single day.
H: She was your friend. Her husband deserted her.
W: And you brimmed over with the milk of kindness. You played truant from office and went to visit her in the afternoons. You said you were going on tours and spent nights with her.
H: You know everything, don't you?
W: I would have left you right then. But I had Habul and Bulu to think of.
H: Thrice I dreamt that you had gone away. Not alone.
W: Nasty!
H: You conversed in low voices, and stopped whenever I came into the room. Remember?
W: Nonsense.
H: Remember we all went to Puri together? I woke up late at night and you weren't in the room.
W: You'd been dreaming.
H: Much later you came in. You stood by the window. There was a moon---I could see you clearly.
W: Don't talk nonsense. You sleep like a log---burglars could clean out the house without you waking up.
H: But I didn't go to sleep again that night.
W: You were thinking of your sweetheart.
(A long silence).
H: A crow.
W: Nasty crow.
H: It's sitting on the railing.
W: Whoosh! Go away!
H: There it goes. Can you tell the difference between a crow and a raven?
W: Ravens are bigger, blacker.
H: Have you ever seen a raven?
W: Who hasn't?
H: I haven't, probably. At least I couldn't tell it from a crow, even if I saw one. Jogesh knew all kinds of birds.
W: Which Jogesh?
H: My friend, Jogesh Bhadra. Don't you remember? Plumpish, very jolly. He knew a lot about birds. He wandered around in the villages taking pictures. All the different kinds of nests, when which bird lay eggs. Everything. A strange mania.
W: Paritoshbabu's hobby was plants.
H: Know what happened to Jogesh? He woke up one morning and fell down on his way to the bathroom. That was it.
W: Paritoshbabu died of cancer.
H: Cancer has no cure.
W: Strokes cannot be cured.
H: Thrombosis leaves no way out.
W: The vessels in the brain tear.
H: The heart stops suddenly.
W: There is sudden vomiting of blood.
H: Recently Sukumar died.
W: Recently my Mejojamaibabu died.
H: The news of Parul's death was sudden.
W: The news of Labonyo-di's death was sudden.
H: And our Himangshubabu. Such an ascetic life---woke early everyday, followed a strict vegetarian diet, did not drink even tea. He too.
W: So many people die!
H: Too many.
(A small silence).
H: My Boudi could have been still alive.
W: My Chhotomama could have been still alive.
H: Jayanto could have been still alive.
W: Manju could have been still alive.
H: We don't remember. We recall. It's been years since Boudi died. Twenty years.
W: Twenty! At least thirty-five.
H: Thirty-five! No-no, not thirty-five.
W: Has to be. Habul was a baby then.
H: Thirty-five years. Such a long time. Seems like yesterday.
W: Yesterday! We have been married forty years now. That too is yesterday. Such a long time. One day. Forty years.
H: Forty years! When did they pass?
W: Forty years! The blink of an eye.
H: The blink of an eye. Forty years. How did they pass? Can you recall anything?
W: Why ever not?
H: How did they pass? These forty years? I cannot recall a thing.
W: Habul, Bulu, our son-in-law, our daughter-in-law, grandson, granddaughter. Our family. And this house.
H: Is that all?
W: What else do people have!
H: Nothing else. Nothing else remains.
(A long silence).
H: I was young then. The one time I went to see Amar Datta act. He played Arjun. Ah!
W: I once got the prize for recitation at school. Basanti Devi gave away the prizes. C.R.Das' wife. Ours was a Swadeshi school. I even got to see C.R.Das once.
H: Kusumkumari played Krishna. ``Partho, you have been blinded by your attachment. Awaken!" Oh, what a voice! Makes you shiver.
W: I had to recite from the `Meghnadbadh Kavya'. "Sammukhshamore pori bir churamoni birbahu choli jobe gelaa jompure ekelaaa---" I don't remember the rest.
H: We don't remember. We recall. I once heard Sarojini Naidu speak.
W: At one time I thought that I would join the Swadeshis. And go to jail.
H: At one time I thought that I would walk all the way to Tibet.
W: Huh! You walk to Tibet! You who won't open your eyes without bed-tea.
H: Learnt a bit of Tibetan too. I don't remember, though.
W: We don't remember.
H: We can't remember. We can. I was champion at table tennis once. Had my picture in the papers.
W: I wrote a travelogue once. The first time I went to Darjeeling with father. It was published in the 'Monthly Bashori'.
H: The first time Mohun Bagan won the shield, I was there at the game. I had run away from school. My shirt torn, shoes lost, yet nobody at home took me to task.
W: I once went to see Ramanuja's Circus. I had never seen a live tiger before that. And those girls-the ones who do the tight-rope walking. Like fairies from heaven. As if they would spread their wings and fly away. I dreamt of them all night.
H: Did you see the play `Chirakumar Sabha' at the Star?
W: But that was with you, after marriage.
H: Do you remember? The way Durgadas said the word 'balloon`. `Balloon, did you see a ballon?" Ha ha! And Niharbala's singing. "No, oh no...."
W: Are you going to sing now?
H: No-just thinking. And Shishir Bhaduri's Sita. You wept gallons.
W: So did you.
H: "Sita---! Sita---!" What a heart-breaking call! "Who-who calls?"
W: Are you going to act it out now?
H: No- just remembering. Remember that time at Bindigarh? There was a storm. Trees were falling over. The wind pulling at the roof. You were terrified. Everyone was terrified. I wasn't. I was feeling as if...
W: In the middle of it all Bulu came down with fever.
H: I was feeling wonderful. As if all at once so many windows had been thrown open. So many doors had swung open. As if I had spread myself far into the night. Do you remember that storm?
W: I sat up all night with Bulu on my lap. You did not take her once.
H: I felt wonderful. I felt incredulous! Incredulous that I was alive. Even you appeared different.
W: The next day Bulu came down with measles. You did not even go to the doctor.
H: You have forgotten. At dawn I went and got Kesab Daktar.
W: Not you---Subodh.
H: I went.
W: Subodh went.
H: I.
W: Subodh!
H: Do you remember rightly?
W: Do you remember rightly?
H: You don't remember.
W: You don't remember.
(A long silence).
H: Long day.
W: The days get longer in Falgun.
H: How quiet it is!
W: Here comes the school bus.
H: Harenbabu's daughter is getting off it.
W: The bus is driving away.
H: Harenbabu's son has bought a scooter.
W: Nagenbabu's daughter is going away to Canada.
H: That son of Biren has failed his exams again.
W: Suprabha is expecting again.
H: Which Suprabha?
W: The daughter of your niece.
H: I hear Suprabha's father-in-law is ill.
W: From when. High blood-pressure.
H: My blood pressure isn't high. I don't have a bad heart. I don't have diabetes. I see the doctor every month. I am okay.
W: My daughter and son-in-law live in America. They will come. My son and daughter-in-law live in Delhi. They will come. My grandchildren will come. I shall buy a puppy for my grandson. A tanpura for my granddaughter. I have made plans about which ornaments I am going to give my granddaughter for her wedding. I am okay.
(A small silence).
H: Why did you stop?
W: What should I say?
H: Say something.
W: You better get a little sleep now.
H: I sleep all night. There's nothing to do at night but sleep.
W: Men! A species!
H: I don't even have dreams these days. I might dream of Boudi. Or Jogesh. Jogesh loved birds. Boudi loved music.
W: I think I will get a cow.
H: Why a cow?
W: Tablu will drink its milk.
H: Milk can be bought.
W: Tablu will drink unadulterated milk.
H: Cows are nasty. Mosquitoes, flies, dirt.
W: I will.
H: I am not for it. Rather keep hens.
W: Hens! Dirty. All kinds of diseases. They will eat up my vegetable beds.
H: You'll get to eat eggs. And chicken.
W: A cow will give me milk. Unadulterated milk.
H: Not cows---hens.
W: Not hens---a cow.
(A small silence).
W: Are you sleeping?
H: No.
W: Don't go to sleep with the cigarette burning. You'll burn a hole through your shirt again.
H: I wasn't sleeping. I was thinking. Have you ever tasted kamranga?
W: Lots of times! They were in plenty at our Raigunj house.
H: I was remembering the smell of kamranga. You don't find them any more.
W: You do. But very few. Who eats kamrangas these days? A car is coming this way.
H: To our house?
W: It's stopping at Santoshbabu's. It's his sister-in-law and her family.
H: It will be twilight soon.
W: Not yet awhile. The days are growing longer.
H: Long days. Long afternoons. Afterwards it will be twilight. Then night. Then morning. Day and night. Night and day. Yet we are not dead.
W: Such inauspicious words!
(A small silence).
H: The locality's so quiet.
W: Not really. Sometimes there are buses.
H: Sometimes taxis.
W: Sometimes lorries.
H: Sometimes the sound of breeze.
W: The sound of leaves.
H: The sound of trees.
W: Birds in the trees.
H: The birds fly away.
W: Leaves on the trees.
H: Leaves fall away.
W: Cawing of crows.
H: Barking of dogs.
W: Sometimes the sound of footsteps.
H: Sometimes the telephone.
W: Sometimes the radio.
H: Sometimes dead silence.
W: As if there is nobody nowhere.
H: Not the sound of footsteps.
W: Nor the sound of breeze.
H: Not the fragrance of the dawn in Hazaribagh.
W: Nor the fragrance of Habul and Bulu's bodies.
H: Not the scent of the water at Mihijaam.
W: Nor the scent of the grass in Raigunj.
H: As if we have never lived.
W: We are alive.
Arundhati
Arundhati, my all,
open your mouth, push your tongue
down my throat, let our kisses resound
through the universe, through hell, Arundhati,
become a light, make light, light,
Arundhati, light---
Not the flashlight of eyes, but a light in the heart,
Arundhati, won’t you be the lighthouse of my life?
Your legs on my chest, and fluorescent thighs, bring to mind
the beauty of fishes
on temple walls---such beauty, why? As if beauty was food
for those born blind, or a red flag to the bull, immersed
in water a prayer to the sun like love blind-folded.
Arundhati, my life, my all, take my eyes, my breast, my lips,
take your pick,
spoil, break, throw to the winds, Arundhati, fling away.
If you will give me love, Arundhati, I shall stab poetry in the back
and walk away to an avowed death on your pyre, yes that’s better,
fling then one eye into the water ---
I had so wanted to go to heaven--- where else would I find the shade of
breasts to hide my face in---, not in the woods of this earth, not in sketches,
in the ecstasy of the flesh
Exposed faces are too busy, too riddled with arteries, as though
they move in revenge, they run from one end to another,
into space, into disaster,
I too come back from unloving, Arundhati, to drink of the tears of your eyes.
Seeing terrible fires break out on earth, in heaven, on College street, I too
Whiplash art, pound, break, destroy it, with a kick send it to hell.
Your body is art, my body is art, Arundhati, yours, mine.
Athens to Cairo
Inside the aircraft, I take off my necktie, unfasten my seatbelt and stand up
`Where is everyone?”, I shout
Two air-hostesses, their faces fluffy like cotton-wool, come running---
Then, over my head and below are the Mediterranean sky and silver sea
In between them blue clouds and dragonflies
Behind me Europe at dusk burns in roaring flames,
Before me the East is swathed in darkness.
My voice rough, I say. ``Where have you been,
I wanted a drink half an hour ago,
Besides I am hungry---- “
The two young women dolled-up like girls laugh embarrassedly
Amid all that fire and darkness such feminine laughter
sounds inconsequential, their body lines, shapes are nothing to the eye.
In the sky over the Mediterranean, I am suddenly, free of all bondage,
simple and honest
Europe burns behind me, before me lie the black ashes of the East,
In between them I, lonely Indian, son of an emperor,
I want to cry out and tell the entire world,
I am hungry, I am hungry
I can bear it no more,
I am poised ready---
To tear, masticate and devour.
This hand has touched
This golden figurine--- oh dear, will she ceaselessly crumble away,
In the night , in the sun, in the rain in the arms of another man?
Her nipples two bared switches,--- switches? Hands tremble at their touch.
This hand has touched worms, pillows bound to chest, blood,
In a greedless drowning to death in the blood’s mucus,
This hand has touched the shriek of tearless eyes
This hand has touched
This hand
A tunnel-like alley--- running through it lightning-fast,
small change clutched....sounds of boots behind, a cigarette
in the sleeping mirror’s mouth, this hand!
No steam builds in my heart. Yet,
we meet in the darkness of a mist, eyes flash
like a gold coin lost in an ancient chest.
The nipples two bared switches, hands tremble at their touch,
Even this hand!
There are some billion doctors on this earth.
Like Parashuram* I shall kill them all
and wake to life in a pool of their blood.
Moonlight, like shadows of trees.
Within it none alive. Anymore.
Trees under the sky. Darkness, leaves bunch.
A stream within the leaves.
Within the stream’s every vein cruelty;
For the present, cruelty gathers her aachal§ away and says,
There are the lights, my cousin waiting at the gate, I have to go now....
Go, but never again alone in the dark
turn your neck to me, go, I shall for long
stand in watch here and hold the dogs at bay,
go today without fear, but never again. Today,
go without fear. I shall stand in watch.
The Gamble
In pure cold blood, Nikhilesh and I swap our lives,
our watches, pens, pocketbooks and handkerchiefs,---
at five, by the radio, we say goodbye,---okay then,
see you tomorrow,---in the twilight's bloody breeze and the cold
of the last winter days, I descend the stairs alone
and remember---addresses and phone numbers also
must be swapped,--- like expressions, sad or smiling moments;
angry and indifferent is Nikhilesh, somewhat cunning too.
As Nikhilesh, I walk far through the pale darkness,
into a new evening and night, new home doors interiors
the cheroot before bed, the deep sleep and the waking---
much before six million alarm clocks rip apart
the blanket of mist over Calcutta, I, that is, Nikhilesh, call up Nikhilesh,
that is, Sunil,
and say, Did you take condensed milk in your tea
everyday? It stinks, but no matter! I, or the Sunil of old,
now Nikhilesh,
want your, that is the old Nikhil's or rather the new Sunil's throne,
and heart and blood,
your previous future or my new past
within your new past, my previous future
(or my past in your future in a fifth past and future)
or your loneliness in my unlived boisterous world
remembrance and amnesia of two kinds as in a dream
or maybe of dream-swapping, the high of rum and beer,
love or lovelessness, behind friends' or the gang's backs, friendless,
sorrow or like sorrow mistrust
the sharp silence of living, like the breathing of the dead---
my prayer and woman-slaughter when faced with greed and peace
are with you, in the middle of blood and creation I too must walk
towards my beloved, my mouth on her breasts, not mouth,
meditation and restlessness,
within a lifetime,
thighs facing thighs, not thighs, facing a vagina the penis,
phantasmic,
hate and tenderness
impossible tumult or in the sunburst of a moment's glance
an unbeautiful beauty---
if cold, I shall lie in the darkness , on the streets in an afternoon
I shall suddenly call to you Sunil Sunil, in my name of old,
I want to see
if a hundred and eight eyelashes quiver, what breezes
caress my cheeks or how many hundred pins my heart,
how many transformations there are in birth, grief, defeat,
joy, not joy, sin, not sin, sways, does not, breaks, does not,
death, in the currents
I, and like me, like me and I, and not I, ----
running running through one lifetime.
Easy
Easily I make a million flowers bloom,
All at once I light up suns, moons, stars,
In a passing whim I blow out the moonlight (remember that moonlight?)
or the sunlight (remember that too?).
Don’t believe anything my detractors say.
They might say that I am a child or a fool,
or a magician, ---
Ragged tents, broken drums, patches
on his black coat, but look what a deadly dance he’s dancing
on the pupils of her eyes, onlookers aren’t fooled, they laugh
but the girl will hear no reason oh how she ails from this dose
of illusion;---Don’t believe them.
Hey you, my detractors, look,
look with what ease I hold up the three worlds---
on the little finger of my left hand.
The darkness, the seas, hills all look on amazed,
You, only you, have forgotten the language of surprise!
Come on into my house, and see what a wondrous house I keep.
The roof overhead---see, but no walls have I on the sides,
(Bounded by walls all round, dreams and phlegm in your hearts,
marking age on your fingers, drawing fancy pictures on walls,
carefully you guys will live!)
While look in my house breezes of all kinds
like faithful retainers move around, brush away cobwebs,
test colors on cornices, busy day and night.
I sit in my wall-less room and paint on the girl’s pupils,
Much easier this than making pictures without.
Go back, my detractors, you are foolish children, and you,
Don’t believe them when they call me magician.