The River Unto Man

(1)

The river recalls the past for man;
the charming or the ungainly vignettes,
converges all songs and all dreams.

Like a bird the river puts on ageing throats
a youthful strain,
on a youth’s hand the fantasies of adolescence,
puts in adolescent lips
the golden script of childhood.

Caught in the self’s rediscovery
he forgets the divergence of addresses.

(2)

Sometimes the river sings in man’s veins,
lends him a moment’s immortality
as it surfaces the sorrow in the blood,
gives all the hallowed beliefs of life
to man’s thirsty hands.

(3)

The river lends the sense of touch,
gives trusting hands, hearing hearts.

When man finds seeds of war in his heart
he rushes to the river,
as the plaintive poet to his woman.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]

 
The River of Forgetting

(1)

The evening too has a sky, all its own,
a solitary sky,
flowing down from beyond even the past
of my reaching.

For me and for my past
so familiar and yet so fresh is this sky
arrogating brightly in the pervading quiet
after the seminaries of dreams false or true
dazed time and my dumb age confront

But do I really have the silver meadows
to gaze at the golden sky?
do my strains stack such abundant grain?

(2)

The egrets are lost. The fields too are lost.
After football and Kabaddi,
now a guitar strums a western strain and many more.

Many a thing is lost. The Golmohur at the gateway,
a sky full of crimson flute notes beyond the afternoon,
and ripe vermilion mangoes dropping on their own,

the shadow of the berry tree by the river,
childhood.

(3)

No sounds. It’s a silence from you to me,
such silence enfolds me,
where would you be?

I am here, the land’s alphabet beckons me,
the boulders on land break my itinerary,
after so many rights and wrongs a lettered dream
that is within living memory.

Where may you be?
At the other shore of many emptiness?

(4)

I too own mistakes, O Time,
I know,
you harbour no evenings under your wheels.

But I am only human,
crazy to adorn the evening’s garb.
One lone man, what could I want?
beyond past clocks, dream women and memories?

What do I have? the corpse of a whirlwind
that would override the magic of roots;
I retrieve festering time and talk to my dreams,
I am Abhimonyu.

Time, you too have erred.

(5)

The tits and bits I would recall
before crossing the river of forgetfulness
the letters that would harrow me
till my arms fall off
the skys that would tease me
till my eyes move beyond vision

the land that would clamour for me
till I am shorn of my legs
the strains that would haunt me
till I lose my voice
the dreams that would nourish me
till the tears dry

the river of forgetting stretches
till the poems are dead.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]

 
Reading The Geeta - I

Being at rest like this do mean
being in a journey, Ye Partha,
actually you are not at rest

The world around you is always moving
buds are becoming flowers and withering away
small children turning to terrible youths with
daggers strapped to their waists
green hills turning to chimneys of black smoke

The rivers that flow inside and outside men’s hearts
are turning to rain one day
Rain again turning to rivers, the unfortunate birds that left
are returning one day to their nests; on the pages of history
mankind’s shadow of the afternoon lengthening more and more
darkness spreading around further than the eyes can see

Ye tired Partha, being at rest like this
do mean being in a journey
in an endless odyssey through flesh and blood of time
though a downward one, but you have nothing to be sorry
this is only your reality now

Reality is not only hard, sometimes it is fully meaningless
but as you don’t have any influence on the results of happenings
as you are an instrument only, or in a simpler term puppet
so let us , for the time being
continue this journey of being at rest.

             [ Translated by Rituraj Kalita ]

 
Reading The Geeta - II

When the night of time comes to an end
all things come back to my bosom,
king or hermit, man or bird,
the uprooted or the river.
I write time’s diary. Light up the beyond.

I am Brahman; the end of beginning,
the beginning of end,
I am infinite and endless.

I am with you now, your charioteer,
but I am free, Partha;
I tread freely like infinite space.
I rub shoulders with you but I am beyond reach,
I am here with you but I am beyond count;

I myself am freedom,
Absolute.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]

 
The Road That Leads The Soldiers

Through the road that leads the soldiers to battlefield
we may instead bring back the fertile rivers

The road through which now passes the refugees
of destroyed cities
may instead lead young children to schools
living individuals to art galleries, eager travellers to forests

The road through which tanks go
the road that leads to deaths and graveyards
we may instead bring back dreams of teen aged seasons
hymns to fertilise the dismal corn fields

And the bright suns of life.

             [ Translated by Rituraj Kalita ]

 
To Children
(A few advices like parents)

Live here keeping your eyes shut
here, that we are keeping them open
doesn’t help; we don’t see anything

Don’t ask for air to breathe
this very vacuum
actually is air

Don’t read history
why don’t you see -
how we are reading future?

Don’t listen to anything
don’t speak anything
here that we are listening
here that we are speaking
are actually symptoms of being deaf and dumb

Don’t talk of your parents and forefathers
here that we are present - your father, your mother,
actually we
are not at all ourselves.

             [ Translated by Rituraj Kalita ]

 
Refuge

What easy definition have you of refuge
that you would hand me a house
four walls on four sides
a roof above

What easy definition is there of refuge
that you would waylay a wanderer
and bring him home.

             [ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]

 
Love

I showed her my different faces
she said: your faces are like river

I handed over all my addresses to her
she said: your addresses are like the sky

I showed her all my darkness
she only kissed me, silently.

             [ Translated by Rituraj Kalita ]

 
Come Rain

Come rain
My door is ajar,
Windows are open.

Wash away the monotony
Cover the earth
With the white sea
Let the worshipped ancient sun go down in the courtyard

Wash these dusty hands
So that I could set sail again
Striking with the oars
Not blood , the bluish water of the Yamuna of my sorrows
So that I could open up the vein of the current and look through.

Wash the shadow of the blood smeared face
So that I could drink with the cupped hands the water from the lotus pond
So that I could see the ripe season of the eyes again, clearing the hyacinth.

Come rain
Ajar is my door,
Open are the windows.

             [ Translated by Priyankoo Sarma ]