Saturday, October 20, 2012

Ruiya'r maajhe-



ora je bodo saheb'er lokera ora bole aishe,
na ruiya to Pakistan 
tomra na, 
kintu aamar baba, taar baba shobai to ruiya'e joliya moreche
oder ruiya roilo naa ki
aami to boi khata podi ni, aami ekti khepa pass class chaar
ora je bole na chadte hobe
aamiyo uthe shei ondhakre chole dilam
gram pichone shudhu maati dekha jaye
pukur aamar choto belar chotto kada jol hoye jaaye
aami choliya jaai matha nichu, ghad nichu
bidhoba maa'er chokher jol, aamar pet'e golay
eyi poth kata mati, eyi jirno bhanga shorir niye
aami desh chede deshe'e jaai

maajh rassta'e maa bole aamaye chadiya de
aami jete parum na-
budo maa, mora baap'er bhanga choshma niya
bot gaacher tolaye boshiya jaye, jaamu na jete parum na bole,
bole notun deshe chaai homu na, tor baap'e ki bolum
tomar maati faillaiyaa eshechi, naa jamu na
bhanga baba'er purano choshma, aamar maa, aami
gacher tola'y
aare ek ek kore lokera hete jaye,
notun deshe hete jaye.

Translation-(In the middle of Ruiya)

They are men of the bada sahab
they say 'Ruiya' is now Pakistan
it is not yours
But my father and his father have their ashes spread here
would Ruiya not be theirs
Never have I read a book, just passed fourth class somehow
when they say you have to leave
I start walking,
walking in the darkness
and beyond my village is just a remnant of soil
and the pond of my child hood is a mud puddle
and I walk head bowed and neck tied
my widow mother has tears in her eyes
and they gurgle inside my stomach and the whole being
this road of muds and stones and this body of broken bones
I walk beyond the country,
I walk to the country

My mother stops me midway, she says let me not go
let me not walk anymore
old woman holding tightly the old broken glasses of my father,
squats underneath the banyan, no I cannot walk anymore, I am too feeble
I cannot be ashed in the new land, your father how would I face him
what will I tell him, I abandoned his ancestors soil, left it uncared for
and the broken glasses of my old man, my mother and me
sit in the shades of this tree
and one by one all people walk by
to the new country they walk by.

...

I write for a living and I know my part. Writers are essentially actors who play in their minds all the roles that they can create. I have learned to unlearn memories or atleast try my hands at pretending that I do not have them anymore. Sometimes though memory like a paper cut unintentionally sticks to you and the paper cut turns into a dagger. 

Sadness and its memoirs then fill you with the strange feeling of a dying evening. And the scarce happy memories I have makes me wonder why things happened the way they did. It is strange that the evolving paper cut-dagger of memories would always make you disappointed no matter what the details of the story are, they are never happily into ever afters.
.....................................................................

How we underestimate our specialties to be a part of the milieu. All men and woman who have lived have lived the story of youth and its loss and a constant war of redemption for the past glory which never was. We live in yearnings all the time and this constant feeling of not being there, where we want ourselves to be. 

Emotions are just dishonest, when a sad man is happy tomorrow or a happy one is sad, isn't he disrespectful to his past self. Hence our stories of bravery and romance and Shakespearean tragedies are all bogus. 
After all the greatest heroes fell through the alleyway of emotions they surely had experienced fear, sadness, slothfulness, lust, anger and hatred. Tomorrow if they talk about my stories in closed quarters, I want them to say there was a man born in Bishnupur, of east-bengali refugee parents, who wrote. 
Not good, not bad just that.

I hate stories that end for in the end it is either happy or sad that traces the last few foot steps of a story. I want my stories to float, a human face is too small to be happy and sad at the same time. Now, how sad that is.

Calendula layers-



You told me
your heart was broken too
that you can paint your story 
in a few powerful strokes
for the details matter, no more.

You said, there was a fire that incinerated 
your emotions leaving you to bleed
that I can have your body
never your soul

That you are a metaphorical sun-kissed sandpit, 
and what is humane in you is lying naked here
and you no more write
as screams are neither prose nor poetry

.
I tried looking at you
as the girl with a thousand blisters
and all I could see, 
were
your cranberry lips
and silent eyes, 
pleading
to be made love to
even more.