Tuesday 31 March 2015

Samir Roychoudhury's poem FOR PERSONAL SUNLIGHT ( Translation of 'Nijaswo Roder Jonyo' )

When the first sunlight at the new house 
came to inquire about life from that day personal sunlight of this house
personal breeze air personal cloudiness took birth
everything which is exclusively for this house
just as some sunlight enter domesticity to live with some rains

Just as local tries to get disconnected from metalanguage
just like weakness for personal sunlight once
I had observed flax flower creeper to take turn
seen Grandma's longing for sunlight
even now I remember on our dining table at Darbhanga 
a shard of sunlight as our tea drinking companion
passing sunlight had a different relation with school ending bell
just as we have secret correspondence with some shadows

Just as some sunlight some shadow are saved in personal kitty
just as local tries to get disconnected with metalanguage.
  

Samir Roychoudhury's poem MIRRORROOM ( Translation of 'Aynaghar' )

Waking up I see in mirror Dad's last quarter life's face
searching for the box of his movable teeth...
thirst in laxative taken woken up man's dry throat 
six days' beard on rippled cheek, extra hair of brows covering eyes
with last care washing his loose gum with alum powder...
laughing toothless at the three black hair on his grey head...
unfastened nose ears eyes limbs are not there in his title deed

Alphabet's eroding atomic nectar sees each others' colours are                                original atoms
signs of chaos on corrugated forehead's wrinkles...
after a few days would arrive tin-made scissors & comb sans detol
the van rickshaw man of Imlitala would arrive to talk of wining lottery...
such other feelings are taking shape on the folds of face in mirror..

Turning back I see with immortal youth and manuscript of poetry Samir
At Bakkhali with Shefali today is their dating
till to know each others nature-earth home-system hill ridges volcano-mouth
manuscript of poetry ends writes oblation on last page 

In mirror room Dad is looking at Granddad's face
Great Granddad looks at great grandson's face
after five rounds of defense at last I am alone at goalpost
facing the corner kick of opposition after saving a sure goal
in front of goalpost both jerseys taking positions
the ball is moving from head to head
I am bewildered in understanding both teams' position

I am scared if there is whistle for a penalty
mirror room's likelihood on the field...


Samir Roychoudhury's poem HUMAN ARMOUR ( Translation of 'Manav Barma' )

Manushyakabacham
Each word
Hring Hring look sun rises
a mantra.
Within seeds of words a sound
which carries meaning...
Utter Hari only then a deer visita
sun disappears--

The dear is afraid of tiger
but creates a domain of escape.
An escapade beyond the clutch;
Yes, Shiva with snakes around his neck,
wisdom flows from
his tousled matted hair, the
Counter text.

Samir Roychoudhury's poem OPEN ENDED ( Translation of 'Mukta Mukh' )

You said to women
come my way but do not follow,
there starts demonstration...
she said, there
is a safety pin left behind
by the Sanyasin in washroom...
But you said the Sanyasin left behind
an open safety pin
then unending mystery starts---
deconstruction follow.

Utpalkumar Basu's poem POPE'S REVERIE ( Tranlastion of 'Poper Samadhi' )

            [ VERA PAPA MORTUUS EST]
   A Hungry Generation message on the death of Pope John XXIII

       While looking at the red yellow glass window

suddenly that day
       during the moment of slovenly afternoon I
       untangled 
       staring at the sunrays
          'Pope's kingdom and

       his illness's
mysterious germ's elasticity
       in finger a big
          globe of earth
       showing the circular circumference 
          I had told you at Kolkata
'Pope's kingdom 
       and his illness's mysterious germ's elacticity
          may be measured.'

       Do you not want war against germs ?
          At least I do not
       because if that war is not a holy war then
          In the darkness of whose open mouth at Kurukshetra
            seeing the image of a smaller globe I
       would be like a surprised
       playing doll of the Kauravas ?
Will I not be like a bag myself
shaken the inside
germs' terrorism's shilling-pound's sound,
        of rolling I would make you listen to ?
       Like many other men this twentyseven twentyeight
years of puny aggrieved life's unending
       membrane veins innards
       in profound love with body
       repeatedly descended
          why did we waver ? 
          With real drunkard, sinner,
theologian, pious and thief I could not engage myself.
       Could not travel far on boat
          love did not become strong--
          no disagreement took place on canal side--

Reader, now, from the pulpit of Rome
staring at the far away window
       it seems the halo is extinguished
near Catholic mission
       for the malnourished children of India I
       would easily request for powder milk
after the death of forty ninth Pope in shrewd knowledge
forty Pope's germ free longevity returns-- with this sense.   
          But ours as well
like many other men
        another twenty twentytwo years' lifespan is available.
Till that time I would sit at the air port
        see the departure and arrival of air planes
or visit the printing press and tell them my poems
do not print thumb imprint do not print or
        marks of tail's hoof
               do not print or
        change me
in the main window of mystery
when in darkness yellow blue various colours
are wiped out Pope's kingdom today
       atomic like a germ
            innumerable, shrewd and soft
headman God appeared with retinues.
                  


Monday 30 March 2015

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's poem WHORE ( Translation of 'Veshya' )

There would invariably be a mirror in a whore's room, wall to wall mirror, small size or big various cheap mirrors, a few of them decorated. Rarely I have seen food, but there would be utensils. 
Glass, enamel, bell metal or bronze utensils. These might be certain essential information about whores, that 1) she loves to receive gifts; 2 )  she has a soul; ) her shamelessness is like truth; 4) she is original idiot ; 5) she is as if there is no one in front of her.

For her there is only one thing to be deeply considered. When her body is used by someone, what is her state of mind. She feels happy one someone comes to her, feels disgusted, also hates him.
She never is jealous of anyone. When the 'man' makes her naked,
she feels disgusted, once she is naked she feels comfortable, she feels easier. But most of the men do not disrobe together, before the lights are off, he retains his underwear and inner shirt. He enjoys the nakedness of the whore, but does not allow her to see his nakedness. Thereafter they follow certain rules, whores,
at that time they are helped by God or Satan,
that is way they rarely suffer losses.

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's critique of Satyajit Ray's movie THE EXPEDITION ( Translation of 'Abhijan' )

Abhijan movie did not create any reaction in me. Other than spending three hours, nothing else was spent. What is the use of inviting people to watch such type of film and drama, isn't such usefulness over ? Not that
this thing is third or fourth class or production is mediocre or complete failure.
Whatever that be. It is true not first class at all, neither story nor its application. M. A. pass driver, chaste harlot, completely positive and commercial, if you take away the hookah pipe and bowl from it, what is the difference from Bollywood films ? 
In respect of Abhijan the idiosyncratic behaviour of reporters is incomparable. 

Had it been first class, even then what is the purpose of inviting people. Opportunity and contentment of being seated purposelessly for three hours with about a thousand persons like me ?Whether the thermo nuclear war will take place today or afterwards ? Won't take place ? It is difficult to ponder on it now. Many people in Europe do not go to watch drama or movie after avoiding thinking about this, but those who go they go with their hands around waist of boyfriend, no man goes alone and women and man, at least each man goes after a drink; they have surplus time even after affording drinks and dirty money to purchase tickets, and even thereafter they may have drinks. 
Those who had been to Purabi cinema hall, those who went alone, 
had they learned to drink;
not in intoxicants hashish, mescaline, cannabis, opium or drugs, result of all education and intelligence,
let us assume, after a drink, then, in India
we do not have extra money in our pocket for cultural interval, had anyone gone to Purabi without drinking ? 
The cinema hall would have been empty, Libraries vacant, 
no body would have gone to see real circus. Who would have agreed to spend on anything other than drinks. Idiots or people like me whose liver is damaged 
no one would have gone to Purabi without drinking. 

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's poem FRIENDS ( Translation of Bondhubandhob )

Shakti's ship has sunk. rope and chains are torn off. Sunil
is walking with a torchlight. Shankar is my dog, I am Shankar's.
Deepak is at present in Bhagalpur. Bhaskar has
captured everything. Huh huh other than Jolly Folly Sharat
is not interested in anything.
Can not see Sunil in darkness. Walking in torchlight.
Shakti dangerously plunges in water, presently floating with help of a buoy. The buoy is swinging in one place, is not floating away. In strong sunlight Deepen covered with a corpse is loitering around.
Only Ketaki and Ashutosh...when one gets love hope dries up at the roots. Their embraced roots are clearly visible in water. Only Ketaki and Ashutosh are floating. Where do they go ? 
They float and go to Chouringhee, Dunlop Bridge, Tiljala, Shyambazar, Chetla, go to Bandel. Bhaskar,
Shakti, Sharat and Sunil all four where did they get  cigar !
All four have lighted their cigar. Ketaki and Ashutosh's head float away from Chowringhee. Goes to Chetla, Ultodanga, Behala, Bandel, Barahanagar. Their swinging rooted embrace passes away from in front of Shakti, Sharat, Sunil and Bhaskar.
 

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's poem FEAR ( Translation of Bhoy )

Who has placed only one book on the shelf ?
Not me at midnight !

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's poem LOVE ( Translation of Bhalobasha )

If love rises in someone, foolishness becomes like a hillock. Today
that redeeming idiocy is no more there, today on the throne sits
heavy and big brain. Heart does not have the capacity to dethrone him.
Today who is seated in whose place.

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's poem COMMUNIST PARTY ( Translation of Communist Party )

When the communists of this country are trying to live, let them live. Who is going to loose for that !

Sandipan Chattopadhyay's poem BORDER PROPOSAL-2 ( Translation of Simanto Prostab-2 )

The main perception about death is :
1) It is an attack.
2) Surely sudden, but not secret; it is foretold.
3) Many people do not die together. Death one by one, attacks one at a time. Death does not have the capacity to devastate all human beings.

I shall say, unequal war. Disease
happens, after cure some people think 'saved myself'. With a smile he should be told, 'it is wrong'. 
No body gets cured of death. Even then with other persons
it is life, we think we are all living together. But with a thought that we are not going anywhere nobody 
ventures out of his home 
that is why we go out of home thinking we are going somewhere,
if we are silent people may keep eye on us we keep on
talking. Why don't we roam around all alone, singularly ? In that case
death will not appear to be vulgar.
When a person falls everyone turn their neck to see him. I know
these days
the power of respecting one another has increased among human beings, nobody says, 'alas'. Even then such looking is obscene.
That is why one should be deliberately alone when there is time. One should cross big and lonely fields more often. If everyone singles out himself in this fashion
then it would not be necessary to pick up someone from the crowd.
When one reaches the centre of the field the whirling red
will come and cover you, after the dust storm only a vacant space will be there, the perspective of his time.
One by one and all alone everyone should go into the field. What
is the use of refusing ? We didn't want that Yeti comes to put its hand on our shoulder. We have dressed ourselves. Sudden attack
we wanted to avoid. We never wanted someone finds us
unprepared. Only because of that
we have kept ourselves dignified, shaved our beard everyday
we may be called into the field. We are ready.

Rabiul's poem TEN MYSTIC PLASTIC BUTTON HIDDEN IN TEN STARS ( Translation of Doshti Tarar Bhitorey Lukiye Thaka Doshti Plastiker Botam )

After flashing a rocket cracker with fire stars in the sky giving publicity to silent days nights its measurement keeps equilibrium with ear this monotony my words your words vehicles toilet my your urinating hiss suddenly sound probably may be I was drawing your portrait or a line of a poem--pornography is actually your commencement of birth

                           Parents'
        inside dark room
        inside mosquito net
 art for arts sake of our earlier life
        Spider spider you go to the sea
        go into water
        knit net and knit life
        catch fishes with that net
        catch whales and catch shipcutter prawns
        and catch submarines of etc countries
Mom Mom do not stare at me like that
        if I look at your eyes
        I see your vagina
        then I stumble upon at sad locality
Shiva Shiva with your third eye
        observe properly
        is that really your third eye
        or it is a seal of my glance

Suddenly each line feel surprised with water's colourless ink turns into wounds I get puzzled due to fear of words poems turn stories in fear we become brave in fear we get up from sleep in fear we shiver in fear we start shooting with machine guns because of fear we go to war due to fear we go to Masjid due to fear we go to temples due to fear we go to urinate due to fear we go to toilet due to fear we read namaz due to fear we perform puja due to fear we piss in our pants due to fear we shit due to fear that gosh whether Masjid temple toilet are all dirt of mind and body's dirt are always left 0ver food is not of use in life peacock feathers art art Art art Aesthetics dirt dirt dirt dirty kerchief where are you save me come sit on my nose go sit on everyone's nose start business of clothes why kerchiefs are always square change your Body circular triangle square all types of forms gradually gradually gradually gradually you become invisible and that is why I do not keep you in my pocket I have not learned using you till now my heart bleeds with your bad smell named hole has so much bad smell bad smell bad smell my heart bleeds in dirty smell my heart bleeds my heart bleeds .

Again that relentless sound when my ears started gathering moss to get rid of usual words jamming becomes redemption of more strong sounds which become cracker festival in sitar sarod become air plane sing in sky's voice lane bye lane sun earth's another hemisphere in houses and houses darkness intercourse's orchestra sigh orgasm shrieks middle aged men women girls and boys' youth centric sighs loneliness is really solitude body a jet flies through its body everybody tremble in fear I rise and take side in bed stood up on earth hanging like bats head below legs up in air as if stuck on earth a lizard crawls around on ceiling we are also a type of lizard species of cockroaches if there was a higher species it would have called us race of cockroaches.

Sunday 29 March 2015

Abani Dhar's story ONE BREAD ONE SHOT ( Translation of One Bread One Shot )

From London to Hamburg port. Only a few days sailing. Here there is no semblance of a jetty. Only one jetty fallen apart. Our ship was anchored there. Around the port warehouses and homes destroyed. Broken crane around, mountain heaps of cars and iron scraps. Busy sounds of ferrying trucks. Stub faced airplanes overhead flying with throttled voice. It is very cold here. Snow flakes are falling. Urine instantly turns into ice.

With the dock whistle several workers climbed up the ship. As if they are wooden dolls---does not move this way or that way. Behind them sounds of pairs of boots. No one wishes Good Morning to each other. 

Breakfast time. We are having bread and tea from the store. Saw, bread arriving in sacks and tea in drums. Helmet head uniformed persons with rifles on their shoulder started throwing pieces of bread. The labourers are snatching them and eating with tea. An old labourer approaches them and beats his belly with hands. Probably wants another piece of bread. They wave there hands and say No No. Old man does not move. Seeing him still standing there a soldier goes to him and kicks him with his boots. His piece of bread is thrown off from his hand. The old man falls with his arse up. Other labourers immediately fell on the bread piece. As if children were running to take hold of a kite, then they started fighting with each other. I could not make out who got the bread piece. I saw, few of them bleeding from nose and lips. From among the labourers someone whistled...suiii...suiii...

The labourers secretly visit our cabins. They exchange mouth organs, safety razors for bread and sugar from shipmates. I also exchanged a bread for a mouth organ. Thought of getting a few more. I'll gift them to my maternal cousins. Shipmates advised me, 'save the breads, take us to the shore.' One shipmate showed his breast and said, 'there would be lots of girls on the shore you know--- one bread one shot. The words made me jump. I could not believe it. Though I am novice. These uncles have grey beards. I saved my bread without eating it. 

Got a letter from mother. I wrote to mother---' I have come to Germany from London. I talk to the foreigners in English. What a luck, I am able to visit so many countries. These are because of your blessings...'

Advance money was not doled out to any shipmate from the ship. I thought, what is the use ? Like in London I kept in my pocket two tins of cigarettes and bread and followed a group of shipmates to the shore. I shoved a packet of cigarettes to the police at the gate so that we were not searched ( you are not permitted to carry cigarettes without unsealing the tin or the packet ).

Hands and legs are freezing in biting cold. You can't make out whether it is day or night now. Hands in pocket I walk hump back. A few horse cart or cars are moving on the road, but no person is seen on the road. Rotten cotton, bloodstained bandage, cap, vials and bottles...littered on road. Not a single house is intact in view. Everything is broken tattered burned battered...A truck while passing by us applied brakes and suddenly stopped. We stood still. No, nothing to be scared of. We are shipmates who have come from London. From the truck they dumped a few white ladies on the street. Looking at the white ladies I took out my bread from pocket and kept ready in hand. It appeared that none of the white ladies are able to stand properly. They ladies crossed the road somehow as if in slumber. Thereafter I could not see them. The truck made a bhraaaar sound and disappeared blowing smoke--- while dropping empty liquor bottles. I felt sad. Thought why would the white ladies eat ship's bread ? They must have eaten good food in the company of white men. 

We entered a lift and crossed the river through a tunnel. Thereafter, we entered a lane after treading a little. Destroyed highrise houses on both sides. Found a shop beneath a two storied building. Upper floor was hanging. Lower floor bricks have come out of plaster. Burn marks on walls. Windows and doors are covered in tarpaulin -- there are no door planks. The shopowner smiled and stood up with the help of crutches after seeing us. He does not have a leg. After entering the shop with shipmates a white lady came out from inside the house. She is one eyed. Burn marks on face. A younger white lady beside her is chewing dry bread. She does not have marks on her face. I also sold two tins of cigarette to the shop keeper. The shop keeper looked happy with the deal. Thanked us repeatedly. I looked at his daughter. A shipmate said in low voice--'when I came last time, I had told the one eyed tart I want that young girl. The tart did not agree. Wants more payment.' The girl went inside with the tins. The lady wished 'Good Bye' when we left the shop.

The main road after further walking. White men white women, cars horsecarts, shops kiosks, houses juggling for space here. Everybody can talk in English. It is four in afternoon. Shipmates were talking among themselves that there is no use going to that side before evening. 'What should we do now ?' Far away were posters of naked white ladies, I asked, 'is a film being shown there ?' The uncles laughed and said, 'do you want to watch dances of naked ladies ?' I waved my head ans said, 'no uncle'. He said, come we shall show you dance of naked white ladies.

My ticket was purchased by the uncles. The show has started much earlier. Somewhat faint light. One white lady is dancing with music, heaving her bum and waist. Completely naked. A flower in her hand. While dancing the white lady covers her back or front and does not allow to see the real thing. A little later a white man danced whirling on stage. Thereafter holds the white lady in embrace. The man is also naked. Both of them pressed each other's breast belly and stood still with lips on lips. Audience started clapping.

We get out and drink beer at a bar while standing and walked back to the other side. Torn pant stitched coat, torn cap, torn shoes an old white beard man looked at us with open mouth. He waved his hand to call us and we neared him. A big broken building. The old man looked at us and had a deep sigh. Touched his palm on his forehead  and said--'all kaput'. The old man knew that we are Indians and do not understand his language. When the old man looked at the sky and made ang ang ang ang sound. Pointed to the broken house and said-- "boom boom.' Pointing at the holes on the wall he said, kaput kaput, and started crying. He goes away in drunken stupor. I stare at the old man with controlled expression. I was feeling a little warm. Cold might have receded. I did not notice that shipmates have left me alone and gone away. 'You son of bitch, shout makes me look at them, and found shipmates have gone far away. 'Uncles uncles' I shouted back and ran towards them. They appear to be angry with ma. They abuse me by saying,...'what the hell you were searching there ?' Showed me his trouser and said, 'now here my penis has started wetting, shall I put them in your back ?' I start laughing like a fool to reduce the anger of uncles.

A few white ladies were standing at the entrance of a lane. They invite us waving their hands--'Hello Johnny, come come.' There is no light in the lane. One may see things faintly. Following shipmates I also stare at the white ladies closely. They start pulling us by our hands, and say
--you good
--me bread, you fuckie...
--come come
Following the white ladies in the lane they suddenly ran away. Sounds of boots on ground. Police is coming. We enter another lane by the side. Total darkness. I started feeling scared. Does anybody stay here ! Uncles are walking quite freely. Calls made by white ladies made the uncles stop. We entered the dilapidated house in front of us. There is a hall inside. It does not have roof over it. Pillars are half broken, iron rods are protruding. Half burnt chairs tables benches strewn all around. Nothing is clearly visible. When gradually my sight adjusts to darkness, the ladies are seen jostling at far away corner. None of their faces is clearly visible. After getting closer to them an uncle lights a matchstick but it is put off with breath. Probably, fearful of police. My own fear has disappeared by then.

Shipmates picked up one for each and pushed on to the wall. I also picked one up and pressed her on to the wall. A broken cross was hanging near the wall. The moment I gave a bread to her from my pocket the white lady started kissing on my cheeks. She lifted the skirt with one hand and ate the bread with other. I was on the verge of ejaculating. Saw the white lady saved a portion of bread inside her blouse breast. I stand erect and press her teats with two hands. She tries to avoid the centre of her breast so that the bread does not fall off.

( Year 1951. I had gone to Germany in Class McLillan's ship. I was third mate at that time. Age 15-16. Our ship had anchored at Hamburg port just for a day. At that time I had also got down with other shipmates. Whatever I experienced at that time is recorded here. It is a true story.  I wrote the story  after joining the Hungryalist movement ).

Saturday 28 March 2015

Subo Acharya's poem POETRY HAS DISAPPEARED FROM HUMAN WORLD ( Translation of 'Manusher Prithibi Thekey Kobita Shesh Hoye Gechhe' )

I am walking at empty city's midnight
                                     distant exile invites me
                                            like human birth or occult skeleton
darkness near sea streams where death will wipe you out oneday
we were once in love
                  all worldly loves are destroyed in some black hole--
extinct earth's poetry, Khalasitola's evening and my love's evening
my chastised running around on empty roads, pocket full of money                                                                                           (in dreams) this is my simple life, my non existing howls drowns in blood--
poetry also gets the taste of blood today, four corners tremble in sighs
some people are scared of my existence, some bow their head and walk away--
my blood filled shrieks of pain wither away in my chest--
no shrieks move the world, like human beings
my love has died longtime back, pain for love,
blood oozes in driblets from heart due to love's absence, empty heart, you
                           drink wine looking at the dazzle of midnight, whatever you do
there is nothing like angelic life-- obsessed fear from this small life

Or living in deep bloody empty hole.
Mankind's fearful tread in this 1968 takes me to indifference--
Why there is so much blood blood blood in my life ?
Who am I-- who I am in this bewildered life
standing erect like a divine shriek-- poetry's inner
thoughts of non morbidity emanates from cruelty--
how far have I come away from mankind
                             today I feel like going back--

Subo Acharya's poem DIRECT PERCEPTION ( Translation of Bhuodarshan )

In monster emptyness three men were walking opposite faced
or in front
sometimes direction goes awry, fear
not error, not illusion, not affection, clear mist
winter, distressed breeze, in crowded loneliness, in uproar of                                                                                     streams Loveless female body, faithless, smell of semen
inside the chest blind destruction outside certain peace 
society domesticity, every form of life, change thereof,
memory and forgetting, play,
sharp stare on flesh-- cruelty in flesh,
hand-twisting distress--
within this I have to walk one life's eternity !
Thought a person, after thinking thus, like a drowned man's last
stare stopped suddenly, 
another person was startled and entered the crowd flow
within instant of eye flash
the third person smiled a little
it was not possible to make out whether in grief
started walking alone calmly

Subo Acharya's poem NEAR THE SEA ( Translation of Samudrer Kaachhey )

The sea is playing in extreme moonlight today
from the breaking of waves it seems it has got the breath of creation
as if has learned limitless unknown mysteries
the taste of darkness--
tell us what have we achieved?
Only sweat blood tears spit left-over food of clay
have we got anything else ? That what is recognized exploiting                                                                                    senses
What have we received else from this mortal earth ?

I think of going elsewhere
from the tumble of moonlight I remember unknown countries
I have to leave this dry hungry city--
I know I have to leave
but to leave behind the incompleteness of human life
I am not able to at all
I feel the pain of pin pricks on my palms
so near the seas both my eyes terribly dry up


Arun Banik's story DOG SYSTEM ( Translation of Kukur Pronali )

Characters :
Three big dogs and their assistants.
Mohitosh
Poritosh
Nibaron
Mohitosh, Poritosh and Nibaron's wives and children and members of their family and a beautiful lady may be Mrs Patel or Mrs Bajaj or at least Mrs Basu.

Before curtain is raised ( one minute may be ) from behind the wings voices of three dogs are heard in the guise of lectures in between supporters of other dogs' approval with Oh Yeah would be heard and gradually the curtain will rise. From a far away place someone's recitation would be heard somewhat on the lines of Sbayasachi's 'Bidrohi' gramophone record or Sukanta Bhattacharya's 'Lenin' or 'Bodhan' and even if those are not available other musical gramophone records may be played such as 'There Flies The New Age Flag', or a song of rebellion may be played. The moment curtains rise three dogs are found standing at three distinct spot on a high pedestal ( just like LUX soap may be folded in red coloured kite paper it would be better if LUX sign is visible ). If the director so desires he may replace the three big dogs with three big men wearing dog masks and for assistants he may use 12-16 year children and everyone should have multicoloured tail ; if the tails of the dogs are made to wag with the tempo of their lectures then you know the dramatist understands that the act may be appreciable on stage, and if that is not possible then the tails may be presented before the audience in an attractive manner. From three spots red blue and green light would be gradually radiating and the radiation on each of them would not be systematic but it would be better if the dispersion of rays  are disorderly. In case technical experts face difficulties then red blue green light may emanate with time gaps first to explain each spot quite clearly maximum one minute for each may be given after that light and sound may focus on the three spots simultaneously and for this exhibition 2/3 minutes may be approved; after this the three big dogs would stare at each other quite meaningfully and they would give direction with their sight to their assistants and instantly audience would form a disciplined queue to get ready and the big dogs would wave their heads like wise men and with winning gait and joyous howl or pieces of howls they would recite with exemplary bravery and haughty style artfully strong method and in this position they would encircle the stage. There would be explosions on stage, baton charges by paramilitary. Big dogs would flee bravely small dogs would whine and run away and at the end a trolly somewhat like the trolleys of municipality would enter the stage and sweeper like two men would pick up five six dead and wounded dogs on the trolley singing "god gives penance...our flowers" such a Hindi song would go away their faces would reveal drunkards' ultimate extacy but there would not be any behaviour of their legs that they are drunk the light may go off for 2/1 minutes. In between a middle class drawing room cum bedroom cum dressing room would appear with at least one dressing table a few chairs, if possible a sofa on the stage and again when the lights are on it would be seen Mohitosh in his Bengali dandy dhoti-kurta dress combing his hair quite carefully. And singing mildly a song which was popular a decade back for this old gramophone record of singer Satinath Mukherjee would be very helpful.

Alo Mitra's poem DRUNK FEELINGS ( Translation of Matal Anubhab )

I do not know when darkness encircles, helpless
mountains pierce through chest -- immobile indifferent
sometimes faint giggles are heard -- blown up
like a balloon complex breath from the folds of ribs, concealed
stream---
blood's suppressed self-esteem form rows of crowd 
darkness encircles --squeezes helpless mountains
gloomy death's gloomy yellow eyes
drown
a bunch of flowers and rotting corpse in river
Sky human being and complex glands of man -- of disturbed life
indifferent breezy hair -- in air--
who knows who would hurtle down where, how
One morning the jungle flowers find the human monster
steely heart
opening himself in blue stream of love
I feel
life's dizzying drunkenness.

Debi Roy's poem CORPSE NEAR WATERFALL ( Translation of Jharnar Kachhey Mritodeho )

Corpse near waterfall !

On the fast flowing stream of Ramti river
so many corpses float by

It isn't a doubt, man, doubt
only of anxiety
what if nature waves its crown ?

Over the demolished plateau ?

Where people once resided
here and there quite big
ownerless boulders

Where is the forthcoming help ?
Entire Yeblong is covered in mudslide

This side is like a vast flatland of burning pyre
tarpaulin on shoulder rice bag on head
one or two men are rarely seen

Corpse near waterfall
or whether that boy, he also
is in the cradle of waterfall, sleeping peacefully.

 

Friday 27 March 2015

Debi Roy's poem THE THRONE IN THE CHEST ( Translation of Buker Modhye Singhason )

He whose love is unrequitted
and
he who has lost love after achieving it
                   --who is more unhappy between the two ?
                   --whose weight of grief is more unbearable ?
I like almost all flowers
among the heap of flowers, tuberose is my favourite
so do not advise me to become a gardener 
                                             for my weakness
More or less I find all women lovable
however, the throne in the chest is for only one !
Do not push me to adultery
                                   due to an attractive debility

Debi Roy's poem POETRY OF FIRE ( Translation of Aguner Kobita )

( To Kamalkumar Majumdar )
The fire within, does not give me peace
Outside everything is lopsided scabby disturbance
which further blows up the fire

--who does want skinned life ?
"My boy, try to be diplomatic."

Arunesh Ghosh's poem DREAM ELEGY ( Translation of Swapna Shokgatha )

In bones of grownups 
inside haggard oldies
the rebel girls of yesterday
today's naked streams
the mist which have penetrated
the winter wind which has taken a bite
fights with him -- does does -- saliva drips
liquid, sticky, bitter, very itchy but it is a flow 

If it means anything -- that meaning is lost sleeping aquatic grass
or may be we may call it -- I run for a drink of mother's nipples
we know but feign that we dont
oldies and girls
fire's wife
satisfaction of hunger 
fire flame of that manliness
who is sired by whom -- ascertaining, disconnected loneliness.
That fire today is on the verge of dying
blows the warmth of hand
a foolish thigh
waxes like candle the original nakedness
soul -- two teats
sticky anxiety when caught in fist
they would erect, definitely they would, on knees with tenacity
even if oral -- or rubbed on teats

Arunesh Ghosh's poem EVEN NOW ( Translation of Ekhanao )

I search for her, whom I have killed
She also searches, who has murdered me
Domesticity may be built on such death
in which home arson brings spouse
Seems I am living there renewed
in peace and happiness with her licks and sex
desire to kill arise at penis glance at that moment
both eyes of vagina burns in uterus flower

Homeless zebras have entered body
converse with beggars in town crowed 
I love the hooker-woman even now
We do not love any one
kill one another and bathe
do you listen to song of infinity
'Did you not listen to song of infinity at that time .'

Arunesh Ghosh's poem WAITING FOR DEATH ( Translation of Mrityur Jonyo Apekkha )

In this wait what type of
ultimate infinity of fear-silence reside
that even forefinger directed
will have to be shown in sinless mirror ?
The hangman in strong footsteps as usual
path shower of killing field
you wanted loneliness-- this is its substitute.
Your character does not suit crying and weeping, neither sighs
any anger, sharp wail, exploding hatred
or any naked girl's giggling calm
At this time those things do not come into mind.
Suburb's dirty smelling roads during lightning 
golden chariot made of women's bone on way to sky
nothing bothers
but those things remain-- in what depth who knows.

But we do not know death.

We know about walking toward death.
Never wanted to exchange places
with the murderer who is walking ahead
or his master, his master, his, his as well
spitted on the floor
avoiding the silent fall of the leaf
though all portrayal was sanctioned for him
really strange !
But you selected crowbar, hammer, chisel
in a damned country spawned on stone
feel embarrassed in front of golden plate full of consumer goods.

Thursday 26 March 2015

Subhash Ghosh's story MY HYPNOTISM ( Translation of "Hanseder Proti" )

Exactly what it is -- already it is dark when I left my room -- I can not guess. A few steps only and suddenly my legs stop : Geese -- geese behind me, geese before me, geese all around, millions of geese; what a scene of geese ! I can not move ; I see their wings, feathers; the whiteness of their feathers covers footpaths, streets, garages, tram lines; every corner they cover. The geese move their heavy reddish legs : everywhere I can hear their rhythmic footsteps. They flock together, they make a gathering; what a lot. These geese eat red lotus, pluck them : pluck and eat and throw the petals to each other. They brush their bodies with the lotus. ; they brush and take rest. A white fire like mercury slips over the footpaths, houses, cars, garages, and squares. These unclaimed, white feathered, resting geese over the red lotus make my thought process stop ; it becomes barricaded, my eyes tied by a kinkless wire to the Nadir and Zenith points. Even the unmindful lamp post guards in fear. Geese pluck lotus and eat, eat and pluck. I can not understand why they are so despotic, these unclaimed geese!

Suddenly I whistle ; only the geese hear; their bodies shiver, necks straighten, ears become alert ; they open their red beaks slightly; then and there gigantic turbine begins to roar within my head.

Even the hair of my body get excited : hairs become burning flame on my head. I hang my handkerchief over my breast and I begin to tremble, shiver in my hands and legs. Only they, only the geese, see my handkerchief ( specially designed and coloured ), straighten their necks, shake their wings and feathers. A faint call emanates from their throats. They are with the SOUND, with the CALL -- the one I heard 12, 13 years back, back in the days of my puberty when I got a sickness in the blood -- this call of the past, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 years, awakes the whole sphere of my limbs, penis, penis-end, the physio-libido system, silver fire, houses, roads, rows and squares. My limbs, head throb; my blood pressure rises. I see these innumerable geese, wings and feathers. I begin to wave my handkerchief around my head; the mad handkerchief waves like a pointsman's signalling flag, moves from east to west, from west to north, from north to south, on all sides and in all direction. The unmindful, frightened lamp posts begin to turn, they break into a thousand parts when dashed against the hidden waterhill. I see all around me by my searchlight. My hands continually signal. The geese straighten their white necks; each has turned its head from the red lotus, and I become restless with this sudden discovery. Looking at the handkerchief, the stir their beaks and necks; they swell their wings and feathers. The turbine which has stopped earlier begins again its turmoil within my head. I take the blue bottle from my pocket and spray the fluid over each and every geese; at once their bodies become limp. They begin to approach my shadow, as if hypnotized; they assemble around my shadow. My hands attempt to lengthen and try to catch them, one by one. But I control myself and begin to advance like a flute-piper; the hypnotized geese follow me. The flying handkerchief signal spreads. From time to time I see my trodden path by the searchlight. Each geese follows my footprints, follows me; they advance, and in my hand the restless flag of a pointsman.

We do not know when we come under the great sky. I see nothing but the white flames.The green grasses are burning. The geese quack in choked voices. In the white fire they burn their past, stir their wings, and take off their clothes. And the turbine in the head roars higher. Now and then I see the geese at my back, the handkerchief flying overhead. Suddenly my eyes are captured by a pond of lotus : like a loadstone it attracts me. Gradually I approach it; the geese follow me, dumb and blind. On the four sides of the pond of lotus monument size Shiva Phallus grows. Within moments they become stiff. And once again I see the geese behind me. They too become restless, seeing the pond of lotus. I take quick steps to the other side of the pond; I move the handkerchief; following the rhythmic signal of it the geese step into water of the pond. They eat lotus, they pluck lotus, they plunder lotus. They make as much turmoil in the water as they like. I see their drunken wings to the furthest corner of the pond. They worship the blind God. They throw all their ornaments in the red fire of the lotus, unhesitatingly. The turbine in my head roars ten times louder. Then, seeing their undisciplined manners, I am taken by the idea that in how many ways, in how many maximum ways, how many and how many maximum eggs I may have from them and getting these eggs I shall make them featherless, sickly, pale and when shall I drag them by their necks out of the lotus pond ? Only determination begins to grow gradually with a waterfall-sound, in the turbine blades.

( Translated by the author and adapted by D. S. Klein. Courtesy Subhankar Das ) 

Arani Basu's poem GRAVE SLAB ( Translation of 'Samadhifalak' )

Think about him at least once who is lying here.

Think about him once
who wanted to stir this jailhouse with his rickety hands,
he who wanted to love mankind and hankered for others' love,
who used to sing songs of liberty in free voice, 
who held a great open sky within his breast.

Think about him at least once,
whom you gave nothing other than ridicule.
Whom adroit people exploited in  guise as he was a simpleton, 
who used to be doubted for his crime of true words,
whom you compelled to become old
                                                before he reached his youth.

Think about him at least once.
He is lying by his side.

He was a true poet.




Arani Basu's poem I COULD NOT HOLD ( Translation of 'Dhorey Rakhtey Parini' )

It is true, we do not have a lot of things.
It is also true, whatever we have had we could not
                                                                   keep them all.
Like, attraction love.
There was a time when between you and me
                                                 even a thread seemed unnecessary.
This way days went by, days went by
one day I saw between us has crept up
                                          the leg pillow from beneath our legs. Thereafter so many days have passed,
now we clearly feel, during night, when earth becomes wordless
a complete river flows between us.
We feign of sleep, though awake, listen to songs of that river,
often of grief, often of helplessness, often of tiredness.

Rarely we remember the olden days.
Those days of yore.
I try to touch with my hand and find, that river
                                              has widened miles after miles.

It is true, we do not have many things.
It is also true, whatever we have had we could not
                                                                   keep them all.
Like, earnestness and candour.


Arani Basu's poem PREFACE ( Translation of 'Bhumika' )


There is darkness as there is no light. Darkness is there
                                          that is why candle burns up on table,
circled soft light of candle spreads and
memories of him her them creep up gradually.
Bougainvillea flashes up in darkness
                                   its black shadow burns up, like poetry
how shall I start ? Candle is waxing away in wane,
life gradually moves towards infinity, that is why
someone should start singing. Or should start laughing. Or abuse.
Let conversations begin

From light or darkness whatever places today
I want to start. So many days have been lost unnecessarily,  
I do not want to keep silent anymore.