Completed Sixty Years of Hungryalist Movement

Malay Roychoudhury's poem "A Quasi Governmental Report"

Malay Roychoudhury's poem "The Spam Mistress"

Malay Roychoudhury's poem "Blood Lyric"

Malay Roychoudhury's poem "Nay-Ballad"

Malay Roychoudhury's poem

Malay Roychoudhury's poem Abhorred Emperor

Malay Roychoudhury's poem Chicken Roast

Malay Roychoudhury's poem Preparation

বাংলা সাহিত্যে হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের প্রভাব : অভিজিৎ পাল

বাংলা সাহিত্যে হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের প্রভাব

অভিজিৎ পাল

বাংলা সাহিত্যে ষাটের দশকের হাংরি জেনারেশনের ন্যায় আর কোনও আন্দোলন তার পূর্বে হয় নাই । হাজার বছরের বাংলা ভাষায় এই একটিমাত্র আন্দোলন যা কেবল সাহিত্যের নয় সম্পূর্ণ সমাজের ভিত্তিতে আঘাত ঘটাতে পেরেছিল, পরিবর্তন আনতে পেরেছিল। পরবর্তীকালে তরুণ সাহিত্যিক ও সম্পাদকদের সাহস যোগাতে পেরেছে । 

১ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের প্রথম ও প্রধান বৈশিষ্ট্য হলো তাঁরা সাহিত্যকে পণ্য হিসাবে চিহ্ণিত করতে অস্বীকার করেছিলেন । কেবল তাই নয় ; তাঁরা এক পৃষ্ঠার লিফলেট প্রকাশ করতেন ও বিনামূল্যে আগ্রহীদের মাঝে বিতরণ করতেন । তাঁরাই প্রথম ফোলডার-কবিতা, পোস্ট-কার্ড কবিতা, ও পোস্টারে কবিতা ও কবিতার পংক্তির সূত্রপাত করেন । পোস্টার এঁকে দিতেন অনিল করঞ্জাই ও করুণানিধান মুখোপাধ্যায় । ফোলডারে স্কেচ আঁকতেন সুবিমল বসাক  । ত্রিদিব মিত্র তাঁর ‘উন্মার্গ’ পত্রিকার প্রচ্ছদ নিজে আঁকতেন। পরবর্তীকালে দুই বাংলাতে তাঁদের প্রভাব পরিলক্ষিত হয় ।

২ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের গুরুত্বপূর্ণ অবদান প্রতিষ্ঠানবিরোধিতা । তাঁদের আগমনের পূর্বে প্রতিষ্ঠানবিরোধিতা করার কথা সাহিত্যকরা চিন্তা করেন নাই । সুভাষ ঘোষ বলেছেন প্রতিষ্ঠানবিরোধিতার অর্থ সরকার বিরোধিতা নয়, সংবাদপত্র বিরোধিতা নয় ; হাংরি জেনারেশনের বিরোধ প্রচলিত সাহিত্যের মৌরসি পাট্টাকে উৎখাত করে নবতম মূল্যবোধ সঞ্চারিত করার । নবতম শৈলী, প্রতিদিনের বুলি, পথচারীর ভাষা, ছোটোলোকের কথার ধরণ, ডিকশন, উদ্দেশ্য, শব্দ ব্যবহার, চিন্তা ইত্যাদি । পশ্চিমবঙ্গে বামপন্হী সরকার সত্বেও বামপন্হী কবিরা মধ্যবিত্ত মূল্যবোধ থেকে নিষ্কৃতি পান নাই । শ্রমিকের কথ্য-ভাষা, বুলি, গালাগাল, ঝগড়ার অব্যয় তাঁরা নিজেদের রচনায় প্রয়োগ করেন নাই । তা প্রথম করেন হাংরি জেনারেশনের কবি ও লেখকগন ; উল্লেখ্য হলেন অবনী ধর, শৈলেশ্বর ঘোষ, সুবিমল বসাক, ত্রিদিব মিত্র প্রমুখ । সুবিমল বসাকের পূর্বে ‘বাঙাল ভাষায়’ কেউ কবিতা ও উপন্যাস লেখেন নাই। হাংরি জেনারেশনের পরবর্তী দশকগুলিতে লিটল ম্যাগাজিনের লেখক ও কবিদের রচনায় এই প্রভাব স্পষ্ট ।

৩ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের তৃতীয় অবদান কবিতা ও গল্প-উপন্যাসে ভাষাকে ল্যাবিরিনথাইন করে প্রয়োগ করা । এর প্রকৃষ্ট উদাহরণ মলয় রায়চৌধুরীর কবিতা ও গল্প-উপন্যাস । মলয় রায়চৌধুরী সর্বপ্রথম পশ্চিমবাংলার সমাজে ডিসটোপিয়ার প্রসঙ্গ উথ্থাপন করেন । বামপন্হীগণ যখন ইউটোপিয়ার স্বপ্ন প্রচার করছিলেন সেই সময়ে মলয় রায়চৌধুরী চোখে আঙুল দিয়ে দেখিয়ে দেন ডিসটোপিয়ার দরবারি কাঠামো ।উল্লেখ্য তাঁর নভেলা ‘ঘোগ’, ‘জঙ্গলরোমিও’, গল্প ‘জিন্নতুলবিলদের রূপকথা’, ‘অরূপ তোমার এঁটোকাঁটা’ ইত্যাদি । তিনি বর্ধমানের সাঁইবাড়ির ঘটনা নিয়ে রবীন্দ্রনাথের ‘ক্ষুধিত পাষাণ’ অবলম্বনে লেখেন ‘আরেকবারে ক্ষুধিত পাষাণ’ । বাঙাল ভাষায় লিখিত সুবিমল বসাকের কবিতাগুলিও উল্লেখ্য । পরবর্তী দশকের লিটল ম্যাগাজিনের কবি ও লেখকদের রচনায় এই প্রভাব সুস্পষ্ট ।

৪ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের চতুর্থ অবদান হলো পত্রিকার নামকরণে বৈপ্লবিক পরিবর্তন । হাংরি জেনারেশনের পূর্বে পত্রিকাগুলির নামকরণ হতো ‘কবিতা’, ‘কৃত্তিবাস’, ‘উত্তরসূরী’, ‘শতভিষা’, ‘পূর্বাশা’ ইত্যাদি যা ছিল মধ্যবিত্ত মূল্যবোধের বহিঃপ্রকাশ । হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনকারীগণ পত্রিকার নামকরণ করলেন ‘জেব্রা’, ‘জিরাফ’, ‘ধৃতরাষ্ট্র’, ‘উন্মার্গ’, ‘প্রতিদ্বন্দী’ ইত্যাদি । পরবর্তীকালে তার বিপুল প্রভাব পড়েছে । পত্রিকার নামকরণে সম্পূর্ণ ভিন্নপথ আবিষ্কৃত হয়েছে ।

৫ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনে সর্বপ্রথম সাবঅলটার্ন অথবা নিম্নবর্গের লেখকদের গুরুত্ব প্রদান করতে দেখা গিয়েছিল । ‘কবিতা’, ‘ধ্রুপদি’, ‘কৃত্তিবাস’, ‘উত্তরসূরী’ ইত্যাদি পত্রিকায় নিম্নবর্গের কবিদের রচনা পাওয়া যায় না । হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের বুলেটিনগুলির সম্পাদক ছিলেন চাষি পরিবারের সন্তান হারাধন ধাড়া । সুনীল গঙ্গোপাধ্যায়সহ তৎকালীন কবিরা তাঁর এমন সমালোচনা করেছিলেন যে তিনি এফিডেভিট করে ‘দেবী রায়’ নাম নিতে বাধ্য হন । এছাড়া আন্দোলনে ছিলেন নিম্নবর্গের চাষী পরিবারের শম্ভু রক্ষিত, তাঁতি পরিবারের সুবিমল বসাক, গয়লা পরিবারের সুভাষ ঘোষ, জাহাজের খালাসি অবনী ধর ইত্যাদি । পরবর্তীকালে প্রচুর নিম্নবর্গের কবি-লেখকগণকে বাংলা সাহিত্যের অঙ্গনে দেখা গেল। 

৬ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের ষষ্ঠ গুরুত্বপূর্ণ প্রভাব হলো রচনায় যুক্তিবিপন্নতা, যুক্তির কেন্দ্রিকতা থেকে মুক্তি, যুক্তির বাইরে বেরোনোর প্রবণতা, আবেগের সমউপস্হিতি, কবিতার শুরু হওয়া ও শেষ হওয়াকে গুরুত্ব না দেয়া, ক্রমান্বয়হীনতা, যুক্তির দ্বৈরাজ্য, কেন্দ্রাভিগতা বহুরৈখিকতা ইত্যাদি । তাঁদের আন্দোলনের পূর্বে টেক্সটে দেখা গেছে যুক্তির প্রাধান্য, যুক্তির প্রশ্রয়, সিঁড়িভাঙা অঙ্কের মতন যুক্তি ধাপে-ধাপে এগোতো, কবিতায় থাকতো আদি-মধ্য-অন্ত, রচনা হতো একরৈখিক, কেন্দ্রাভিগ, স্বয়ংসম্পূর্ণতা । 

৭) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের পূর্বে লেখক-কবিগণ আশাবাদে আচ্ছন্ন ছিলেন মূলত কমিউনিস্ট প্রভাবে । ইউটোপিয়ার স্বপ্ন দেখতেন । বাস্তব জগতের সঙ্গে তাঁরা বিচ্ছিন্ন ছিলেন । হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনকারীগণ প্রথমবার হেটেরোটোপিয়ার কথা বললেন । 

৮ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের পূর্বে কবি-লেখকগণ মানেকে সুনিশ্চিত করতে চাইতেন, পরিমেয়তা ও মিতকথনের কথা বলতেন, কবির নির্ধারিত মানে থাকত এবং স্কুল কলেজের ছাত্ররা তার বাইরে যেতে পারতেন না । হাংরি জেনারেশনের লেখকগণ অফুরন্ত অর্থময়তা নিয়ে এলেন, মানের ধারণার প্রসার ঘটালেন, পাঠকের ওপর দায়িত্ব দিলেন রচনার অর্থময়তা নির্ধারণ করার, প্রচলিত ধারণা অস্বীকার করলেন । শৈলেশ্বর ঘোষের কবিতার সঙ্গে অলোকরঞ্জন দাশগুপ্তের কবিতার তুলনা করলে বিষয়টি স্পষ্ট হবে ।

৯ ) হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের পূর্বে ‘আমি’ থাকতো রচনার কেন্দ্রে, একক আমি থাকতো, লেখক-কবি ‘আমি’র নির্মাণ করতেন, তার পূর্বনির্ধারিত মানদণ্ড থাকতো, সীমার স্পষ্টিকরণ করতেন রচনাকার, আত্মপ্রসঙ্গ ছিল মূল প্রসঙ্গ, ‘আমি’র পেডিগ্রি পরিমাপ করতেন আলোচক। হাংরি জেনারেশন আন্দোলনকারীগণ নিয়ে এলেন একক আমির অনুপস্হিতি, আমির বন্ধুত্ব, মানদণ্ড ভেঙে ফেললেন তাঁরা, সীমা আবছা করে দিলেন, সংকরায়ন ঘটালেন, লিমিন্যালিটি নিয়ে এলেন ।

১০ ) হাংরি  জেনারেশন আন্দোলনের পূর্বে শিরোনাম দিয়ে বিষয়কেন্দ্র চিহ্ণিত করা হতো । বিষয় থাকতো রচনার কেন্দ্রে, একক মালিকানা ছিল, লেখক বা কবি ছিলেন টাইটেল হোলডার। হাংরি জেনারেশনের লেখক-কবিগণ শিরোনামকে বললেন রুবরিক ; শিরোনাম জরুরি নয়, রচনার বিষয়কেন্দ্র থাকে না, মালিকানা বিসর্জন দিলেন, ঘাসের মতো রাইজোম্যাটিক তাঁদের রচনা, বৃক্ষের মতন এককেন্দ্রী নয় । তাঁরা বললেন যে পাঠকই টাইটেল হোলডার।

Abani Dhar : Going to In-Laws' House for Food ( short story )

(Translated by Asrar Chowdhury) Two weeks back I drew rations after managing to scrounge up ten takas. Yesterday was the last date for getting them. I thought if I could somehow unload the children and the wife on my in-laws’ for a few months, they would at least be able to eat two times a day. But the wife would not hear of it. Last year when she had gone to visit her father’s house, she had to put up with a lot of comments about her lack of jewelry. Finally, after lots of endearments, I managed to change her mind. The bus fare? I borrowed the bus fare from Bashu and we started early in the morning. I didn’t buy my ticket. I got off at Shialda, bought some sweetmeats, and then got on again. In the bus I tried to convince my wife– stay at your father’s house for a few months. See if it would be possible to get our son some medical treatment. My wife didn’t say anything. I tried to comfort her: I’m sure something will come up in the meantime. She answered me in a dry voice, “You know all there is to know: Father has retired. Dada is bearing the burden of the family all by himself. The quarter they are staying in is also in his name. There are still four unmarried sisters in the house. I would rather die than have to face Dada…” I bought ten paisas’ worth of peanuts, handed them to my wife and told her, “Your father has a monthly pension. He also received a large gratuity. Both of your dadas have jobs. They are not wanting for anything over there.” My wife chewed the peanuts and said, “But Father first has to build a house, then marry off my sisters…and both my dadas have declared they are doing all they possibly can, that they can’t do anything more.” Mallikpur. The house is a two-storied government-allotted quarter right next to the station. Upstairs-downstairs combined are two small rooms like little caves and a tiny kitchen. Sunlight does not penetrate into the kitchen. One dugout latrine. No way can anyone inform the doctor about the condition of feces. Paper boats float all around the house. I entered the room on the heels of my wife and children. My mother-in-law was wrapped up in a piece of cloth, sewing something in the veranda. On seeing me, she partially veiled her head. I went towards over and touched her feet. My youngest sister-in-law was wearing a loose frock. She came and took my son and said to her mother, “Look Ma, how thin Bura has gotten.” She looked at my wife, “Don’t you feed him?” In the meantime, everybody else in the house gathered around us. The youngest sister-in-law said, biting her lower lip, “You should feed him and fatten him up.” This sister-in-law is the fairest amongst the sisters. She has failed twice in her class exams and is now studying in class eight. My father-in-law had asked me to find a B.A.-degreed groom from a good family for her. I went to the drawing room and sat down. I overheard my mother-in-law rebuking my wife, “Why did you just land here without any prior notice? There is no spare room in the house. You should use some common sense.” I gestured to my wife to give the packet of sweetmeats to my mother-in-law. We had gotten on the bus without eating breakfast. I made a motion with my hand as if to slap my belly to let her know that I was hungry. There was some milk beneath the bedstead. My son somehow spotted it and drank the whole bowl in one long gulp. My mother-in-law clutched her forehead with her hands and sat down, “Oh unfortunate me! I kept that milk for tea!” One of my sisters-in-law ran to my son and snatched the bowl from his hands. I think my wife slapped my son on his back once or twice. After we finished having tea and some bread, my mother-in-law said, “There were biscuits in the house, why didn’t you serve them?” I looked at my wife and she brought me two biscuits. Immediately, my two children started squabbling and then finished off both the biscuits. My father-in-law entered the room. I went forward and touched his feet. He slowly surveyed me from top to bottom and then said with a raised eyebrow, “You look as if you’ve let go of appearances. What do you do now”? Seeing that I remained silent and kept my eyes on the ground–except for a “hmmm”— he again enquired, “What is the source of your income”? I replied, as meekly as possible, “Nothing.” He looked at my son and said, “You seem to have nearly killed him . Haven’t you taken him to the doctor”? My tongue slipped and I said, “Yes, I did.” He looked at me again sternly, “So you don’t have money to buy medicines?” He remained quiet for a while and then murmured almost to himself, “A seer of milk every day and gravy of fish curry, that’s what you need to feed them.” He called out to my wife, “Sadhana, come here, let me take a look at you.” My wife came and bowed down to touch his feet. Looking at the ground my father-in-law sighed and said, “Can’t you take the child to a doctor and at least get him some tonic-fonic?” My wife left the room. From behind a curtain my fair-skinned sister-in-law hissed at him, “You have a lot of money. Why don’t you look after the treatment of your daughter and her husband.” My father-in-law shouted at her to shut up. There were sacks of rice underneath the bedstead, row upon row of them. At one time, I pointed at them and told my wife “If it’s possible to get even one sack…” My wife made a face and left the room. My father-in-law also went out somewhere. I turned on the fan and lay down on the bedstead. My youngest sister-in-law screamed at the top of her voice to my mother-in-law, “Dada said he would no longer pay the electric bills. Dada swore a lot when he saw the bill for the last month. The meter read twenty five takas.” My wife came and turned the fan off. Outside, the light was blinding. One couldn’t see anything clearly in the room unless the lights were on. Where could I go? Lying on the bedstead the smell of rice starch hit my nostrils. I couldn’t tell if it was coming from the kitchen or from beneath the bedstead. I have no idea when I fell asleep. My father-in-law woke me up. I sat beside him at lunch. While we were eating, my father-in-law said, “You can start doing business of some sort, can’t you? Look at your uncle. He has a business, now has a car and his own house. It’s a pleasure talking to people about him.” I ate so much that it was difficult to move afterwards. It was after a long time that I had eaten to my heart’s content. When my wife came to me with betel nuts, I told her, “Is it possible to manage ten takas from your father? There’s mother back home…” She asked me, “What do I tell him when I ask for the money?” I answered her, “Tell them, it’s for a job application, just make up something.” Then added, “Perhaps it’s better if I leave today.” My wife said, “But mother asked for you to stay the night. A sadhu is coming in the evening. She wants to get a talisman from him to give to you.” Hearing this I thought, well, good, maybe they’d let her stay for a few days. In the afternoon, I was strolling by myself on the platform. All over the station, I saw written, in red, blue and black, “Power flows from the barrel of a gun…armed revolution… freedom…leap forward.” I felt a bit excited as I read them. A group of youths wearing shirts and trousers were sitting on a bench arguing about the election. Prickly, stubbled faces. They were staring at me. I moved to a bench farther away. After a while, a working-class man came and sat down beside me. The youths were still looking at me. I was laughing to myself, but at the same time my heart was also beating. The man asked me: “Where do you stay?” “Ashoknagar.” “What’s the news of the election in your area?” “I really don’t know.” “What! You don’t keep abreast of the election?” “Hmm, I don’t actually live there–a little bit outside.” Looking at me angrily, after some time, he started to tear into all the political parties one by one. He looked at me, stone-faced and hot-eyed, and said, “This time not a single vote will drop into the ballot boxes here.” Noticing that I was not responding, he asked me in a grave voice, “Who have you come to see here?” I showed him the Rail quarter. “That is my in-laws’ house.” “Oh! So you are so and so’s son-in-law? Why didn’t you say that before? I thought… You can understand. These days I become suspicious as soon as I see somebody new to the area. Well, that settles it, you are family…” The man passed me a bidi–“Here”–and started almost talking to himself with a disprited face, “This year’s harvest was terrible. The people fought among themselves and ruined whatever little did grow. You know, no matter what they say, parties and politics are not for the likes of us poor people.” Then one of the youths whistled at us.  “That’s my call, I have to go now.” The man got up and walked over to the men. It was now evening. I went back to the quarter to find that my brother-in-laws had returned from office. My youngest brother-in-law, after consulting books, was giving my son homeopathic medicine. The elder brother-in-law was writing down household accounts in a notebook and telling his younger brother, “They cheated you of twenty paisas in sugar.” He stopped talking as soon as I entered the room. It’s been quite a while since my eldest brother-in-law and I have been on talking terms. After dinner I went upstairs and sat down. My eldest brother-in-law shouted at the top of his voice from downstairs, “Tell him that those days are gone. It’s no longer possible to feed the entire family when they come. I have to break my back to earn money.” He told my wife, “Your children are going to sleep by themselves. All this flu, coughing is very contagious. I don’t have money now to spend on medicine.” My father-in-law said, “All right, all right, shut up now.” My eldest brother-in-law was silent for a while, then started up again, “How can anybody get a job just sitting around indulging in adda the whole day? You have to go out and beg people, fall down on hands and knees. This bugger is useless. The only thing to do is to kick his arse out of the house.” I woke up very early. My wife had woken up before me. The maids were washing the pots and pans beneath the tap in the courtyard. I was sitting in the veranda upstairs. I overheard one of the maids saying to somebody else, “So you thought you were the clever one, eh? You thought you could make molasses by stealing the date juice?” I laughed silently upon hearing this. Felt like saying–Good morning! Good morning! My wife returned after washing up and said to me, “Come on, let’s leave while it’s still morning.” I took her hands in mine and said, “Dear sweetheart, please stay back for a few days. Have patience with me. Don’t worry, our time will come one day. Just stay.” She would not listen to me. I tried again, “No use getting angry at their words. Look, I haven’t gotten angry. Come what may, they are family, not outsiders. Please, my dear, stay. Listen to me: Stay.” But my wife wouldn’t listen, so in the end I said, “Make sure you get some money from your father.” Both the brothers-in-law soon left for work. In the meantime, my wife had finished packing. I saw her entering her father’s room. I spotted the fair-skinned sister-in-law looking on from behind the curtain to see what her father gave Didi or said to her. She moved away as soon as I made a coughing sound. My wife left the room after some time with her fists closed, with my sister-in-law following close behind. I tried to signal my wife about it, but she didn’t notice. So then I loudly called my sister-in-law by her name and said, “Do come and visit us.” This time my wife understood, and quickly left the room. It was my father-in-law who bought our tickets. After the bus started, my wife started to laugh, then showed me the bottom of the bucket bag. I put my hand down and felt rice grains. My wife had managed to spirit away some rice from the stack beneath the bedstead. I wanted to hug her tightly and kiss her. But how could one do that in the midst of so many people? Instead, I pressed my wife’s hand and said, “Bravo, Bravo”! Abani Dhar was a member of the Hungryalist movement. He lives in Kolkata. He died in 2007 Asrar Chowdhury teaches Economics at Jahangirnagar University

Malay Roychoudhury's poem STARK ELECTRIC JESUS ( Translation of 'Prachanda Baidyutik Chhutar' )

Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die
My skin is in blazing furore
I do not know what I'll do where I'll go oh I am sick
I'll kick all Arts in the back and go away Shubha
Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon
In the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain
The last anchor is leaving me after I got other anchors lifted
I can't resist anymore, a million glasspanes are breaking in my cortex
I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace
Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart
Brains contagious flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness
Mother why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton
I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's arse
But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well
I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss
I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse
In to the sun coloured bladder
I do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring with me
I'll destroy and shatter everything
Draw and elevate Shubha into my hunger
Shubha will have to be given
Oh Malay
Calcutta seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organs today
But I do not know what I'll do now with my own self
My power of recollection is withering away
Let me ascend alone toward death
I haven't had to learn copulation and dying
I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops after urination
Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in the darkness
Have not had to learn Usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom
Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh chinarose matrix
Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm
I am failing to understand why I still want to live
I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna-Choudhyry ancestors
I'll have to do something different and new
Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of Shubha's bosom
I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born
I want to see my own death before passing away
The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury
Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus
Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace
Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream
Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm
Would I have been like this if I had different parents
Was Malay alias me possible fron an absolutely different sperm
Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father
Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha
Oh, answer, let somebody answer these
Shubha, ah Shubha
Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen
Come back on the green mattress again
As the cathode rays are sucked up with warmth of a magnet's brilliance
I remember the letter of the final decision of 1956
The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time
Fine rib-smashing roots were descending into your bosom
Stupid relationship inflated in the bypass of senseless neglect
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
I do not know whether I am going to die
Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience
I'll disrupt and destroy
I'll split all inti pieces for the sake of arts
There isn't any other way out for poetry except suicide
Shubha
Let me enter into the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora
In to the absurdity of woeless effort
In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart
Why wasn't I lost in my mother's urethra
Why was I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition
Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum-flux or in the phlegm
With her eyes shut supine beneath me
I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize Shubha
Women could be treacherous even after unfolding a helpless appearance
Today it seems there is nothing treacherous as Women and Art
Now my ferocious heart is running towards an impossible death
Vertigo of water are coming up to my neck from the pierced earth
I will die
Oh what are these happenings within me
I am failing to fetch out my hand and my palm
From the dried sperms on my trousers spreading wings
300000 children gliding toward the district of Shubha's bosom
Millions of needles are now running from my blood into Poetry
Now the smuggling of my obstinate leg is trying to plunge
Into the death-killer sex-wig entangled in the hypnotic kingdom of words
In violent mirrors of each wall of the room I am observing
After letting loose a few naked Malay, his unestablished scramblings

Rasaraj Nath's poem LIVINGWORDS DEADMEN ( Translation of 'Jibitoshabdo Mritomanushera' )

All around me now
living words and
dead men walk
from this life to next--

Me as well...
I can not think anymore 
around my helpless corpse
thousands of ants encircle...

Green as I keep watching
how did it become full of fire
locality as I keep watching
how turned into forest !

Rasaraj Nath's poem EVEN THEN I ( Translation of 'Tathapio Aami' )

I shall write only about myself
though I do not have any
history of that kind
even then, I shall about myself

Am I one of those dead poets
whose haunted souls have become stony calm
with masturbation and surrender ?

From stage to poetry I
from poetry to stage
have returned repeatedly - and
become subject of their stories

I know between rise and fall
human being's frail fear of timewrap

I know
the mountain could not be removed by me
even then I shall give a push
and shall write about myself, my story--

Arup Dutta's poem A STORY ( Translation of 'Ek Kahini' )

I have carried and brought your living corpse
till this distance :
cold night all around
here there is no fire
everybody has gone back
for simultaneous rape and festivity...
I have come so far after crossing dark tunnels
the hurricane of my soul has withered
far away in forest has billowed away
Beethoven's music,
come Dear
in living night once we disrobe ourselves
and mingle with each other
like lights streaming in star's cloud
this body
has become a story today.

Arup Dutta's poem ASHES OF DREAMFALL ( Translation of 'Swapnopatoner Chhai' )

I have entered a heated earth
alone in a crowd of friends and enemies 
air returns after bouncing on chaotic sea waves
pale breaths from fallen leaves
sex starved moon in dark fortnight of female orgasm music
coloured insects descend in this storyless light
and nameless fly species 

I see in the belly of heated earth
unhinged doors of creation
no traveler seeks solace here
uninterrupted language of dawn holds forth the neck-vein
no strange cloud bursts
love's last fall is atomic dusts
mixed in burning grass

My body and soul shiver
in unredeemed heart the hurts are life's only
bloom like incomplete clearance 

This stream of burning alphabets--
stare at lava which can not be crossed
Apollo and Saraswati
not possible to unite in this life
my incomplete letters have burned into ashes
banned music of a lost world,
which covers my incompleteness in pain of loss of grief.

Debojyoti Roy's CONFESSIONS OF A RELIGIOUS OXEN ( Translation of 'Jabanbondi, Dharmer Shnarer' )

People say, I am foolhardy
bohemian, do not have much intelligence
move from this to that locality on my own
when instinct makes a knock behaviour undergoes a change
as if my virility is total farce, serio-comic;
I wag my tail, forage on grass, fire billows inside

Far away from cowsheds' hay and husk's memory
lonely road's dust, tired hooves,
wound on back struck by stones. 
There is no luxury in selecting food;
in my own independent rhythm 
religious people attain emancipation.

Effect of food and sharpness of horns--
their combination result into landslip
on the breast of smiling Shiva's mount in calender.
stoic conduct, with renounced cognition
walking towards Shiv Purana, Upanishad 
I leave behind secret confessions--
this language is blue with poison, revenge similar to cobra

On surface everything is calm, still, reactionless.

Bikash Sarkar's poem THE HEAD OF KANISHKA ( Translation of 'Konishker Matha' )

While we both were about to start a story of unending love
all of a sudden flashed the head of Kanishka
a beam of powerful rays sparkled through his eyes
like terror bubbles flying in air.
Excited, I drew out her palms
she held my hand in horror.
A ghostly meadow sank in a supernatural weather
and the soul of the meadow. 
The queer touch of her soft breast froze my left hand
a touch of her thighs and lips 
made a skeleton spring up in open air...
Her palms made deep throbbing murmur on my hands.
Once she disappeared 
it was only Kanishka's head that was awake
and a beam of powerful rays sparkled through his eyes
like mystery bubbles in air.

Bikash Sarkar's poem THE CALL ( Translation of 'Daak' )

Someone called me, 'Bikash Bikash'
it seemed the call was not for me
the invitation is to a lifeless boulder.
Flowers raise their voices against me. 
Crickets of drunk night have vanished
stabbed in the desolate alley
the wild deers conspire and plot
against me, to murder me.
It appears all calculations are incorrect
as if, a fountain of errors
sprang into action, or else
I am pressed heavily against 
the boulder of errors
like fossils.
Yet a mysterious girl seems to call me
like a fresh breath of breeze, and
she hails me, 'Bikash Bikash'
before she prepares to kill me.

Appa Bandopadhyay's story WHY DOES IT DRY UP ( Translation of 'Shukiye Jai Keno' )

Now this 9th September my head got wounded, what shall I call it ? Accident, danger, or I did not hold the handle properly ? Somewhat funky funky it seems. At that time I was brooding about my being a poet, a poet. Moreover gossips of those three idiot boys, in my mind an ego spewed up, my poetry, some such happening. I held my hair in right fist, like a poet tread a long step, in compartments two doors, I walked to the right. Since those buggers were chirping I thought of doing something, something should be done, I was not at peace with myself, thinking that I was not at peace with myself, put my foot on the first step and spread by breast to the breeze after standing legs apart, holding the handle. Was feeling pain in wrists of two hands. They were still busy in gossips. How Tarun, of all persons, became chummy with those two idiots. Inquired  pointedly, are you going to the same girl at Park Circus ? Bastard, your intelligence has opened up. Quite pickled, aren't you ! But you keep on rubbing your hands without a drop. For three years I am trying to convince you, tell your Dad, otherwise you would be in trouble, your pickle may dry up, I've heard. When the time comes you won't be able to ejaculate. Let funeral etc go to dogs, otherwise you will get a spat from your wife. Just laughs like a pimp-- will not marry at all. No, why should he marry ? Will rather keep in the trap. Disgusting. I had to convince cajole put fear in him to take him to his step father.

There is no fun to intimidate. Always crumpled. While studying pre-University, tried to explain-- his brother in law had fist fights with ghosts. Not one ghost was hurt. All slaps fell on the mosquito net. It sat on his chest after knocking him down. For about a month used to bring a pot at eight, from bringing magic water from Rabi Kundu. Rabi tailor is similarly crooked. Never allowed him to leave before ten or half past ten at night. I used to return through dark garden quite creepily. Deliberately I took him through short cut path of the garden-- and if you masturbate at this time no semen will come out-- this will prove to be bad in future, I used to tell him like a bosom friend. At night falls flat in fear. During day no utterance. As usual during daytime.

Tarun's Dad looked in a way a small time policeman stares at an ordinary thief. How come this ugly man is looking at his own face while shaving his chin. Black arse. Tall, face and eyes are so ugly they could not be described. Small hair from above ear looks like jute field. Erect nose is at a distance from hanging upper lip. Black caterpillar brows make eyes haphazard. Plowed face has stuck skin on face bones. What the hell. We are waiting for long in front of him but he does not look at us once. I am restless---Tarun has made his place behind the chair. Now he is arranging his things--dettol bottle, soap foam. Putting the blade inside box.
---Why are you standing there ? Go and sit in the room.
---No uncle. I had to discuss something with you.
---What do you want to say ?
---I wanted to talk about---Tarun's---well...

Looking at his face like a fool I could not decide how to start. These things can not be discussed directly. Bloody unnecessary problems. I talk to my self---what was your role---now face the music. Tarun, standing like wood, is playing with his palms. As if has never played such a happy game. Why don't you tell---you are not able to ejaculate. Dad, dole out some money, doctor has to be consulted. Tarun's sister, on way out from kitchen, waits in doubt. She is smiling mysteriously at our predicament, with her hand at the back of the chair. Why are you waiting here ? Go. I felt light after a chance to talk. Now I have to blurt out something. I mean...his natural juice from body ejaculates once in two three months. Other than nature's course, when tried artificially, nothing comes out. It may turn into powder in due course in his testicles. I have heard it happens. At this age of nineteen if things are...

Tarun becomes nervous at my explanation. Try to bring to his face a shade of shame and fear. I am also excited. I could present the case quite properly---natural juice etc.
---Why try artificially ? I feel scared at his voice. But suppressing my fear I say---in natural course it takes so long that it is a matter of dread.
---I do not find it dreadful.
---Uncle, would it not be proper to consult a doctor ?
---It is no problem at all. It will work at the proper time.
---It will work at proper time ? Like a fool I childishly blurted out and then warning myself I talk to silently, will it work at proper time ? Will it, for sure ?
---You know, we go through erasing our semen continuously. We may not know about it---gets out with urine or in other ways such as through nose in the form of phlegm or from mouth with cough--- there is nothing to worry about. 
---We are very much scared after he talked about it.
---It is quite natural to get scared at your age. Facing Tarun he says--- you can do one thing---go to Mr Bimal---in such matters best is homeopath.

My face suddenly takes the form of a donkey, long and misfit like Indra's Gandharva. Why this man's copulating fluid never stops ? In that case Tarun would not have suffered. 

His face looks punctured, has he not seen, his indifferent children Khenti, Kelly, Chhemri, Keka, dressed in khaki half pant, squatted in front of enamel erased plates, tumbling over like potato ? Did he not see the toilet  in a tiny room surrounded by tall dried grass, chest high sacred plant in public space ? Has this man never flied pigeons ? Or has he not chirped like us on  architectural theatre stage steps ? You are doing injustice to my friend. For this I will spoil your daughter's marriage. I will not allow Chhipu to get married. ( In that case shall I saver her by marrying her ?-- No why should you die marrying her ? What is the meaning of a twelve year old girl's love ? ) If Chhipu is not married then nothing is going to happen to this old haggard. He will sit on Tarun's shoulder and have his drink and food and then vomit. After him there are four more lassy sissy. Oh ! I can not harm any one, other than myself. Even if I have proof I will not be able to convince the groom party--- his Dad's name should have been Jogipada Kundu instead of Sadhucharan Khastagir. This man Sadhucharan, at the time of partition, came in tatters with a four year old daughter, and was being transferred from one police post to another, which had cropped up along the border. And eating crabs in hotels. Luckily got a wife who had fled from her husband. Would have got another daughter, but thought that for a seven year girl it is better to stay with her maternal uncles. Got a three year old son named Tarun . Tarun could not claim like his sister, 'my Dad is fair complexioned'. Tarun's step sister was not that easy sissy. Recently got married to reduce complications. This guy Sadhucharan, apart from those three problematic children has sired with his own power Khenti, Kelly, Chhemri and Keka. Their Dad was never married. It is a historical truth.

Being disgusted with myself I tried to get up in anger. I leave Tarun at his Dad's pad. And walk the whole journey back singing choral--- Vidyasagar's progeny's name is Naran Pit. Vidhyasagar's son's name is Naran Pit.

For bringing medicines I sat behind on his cycle carrier. Bloody Idiot, may your testicles bear the pressure of double carry. Let them become sweetmeat balls. I always sat back. Never pydled myself. Though I know nothing harmful happens cycling. I am giving him chances to develop his thigh muscles. I did not hold even the tiny vial of globules. During cycling regularly talks about his half-Dad. I tell him-- I am also not loved by anyone. Mother just throws bread on my plate. When I was in mud-room, like entering in a cow dung cake bag, severe winter, several nights were spent in wet courtyard. Sometimes during night if she felt like, she used to call, come come like a dog, to throw four breads on my plate, and slept in a chipped plank door room. I have never kicked at that brittle door and said-- take me into the room--- I shall never do anything wicked---why should I sleep inside a cowdung cake bag, cowdung pasted, salty, mud portico ? Such sleepy type fool I had been. He is your own Dad. You get financial help from him just because you carry his surname. Your mother condemns you because the person who keeps you and your mother, certain revenge is taken. And look at my case --- my own mother--though she occasionally tells me-- when fleeing from Pakistan hiding in one after another bush, my own mother left me on a riverbed wrapped in cheap clothes. I was crying like a crow ; at that time you know, mother, was feeding brother pounded rice and date-palm jagary hiding in bushes  while fleeing. Hearing my cry they thought a baby vulture was crying. What an absurd event-- mid night. In half moonlight mother peeped from the bush and saw on bright seabed a pair of human baby legs dancing and crying. May be my mother had fled after being chased by border police. Or might have been kidnapped into police camp. From that time onwards I am mother's son. And our elder brother's sweat money. Eroded with continuous hunger. Every night at the time of studying I stoop in drowsiness. I feel tired after whole day loitering. Thumb print for relief---begging for loan here and there--walk for two miles to get wheat crushed---in school Nani teacher would spank after taking me on his lap---in the evening while playing hide and seek they always made me the thief. Like monkeys we played hide and seek on Barun's garden trees. On holidays marbles.Working as a labour----a veal---engagement at nineteen---marriage at twenty---wife's baby shower at twenty one---son when thirty two---daughter after ten months. Until I cried in fear of mother's scolding--till then, up to two or two thirty--they would exploit me surreptitiously. They were very wicked and tricky. They used to go back home only when they saw I was being beaten up by mother or I am standing in a corner in fer of mother hearing her making cooking sounds in kitchen.

Huh, where is the cycle and where this train. Yes, I have sailed in breeze, my hands are paining. Drizzle has started. I do not want to look at their faces. I am different--from Tarun and the other two guys I am somewhat different-- I have to prove. Without looking at them I can make out they are staring and talking about me. Both hands on handle. I lay backwards and whistle. This is really peaceful. I am learning about life. Quietly I might think about death. But what is the use of thinking about death. It would visit one day and take away my clothes. There is no hurry. Let me enjoy my feel-good space. But exam results keep on peeping. Both of them are going to Kolkata. They would ring up university to find out. The train will enter Sealdah station at five. Shit, whether they wag their tail or horns--I have nothing to do. What even if I get through in exam. I lick my fucking finger. Same shit thing. I do not understand how Tinu licks his finger.At this grown up age does that habit stays ? May be there is a good feeling. Pushing and pulling the finger in mouth--dripping saliva creates a satisfaction. During his grand fathers funeral he was practicing the habit while arranging for the funeral. Studies in eleventh class. What an idiot was he. Mitu, his elder sister is my maternal niece. No, I am confused---I am sort of a maternal uncle. At that time I have received admission paper for entering college. Though we resided within about six miles we met rarely. Her age was fourteen at that time. Quite buxom female attitude. Huh, remembering that period reminds me of mud-goddess. God knows from where she has found a  loafer dude ! At twenty eight years he is four son's Dad. Has developed a bit of bulge-- quirky fucker. I had gone after three years.

I remember during evening myself, Tinu and her grand father's son Swapan or Kamal, we were gossiping hanging our legs at the outside portico. Her grand father's son after a few words-- smiled at Mitu who was going to burn the lamp at the cow shed. He used to wear dhoti. His mother, my elder sister, is a serious Vaishnavite. At such a young age has lots of replica of gods arranged in her room. His father has been absconding for long. Sister has as a result tied herself with gods. Having handed over the daughter to a dude quite early became servant of gods. 

Who bothers ! Tinu's grand father's son said, he and Nitu, both have done something to Mitu at the cow shed--they asked me whether I was ready to participate. Mud-goddess is  praying with the evening lamp--- and smiling beautifully. She is eager to talk. The ten minutes past eight train has not yet gone. Why should I be absent because of night ? I can not, at last arrangement of nephew with niece. Tinu is only ten or eleven, Mitu is her own sister. Well, what is the use of these thoughts ? They have started learning about their body, moreover she is a girl and he is her mother's son, own brother. I visit the kitchen--- can not go away without informing. Sister is putting water in a pan. While climbing to kitchen I felt I saw Sister's dude hubby in the dark. They call me. I get angry. My God, Mitu is also here ! I thought I shall get away, that is why I went there. Mitu, I do want to spend the night here. But her mother looking at the mud-gods did not restrain me.

I left behind sister's rumbling, Mitu's veal stare, now what shall I tell mother. OK let Mitali cinema halls show end. Let ten minutes past eight train leave. I shall catch the ten thirty train. Walking, I went to the market. Past some time kicking at empty coconut shells. Then at the shore of Ichhamati river. Slept on the fishmarket bench, fishy smell. Sang a song on Ichhamati, then went to see whether Milani market is about to close. I might meet them. When we came we had gossiped a lot. I would take Binay with me and tell mother that we had gone to see a movie--- I have met them. One year passes looking at film star Uttamkumar's face. Crowd as if leaking. I feel nauseating. Laughable. All guys are coming out of their mother's door. So many men, so many sperms. I have read about it, the spermatozoa. Sperm is everything, parties of sperms. My sixteen years' sperm is me, born out of the dirtiest job of my Dad. I feel laughing. Where is the dirt ? My body gives me good relief, from wherever it has come, what is the use thinking.

Binay had explained everything.That is why I had stopped talking to him for many days. He had played mischief with me. When in ninth standard I did not look at the face of school Principal.  I did not believe---my godly Principal Mr Subodh---has got his black tummy bloated son and daughters with the same method. Banay took me to Kali temple to convince me--we are the same. This, this way, we were born. I told him mother does not play mischief with me like him. I have touched my mother's navel, the navel which seemed dug up. When mother applies oil to my hair, I have inquired on several occasions, looking at her navel, Mom, how was I born from your tummy ? There was no cut mark on her tummy. Mom said from her navel. If one goes to hospital you get brothers sisters, sons and daughters. Is it, if one goes to hospital, you get children ? Foul mouth Binay gave me a heavy slap, on my cheek, removing his hand from bald Shiva's black head. I could not see his making of faces at me. Falling, I hold the brick wall of Shiva's roofless portico. I get angry and apply a few fists on his chest. I was not able to win fighting with him. With muscled body he used to sit on my chest and choke my throat. I somehow manage to free myself--leave me--you study in seventh standard--- I would not talk to you. He holds more tightly and says---since you are in ninth standard do you think you know everything ? You need not talk, let us go to elder Dipak. If Dipak says that school Principal's children, me, you, and your siblings are all born out of their father's liquid--then I will give you three kicks. OK, I'll also give you seven kicks.

We both run to elder Dipak, he was taking bath at the pond. His mother, looking at our dusty post-fight faces was trying to delay asking questions. Binay and me, we were restless. We run toward the pond. But where is elder Dipak, after shouting his name, he comes out of the garden. Arranging his loincloth, he gets angry, you buggers have arrived here as well to disturb me--- what has happened, why were you howling like foxes ?

Elder Dipak is our hero, studies in college. Made of a different sharpness he is our locality's Big Brother. Looks handsome in bare body. Binay started---you would not beat us if we say something--- you have to answer correctly. Before elder Dipak starts talking-- I blurt out-- just as Kochi and Khoka had done in Kundu garden--- the reason for which we did not allow membership of our club to both of them. If Moms and Dads perform the same thing then children are born, is it a fact ? Binay is telling me you, myself, our Bhabesh teacher, everybody, we were born out of this method. My anger gets reduced after I embrace elder Dipak. Elder Dipak stares at me for a few moments--looks at Binay-- thereafter quickly goes down into the pond water, raising bubbles. Muddy water circles him-- wingless fishes run away directionless. In water up to his waist-- after finishing---while coming out treading on date palm trunk steps-- washes his feet on the bank. After coming up holds my hand. Says, come, you will go to standard ten after a few days. I say yes, and get my hand out of his clutch. Enters his room through the flower garden. Sits with knee up---takes out a book after removing layers of bed covers from his cot. Gives it to me--give it back after reading in a couple of days. When we were passing through the flower garden, he said, our parents do not know these, probably they do not know where do the mystery lies. You would know many things-- where are the real liquids, how, how to. Binay, you come here. Elder Dipak takes Binay with him to the garden.