Extracted from Bordering Poetry: An Anthology of Translated Poetry from Barak Valley Pp: 17-18, 25, 55, 73-74, 77
The Naga Queen
After dinner last evening at Deshmukh’s bungalow,
 |
Bordering Poetry: An Anthology
of Translated Poetry from Barak Valley
Arjun ChoudhurI (ed.)
Vicky Publishers, 2010
`80, 94 pages
Hardcover/ Poetry |
He is writing a treatise on hill tribes, a worthy man he is.
He read out a chapter from the book- “The Nagas’ Dance”.
Deshmukh’s eyes suddenly glow with a strange light
‘The Nagas indeed are a warlike race.
I will show you a wondrous relic tonight,
my most treasured collectible, only do not
let anybody know about it.’
Speaking thus, the man exits the room
with the speed of a typhoon.
And soon again he appears,
a wild, unknown light sparkling in his eyes,
What was that in his hand? A wig?
Deshmukh smiles a mysterious smile-
‘That is the hair-relic of a great Naga queen,
a young Amazon she had been, a Naga Joan of Arc.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century,
she would be seen often, astride a white steed,
at the head of a band of warriors.
In eighteen battles she won her victor’s laurels
but laid down her life in the last.’
I listen, awestruck-and gaze in wonder-
On the point of a bamboo-filigreed chonng,
the reddish hair skilfully was hooked.
Seen from afar, it looked as if the hair
descended naturally from the chonng, as if
it was a cascade from a living head.
I touch it-soft, silky hair it was
but so very cold to the touch.
I clasp the hair in my fist and sit there
with my eyes closed and for quite long,
I want to feel the soft throb of the Naga queen’s young
heart
I see the vision of the Naga hills-
a white steed flashing by-with Joan of Arc.
--Ashokbijoy Raha
Of Nation (An
Excerpt)
The four boundaries have been stated. Reader, brow knit in a
frown,
so you did encounter the symbols of imperialism? The poet
incessantly
acts the imperialist, like kids who keep salvaging tidbits,
cigarette boxes
handles from broken cups, cards, and tram tickets, and fill
their bags.
I am also one who craves such wealth; I have pilfered things
from
the roads across the world over and have built my treasure
trove.
Each clod of clay in it I prize like a gold trinket and
guard it with care.
Like Harangajao. A minor settlement it is. Surrounded by
green hills,
with a small river, there people are Sylheti in origin, or
Assamese,
or Dimasa, or Nepali, or they speak Hindi – there are many
such.
Like the goods in a port, different tongues, different ways
of survival,
all mix and mesh in the bazaar there, at the roadside
teashop.
Munching on a stale bun, I listen to a cacophony of
languages,
its waves touch the heart, that Kachhari nurse, the
Hindustani driver,
that teacher from Sylhet – I pilfer them all for myself, no
one escapes.
I build nations like that. The pearly snowflakes that hang
on the Dahlia
at Christmas in the yard at Shillong, the church bells not
afar, the odours
of the fish preserves being cooked, the strains of some
invisible girl’s song,
the blissful rituals that pervade the world, the limbs of
the orange tree
bent with the load of fruit against the blue backdrop – All
of it is nation.
Each colourful thread I salvage, as many as I can, each
scrap of cloth
which I have used to create my nation diversely coloured
like a Baul’s cloak.
The Baul reminds me of the train. The second class
compartment there
is the perfect image of a nation. Imagine, a sundry station,
the hawker
with his tray of assortments – parasols, knives, handheld
fans, recorders.
An innocent couple bound for a honeymoon trip bends over it,
or a Naga maiden, or a housewife from Lumding returning home
after
her stay at her parents’ in Kolkata, they who know language
like a melting pot,
or a small trader from the border near Bhutan – All of this
meshes together
and a whole new nation is born – to imagine a nation is to
know this alchemy.
--Debashish Tarafdar
Shillong
I cross the city of Tagore’s Shesher Kobita
These days, this city of eastern clouds does not speak,
but it was only that day last, when we conversed –
I walk the twisting turning paths shadowed by the evening
as the air from across the pines plays around me,
the whooshing sound of the breeze reaches a crescendo
and then suddenly descends, beginning to flow once again
slow, still slow a strain, as if it was a piano playing,
an invisible instrument whose airs throbbed
throughout these misty mountains.
Today, from afar, I glimpse the city dressed gaudily
in a plethora of bright garish lights and I fear,
I fear the darkness that creeps in with the evening.
--Shankarjyoti Deb
The Rihang Dance
Her hair was not shaded by the nightly darkness of ancient
Vidisha.
Her face was not carved in the likeness of Sravasti’s
sculptures.
Yet she entered the floodlit stage and readied herself
slowly undulating in the motions of her dance.
A striped, bright saree draped her limbs
like some snake, as if she had arrived from afar,
crossing the wild wastes of the Tripura forests.
A half-filled bottle of water balanced on her head, she
stood.
And a tin lamp too, cleverly perched on the rim of the
bottle’s neck.
Her hands held two plates one in each, twirling and whirling
at ease,
not at all encumbered by the possibility of failure, or a
fall.
She lifted herself and placed her feet on the rim of a brass
pot.
There she stood, transfixed like some idol, a leg
outstretched behind,
like a longish tail, hand on each side spread like some bird
in flight.
The twin plates in each hand kept whirling.
She was that and this too-
a young maiden whose name was not known to me.
--Sudhir Sen
To Laldenga
Open out your palms
the white flowers of harmony in which
shall decorate their gardens. The mice have fled today
in fear, for the bamboo groves shall see no more blossoms,
the ones which invite hordes of mice, and thus the grain
in the stores is laid to waste, people die in the famine –
those days will not arrive anymore,
the seal of harmony bespeaks a new sunrise today,
such is its astonishing image. Open out your palms,
there is no need for the trumpet of time to be blown,
let these melodious strains of the song of peace flow
about the mountainsides, the jungles and the woods.
Laughing, smiling, those Mizo maidens in colourful attire,
Burmese parasols in hand, let them come down
to our peaceful vale.
Today, o friend,
do cast aside all that hostility
and open out your palms, in friendship.
--Monotosh Chakravarty
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