IPEN - Poems by Shruti Sareen

Untitled

This poem is about the Indian bullet.

It is about Naga tribes in Manipur

and the Meghalaya which was

a part of Assam. This poem

is about the island of Majuli.

This poem is about the fertility of guns

and the orality of bullets.

It is about the reality of the unknown

It is about you, and me, and them.

It is about us. This poem

is also about flowers.

In the tea garden of Tebhaga

I don’t have even two bighas of land

I work in a tea garden

As a labourer.

I don’t have money, it’s

the famine na

There is nothing to eat, so

I eat khichdi everyday.

There are three daughters, a family

They don’t have clothes so

After washing them they wait

For the clothes to dry.

The zamindar’s men come to sell water

I tell them “no money.

Don’t want water.”

The bastards, they pour the water on the ground

And ask me for payment.

         --Shruti Sareen, Delhi

NORTHEAST NUGGET

Who is a Maibi?

A priestess of the Sanamahi religion of the Meiteis. Theyperform the Lai Horouba dance depicting Creation and also dance the tragic lovestory of Khamba (a poor boy) and Thoibi (a Meitei princess). It is a uniqueliving tradition of Manipur.

Source: Haksar,Nandita (ed.). 2011. Glimpses of North East India. New Delhi: Chicken Neck

IPEN - The precipice of pain : Kusum Choppra

‘Go and give some to that lump inside too. As it is, he doesnothing but eat.’

Asha took the rasgullas reluctantly and walked quickly away.

‘Am I the only one in this world untouched by this festivity?’ thought Asha as she headed towards her quarters across the little courtyard of her home. She realized with some pleasure that she was not limping any more and that the ever present body pain was a little less too. ‘Should I not be thankful for that?’

Everyone was in festive mode. It was Vijay Dashmi, the day Ma had vanquished the Asura. Across thevillage, in the Bangla para, women were gleefully smearing each other with sindoor and giggling about almost nothing.

A huge effigy of Ravan was being given finishing touches bythe village craftsmen and gangs of enthusiastic youngsters. In the Marwari and Gujju paras, fafda and jalebis were being consumed by the kilos to replenish the energies spent onnine nights of riotous garba, swaying and whirling to the mesmerizing dhols and garba songs which had everyone entranced and itching to join in. Even in the police para, the Puja festivities were rising to a crescendo for the immersion of Kali Ma. Everyone was celebrating her visit as they sang out for a return next year.

Asha’s steps slowed as her memories flashed back. Married at 16 from a poor home to the only police wala in a farmer family, Asha’s asha was rudely shattered on the day after her frugal wedding. Ashok had showed up drunk at night, hurling abuses and shoes at her before crashing into bed.

Her jethanis were stoic. ‘You’ll get used to it after sometime. He feels entitled to drink because he is a police wala and gets his drinks free.’ Asha discovered that Ashok was barely literate. It was his brutal hands that got him the police job. The family was happy that the good-for-nothing son who refused to work on the land,was, at least, doing something. The police job gave him some clout.

He had also learnt police torture tactics. With her hands tied behind her and a gag in her mouth, no sound emerged from their quarter when he thrashed her thoroughly, two quilts ensuring that no marks were left to justify the agonizing pain she always complained off. Asha often wondered whether the family was really so obtuse that no one had deciphered her constant aches and pains overfive years.

Asha eased herself down on the top step as she mused “Should I not be thankful to Ma for the strength she gave me the day she arrived lastweek?’

She had been all set to take her life by jumping off the cliff after Ashok’s last bout of thrashing. By some miracle, he had pulled her back just in time. And by Ma’s grace, she had stopped herself from falling at his feet. Instead, she grabbed his ankles and tipped him over the edge of the cliff.

Ashok’s face showed shock chasing terror as he flailed hisarms. Instead of grabbing her, he mouthed WHY? He grabbed at a little branch, which snapped with his rapiddescent. That little break saved Ashok’slife. He did not die. The crowd had helped her to pull him up.

But the fall had done its damage and turned the tables for Asha: Ashok was paralyzed from his waist down and he could not speak. He lay on a cot, totally dependent on what little time she could spare for him now that she had begun to work to make upfor the loss of his income.

‘If I wanted to, I could thrash you like you used to thrash me. But what is the use of thrashing a lump of flesh that cannot even feel the pain. Don’t worry, I’ll not thrashyou. The Navjyoti people have told methat they will get us a special cot with a hole for you. I will place it in the side verandah so the room does not fill with your smells and the metrani will come twice a day to empty the pail and give you a wash. Ma has willed it, hasn’t she? Today I will celebrate Ma…’ she emptied herlittle box of sindoor into her little thali and ran off to join the revelers.

IPEN - Poems by M Jajo and Labiba Alam

Luingamla

There she is!

Clothed in naked simplicity

Lovely isn’t she, in her smile?

A spirited girl they say

Born of the mystic mountain

Pure with kindly thoughts

Full of life

she would sing and dance to the lusty green fields

like the skylark

Heaven and earth be intertwined

she would freely roam.

                     -Then

Rumours were heard a wicked war is waged

on these colourful people.

Soon followed dark browns in olive green

Marched into her land.

To steal the peace

that nature has bestowed.

                   -In that terrified silence

She was robbed and shame

Her dignity taken,

Was left with this lonely will to die

And in that solitary hour

She snapped off her life,

And in silence she’d traced back into the deep.

-Yonder over there lies her grave

with an epitaph “here lies a story writ in tears”

‘Tis all that I know of her.

                 -But why is this salty dew in my eyes at this hour??

*Luingamla is one of the many Naga girls who was molested and raped by the Indian army unable to cope with the trauma she committed suicide. To know more about human rights violation in the Naga Hills you may read "Nagaland file” by Nandita Haksar and Luingam luithui.

--M Jajo , Ukhrul, Manipur

Dance of an Insomniac

I danced like a dream

In your utter silence.

Then came forth your words, like the summer rains

And drenched my soul.          

           I am speaking of those nights when,

           I turned an insomniac;

           Slumber suffocated

           In the dream- dewed eyes.

My nights burned like incense,

Fragrant and tantalising:

In a trance, your words kept pouring

And filled my mind to the rim.

         Winter it was, and foggy was my mindscape;

        You came with a dream, my eyes once knitted.

        I’ve stolen some moments from those nights-

        They lay in a corner

        Smelling of incense ashes.

--Labiba Alam, Guwahati, Assam

NORTHEAST NUGGETS

What is the present name of the organisation which was called Young Lushai Association when it was set up on 15 June 1935?

The organisation is now called the Young Mizo Association. It was set up by Christian workers as a substitute for the traditional Mizo institute for education of boys called Zawlbuk (boy’s dormitory) which declined with the coming of Christianity. It was registered in 1977 and is active in social work. It has been effective in significantly lowering the expenditure during elections.

 The Mizo Students Union observes 1 March as Zoram Ni (Mizoram Day). What is the significance of that day in Mizo history?

When Mizo Hills was a part of Assam state the people were angry with the poor Government response to the famine in 1959 and the attempt to impose the Assamese language. The Mizo National Front (MNF) declared independence on 1 March 1966 and tried to take over Aizwal. On 4 March 1966 the Indian Air Force bombed Mizoram– the first time in Indian history that the Government bombed its own citizens. MNF signed the Mizo Accord in 1986.

Source: Haksar, Nandita (ed.). 2011. Glimpses of North East India. New Delhi: Chicken Neck

IPEN - Poems by Tiplut Nongbri

A Tribute to Irom Sharmila

Iconic Sharmila

Fair maiden of Manipur

Who would have guessed

That under your petite frame

Lurks an indomitable spirit stronger than steel

What powered you,

To singlehandedly take on the might of the state?

With its garrison of ‘order-driven’ men

And the deadly AFSPA machine

In a land famed for mighty kings

And the collective strength of the Meira Paibis

It is ironic that in your quest for peace for your people

None dared to accompany you

How do you manage to resist the temptation of the table for ten long years?

Denying your body its basic sustenance

And the sheer pleasure of an ordinary existence

What drives you to sacrifice everything for a cause?

How do you cope with the tube permanently attached to your nose?

How do you deal with your handlers who kept you caged

like an animal in the zoo?

How do you maintain your sanity and faith in democracy?

I take my hat off to you my brave sister,

For your unflagging spirit and the courage you show

In a world torn by violence and self-seeking politics

You are our only beacon of hope

To jolt the sleeping conscience of our nation

And save the North East and India from destruction

Nostalgia

Laitumkhrah, prized locality of Shillong

How my heart bleeds for thee

Your once quiet streets and flower bedecked gardens

Are now but distant memories

As I made my way down the familiar road

From Fire Brigade Ground to Don Bosco Square

I long for the cool breeze that once wafted my way

Lifting up my spirit on my daily walk to college

There was then no heavy traffic to interrupt my thought

No clogged drains or garbage dump

No shops or merchandise spilling out into the footpath

No beggars or vagabond to waylay the pedestrian

Now, all that is in the past

A mere slice of our fast fading history

With the onset of modernity and the craze for development

Our public and private spaces alike

Are fast taken up by commerce and machines

No longer do we see carefree faces leisurely walking their children to school

But a harried lot audibly cursing the motorists

As they ferry their broods across the busy street

Into overcrowded taxis

Is this the price we pay for progress?

For an ideal world in which prosperity and comfort is assured for all?

Where is that promised-land?

Why is it eluding us?

Will our politicians and planners please answer up!

                                       -- Tiplut Nongbri, New Delhi

IPEN - Poems by Santosh Alex and Prajna Paramita Panigrahi

Search

I searched you

on the dining table

You were distributing bread

to the multitudes .

I searched you

in the church

You were shining

on the farmers body in the field

I seached for you

in the goat shed

You went in search

of the lost sheep.

I searched for you

at the border

You showed me a world

without borders

I searched for you

in the bed

You danced as flowers

in the mountains.

Prayer

Cymbals

Rosary and

Cross are not needed

A lit candle

a word

heartfelt, would do.

Obligation

The child in the womb

said to the mother

“ I am in this cell

for months together .

You kept me safe till now

and did not 

detect my gender,

I am grateful to you for this.

I  am afraid to come

into your world.

You are slaves to

Religion,

 Language

and Creed.

Ensure me

the womb’s safety

in your world.

Failing which

i am ready for a sacrifice. ”

Ark

Returning on the wings

of the southerly winds

I crossed the small rivulet,

swaying paddy fields,

vast barren grounds,

secluded walkways,

and the nameless hillock

Time flew by,

catching dragonflies,

collecting abrus seeds,

tasting mango kernels

and Jackfruit flaps

and so did another vacation

When I opened my eyes,

I was atop Noah’s ark

             --Santosh Alex, Visakhapatnam

The venom

The mistress of the night

Curled her lips

For a sweet pout.

Why did I see

The snake swaying gently

Under the folds of my skin?

They say that

Love that does not conform is dead,

Dedication that wears out is fractured,

Fidelity that burns out is decayed.

Then why did I feel sick

To spit the venom

Of defined resignance?

Perhaps the order

Of the universe

Did not mate with

The vibrance of nerves.

               --  Prajna Paramita Panigrahi, Bhubaneswar

IPEN - Poems by Maitreyee B Chowdhury and Pranjit Bora

My Homeland

In pensiveness and in subjectivity,

My mind hovers over the times that were…

When touch down is but an aerial feel,

My soul touches base in matters more than one

Of a childhood spent in games,

Of flowers and seasons in the rain

When running after dragon flies was a pastime too serious

To think of a career was all but tedious…

When running in the fields was akin to life...

Oh such were the joys of childhood alike

Today I have perfumes that smell and allure

But what is it about the smell of the land that overpoweringly endures-

In times of sadness it gives me hope

That little tinge of HOME as I know, is still within my scope

No matter where or how far I go,

The touch of my land shall linger within me…

In joys so sweet and memories so fresh

I shall think of a HOME I never left.

In coming back to it, as lovers who never parted be…

Home is the smell of my lover I never left for thee

In corners and nooks I shall discover home again,

In a scratch here or a song sung there, I shall recollect it all with pain

Of friends and lovers, in loving memory they come all…

As my eyes delight in places that were mine,

I touch and feel and go back in time

When love and life stood still as time

As if for me waiting for a lifetime –

My eyes moist with the song of joy as I touch the land I never forgot,

Of friends and loved ones, just a whisper away…

Never shall I smell the same again

As I drench myself in my HOMELAND again

As the wheel of my dreams do a touch down on the soil of joy

Years of childhood come back at once

When the mind all at once rings in joy

My land, my land... here I come…

All over and over again.

                                --Maitreyee B Chowdhury, USA

Tonight

Tonight again, these tiny quiet neem flowers

Your breath is turning white

Your entire body is turning white

And a fragile white virgin night

Is running around your first monsoon tresses

So thick, noiseless – for whom are you waiting like this at the window?

So blue, quiet – whom are you searching for like this in the moonlit grass?

For whom are you waiting like this, does he have on his body the smell of ripe, lush fields

With both hands have you pulled up a laden branch

Are the flowers falling all over your body

On the edge of your breasts and the tresses of the nights?

Are the neem flowers falling

Are you getting drenched

In the crisp festive night?

                                --Pranjit Bora, Barpeta

                                    Trans: Anuradha Rajkumari Gohain, Delhi

IPEN - Poems by Camellia Chakraborty

POOR GOD’S CHILDREN

Generation's waste- poor god's children,

Born to die from the shy womb.

Prejudices are our meal soup,

Allaying us beasts into filthy comfort.

I may be no less negative,

But positive is really he?

Why my father is so poor,

While others call him 'The Almighty'?

When raging spark conquers dark,

Furious bursts with maternal love.

But peeping out of my eyelids,

I visualised only irony.

A venomous web edificed for us,

But fate when we are harassed?

Trailing us in placenta of samaritan,

Drowning now in strangling quotidian.

In the wake of grimy minds,

Toiled to accomplish exploiting own.

But deprived from food, clothes and shelter,

Then rotten with unclaimed skeletons.

Are we so poor god's children?

For race still glued to politics.

That he is so bound in realm of freedom,

Bored and resisted from his duties?

Illiteracy is our cloak of all time,

Stitched with corruption as it’s the whime

Whirling paraphernalia that’s traditional token,

For we really are the poor god's children?

The Omnivorous Satans

We the Satans, we the Satans

Are the reasons for the truthful existence

Of the unhealthy and naked earth

As we are vegetarians.

'Hey look! So many parasites

Humbling on earth'

Said Yama, the God of soul's cloak depart

Together o' together

We suck the blood

For a successful attempt

Of a diseased earth.

The moon, the mountain

The ocean and the sky

Are so co-operative

As they die and die.

The foul black clouds

The noisy shouts

The land of wastes and

The water of dead lusty trouts.

'Impoverished' and 'Poverty stricken'

The Satans call

As the earth is being eaten.

Heartless cunning fellows

With antonym of kindly emotion

Watch the holy earth

Begging pardon from such notion.

The noble Satan

Discovers terrible prophecy-

The earth being trapped

In a big death cavity.

The earth appears yummier

Buzzed with billions of eater

Who merrily dance and sing

As the green Earth is now deadly pink.

Near the fire

Near the mantle

Bursting in ball

With a cigar

Singing a proudly shout

Yeah! We are the global warmer

Now, Came the dimwit cook

By dint of the dinette

Inviting the satanic cults

For a fine dinner.

Yummy! Praised the diners all

Excited with pieces of Earth on each bowl

Ready to digest the leafy and fleshy buns

Bravo! We, the Omnivorous Satans.

THE RAIN

From the blue foam of Mother Nature,

Falls the tinkling bells,

Which triggers the sea with tremendous shiver,

And forms the water of wells.

Brings with it ageing and youth,

As it wrinkles the ocean.

And when it forces the leaves to move,

Forming green pearls like beauty being woven.

Splendid droplets with serenaded scale,

Are the Mozarts of Nature.

Realising the rhythmic beats,

Are the dancing creature.

Little darlings flushed with elation,

For they witness the rain.

But as clouds and fire burst out aloud,

Their play will might soon drain.

The small holes and the hanging poles,

Are their shelter tonight.

The day next might bring with it,

The hope of bright sunlight.

--Camellia Chakraborty, Guwahati