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

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

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

IPEN - Bhaba, the mystery! by Pratip Biswas

My life as a student of Jagatpur High School was enriched with numerous anecdotes and stories. I could not forget a particular character of those stories, Bhaba. He was transferred to our school where he became the centre of all chaos. And here is how it all began.

We got promoted to 7th standard and as usual, the first day of school saw a pandemonium. The class teacher, Sunil Thakur sir, entered the classroom and everybody became silent. He was the scariest person we had ever known in our 14-year-old lives. He used his cane, rather than his mouth, to teach us. We used to call him DDT, as in Dandadata Thakur.

After scrutinising every face, he started taking attendance with the register. He stopped at roll number 16 and said, “It seems we have a new import in this class. Bhabani Prasad Purokayastha! 

Who is he? Stand up!”

A boy stood up from a middle-row bench. “Sir, my name is Bhabani Prasad Purokayastha!”

“Ok! Tell me something, Mr Bhabani Prasad Purokaysatha. How did you manage to crawl in your childhood, hauling such a big name? Anyway, where did you study previously?”

“Er… Narayanchandra Memorial Institution for Boys!”

Sunil sir slapped his forehead in mock surprise, “Oh my god! That’s enough, son. You don’t have to tax your tongue anymore uttering mile-long names, please sit down!”

Bhabani sat down; the whole class was laughing at sir’s comment.

A few days later, we saw the real avatar of Bhabani aka Bhaba. He was a big zero when it came to studies. It’s a wonder how he managed to get promoted to 7th standard. If he was asked the name of Humayun’s son, he would answer “Rabindranath Tagore”! Whenever he drew a triangle, you could never find its arms because it was totally round.

I don’t think he knew what a triangle is and naturally he used to flunk mathematics. But no one could beat him when it came to mischief. Putting pepper in Sanskrit sir’s snuffbox or spraying ink on Game teacher’s white shirt were his daily routine. Only because of him, Sanskrit sir quit his addiction to snuffing powder and the Game teacher stopped wearing white.

It was common knowledge that Bhaba didn’t have any idea what the textbooks held inside them. During exams, everybody used to wait eagerly to see what Bhaba did in his papers. Once he sat beside me in a Sanskrit paper. When the time came for sir to hand out our answer sheets, he called Bhaba first.

“Tell me son who sat beside you in the test?”

Seeing Bhaba remain silent, I said that he was sitting beside me.

“Yes, I’ve suspected that much myself!”

Then he burst out at Bhaba, “You rascal! Are you twin brothers or something? How come both of your names are Pratip Biswas? You think this is a circus?”

We were clueless as to what he was talking about. Then we came to know that the great Bhaba had copied my entire answer sheet. He even copied down my name. Sir suspected that he tried to copy my handwriting too. We never laughed so hard in our lives.

The strangest thing was DDT, who was infamous for his thrashings, had never raised a finger on Bhaba. He was our Bengali teacher, but sometimes when he was bored, he would ask us questions from English grammar. One day, he asked Bhaba, “How many genders are there?”

Bhaba, scratching his head, answered, “Three. Masculine gender, feminine gender, and…and…”

“Yes? Go on…,” sir encouraged him. Scratching his head, Bhaba said, “… and Alexander, sir!”

I still can’t forget sir’s expression hearing his answer. Somehow he got himself together and went back to teaching Bengali.

I was intrigued by Sunil sir’s attitude towards him. One day, I pursued Bhaba, bribed him with a few snacks and asked him the reason behind that. After much pestering, he finally agreed to let me in on the secret. He said, “When I first came here, and before anyone knew me, I witnessed something very embarrassing. I had to go out one day to buy sweets. I hid myself in the garden near my house to taste some of those sweets. Sunil sir was passing by the road. As it was a wintry night, I had a white shawl wrapped around me. The night was freakishly silent and I was giving away the impression of something very eerie, spectral. Seeing me there, sir started muttering incoherently and then he fainted. It was quite a job to get him awake. After that day, he never scolded me. There you go, that’s your story!”

“That doesn’t really measure up. What is the real story?”

“Oh well, Sir needed a change of clothes because he couldn’t control his bladder and I am not talking about ‘little toilet break’!”

Bhaba winked and left me wondering if that was what really happened or was it something he had made up to get me off his case. What and why Bhaba did things will always remain a mystery to me. 

Pratip Biswas, Kolkata

Poems by Shalim Hussain

Dighalipukhuri*

One claw on a bar,

and crow

lifts the other to his lips

Blows the day’s first puff.

His view races smoke through the fencing,

conductors spank buses on-

‘Dighalipukhuri. Dighalipukhuri.’

Long pond.

He stares at a chirping he can never touch,

at entwined buds,

and pigeons floating together in air bubbles,

and lovebirds in love rows,

their heads under their wings.

His downy heart bleeds over the bliss beneath.

At home, his vulture

waits,

a spear in her hair and

a carcass in her beak.

Here he makes his day long,

sometimes swoops down and scoops up

beakfuls of love from the face of

Dighali.

Love like the blushes of hyacinths

skimmed behind boats.

The trees branded with Duryodhan’s incense,

Bhanumati’s anklets still tinkle under the

paddle-boats,

her turmeric and potfuls of milk

her wedding tears

and a few thousand years of love.

He will return to blow the night’s last mists.

*Dighalipukhuri, literally ‘long pond’, is an ancient pond in Guwahati frequented by lovers. It is connected by an underground tunnel to the river Brahmaputra and was supposedly dug for the wedding bath of the Pandava prince Duryodhana and Bhanumati,, the daughter of King Bhagadatta.

Recollections on a wintry evening.

(For Tasi)

You will be a stranger in

The city of dead fairies, she said

How could I tell her that all this drifting

Between minds and lands

Had made me one long ago?

At home, at the sheepman’s last song

‘Hai re hai, the toga’s butt is red’

And as it flapped away,

I could only see its blackness

Trailing against the winter’s white.

Stepping on the sharp grass, my

Feet cut on the edges

And blood dewed out on the silver green edges.

When segun pods burst to release

The spirits within,

I saw only dreams wafting

On feathered backs.

My neighbour was a black water tank and

A row of betel nut trees

Until one evening I wandered into our common backyard

And as cobwebs settled on my hair

And one dry leaf grafted on my forehead,

Stumbled on the lichen on two old tombs.

Today my neighbour, a straw filled

Desert cooler hugs me tight when I pass.

Then as a strange pointy haired fairy of five

I tried to blow fog to match my uncle’s cigarette tricks.

Today, I don’t wait for seasons or fog.

And when I trudge my soul up the great mosque’s steps

To cry ‘prayer is better than sleep’,

My voice beats against the wings of ghosts.

Then when the boatman anchored us on a sand bank,

And passed a sky of blue tarpaulin paper over our heads,

I smiled at two pairs of ancient teeth

Rolling up hope and damnation in a

Paper cylinder of weed.

Then sneaked out to see the river lashing and lashing again

On the nose of the boat

.

Here, I stand in rolled up pants

Seeing the rain churn up streets

Into a whirlpool of naked manholes.

And pulling my feet away from its gargling,

Open my palm for flowers

Falling as soft as teardrops.

-          Shalim Hussain, New Delhi