Voyage

I love the smell of smoke in the mornings
The stony stupor of this vagabond mind
Sometimes in these macabre afternoons
I embark upon a lowly odyssey in some
Scarecrow alley, haunted by some failed god
Armed with this futile obsession to unearth
The ancient pain of this widowed night

I love to watch these hills in winter
Clothe themselves in ragged shawls
Of white. Like old women, these hills
Know things more important than
The fear of hunger or war, or love.

And as these lines die into the sounds
Of this breathless ramble, beloved
Let this evening wind confine you in
The lifeless thirst of our hearts.

Winter

These days are long and dusty
Do not blame me if I turn to stone
Like a false god. I have seen many a
Sullen afternoon die a slow death
Baring themselves to the hungry night
Like unwilling women selling love

This day, beloved, will it be any different?
Today, like other days, you shall not rouse
As this indifferent commotion recedes
Into the lull of this sunlit funeral
Today, I shall roam these streets again, this
Ancient burden of being a man, weighing
On me, like an insipid, forgotten sin

And we shall remain mere tombstones
In these dusty graves. Will this winter
Promise another bout of hazy memory?
Only these lifeless lines shall banish us
To the hope of this brutal love, and us...
Strangers in this tepid, misty rain

Pain

You do not cringe when you are young
It is a crime for men to be afraid of
Death; or things more dreadful
Like the barrenness of manhood
Before the skies became too alien to bare
Myself to its prying eyes, I never understood
The pain of being a man

Since then I want to be young, again and again
Sometimes in these desrted lands, the clouds
Come tumbling down to caress my breath. Seven
Summers have passed and still I dread
The solemn oaths of these dusty evenings

And today, when I have loved and lost
These effigies of the past still beckon me
Like a whore with whom I had shared
A wintry night in Shillong.

Poem

These times do not attract me anymore
Like old women, like faded shoeboxes
These days do not deserve love. Sometimes
In the wintry pilgrimages in this ghost town
The nefarious breeze resurrects itself from
The whirlwind of these lazy Sunday afternoons

Time and again, I have seen this town
In these faded plaques of memory. In those days
You could play with fire and dust. Now people
They do not speak of the monsoons anymore
Or throw caution to the wind. As ma says
These times are bad. You evade their company
Like the gazes of whores

Instead we talk about things which don’t matter
The insignificant ramblings of life and death; Or
The eternal promise of a poem at the oddest hour
With which I’m smitten.

Promise

Beloved, this dying day is no different
Like muted gongs, this child of the stony night
Promises no sound of rain. How many more lives
Do we offer on this hungry altar that knows no prayer?
How many deaths do we die like withered spirits?
Only this road, this fiery eyed beast shall know

Beloved, let this dusty wind break at your feet
This wind deserves no mercy. Beloved, we are tied
To these white sands that offer no warmth, this nightbird
That sings no song to the children of this cruel night. Beloved
Only the promise of this failing dawn shall keep us alive.

Beloved, this night is a bereaved widow
With wounds that refuse to heal. How many more births
Do we live like barren souls? How many scalding nights
Shall pass like this howling wind? Which gates shall guard us
Against the cruel insurrection of this frigid adversary?

Only the quivering flames of my ancestors’ pyres
Shall promise us another barren answer

Tawang

Tawang, this snow like forgotten widowhood
Speaks very little. You do not expect warmth there.
Only the shivering remains of our unholy sins
Only the tepid prayers of these doubtful monks
Can rid you of your manly fears. In Tawang.

There, you want to be young again.
And my mother spoke in silent whispers
Making lukewarm gestures to the Buddha
Tawang, only the staring rocks, the screeching wind
Can remind you of your sublime male fears.

Tawang. There, you do not question the law of the land
You do not engage in idle talk of life and death.
In Tawang, only fear will show you the angry sun
And only the silent waters of this promised land
The white mirage of this cruel earth
Draw you to this forgotten pilgrimage. In tawang.

Published in The Sentinel 'Melange', the 20th October, '09

BOUNDLESS DETERMINATION!

-Anurag Rudra

It’s not everyday that you come across a figure who excels in various facets of interests and passions, a person who pursues his calling with sheer tenacity and will and ultimately comes out triumphant. Polishing one’s skills and inculcating the desire, the passion to pursue one’s calling in life requires courage, an iron will and above all, boundless determination. The process is somewhat like a metamorphosis, like gold which glimmers brilliantly after it burns in acid. The Northeast has produced many such exponents who have attained the heights of success and acclaim in their respective fields, who have made us proud in the international arena, people who have led by example and the sheer power of their achievements. Talking of international acclaim and accolades, there are very few people who have taken the Northeast to the international arena onto such prestigious platforms as Utpal Borpujari, the award-winning journalist and film critic who has earned international acclaim and fame and whose exceptional calibre and talents have showcased brand Northeast on a pan-Indian and on an international scale. His achievements and the laurels which he has earned from all over the globe speak volumes of his professional excellence and critical acclaim which Borpujari has earned in the course of his illustrious, and still going strong, career.
A journalist-film critic based in New Delhi, Utpal Borpujari’s span of writing and interests encompasses a staggering gamut of issues, addressing prolifically diverse and interesting arenas as cinema, culture, literature, Northeast India, politics, science... the list simply goes on. When drilled on the vast expanse of the areas of his expertise and interest, Borpujari replies with great humility, modesty and frankness: “Of course, as a professional journalist, one should be prepared to write on anything if required. Though my interest lie primarily on cinema, I try to write about anything related to Northeast India – be it politics, art, culture, literature, environment, people, anything, and that is my heart’s calling. I follow diverse fields closely – arts, literature, culture, cinema, politics, sports – which I think allows me to write on them with some sense. But I am just one more journalist, nothing more than that.” This comes from a seasoned veteran who carved a niche for himself, being the first from the entire Northeast to win the Swarna Kamal (Golden Lotus) Award for the Best Film Critic at the 50th National Film Awards of India, 2003.
Borpujari, currently based in Delhi for professional involvements, hails from the city he loves most, the city where he grew up, where he nurtured his dreams - Guwahati. However, he is strongly attached to his roots, he loves Assam and cherishes his memories in his hometown where he first started spreading his wings. Little did he know then that he would one day fly high in his cherished sky of passion and success. “Despite working in Delhi since 1995, I have been constantly writing on various aspects and subjects related to NE India consistently. Working with The Sentinel at the very start of my career, under the editorship of Dhirendranath Bezboruah, was a boon, especially when I look back at it. The place gave ample opportunities to write on any and every subject if you had the interest, and what I learnt from Bezboruah sir has been helping me even now. When I joined PTI in Delhi, if I was able to be one of the trusted hands, it was thanks to the grounding at The Sentinel.”
Indeed, Utpal Borpujari has come a long way from his days at The Sentinel in Guwahati, where he found his voice, his calling, where he was groomed into the prospective journalist par excellence that he is today, to his present engagement as the Special Correspondent of The Deccan Herald bureau in New Delhi. In the course of his enigmatic and admirable journey, he has had his path strewn with laurels and accolades from various quarters, earning the stature of a brilliant film critic and writer and above all, a person who has constantly conquered his own self to reach the scale the heights of success. However, it would be worthwhile to note that for Borpujari, the victory lap has but just begun. Speaking about his childhood and his formative years, he dwells nostalgically on those magical days: “I belong to a normal middle class household, with my father Prabhat Chandra Borpujari in the judiciary and mother Dolly Borpujari an official with the Law Department of the State Department. My younger and only brother Nilotpal has been a national level junior TT player who represented Assam in national championships from sub junior to senior levels. Even as a child, we used to watch lot of films, as my parents would take us to watch films while we were very small, in Silchar, and then in Guwahati. Of course, later, I used to watch lot of films without telling at home, bunking classes in college. Reading books was my passion, which probably drew me to writing, though not creative writing. My maternal grandfather, the late Suresh Chandra Goswami, incidentally, was a renowned novelist, a Xatriya dance exponent and the director of the ninth Assamese film Runumi (released in 1952), and I was always fascinated by his achievements. My first exposure to cinema as a very interesting visual art form came through Doordarshan’s Sunday daytime telecast of award-winning films in various Indian languages and also festivals of Indian and international films organized by Assam Cine Art Society (ACAS). Being a neighbour of director Sanjeev Hazarika, and introduction through him to people like Nayan Prasad and Chandan Sarma, apart from knowing senior journalists like Samudra Gupta Kashyap, who was a family acquaintance, also helped develop my interest in cinema, theatre and writing about them.”
A resounding embodiment of academic excellence, Borpujari decided to don the garb of a journalist after pursuing an M.Tech in Applied Geology from University of Roorkee (now IIT-Roorkee). And commenting on this unusual shift in his career track, Borpujari remarks: I think that was destined. I was always interested in cinema, and the M. Tech in Applied Geology from IIT-Roorkee probably happened because I did not have guidance to take up a journalism or mass communication course, which were not so easily available in the late 1980s or early 1990s). Of course, as a subject, I love geology, and I have also written quite a few pieces on geology-related aspects. By the time I was completing the second year of my M.Tech course, I had in mind decided to become a journalist, as my experience of writing for The North-East Sun while doing my B.Sc in Guwahati and then writing articles in various newspapers (Sunday Observer, Hindustan Times, Indian Express, Prantik, Assam Tribune, North-East Times, etc.) while in Roorkee whetted my appetite”
Borpujari’s name has become synonymous with authority and expertise in the realm of film criticism and in the print media. Many prestigious awards and privileges have been conferred on him for his contributions to the realm of cinematic criticism and writing. A member of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI), he has served on several prestigious film juries including the Jury for Best Writing on Cinema, 51st National Film Awards of India, 2004, FIPRESCI Jury at the MAMI International Film Festival, Mumbai, 2006, Critics Jury of the Indian Competition section at the 10th Mumbai International Festival of Short, Animnation and Documentary Films (MIFF), 2008, NETPAC (Network for Promotion of Asian Cinema) Jury at the 11th Osian’s Cinefan Festival of Asian & Arab Cinema, New Delhi, 2009 etc. As a critic and journalist, he has covered Cannes film festival, Nantes, IFFI, MAMI, 3rd Eye, MIFF and Osian’s Cinefan film festivals over the years. And that’s not all. To add yet one more feather to his cap, he has edited the official catalogue of the International Film Festival of India (IFFI) in 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007 & 2008. He has also been a member of the preview committee to select international films at the 39 IFFI (2008) and 40th IFFI (2009). In keeping with his professional pursuits, he is associated with Film Trust India, New Delhi; Assam Cine Art Society, Guwahati; and Cine Art Society, Asom (CineASA), Guwahati). He has contributed cinema-related essays to various publications, and served as an honorary consultant to the 1st Ahmedabad International Film Festival (2009). However for this prolific critic, he has but started on his long, long road.
Shifting focus from his professional achievements to the complex host of issues haunting the State, especially the socio cultural aspect, I try to extract the seasoned journalist’s response on the burning issues of the day. Speaking about the deplorable plight of the Axomiya film industry, Borpujari pours forth his concern and opinions regarding the pathetic plight of the film industry in the state which once upon a time produced such masterpieces as Dr Bezbaruah, Moniram Dewan and Chameli Memsaheb to name a few. Borpujari also draws attention to the surprising fact that while Assam, in tandem with other States, has a rule that every hall has to run local films at least 100 days per year, filmmakers are refused screening space by halls, without drawing any action from the government. That too when with the few number of movies made, the halls rarely get local films to screen, let alone screen them for 100 days! Indeed the deplorable plight of the Assamese film industry deserves more attention if it is to be rescued from the deluge of maladies paralysing the industry. Coming back to the topic, it would be worthwhile to note that as the trend of parallel or artistic cinema catches up in other parts of the country, thereby offering ample scope to the new breed of conscious film-makers to address the concerns and questions taxing the minds of our age, the concept hasn’t exactly caught up in this part of the country. Utpal Borpujari believes that the audience in Assam needs to respond to the concept of such films in a positive manner, thereby offering sufficient stimulus and creative encouragement to the budding film makers to showcase their talent. “Filmmaking, like any creative, art form, has all kinds of products, if we can call them that. ‘Intellectual’ films, as you call them, are basically films that are also called ‘parallel’ or ‘art’ cinema in various parlances. Just selecting a serious subject would not result in a good ‘intellectual’ film, because the creator of that film too needs to have the ‘intellectual’ capacity to deal with such subjects with the required sensitivity”
Addressing the concerns and burning questions of his native land has always been a matter of responsibility and priority with this talented critic-journalist, and he has explored various avenues to put forth his opinions on whatever has concerned him. Significantly, he had also co-authored the book Secret Killings of Assam with journalists Mrinal Talukdar and Kaushik Deka on the spate of the infamous secret killings in the State. The book is primarily an exposition of his opinions and research into what he terms as ‘the dark chapter of Assam’s recent history’. Encouraged by the response of his first stint as an author, Borpujari is in the process of a pioneering initiative to bring out a coffee table book on Assam, the first-ever coffee table book on the State along with Mrinal Talukdar and nine others. Indeed, it is worthwhile to mention that such innovative initiatives will go a long way in promoting brand Axom on a pan-India scale. Talking of Axom , one is bound to give due cognizance to the unfortunate fact that the State has witnessed a spate of conflict and strife unlike any other State in India, and it is in this context that Borpujari dwells with concern on the host of problems which have created a hostile situation here: “We have to learn our lessons from our recent history, and learn to be hard working, honest, and confident to take on the world if we have to be at par with the rest of the country or the world. It is really sad that whenever there is a study on the States’ performance in sectors like education, health care, agriculture, Assam is near the top from the bottom! And we have to overcome the fascination for easy money, bestowed upon us thanks to reasons we all know”.
Shifting focus to the different shades and the lighter side of this talented critic, much has been said and written about his professional and intellectual interests, but how prolific is the critic when he dons the garb of the loving family man, the indulgent father. For one who has many cards up his sleeve, Borpujari never fails to impress: “Well, there is nothing to talk about – I am a journalist who goes to office every day! I stay in Delhi with my wife Bornali, who works with a private company, and our two little devils Arunabh (8) and Anurag (1+).
Indeed, some people, their achievements and above all their attitude and perspective leaves an indelible impression on our minds, and it is without a grain of doubt when I say that Utpal Borpujari is truly an icon. For whatever he represents, his dedication and success has taken him to new levels of endeavour and achievement. As stated earlier, it is not everyday that you come across a person who constantly re-invents himself, his commitment and his passion. Needless to say, we can be sure of the wonderful reassurance that Utpal Borpujari, critc-journalist-writer extraordinaire will continue to rediscover himself and make his people, us , everyone proud through his commendable achievements. As Robert Frost aptly said: “And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep”, Utpal Borpujari too has a long, glittering and remarkably beautiful ahead of him, a road that ultimately leads to the innermost sensibilities of his place, of his native land and his people.
Feedback: anuragrudra@yahoo.com

Spirit

Beloved, these mountains are my brothers
They are the sins which confine my breath
These mountains do not know mercy
Unless you satiate them with virgin water
Drawn from the frail bosom of my widowed earth

Beloved, yesterday we went up to the hills
There my grandfather’s spirit rode on fire
Drawing angry glances from the hungry rocks
There you can buy happiness from the crying stones
With the offering of rain and the earth

Beloved how many pilgrimages do we live?
How many births do we take
In the span of our unholy love?
Only the mossy remains of our fiery lust
Hold the barren answer

Letter

Hill, today I question
The sins of your blemished birth
The unholy union of tepid rain
With the hungry, crying dust
Today I question the echoing water
Which made me fall in love
With the soil of my promised earth

Hill,I am a mirage
My roots are like false promises
Which women use like charms
I am the child of this craving earth
The love of this blossoming flower
Hill, I’m the childhood
Which manikda deserted
After he became a widowmaker

Hill today I question
The barren wombs of our forests
Which once bred echoing dreams
The sweet breath of the golden water
Hill, Today I question
The robust bosom of my beloved
Which blossomed like a shy virgin
Now wilted like our widowed earth

Ahem!

Dear All, I'm delighted to announce that I've been published by Creative Saplings, a leading literary forum. Here's the link to the poem.

Thanks to Dr. Shaleen Kumar Singh for giving me this wonderful oppurtunity.

This is what the noted poet of Indian English Poetry, Ananya S Guha, had to say about this poem, and my poetry:

"Trauma'' by Anurag Rudra is a deeply sensitive poem, embedded in a silent pathos, but not without hope. Anurag is a poet of fortitude, and his similes are like the famed metaphysical conceits."

I think I'll drop down dead! :)

Revenge

Beloved, only you and I know
The secrets of this strife-torn soil
The desires of this famished earth
Only you and I know the tales
Which spring up from the aching bosom
Of this whispering mountain

Beloved, all these are ours
These hills and mountains, rocks
Those tepid clouds floating above
Like fallen virtue stolen
From outside the door of a whore

Beloved, only we unravel the sins
Of this wounded street
Only we traverse nine lives in one journey
Let us conjure flames beloved
Flames on these tombstones
Tombstones, which once throbbed with life
Now turned into lifeless dust

Hunger

Beloved the time has come.
Tonight we shall draw fire
From hungry stones
Tonight we make the streets
Bleed with the secret understanding
Of rain and the earth

Beloved, it is the season
When rain ceases to pacify
The growing anger
In stooping trees; and
Women will bear children
Like dead white termites
Beloved, let us befriend today
The chill of the lonely night
Creeping on deserted hearths

Beloved, your eyes
They speak a thousand words
Like ancient magic parrots
Use your blue eyes beloved
Seduce the sleeping gods
Satiate them lest they unleash
Their hungry breath
Upon people with limp skin

Beloved, let us walk today
To the destined streets
And witness the game
Of fire drawing breath
From the silent earth

Challenges of Art: Anurag Rudra

It’s that time of the year again, the time when people rush to make purchases, shopping as much as their purse strings can be stretched, making last minute additions to their wardrobe, and when the time finally comes, it’s time for them to show off their regalia, to revel in the spirit of pujo. For many generations, Durga Puja has necessarily been an occasion to bask in the festive light, to enjoy the humdrum of the Pujas spread all over town, to enjoy the sumptuous prasad of the Puja and go pandal-hopping. True, this holds true even till this day. The magnitude and number of Puja committees and their festivities have definitely increased by leaps and bounds, mainly due to large scale mass participation and contribution, and somewhat to the advent of sponsors financing a large chunk of the Puja festivities. However, it would be worthwhile to take into consideration the pathetic plight of those craftsmen, those unsung heores, who give us a reason to celebrate Puja every year, dexterously shaping up the goddess from mud, and lending shape and form to the goddess whose advent is celebrated so ecstatically. The idol-makers, the unsung heroes of the Puja paraphernalia, constitute a vital part of the ‘Puja’ experience, no less than the actual rituals and worship that is offered to the goddess. It is their skilled hands, which so deftly transform a lump of clay into an almost living breathing incarnation of the goddess, so lively and dazzling in its sublime beauty that as a child, I was often led to wonder whether the goddess was really manifest in her four-day incarnation.In Guwahati, there has been a phenomenal growth in both the splendour and size of the Puja, and for the better. However has it brought about a brighter day for the real heroes of the Puja? Well, unfortunately, it remains a hard pill to swallow that even after such massive expansion of the Puja phenomenon, the idol-makers are still confined to their pathetic plight, living in extreme penury and obscurity. Owing to a sharp increase in the prices of raw materials, accompanied by inflation, they have been pushed further into troubled waters. Guwahati’s repertoire of the idol-makers is concentrated mainly in College Hostel Road, Panbazar (Opposite KKH College), Pandu and Lachit Nagar. These idol-making enterprises or ‘shilpalayas’, as they are called, are a family affair of sorts, the fine art being handled down to the younger generations. The root of most of these families, now in their third or fourth generation in Guwahati, can be traced to West Bengal, mainly Cooch Behar. However, even native Asomiya craftsmen have taken up this trade, bringing in their own unique touch to this dying art. However, their plight still remains miserable, and with no assistance being offered to them, this art is in grave danger of losing many skilled workers, many craftsmen whose magical hands lend the Goddess Durga her earthly incarnation during her brief sojourn amongst us.“Our condition is really pathetic, times are really miserable. We do not have proper facilities, and we are on the verge of collapsing.” This was what Chittaranjan Paul, proprietor of Lakshmi Shilpalay of Panbazar had to say when I went to learn more about their art. “We do not enjoy any facilities or help from either the government or from any organization. In addition to that, what hurts us most is that our art form has not been accorded the status of an ‘art’ in the true sense of the term. We do not do this only for money, it’s our legacy, our heritage and we try our level best to keep alive this art. People should come forward and recognise our labour, give us a pat on the back too. I am sure this is not too much to ask. In West Bengal, our counterparts are comparatively well off. The government is providing them with better facilities and financial assistance, and their skills have also been recognised. Asom needs to do the same for us.” Similar was the response of Ratan Kr. Paul, proprietor of New Rupasree Silpalay of Pandu. “See, our vocation is seasonal. That means that although we are overloaded with work before the puja season, for the rest of the year we have to rely on whatever meagre income comes our way to sustain our livelihood. In addition to this, the price of raw materials has shot up considerably, and inflation has further fanned the fire of problems for us. The result is that our children are no longer too interested to inherit this art from us. This is very unfortunate.”Indeed. The younger generation of these families will opt to go for a real ‘profession’. And why not? Though many of the younger generation are still actively getting involved in the trade, learning the subtle nuances and tricks of their art, many are venturing out into hitherto untreaded avenues. With education reaching the doorsteps of every family in this day, the younger generation has nurtured hope to do something ‘better’ than live in penury and obscurity like their fathers and grandfathers. ‘Many of the children, owing to the education they receive, have actually started looking down on the craft, forsaking it for a professional career… they’re not to be blamed, what life can they expect from an art that is slowly dying out’, this was the collective outpouring of the craftsmen with whom I interacted in the course of researching for this article. Indeed, I was astonished to see the plethora of problems they are facing. The art has been pushed into the brink of uncertainty and obscurity, and even more horrifying is the fact that the new generation has not exactly responded to their inheritance with the same enthusiasm and vision, courtesy the sorry state of affairs prevailing in their trade and society.But wait, all hope is not lost. Not at all. While interviewing the artistes, and peeping into their hearts, their workshops, I came across a young lad in his nineteens or twenties, maybe a year older than me. And what followed was a revelation to me, striking a familiar chord in my heart. Popping up the subject before him, I asked him whether he too planned to eschew his inheritance for a more ‘respectable’ career, I was astounded to hear what he said, smiling: “No! No! I know the times are bad, that we are in trouble, that our art is slowly dying out...true. But which art has always treaded a smooth path? What is life without challenges? I won’t give up my inheritance, this legacy for anything. My cousins have diverted from this route, they were too weak to shoulder the responsibility of carrying this legacy forward. I’m not. Help or no help, I will take up this art, and help spread it to the best of my ability. If Durga wishes, we’ll see the light of the day again.....we will!”As they say, hope is what sustains the world. And it is hope which has to augment a new day for these unsung heroes, helping them, their children to see the light of a better day, to continue preserving and propagating our heritage and culture. It’s not impossible, surely not. What we need to do, as individuals, as a society is to spare a thought and salute their skills, surely we’ll succeed in working wonders. After all, it’s only the audacity of hope that can achieve the impossible...surely so.

(Published in The Sentinel 'melange' Puja Special Issue, on the 20th of September, 2009)

My first bengali poem

আহত শিশির

আজ তুম আসবে বলে-
নিল আকাশ নিস্তব্ধ
সেই নিল পাহার চিরে
ছূটচে না প্রান খোলা হাশি
তুম আসবে বলে
আজ মদু আলো ভিজিযে দিযেছে
আমার মনের খোলা বইটী
তুম আসবে বলেই তো
আজ মেঘ শান্ত

তুমি আসবে তো ?
অনেক দিন হলো
এখন আমি
আর আমার আহত নিরবতা
তোমার অপেক্ষায রইলাম্
আমায নিরাশ করো না....

River

Don’t touch the river beloved
It is sorrow, pure
Strained through a dream sieve
Woven with memory
The river is sorrow
Made into thick ropes
Like notes flowing
From a stony flute

The river talks to me beloved
The river loves me alone
For I can whisper life
Into silent chimes
Made of the cruel earth
The river loves me for that
And pays me back
In the dabs of silver
Streaking your hair
With each ageing day

Beloved, let me drink
My red crusted river
Like hungry stones
Wetting themselves
With silent tears

Deception

Beloved, I can’t lie anymore

You lived in my red river
Like a forgotten dream
That was the time, mellow
Soft rain danced on trees
And you lived in my pauses
My moans and my white hair
Demanded the touch
Of women with taut skin

Today is March beloved
And April is yet to come
I’m sure you’ll understand
Today, the road is dusty
Like old brass, an ugly
Canvas, bleeding with
The secret understanding
Of rain and the earth

I grew tired of you, beloved
It was time that took
You, out of my blue eyes
Taking you to the green fields
Yesterday, they spoke to me
Of the mautam[1] coming again
And the elders drank beer
Served by ugly women
In jars carved with deft old hands.


Three long months will pass
And august will come beloved
August will come
With the promise of rain
And men will dance
Like light footed whores
By the light of their lamps
August will come beloved
Like an unwanted child
Creeping from within
“She grows within me”
“She grows within me”
And all will rush to you
As if you were seeded
By the dark night. Beloved,
Only the rush of the cold night,
Will shelter you from my breath
And hold you in confinement
Beloved, the road will bleed again
A canvas seduced by the heavy rain

It is night and the gods are mourning
The night breaks with the roar of guns
What’s this life worth beloved?
A life without tunnels, which
Once roamed the vagabond sky
Now widowed and destitute

[1] Mautam : When bamboo flowering occurs, associated with destruction of crops by rodents. Mautam is sometimes observed in the North Eastern States of India, particularly in the state of Mizoram

Hills

I come from a land, where
Far and distant memories mix
Into the blue hills, stealthily
Like the lonely night
Seducing the sleeping gods
Where the night breaks
Not by the nightbird’s song
But the heavy roar
Of tired guns
Blazing into the night
Where roads stretch into
Groves of tea and saal[1]
Where woman tuck their sarees[2]
Above their blackened knees
To greet you
With the choicest slangs

The women there are beautiful
Like my mother, like her
They are fat, round, plump
Like ripe fruits pluck
To satiate the hungry gods
Lest they get angry
Where girls stare blankly
Lest you smite them
I come from a land
Where it is a sin
To allow yourself
To weave memories
Into a maze of doubt

The hills there are beautiful
The blue hills of my land
Eat the pregnant clouds
Engulfing them in the morning mist
And the water mirrors with anger
The never setting sun


I come from a land
Where fear and doubt
Live like neighbours
Their huts separated
Only by a thin, broken
Useless Bamboo fence

I come from a land
Where the raging river
Eats through my backyard
Like silly mourning women
Tearing their sparse hair
For a little compassion

[1] Saal: A type of tree found in the forests of India
[2] Saree: Traditional garment worn by Indian women

Trauma

Where can we hide beloved?
We are the earth children
Our thoughts dig deep into the green
And roots tug at failing memories
We are the raging river
Eating through muddy yards
Like deserting soldiers

The rain is a mirage
Seeking shelter in doubt
Weaving memory and belief
Into potent mixtures
To curb your thoughts
Like barren women

Let me go back
To the parched fields
Aching for blue drops of the earth

I will flood the land
With doubt ;weave memories
Into garments of hope
With my taut hands

Let me cry beloved
The sky yearns for sleep
In my old eyes

My poems in Kinaara: South Asian Youth Literary Magazine

Dear all, I am pleased to inform that I've been published by Kinaara: South Asian Youth Literary Magazine

I am posting the links to the poems published, as well as reproducing them on the blog for convenience.

http://kinaaramagazine.org/index.php/2009/09/anurag-rudra/

.
.
.
Haiku

An old room
Light seeps in –
Hope
.
.
.
An Untold Tale

Me and my room-mate,
Buddies,
Sometimes
Share
A moment of silence
Together

Sometimes —
When we’re not
Teasing passing women,
Making lewd remarks
Shouting ‘Ogo eto tara ki?’
What’s the rush baby? —
All the while
Conscious of being seen
And branded as rowdies, goondas —
Like to enjoy, together,
An endless moment of silence.

An endless moment of silence,
When the sound of our breaths –
Deep-bellied and mellow –
Shout out loud
Betray our senses
Like whores doing penance,
And mourn the silence

Stripped of our pretensions
Of sad civility, shame,
When the shirts hanging
In our cupboards
Struggle to cry out
And invade our moment
Like afternoon salesgirls
With kohl-coloured eyes,
And the holocaust wind
Tries desperately
To shatter the silence
Into bits.

Sometimes
The eerie silence
Can get to your nerves
And you try frantically,
Desperately,
To find a topic, suitable
To break the silence
Into bits

But otherwise
It is
The most comfortable
Moment on the earth:
The moment
When me and my room-mate,
Strangers,
Sometimes
Share
A moment of silence

Together

Two Poems Published in Kritya: A Journal of Poetry

Two of my poems have been published in Kritya: A Journal of Poetry.

The links are given for you to check out the poems. But still, I am reproducing them on the blog. Hope they'll be liked.

http://www.kritya.in/0504/En/poetry_at_our_time.html

http://www.kritya.in/0504/En/poetry_at_our_time6.html

.

.

.

MY GRANDMOTHER

My grandmother

Eighty-springs and half-a-monsoon old

Is the strongest woman

With eyes like tender, dew

Wet grass on winter morns

Like a dark overcast sky

Eyes, liquid and placid

With untold tales

She herself knew

Her long, flowing hair

Now washed on alternate days

With shampoo and later doused

In Cantheridine

Is not as old as her

It was cut, forcibly

When two and a half summers ago

The doctor, with a constipated face

Had clicked his tongue, and predicted

The unimaginable

Her mind, once a treasure to be mined

From where she had recounted

Age old wisdom to her grandson

Of things interesting, of things unknown

Now lies looted and empty, widowed

Like herLike the middle

Of her forehead

Which she'd once adorn

With a big, red bindi

Perhaps she'd consigned

Her indulgent self, all of it

Into grandpa's pyre

My grandma, who now sits

In a permanent stupor

Is still the strongest woman

Who cannot be shaken out of her rut

Like six springs back

When she had to watch

Her younger son

Consecrated to flames

My grandma

Eighty summers and half a monsoon old

Is the strongest woman

Who is not afraid

Of the holocaust wind

That howls in deep bellied

all petty matters

Which worry, and make

Her progeny sweat

Their foreheads, dotted

With beads of sweat

As they discuss strategies

And counter strategies

To fulfill Their petty lives

While all the while

My grandma

Eighty-summers-and-half-a-monsoon-old

Sits there, in no hurry

And contemplates

The glass of water

On the table

Believe me, my grandma

Eight-summers-and-half-a-monsoon old

Is indeed the strongest woman

On earth

She is

My Hero

.

.

.

MAZE

Empty sounds

Jingle

In my hair

Buzzzing

With discontent

And

Angry words

Conspire

Hurl abuses

At my cardamom

Breath

Old bottles dance

With sober intentions

In hungry orgies

Like schizophrenic peacocks

Keeping me suspended

In the light of

A tired dawn

A forgotten tune

Flat as

My hollow thoughts

Reminds

To remind me

Of Something

I'd forgotten

Before I

Could be remined

To listen

.

I am finished

I am finished

I am finished

My Cover Story Published in The Sentinel 'Melange' , the 30th August, 2009

Showcasing Asomiya Gems To The World

Anurag Rudra

“My father was my role model, with whom I shared a very deep bond. Deuta was the person who instilled in me his ideals of humility and equality, deuta was the one who inspired me to foray into this field, and contribute to the rich cultural heritage of Asom, in whatever meagre way I can... deuta was...is my hero”. So began my interview, on a nostalgic note with Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan, well known jewellery designer and proprietor of Zangfai (In Asomiya, Zangfai refers to a traditional Asomiya ear-ring) her business venture, which deals in, and aims to promote and popularise ethnic Asomiya jewellery. When asked to describe her childhood, and how the environment at home had contributed in the making of a well-known personality in the cultural-fashion circuit, Lakhimi slipped into nostalgia again and continued: “My deuta was responsible for instilling in me the ideals of self-confidence, humility, determination and above all, a zeal to work ceaselessly to achieve what I wanted in life. As a kid, I was a very homely and demure child, and was interested from the very beginning in socio-cultural activities. You can say that the environment at home was extremely stimulating and encouraging, and was responsible for invoking in me the interest to work in the socio-cultural arena”.
Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan, daughter of well-known painter and artist Pranab Barua, recounted how her father, when he was not donning the garb of the prolific painter that he was, always took keen interest in encouraging his children –– his daughter and son –– in socio-cultural activities. She described how he always backed her, encouraged her to participate in a diverse range of pursuits and interests, including theatre, dance, painting, designing, etc. It was indeed this background which influenced her to take up jewellery designing, the love for which her father had cultivated in her during her formative years. Today Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan and her business enterprise Zangfai have become household names as far as ethnic and traditional Asomiya jewellery is concerned. She has indeed made a name for herself in designing and experimenting with traditional forms of jewellery, modifying them and innovating new designs to suit the tastes and preferences of the present day patrons. What she has achieved in the context of jewellery designing, an area of excellence you do not get to hear about every day, and that too, traditional Asomiya jewellery, is indeed remarkable. As she says, “My customers are drawn from all walks of life, with varying tastes. While youngsters and students prefer to go for those pieces which are a bit ‘modern’ and which they can pair up with their daily attire, others such as housewives or ladies generally seek the traditional, gorgeous pieces which they would prefer to present someone with, or maybe use themselves. Then once in a while, you also find people buying an extravagant piece of ethnic jewellery, sometimes with the intention of passing it down in the family. It’s a wonderful experience”.

Though born in Shillong, Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan grew up in Nagaon in a home which was always bustling with activity and humdrum. “Our house used to be filled with people all the time. I remember how deuta would interact with everyone politely and with a great deal of interest and warmth. Someone would drop in to show a poem that he’d written, someone to ask for a helping hand while others would stop by just to have a chat with deuta. This stimulating atmosphere at home greatly enhanced my interest in cultural matters and I developed a great love for the arts”. After passing her matriculation from Nagaon Mission Girls’ School, she graduated from Nagaon Girls’ College. Throughout her school and college life, Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan has been a keen participant in socio-cultural activities and cultivated a great deal of interest in the various creative avenues and scopes that were available to her. She also noted how she was a particularly observant child, one with a critical bent of mind, always pondering over the questions which were taxing the minds of others of her age. She narrated a particular incident that she vividly remembers: “Once, I came back from school and asked deuta about the Hindu-Muslim question that was the topic of discussion almost everywhere you turned your ear to. Deuta just looked at me, in his usual self, smiled and replied: ‘There is nothing called Hindu and Muslim...you are known for what you are, what you believe in, what you do and what you seek from your actions, your life’. I have held on to this piece of wisdom ever since”.

Her father was the person who basically inspired her to contribute and work in this sector. Back then, though she was interested in jewellery designing and working with traditional ethnic Asomiya jewellery, her first brush with serious work in this arena came after her father’s demise in February, 1992. “Prior to that I was of course interested in jewellery designing and its allied fields, no doubt about that...but it was after Deuta's demise that I seriously gave a serious thought to the matter and it was then that I decided to take the plunge. My friends and family always encouraged me, always made me take pride in my qualities and talents, but then, I didn’t take much notice of these compliments. It was only after deuta’s demise that I decided to carry out what deuta had ordained for me. Deuta always believed that each and every person was endowed with a gift. What he was required to do was to take notice, polish it, harness its potential and calibre and contribute to society, to culture in whatever way possible to him or her. I thought that it would be the best way to show my love for my beloved Deuta by following his vision and making his wishes, his dreams a reality.” Barely some time had passed after the unfortunate debacle, and Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan had already decided to take the plunge. Two months after the unfortunate demise of Pranab Barua, his resilient daughter Lakhimi had started to lend wings to her dreams. It was April, and she had already ventured on her eventful journey with Zangfai, a name which has by now become synonymous with modern-ethnic Asomiya jewellery. “My mother, Aroti Barua is a very practical lady, endowed with great foresight and wisdom. She firmly believes in what my Deuta would always say about being self-dependent. It was she who helped me set up the business. In the initial period, I started my operations from home, mainly among my friends, relations and acquaintances. It was in course of time that I made it a full-fledged affair and made it the name that it is today,” she said with a quiet smile when I grilled her about how the idea of promoting ethnic jewellery on a commercial basis materialised.

After giving the kick-start to her dream that it required, Lakhimi Barua Bhuyan, then Lakhimi Barua, tied the knot. In December that year, she got married to Joydeep Bhuyan, son of Dr. Manish Ch Bhuyan, who incidentally happens to be the first heart specialist from Asom. Speaking of her new life in her in-laws home, the new atmosphere and her subtle anxiety, she smiled and said: “I felt at home instantly. There was a lot of warmth in my new home. I took to it as a little bird to the wide, blue sky. My in-laws were very loving, cooperative and encouraging. Had it not been for them, I would not have been able to work wholeheartedly to fulfil my, nay, our dream. I am grateful for the love and the trust that they have showered on me all these years”. Speaking of her in-laws she said: “My mother-in-law shouldered great responsibilities to enable me to devote my full time in my venture. She was the one who took care of the kids, nursing them, nurturing them and bringing them up. My father-in-law made me believe in myself, and encouraged and supported me throughout this long journey”. And what about her husband? “Ohh! What can I say about him? He is a magnificent person, a gem of a person to say the truth... and he is devoid of all vices. My husband has supported and encouraged me in my endeavour with untiring love and faith. Even though he is not exactly very much into the artsy stuff, he has supported me keenly and I am proud to share my beautiful life with him.” They are blessed with two daughters –– Annanya and Akangsha, who are still in school. So how does she divide her time, entertaining her family as the loving mother and wife, and her gruelling schedule as an entrepreneur-designer? “Well, I don’t know really. I guess you have to adjust yourself to the need of the hour. And as far as I am concerned, I remain engaged with my business from 10:30 in the morning to 7:30 in the evening....when I’m not working, I try to entertain my family, to spend some quality time with them. I guess it’s all a part of my life.”

Coming back to business, she narrated how she kicked off her business venture, working day in and day out to take it to the level which it has achieved today. Indeed, it’s the culmination of determination and a gruelling zeal to transform one’s dreams beyond the virtual and imaginary plane, a task which very few of us manage to accomplish. “After starting my business, I got a warm response from my family, friends and well-wishers. Everyone was very enthusiastic and optimistic about my initiative...I got the pat in the back which I needed to take my dream further. Following the positive feedback which I received over a period of five years following the initiation of the business, I began to develop a better idea of the market for traditional Asomiya Jewellery. I became aware of the different strata of customers, from college goers to ladies and housewives, I began to develop a greater grasp, understanding their needs, what they came looking for, what they wanted. You know, it was a very enriching experience, getting to know so many people who shared your enthusiasm, who gave you their feedback, telling you what they wanted to see the next time they visited. Finally, I developed a clear perception of the market forces at play, and a definite picture of the different categories of patrons to whom I had to cater. Following this mindset, I basically divided my entire range into four parts to suit the needs and tastes of my customers. This was a decisive factor as it allowed me to showcase my entire range in terms of varying budgets, tastes, preferences etc...this made my work a lot easier”.

Lakhimi also believes in keeping warm, personal relations with her customers, beyond the scope of sales and purchases, trying to make them comfortable, ever-ready to receive their feedback and trying to cater to the needs of her customers. It’s something that has to be inculcated and followed, if one desires to make a name for oneself in the concerned trade. “See, as I said earlier, meeting people, listening to their feedback has always been a thrilling and I must add, a very enriching experience. It gives you the impetus to painstakingly strive to deliver. Personally, I ask all my customers not only to come and buy, but to visit again and again, tell me what they want to see on the shelves, what they would like to wear...and also tell me frankly what they don’t like. It’s a wonderful experience!” Her brainchild Zangfai, her business venture has indeed come a long way from its humble origins in her home to its present-day showroom situated at MRD Road, Silpukhuri, Guwahati. And when I say ‘long way’, I just don’t mean the commercial side. All these years she has seen the changes and shifts in customer tastes and preferences from heavy, traditional, ethnic jewellery to chic and cool ethnic stuff that is in vogue. She has held a number of exhibitions in different places, including one in NEDFI Haat a few years back. "In all these years, I have seen and understood the changes in tastes and demands. You know, different types of customers seek different types of jewellery and consequently, you end up having a huge array of items so unique in themselves, but still endowed with the traditional, ethnic touch.”
And speaking of culture and the present times, she chipped in enthusiastically: “Culture, I believe is something, you unconsciously, involuntarily carry around. Culture is manifested in your psyche, your subconscious. And I believe that being modern does not derive from doing, wearing the things which are ‘in’ and ‘out’. Culture is beyond the scope and influence of trends and crazes. Of course, culture has to move ahead with the times, it has to evolve...this applies to fashion, literature and yes, jewellery as well. I believe that being ‘modern’ comes from being able to carry in one’s personality one’s cultural legacy and the present times...simultaneously. Tradition and change go hand in hand, isn’t it?” I nod frantically, confused, thoughtful, true to my confused college-going self. And what about future plans? “Well, I plan to expand my business in the years to come, hope to enjoy the same response and warmth which I enjoyed all these years. You know, there came a stage when the demand for ethnic jewellery shrank a lot, forcing craftsmen to give up their pursuits temporarily. But thankfully, that’s history and nowadays the market is booming. We have got warm response not only from the Asomiya community, but also the non-Asomiya patrons and even NRI’s who wish to showcase the cultural heritage of Asom abroad. In a way, you can say that I have got a mission to promote the diverse and rich cultural heritage of Asom. I would just like to convey the message that whatever sills you have, you must use it to contribute to society, to culture… but contribute in our own backyard first. We’ve got a lot of talented people over here, if everyone does that, we can work wonders.”

The air is chilly outside, and the evening birds retreat to their cosy nests. The air is heavy with the smell of sweet rain. It’s time I wind up and leave Lakhimi baideu alone, to contine her mission to promote and showcase the rich heritage of Asom through her one-of-a-kind endeavour.

Shoelace Love

Hungry Strings hug my heavy feet
White Toe Nail, Love
Tinkling with
Hysterical grunts, Muted screams
God plummeting down
My blue-eyed love

My Blue Eyed Love
Who sits at the edge
Of a broken chair
Absorbs my glance
In her blue, green eyes
To taste it later


My blue eyed love
Hanging in smells
Of whitewashed rooms
And cheap disinfectant
Speaks the language
Of whore love
Where her words
Play with mine
And make love
On distant trees

Legacy

Defeated ghosts
Knock on
Rubberwood doors
Sniffing
The warm air
Of many children
And stagnating youth
Mingling
In one great
Remnant
Of what was once
Family

Bladeless Fans

Empty pyres
With hungry flames
Yearn for love
And cobwebs
On red-coloured cielings
Sing, howl
With perennial delight
As the pregnant clouds
Deliver
The first bounty
Rain

Nightmare Wind

A naked dream

Clothed

In empty glances

And listless thoughts

Conspires

To achieve

The impossible

Love

Maze

Empty sounds
Jingle
In my hairs
Buzzzing
With discontent
And
Angry words
Conspire
Hurl abuses
At my cardamom
Breath
Old bottles dance
With sober intentions
In hungry orgies
Like schizophrenic peacocks
Keeping me suspended
In the light of
A tired dawn

A forgotten tune
Flat as
My hollow thoughts
Reminds
To remind me
Of Something
I'd forgotten
Before I
Could be remined
To listen

I am finished
I am finished
I am finished

Red Rivers Speak

My red river
Red-crusted river

Orphaned by day
Reddening
Over a surface
Of pale mourning light
Like the essence
Of her
Purple hazy eyes

Oh! Purple hazy eyes
Purple and red
A litany
Of translucent woes

Ductile and malleable

As whore-love

My red river
Tinkling
With the sound
Of anorexic buffaloes

Protruding ribs

Like taut emaciated

Rainbows
Wading through
Deep bellied grunts
And empty gazes
In claustrophobic
Dreams

My red river
Seductress of
The nightbird’s song
Piercing my red river
Like spiralling
Screams
In the space
Between my nails
In empty graveyards
Where dogs scamper
Over decomposed memories
Of my red river
A lethal concoction
Of implausible glances
And persistent queries
Of god and whores
Makes my red river
Red
Redder

My red river
Exists
In me

Reincarnation

Lonely night
A forgotten tune-
Memories bleed

Experimenting with Haiku

My blog
Familiar space-
Creativity bleeds

Haiku Anyone??

An old room
Light seeps in-
Hope

P.S: Pardon my futile efforts at Haiku... I know it's not very good, er...
Better I discontinue the sentence :(

Union

A pair of
Eyes
Large, liquid
Envelops
My early morning frown
In liquid
Tenderness

My Grandma

My grandmother, granny
Eighty-summers-and-half-a-monsoon old
Is the strongest woman on earth
My grandmother, granny
With eyes like tender, dew wet
Grass on winter mornings
Like a dark overcast sky
Eyes, liquid and placid
With untold tales
Only she herself knew
Is the strongest woman on earth
Her long, flowing hair
Now washed on alternate days
With shampoo and later doused
In Cantheridine
Is not as old as her
It was cut, forcibly
When two and a half summers ago
The doctor, with a constipated face
Had clicked his tongue, and predicted
The unimaginable

Her hair, white as the fresh snow
Which formed,on the tops
Of the tea-trees
In the tea-gardens
Where she lived with Grandpa
Would wash her hair, herself
With a generous dousing of Cantheridine
Is still the strongest woman on the earth

Her mind, once a treasure to be mined
From where she had recounted
Age old wisdom to her grandson
Of things interesting, of things unkown
Now lies looted and empty, widowed
Like her
Like the middle
Of her forehead
Which she’d once adorn
With a big, red bindi
Perhaps she’d concentrated
Her indulgent self, all of it
Into grandpa’s pyre
And sacrifices all
To the flames which engulfed him
My grandma, who now sits
In a permanent stupor
Is still the strongest woman
Who cannot be shaken out of her rut
Like six springs back
When she had to watch
Her younger son
Consecrated to flames

My grandma Eighty-summers-and-half-a-monsoon-old
Is the strongest woman
Who is not afraid
Of the holocaust wind
That sings a perennial dirge
Of burglars on the prowl
Of economic recession
Rising price of essentials
And all petty matters
Which worry, and make
Her progeny sweat
Their foreheads, dotted
With beads of sweat
As they discuss strategies
And counter strategies
To fulfil their earthy existence

While all the while
My grandma Eighty-summers-and-half-a-monsoon old
Sits there, in no hurry
And contemplates
The glass of water
On the table

Believe me, my grandma
Eighty-summers-and-half-a-monsoon old

Is indeed

The strongest woman
On earth

She is
My hero

P.S : This poem is dedicated to my grandma, who has turned totally blank and mute, thanks to schizophrenia.

This is her story.

An Untold Tale

Me and my room-mate
Buddies
Sometimes share
A moment of silence
Together

Sometimes
When we’re not
Teasing passing women
Making lewd remarks
All the while
Conscious of being seen
Like to enjoy together
An endless moment of silence
An endless moment of silence
When the sound of our breaths
Shout out loud
Betray our senses
And mourn the silence
Stripped of our pretensions
Of sad civility, shame
When the shirts hanging
In our cupboards
Struggle to cry out
And invade our moment
And the holocaust wind
Tries desperately
To shatter the silence
Into bits

Sometimes
The eerie silence
Can get to your nerves
And you try frantically
Desperately
To find a topic, suitable
To break the fucking silence

But otherwise
It is
The most comfortable
Moment on the earth
The moment
When me and my roommate, strangers
Share
A moment of silence
Together.

P.S : Dedicated to my ex-roomie Shamim...miss you dude!

The Fourth Dimension

Did you know?
The wet windshield
Of my car
My smooth and sleek car
Can show me things
You can’t see

The wet windshield
Of my car
Smooth and sleek car
Can show me
The distorted face
Of the peanut vendor
His face, leather face
Bears the brunt
Of fifty scathing summers
And nineteen thousand
Odd meals
Poor and tasteless
Nineteen thousand
Odd meals
Prepared by his wife
Old, gaunt and frail
In his dilapidated shack
Where every night
After getting drunk
On a bottle of rice beer
He beats his wife
Following the rituals
The tradition
And then sleeps, tries
With his old wife
The empty spaces
Filled with the permanent scent
Of children who grew
Too old to stay
The dilapidated shack
Host to the wind
Which mocks the host’s
Fragile, full-of-ribs frame
And the morning sun
Reeks havoc on his old
Bald head
Red and itchy
But his face
His distorted leather face
Bearing the brunt
Of fifty scathing summers
Does not submit

Didn’t I say?
The wet windshield
Of my car
My smooth and sleek car
Can show me things
You can’t see

A Second Glance

But we won’t meet again-
At the corner of Panbazar
In some obscure joint
With prying eyes, trying
To interpret your yawns
The walls captured
By celebrities, gods, kids
The paint coming off
Crumbling, flaking.

But we won’t meet again-
Pretending it was an accident
Just another déjà vu day
Shake hands, and share
A steaming cup of tea
In shining steel tumblers

We won’t meet again
Over a plate of cheap fare
Raunchy numbers playing in the air
As you scan the menu
The various offerings,
Lined in neat, spaced rows
Like whores on a filthy street

It’s been a long long time
Twenty five Sundays have passed
Since we’d last met
Your lips trembling, a smile
Falling over, the corner
Of your lips, red and lustful
Twenty five Sundays have passed
And the incessant rain
Of time, my dear
Has washed away the castle
We’d built on the Banks of the Brahmaputra
Brahma, the progenitor of creation...
Is he responsible....
For us not meeting?

But we won’t meet again!
I would gladly give up
My stubborn gait,
My early morning frown, if-
We happened to meet, and
We could go
For one last time; this time
In a fancy place
But I’m pretty sure
We won’t meet again
Maybe we had forgotten
The last time we met
To extract a small, insignificant
Promise...from each other.

Time Travel

An old, rickety bus
The old rickety bus
Drab and destitute
Too old to run
Forsaken, left
In the old junkyard
By Amir’s house
Across her school
Could take you places
We had learnt
In childhood
From someone
Who had learnt it
The hard way
The old rickety thing
Bare and dirty
Fillthy
Useless
Like an old whore
Like her grandma
Left slone to rot
In a bare, open road
The old rickety bus
Can take you places
Anik da told
He was the older one
And therefore
Wiser and he had:
A thin line of black forming.
Thin and sparse
Above his cracked Lips
With pockmarks all over
His bloody, red face
He was the older one
And therefore
Wiser, surer
And he said
“Come Come, chalo!!”
Speaking those words
With a british accent
With a bree-teesh-ac-cent
And we shouted
Shrivelling, trembling
And he shouted back
“Get in you bastards!”
And we boarded the old
Rickety thing.

We were proud
And courageous
Gallant, restless
We were excited


To go to places
Unsung, unheard of
Finding a seat
To sit on was
The only
The solitary
Problem

We were ready to go

Those were the days
When childhood
Was not a cud
To be mulled over
Fags, girls and coffee
Today, I know
An old rickety bus
Could take you places
And I am proud
I learnt it
The hard way

A pleasant discovery

Discovered a translation of Bengali Poets today in my bookshelf. In particular, liked one poem by Sunil Gangopadhyay , one of my favourite Bengali poets, actually one of the few Bengali poets I've read. Have a look :

For Neera

Neera, take the purity of the moon
Take the distance of the night
Take the sandalwood breeze
The soothing simplicity of the virgin oil on the rivershore

The lemon-odour within the fist
Neera, turn your face towards me
I’ve preserved the most colourful sunset of the year
For you

Take the smile of the beggar boy
The fresh verdure of the Deodhar tree
The marvel of the green-beetle’s eyes
The whirlwind at a lonely afternoon
The tinkling chime of buffaloes in the woods
Take the silent tears
The wakeful loneliness at midnight
Neera, let the fog coated shiuli shower on you
Let a solitary nightbird whistle
For you

On a lighter note: Chandmari flyover

The best place in Guwahati for

Poets

Failures

Achievers

Writers

Smokers

Addicts

Lovebirds

Tightfisted Lovebirds

Lawyers with no work

Lawyers with little work

Lovers of J14's tandoori

Lovers of momos

Roadside Romeos

Hip fashion trendsetters

Lousy fashion trendsetters

Retired teachers
(Retired teachers of English Literature
are not counted as retired)

Students, both aimless Idioits and geeks

People like me

People like you

People who are broke

People who've been dumped

People who've been sacked


In short, a niche for every soul

Chandmari Flyover
Come and have a look
Seating on first come, first serve basis
Otherwise, an angry fix would do fine.
But be sure to call 108

Consecration

Too much of silence can kill
It tends to deafen you
Swallow, eat you up
As you try to undress
In front of darkness
His prying eyes, roving
Touching, his gaze darting
At every corner of your flesh
As your guilty conscience
Undoes the final garment
And you give up, all
Pretensions of shame, sad
Civility, and prepare
For a lewd night
Feeling like cheap flesh
Dusty, musky and wet
Your sagging breasts, defying
The warmth of your breath
Your large liquid eyes
And you prepare for
One more claustrophobic
Mundane, obscene, heavy
Moment of eternity
To engulf you
To eat you up

Too much of silence can kill
Only if you wish to live

Love's Tide

Two days and half a night
Yes, Two days and half a night
Is all it takes to love a woman

The first is the best, when
Both of you will look, crave
Peep in each other’s eyes
Desolate as caves, liquid
And exchange a moment of
Eternity, an obscene infinity
You can call your own, and feel
The sweltering sun wetting
Your skin, hers, glistening with lust
And think of the next days
When you shall lie, coiled up
Admiring her, she you
And share yet another endless
Shameless moment of lust
And you try, fail, try
To act bold, unabashed, macho
And fumble, as she lights
The post coital fags
And you draw in, exhale
She in smoke, clearing the air
And you peep, for one last look
At her lovely, curvaceous breasts
One last look at her liquid eyes
And you take
A moment of obscenity
In your stride


The first is indeed the best

The rest doesn’t count

Two days and half a night
Yes, two days and half a night
Is all it takes to love a woman

Inspired by Kamala Das (The Looking Glass)

Stray Thoughts

Words fail me when my mind wanders
My thoughts rot like an unheeded wound
Decaying with profuse malodour
Like the drains by the blood drenched streets of death
Nostalgia comes over my soul
My ears turn deaf
My body flaccid
And my lips sealed tight
With the dough of your sweet body
My eyes burn
With your inciting fragrance
Blood gushes down my body
As you let loose your hair
My palms are sweaty
And my lips tremble
Yet you remain as placid
As the sky on a moonlit night
When the shiuli flowers
Let out their sweet fumes
And the ghost in the trees
Lies in ambush
I lie in a rut, dreaming
Ruminating...
Your well oiled hair
Dark as the night
On a Kalbaisakhi storm
Evil and inviting
The lust of delving into the unknown
The sheer thrill of smelling up close
The smell of Cantheridine in your hair
Reminds of some ghostly figure
Reserructed from the dark of the past
Sweet and loving days
Of sitting by the pukur
Watching the maids Wash clothes
The lather rising, frothing,
With millions of bubbles
Like the egg of the hilsa fish
Containing a million granules
And now devoured forever
Oh! How I miss those lazy afternoons
Dreaming of your companionship
Yet I say
Now my fulfillment
Turns to frustration
Like the kite that soars high
Yet fails to touch the sky
Let me touch your body
The soul would be a bit difficult
At least I can see you
Till the world itself
Destroys itself
And vanishes into the unknown

A Muted Song

I don’t have anyone, but silence
To greet me, open the door
And usher me into the night
My voice drifting, lost
In haunting tunes of a forgotten night
Sozzled by tears, numbed by pain
A pang of pain shoots up my body
A weary soul harkens for the past
A whitewashed room, smelling of shiulis
Ma in her blue saree, her mouth mumbling incantations
But now, I don’t have anyone but silence
But I’ll make do with that
Don’t you dare break the stillness
Of the night, like her placid face
The first time we met
She said I was ugly
That night, it was silent
Her laughter shattered the dark
Breaking it into bits
But now, even the sound of my breath
Betrays my senses
Spitting at me, my impotence
Now I have none but silence
To sit by my side
To keep me company.

Published in 'melange' (The Sentinel) on the 19th of July, '09