For Avijit Roy, Shaheed

a bit of free mind got martyred yesterday
are there any stats of how many butterflies are born per day?
are there any estimates of how many nuclear warheads will end religion for good?
i've heard somewhere that martyrs don't really die
that's bullshit
everyone dies
but when beautiful people get killed by ugly people
it feels like shit.

Anyways, Abhijit Roy (hope that's how you used to spell your name), salute.
All the beautiful blogs in the world seemed to have turned a shade bluer tonight.

Comrade Saroj Dutta, Your Ghost

Sitting by the statues that were always there

As fields turn into houses 

and green crops turn into green money

the crops were red with your blood

the money is green with my greed

flowers that never bloom

decorate stairwells of the king's highway

rivers of gold and death spill over

the sun wilts down

the moon wastes away

they carry big men on big black cars

and guards with guns guard the gate of justice

there's a show by the pillars tonight

but men with guns have taken my keys

they'd taken yours too, but you had the guts

to ask it back

so they shot you instead.

i was in a carnival

the music was strong

the wheels were wild

they were to try the killer 

they were to hang the killer

they called out the killer's name

but it was my name

so i hid behind a mask

so they shot my brother instead.

these days, the streets are busy

we have too many bombs to feed

hearts heave booms before heavy iron bars

these days, the nights are haunted

we have said all words

we have heard all sounds

we have dreamed all dreams

now we repeat it all

through tragedies and farces

once there was a lizard that stayed behind a wall-clock

it came out at odd hours

i had named it Newton

but then it fell on a tub of muriatic acid

it's ghost lives by the clock-hands

and eats the flesh of time  

the ghost of this dead reptile

glides by red clouds of midnight

it's always a cold midnight

they chopped you to pieces on a cold midnight

they left you by the pillars of false history

before false judges to determine

with their false teeth chattering in make-believe wisdom

the mist has grown thick ever since

so thick that no foglight can pierce through,

no sniper can aim at

the keys are still with them

but they better be wary 

their guns can't kill dead people

their bombs can't rip ghosts of dead dreams

and when ghosts ride out to reclaim all that's lost

-- it's always a beautiful dream to live and die by.

সব সরে সরে যায়

সব সরে সরে যায় চেতনার বসতির ভিটামাটি, বালুচর
ভোর হবে, 
শাম হবে, 
ছাইডানা শঙ্খ 
বাজিকর একদিন 
সকলেই আলাদীন
আমাদের বাতিঘর
ধর ধর কর কর
আমোদের হাঁড়িব্যোম
সব নড়ে নড়ে যায় বাড়িঘর বাতিঘর ভুতপ্রেত মার্মেড কিসকিস কার্পেট

'Achchhey Din'

Ever heard of Ralf Fox?
Heard of Caudwell and Cornford?
Do you know of Federico Garcia Lorca?
These martyrs had reddened Spain
The green olive forests are red
Mothers lost children, lose children,
Yet I say, good days approach
Come, let’s go touch their blood
And write, with that blood,
a song for the good days.

(the original Bangla was by Somen Chanda (1920-41), fighter, poet, martyr, the one of the first and only flagbearers of the Progressive Writers' Association's work on the cultural front in Bengal, the earliest Bangla voice against Fascism, hacked to pieces by forces of sectarian and partisan violence)

The Ballad of Ahalya-Ma

folks were hungry in the land of food

the farmers fought for they had to fight

or else the rice would go for good

in the fogged autumn of forty eight

the food had gone to feed a war

the food was snatched by the sharks of land

the food was burnt in petro-tar

and so the farmers formed their band

the women loved their rice a lot

they fought for it for they had to fight

they led the fights the folks had fought

holding broomsticked flags of might

the men marched out in angry files

with bamboo rods in clitter-clatter

to free the land for a thousand miles

a lot of evil they had to splatter. 

the evil had arms of deadly hate

of men with guns meant for their uses

the guns were owned by the mighty state

and so were the bombs and so were the fuses.

in lands and waters far away

people fought and kingdoms fell

through the night and through the day

humans burnt in man-made hell

in lands and waters closer home

the food was gone and the lands bled death

off to cities many did roam

to pass their beastly endgame breath

some stayed back and fought for it

to save the rice and save the soil

with fists clenched and jaws firm grit

they stood for the glory of their toil

through a jungle a river ran

tigers roamed the woods in swarms

and right where the forest began

came those boats with men of arms

cold breeze blew from far away

mist had gripped the land so tight

in November, on the sixth day

the whole of Kakdwip rose to fight

evil forces armed with hate

marched in fury to gut all guts

and when they reached the village-gate

conch-shells rang out from the huts.

from hut to hut the news leapt

the women blew the shells so hard

the rice was theirs, it must be kept

out they came and marched forward

Ahalya with a baby inside

broom in hand she led the march

Batashi, Comrade, by her side

to fight the brutes that lay in lurch

little Ashwin, he gripped a rod

and sprang out of the angry wave

he saw their guns in daylight broad

didn’t cower, had rice to save

evil Paresh, blessed by the leaders,

had shown the forces their lusty way

like all who seek to climb tall ladders

the sun was shining, he made hay. 

Ahalya hit him with her broom

as little Ashwin wielded his stick

and thus arrived the hour of doom

bullets shot out of the mist so thick

the state was hurt, it sought revenge

the sharks of land, they paid it well

farmers killed from point blank range

martyrs have their tales to tell. 

shot, Ashwin, he writhed in pain

Sarojini, sister, she heard him shriek

she ran for water, she ran in vain

shot in an arm, her world got bleak

bullets flew like metal rain

Brother and Sister, they squirmed in thirst

they had no guns to guard the grain

yet they fought because they must

Ahalya, she heard them scream

she ran to them like comrades do

she sought to run to the flowing stream

but then she got a bullet too

love thus fell to the force of hate

for the rice she breathed a prayer

a monster arrived with bayonet 

to gut her womb and the child in there.  

Batashi, Surya – they saw this sight

out they sprang to save the dream

they have no guns but they must fight

as their friends writhe and scream

the guns blazed out yet again

and angry bits of metal flew

couldn’t stand long, the bullet-rain 

Batashi fell, and Surya too

shot through her belly, Batashi died

few were hurt, dead were many

in pain and thirst Ashwin cried

as did his sister and Suryamani. 

three of them got dragged to a boat

five more corpses heaped in there

to the upstream town it set afloat

rivers don’t speak but they do stare

Sarojini, gripped by mighty thirst,

cried before they’d gone too far

men with guns, creatures cursed

they shoved a bayonet inside her

Surya, she was thirsty too

she saw her die, she heard her yell

she drank own blood, her lips were blue

and thus she lived to tell the tale

The boat sailed by, the sun went down

the fields of paddy lay in blood

history, she’s a sullen clown

gliding by through drought and flood

She juggles around with odds and evens

as farmers live and farmers die

bloody Kakdwip – the island of ravens

echoed thus with their battle-cry

So, remember remember the sixth of November

of blood-drenched nineteen forty eight

and in heart’s hidden, hounded chamber

Ahalya, her friends – they rise to fight. 

Bodh Hawey Tungabhadra-r Tiir-ey (Seems Like By the Shores of Tungabhadra)

By the river Tungabhadra the sun is going down
By the river Tungabhadra our anchors do not frown
By the river Tungabhadra our hearts are slightly sad
By the river Tungabhadra crimson grips us mad

By the river Tungabhadra there are clouds in her hair
By the river Tungabhadra my shadow’s a soothsayer
Grasses see their own shadows on pitchers made of bronze
By the river Tungabhadra crimson grips our bones

By the river Tungabhadra ghosts of children dead
By the river Tungabhadra real maps that bled
By the river Tungabhadra guts gut in hellholes
They are very angry and may anger blaze all souls

By the river Tungabhadra shades of greenlove soft
At times when we bust out they do hold us high aloft
By the river Tungabhadra five thousand stars are singing
The roots will all have wings out there, the bells of time are ringing.