birds of a browbeat afternoon

by rundown automobiles

where we leaned our bodies

to appreciate sunsets 

for a few brief seconds, 

the world didn't watch.

when the rains came down,

there were clouds,

so the stars didn't watch.

we have been music

lost to time,

we have been laughter eaten by silence;

throughout history,

we have always been

like birds of a browbeat afternoon - 

looking at the skies, heads slanted, 

thinking.

নির্গ্রন্থ

এখন পরিস্থিতি কিছুটা অন্যরকম। শীতের শস্য গোলায় উঠেছে, বাদামী ক্ষেত, মাঠ
এই ধরণের সময়গুলোতেই আমরা ধূসর খামারবাড়ি, ত্যক্ত দালানবাড়ি, ধূলোট আরামকেদারা, থমকে থমথম গ্র্যাণ্ডফাদার ঘড়িদের অ্যাডজেক্টিভ-অন্বয় মৌতাতে ভাবি, এখানে সব শান্ত, স্থির -
বহুদূর হেঁটে বিরাট নির্বান্ধব কোনো বনস্পতির কাছে চলে যাওয়ার মতো।

হাঁটা প্রয়োজনীয়। সন ২০১৪র ডিসেম্বর মাসের প্রথম সপ্তাহে কাশ্মীর উপত্যকায় দেখা হয়েছিলো যে যুবকের সাথে, তার পুরুষাঙ্গ ভারতীয় সেনাবাহিনীর কেউ কর্তন করেছিলো, 
সেই থেকে,
সেও অবিরাম হেঁটে চলেছে চিনারবনে।

মানুষে সমষ্টিগতভাবে হতেই পারতো বনস্পতিদের চেয়ে সৌভাগ্যবান।
তারা বলতেই পারতো একে অপরকে –
“আমরা সবাই একা”,
“আমরা সবাই ঠিক এভাবেই ভালোবেসেছি বা বেসেছিলাম”, ইত্যাদি;
অথচ,
জানলা বন্ধ হয়ে গ্যালো।
দরজা বন্ধ হয়ে গ্যালো।

এখন সময় গম্ভীর হয়ে আসছে। সন্ধ্যের সোনার থালা পূর্ণচন্দ্র মাঝরাত হতে না হতে
কানা ডাইনীর টকটকে লাল চোখ। বাইরের অনন্ত ব্যপ্তি ভিতর ধরে না সহজে।
রূপ ধরে না অরূপ। বন্দরে ছিমছাম ঘুমোচ্ছে কয়েকটা বুড়োটে জাহাজ,
আস্তাবলে কয়েকটা ঘোড়া।

অথচ, চলমান আমাদের মধ্যে
আমাদের চলমান ছায়াদের মধ্যে,
যারা দাঁড়িয়ে পড়ছে, বসে পড়ছে, ঝুঁকে পড়ছে
ইউনিভার্সের কার্ণিশ, পোর্টিকো, ব্যলকনি ধরে, যারা রাজবাড়ি যাবে না,
ভুঁড়িভোজ খাবে না,
মধ্যযুগীয় কোনো জলদস্যুর খুলি থেকে খুলে নেবে না এক-আধটা সোনার দাঁত
তাদের দিকে রাইফেল তাক করে আছো যারা, প্রিয় স্নাইপারবৃন্দ, -

তোমাদের চোখে পাতা পড়ে না
তোমাদের অগণন উত্তরাধিকার, অথচ,
জেনে রেখো,
তোমাদের জন্য,
কেউ কেউ কিন্তু পাথর জমিয়ে রাখছে ঠিক
তারাদের নাম রাখছে পাথরদের নামে,
পাথরদের নাম রাখছে তারাদের নামে। আকাশের নাম রাখছে – সময়।

blank

thru jaded witches' sabbaths

thru hills far away

stones & dices roll

fields of gold sway

days drip greed

nights strewn aghast

ghosts haunt magic

monsters hunt pasts

cities lonely yellow

hamlets pale in pain

rivers rest awhile

to flow on with the rain

rain gets thirsty

forests fade far

houses scorch earth

doors ever ajar

winds carry tales

with stars and the moon

the moon gets it silver

crazy roads swoon

some roads are the highways

some run through mists

some through expectations

some through dead-end wrists

when fires burn or don't

where the breezes blow

you know how it is

you know what you know

you ask mirrors to belong

you look for dreams in eyes

your fathers sail along

your mothers are the skies

you look for eyes in trees

your flagposts in the clouds

ancient tunes teach some love

you learn from sunset cows. 



তুত্তারে স্বাহা

তুত্তারে স্বাহা...

হরিণের দুইটা চোখ

একটা সবুজ তারা

একটা শ্বেত তারা

এইবারে কোনটা খাবে, 

বিচার কোরো, প্রজ্ঞা, 

আচার কোরো, পারমিতা

তুত্তারে স্বাহা...

the room of love

in the room of love a hunter weeps

maybe, the sun has set

but the shadows won't talk about it

the shadows won't talk about anything at all

the hunter knows nothing of this silence

the hunter seeks laughter that never is,

never was,

shall never be.

let us kill the hunter tonight

let the deer have his meat tonight.

a story about us & them

shorn, bereft of all rain and earth

like waters under bridges we pass,

our hearts pass – ever searching for the glint

that never was, ever in the sea, dinghies in storm,

bitten, by the vipers of conquest,

eaten by emptiness –

ghosts of our dead selves – winds and sails –

they, who won, who reached – took our salts

and crafted telltale tales of the magic that once

was yours and mine.  us, who became hallways

where specters of children

who turned into pictures loom – turned pages,

wept a bit. flickered a bit. killed monsters.

and fell to silence –

for a while and ever.

was there ever a chestnut tree?

did the breeze ever send shivers down its ancient, leafy soul?

সিংহ-খেলা

পাহাড়ে পাহাড়ে আলোর মালা

নদীতে নদীতে গান

বুকের ভিতর ঘণ্টা বাজছে

শিরদাঁড়া টানটান

জিজীবিষাময় ছন্দ তুলে

আঁকছে খোয়াবনামা

কখনো গুণ্ডা কখনো বিরসা

কখনো সত্যভামা

মশাল জ্বালে বনস্থলী

হাওয়ায় কাঁপে পাতা

রক্ত-ঘামের ডায়েরী জুড়ে

পুড়ছে যাপনভাতা

জমাট বাঁধা আঁধারপথে

পুরাণ-কঠোর বেশে

বজ্রমুঠোয় কলজে ধরে

হিড়মা এলো দেশে

শাল-মহুলের স্বপ্ন মেখে

সিংহখেলার শুরু

বাজুক তবে পাগলা-মাদল

বাজাও ডম্বরু

ছয়টি হাজার বছর ধরে

জমলো যত ব্যথা

এবার তবে পাল্টা-পালা

দ্রোহরাগ-কথকতা!

you will never know

you will never know what beast pounds inside all the time 

the stars are strangely quiet tonight

what do we care about broken boats? starfishes grow limbs,

emptiness eats the sky.

rain has taken all the postcards tonight.

A History of the Fall

In the summer of 1936, there was a war
In the autumn of 2017, the war still is
The same enemy – power
The same dreams – freedom

In the summer of 1937,
three human fireflies
had fallen in Granada
Along with many other
Across the  world.

In the autumn of 2017, the fireflies
have fallen in swarms

The last seventy years,
like the seventy thousand before that
has been a history
of this fall

In the summer of 1936,
by some firefly-bereft dump
Three good people
Got bumped off.
As did many more in many other places

In the autumn of 2017
In a country where Barcelona
is football clubs for the elite
Two such fireflies
got it bad. As tanks entered Catalonia.

By then,
everywhere,
real fireflies were leaving
fast.

letter from one weary bombay night

Come, dance, what else is there to do?

too much dust on the lenses. Fireflies fly no more, 

except occasionally;

Mocking bird mocks no more. It is sad. One mad donkey

named Civilization 

beats the dust, 

brays on. It is nothing.

I would have rather named it Platero

I would rather name each speck of stardust – Love

This will not change anything. This is not meant to. 

This is where, cities of the halogen night

meet naked rivers made of mist. This is where everything

turns into time. This is where we must dance. 

Nothing ever has been 

as beautiful

as this silence.

...

the healing touch

a dot

that joins itself

within itself

all by itself

have you ever tried this

at home all alone

with everybody

tacit books and wise masks

with sad seaside balloon-sellers

through the sands

one gibberish city of mundane

arise arise

it has been good

neon

all the smiles

toasts raised

hoisted petticoats

flags of

who we are

mirrors of

subjectivity.  Mad time. One meme life. One bullet life.

But when all the chips were down,

history had gone to meet the daughter of the clouds.

  

Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik

there's no song for you tonight, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik, 

some people will rejoice, we know who they are,

and this is not about them.

as for us, we are too scared of being judged

after all, your ancestors were criminals, as were mine

as you know, buddy, crimes across history does lead to anger across history. some people rejoice in this anger, it makes them powerful, we know who they are,

and this is not about them

as for us, we are too weary too churn

how, thoughts, actions, words, pictures - bring some people closer, thwart some asunder

like all histories have ever been doing - 

through all these wars and struggles big and small - across all these walls that we have built 

in the name of all the shit that frightens us, 

all that hollows us out, 

that chokes our music

and snuffs our candles - 

stern bricks like caste, race, creed, colour, religion, passport-stamps, public opinion, political mores of the enlightened et cetera et cetera.

personally, perhaps, a few of us will hum a timid tune or two for you, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik, or sigh or weep for you - but all from deep inside these enlightened walls. like we sang and wept and sighed deep inside when that kid who got killed for wearing a shahid afridi tee-shirt had etched a small ripple across our respective information bubbles a few moons ago.

even then, some had rejoiced, 

but it was never about them.

it has always been about us. 

we are afraid

we are tired

ghosts haunt us every night

many moons down the line, these ripples will turn into smudges, and then, into indelible imprints,

and then, something incredible will happen

maybe, certain magic doors will open up 

maybe, the ghosts will stop haunting us,

the bullies will stop bullying us

the killers will stop killing us bit by bit

we have the privilege to imagine

we have the privilege to dream,

to learn

to climb trees and mountains;

we are alive

we are afraid of political incorrectness

we are tired of all the killings 

we are silent

we are screaming

we are criminals

we draw flowers

we draw pistols

ghosts haunt us every night

and the ghosts have taken all our songs for you tonight, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik.

বালিঘড়ি ও বাতিঘর

তুমি, যে বিমুক্তি নেবে অন্ধ আলোর থেকে

আলোকিত অন্ধকারের পথে, স্রোত থেকে স্রোতান্তরে –

তুমি, যে উজান ও ভাঁটা মিলে শূন্য হবে – তেপান্তরের ও’পারে রাখবে

নির্গ্রন্থ অক্ষরকাঁটা – জঙ্গলে মানুষের ঘ্রাণ, মানুষে সমুদ্রের

সমুদ্রে বসত করে অলীক জলপরী

মাঝে মাঝে উঠে আসে জ্যোৎস্নার বালুচরে ক্লিশের ক্লীবমুখ ছিঁড়েফুঁড়ে –

মাংসে চৈতন্য ছোঁড়ো, ছোঁড়ো পাথর কাঁটাতারে কার্ফ্যুতে

প্রেমবজ্র নিক্ষেপ করো যা কিছু দুখদায়ী, তাতে,

যে দুঃখ আপন নয় তাতেও কেঁদেছো বুঝি কিছু

নিভৃত সুন্দর কাঁদিয়েছে অভ্যন্তর আলিন্দে প্রাচীরে

কেঁদে কেঁদে ফিরে গ্যাছে দয়ালু নদীর ঢেউ নানাবিধ বিকেলের কাছে

ভেঙে দুই রাঙাপাড়, গিলে কিছু কেল্লা ও ফাটক

প্রিয় ইনকিলাব,

গাছ হয়ে যেও মাঝে মাঝে

চিঠি লিখতে ইচ্ছে করলে মানুষের মতো অনুভূত হয়  -

জানলা খুলে রেখো

বলা যায় না, চলেও আসতে পারে যে'কোনো উচ্ছ্বল একদিন

দু’একটা নির্লিপ্ত প্রজাপতি – পায়ে নিয়ে অবিস্মরণীয় রেণু!

moon man & mother time

moon man is beautiful
moon man is wise
and when the world gets dead & dark
fireflies gather for advice

it is always evening here
too much thirst to quench
certain hearts shall flutter by
certain writhe and wrench

moon man's mother, she is time
she is sweet like flesh
little children pop their heads
and see the world afresh!

mama time, she knows it all
she shall ever do
moon man, he's strong & tall
and both of them are true.

Rohingya

40 thousand people

40 thousand phantoms

are marching towards you 

right now

you have taken their lands

you have taken to hatred

you have been taken by greed

they knew nothing of this

they knew everything

their backs, painted by barbwire,

cooked by bullets

know everything

40 thousand dreams

that couldn’t connect

how the price of onion & flour 

and the price of guns and tanks

and the wrath of Buddha

and the sword of Rama

would not let them 

return to their homes by sunset,

maybe, smoke a little,

and look at the river flowing by,

clouds making shapes in reds and oranges

so they turned with the tides,

with the agony of the moon, the weeping hills,

the alert golden winged vultures – 

with all history and being – 40 thousand vivid humans

first you didn’t count them

and now, you can’t

and, right now, 

in deep silence,

they are marching

towards you

towards the spot between your eyes

may 40 thousand nightmares be all yours tonight

Rohingya, flesh of me and my mother

soul of my sweet, big, ancient earth

you, 

friends,

shall live 

and they, who took your lands and bodies,

shan’t.

Naked Heart

the gun's too close

too thick the mist

your heart is black

so clench your fist

your heart is blue

your heart is green

your songs are true

your fireflies glean

like magic dots

in the heart of night

your heart is black

so rise and fight

your heart is a song

your soul is steel

the gun's too close

the river flows

where do you flow?

how do we row?

who there screams

in gypsy dreams?

who shall go

where the flames lie low?

your teacher was darkness -

the wolves shall know

the wolves make guns

the wolves made daggers

the wolves kill with swagger

the wolves have fun

and here you are

your shadows quiver

the moon is red

your heart is a giver

and the gun's too close

too beastly be the moon

so seek out from your dark

a naked, lonely tune.

Certain Questions for Ashurbanipal

weep, Ashurbanipal, your books burn

your thoughts lie in seize

their frenzy must be yours now, or else probabilities

might wreck through your strange pillars, certain 

kitchen-gardens, might tear forth clockfaces 

who are like old fighters with broken teeth

certain duties need to be performed 

so, king Banipal, the Ashur, tears off a leaf

There were many Ashurs after him,

a few might even have had charged into enemy columns

all by themselves,

one or two might even have had faded into marshlights

in some tiger-prowl fen, a few might have looked

down from the hills to see their huts burning

fields of gold-coloured crops turning into fields of gold-coloured flames, as they billow up, 

smoke covers nostrils of historians, - who, eyes wide shut

never sought to learn from all these fires - 

might not weep with you, ancient, regal Ashur with

a crown and a ruby perhaps, a belt of gold, 

Nile & Sudan coloured dreams off lion-glow skin and flesh in mud,

sweat, - as they see their scrolls & parchments aflame

(When the smoke gets thick enough, one often finds it tough to ascertain who's on which side)

Now tell us, mighty ruler of Nineveh, from many climes beyond, will you shoot

at the past - at history -

or will you shoot at the enemy now?

The palace is dark. Pillars frown down. The Ashur weeps for wisdom lost.

naming names

fondly affectionate in equal measures towards all religion and war

as we roam the wilderness and dust, ever, universe-bound,

across all the roads of the world that bend towards our bodies,

our scars,

what name will you give

to these question marks, moonlit and stout,

that sweep softly along the dark brows of time?

and what name will you give to the banshee-child

that weeps softly by a secret little pond

where all the fishes, frogs and lilies have always known that all magic has ever been real?

‘ফিরে এলো রসিক নাগর’ – জমজমাট পরিস্থিতি – সপরিবারে পাঠ করুণ

***

***

***

রসিক নাগর ফেরে পালটানো পথে।

বেরসিক নাগরিক কলা ব্যাচে রথে।।

ব্যাবিলনে ঘুঘুবনে ঘোরে হাহাকার।

বহি’ চলে অবিরাম বিষাদপাথার।।

পাথারে পাথর ভাসে, রসে ভাসে দেহ।

পঞ্চ প্রহরী তার চিনে কেহ কেহ।।

একদিন চিনে নেবে, জাপানেও নেবে।

আগুন গিয়েছে নিভে নগরী নিনেভে।।

নগরীর নটী অভিসারসহ কালের গর্ভে মিশি’। 

ভাঙনঘুমে ডুকরে ওঠে কাঙালপারা নিশি।।

আগুনে নিয়েছে কিছু, আঁধারেও আরো।

ইতিহাসে পাঁতিহাসে মিলি’ পোয়াবারো।। 

ভূমধ্যসাগরে যদি মধ্যম পথ। 

দেখিতেন বুদ্ধ তবে উড়ে যেতো রথ।। 

রথে চেপে শবরের মঠ লোঠে হিন্দু। 

হেরি’ছে এ’হ্যানো সীন বঙ্গনামা সিন্ধু।। 

কত কিছু ঘটি’ যায় মেদিনীর ধড়ে।

লাফাই’ উঠে উচ্চিংড়ে লাফায় কিছু ফড়ে।।

নানানজন নানানদিকে নানান কিছু ধরে।

টুঁটি ধরে চৈতন্যকাল মারণ-কামড়ে।।

পুলিশ ধরে মধ্যরাতে পেঁচোয় ধরে ভোরে।

আশমানময় নানানরঙা ধান্ধাঘুড়ি ওড়ে।।

জমিনময় সূত্রধরেরা লাটাই কষে ধরছে। 

সেই গুঁতোতেই আবাল কিছু কোল্যাটারাল মরছে।। 

রাখাল বালক বজ্রমুষ্ঠে ধরিয়া ধেনুর পুচ্ছ। 

নদীজলে বীর্য্য তাহার ঢালিছে গুচ্ছ গুচ্ছ।।

কারণ-অতীতে ডোম্বী-বীর্য্য টলাইলা চণ্ডালী। 

খরপর্বতে ডমরু বাজিলে নাচিবে কঙ্কালী।।

আজি যে বালক কাল সে যোগী ধরিয়া র’বে বিন্দু।

মাংসগল্পে কহিবে জাতক হইও সবার বন্ধু।।

জ্বলছে মাংস জ্বলিবে টায়ার জ্বলিতেছে গ্যাসোলীন। 

রহিবে রসিক চিরবিষাদী, রহিবে না আশাহীন।।

***

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নিশিথে

শেষরাতে পেলে কি তাকে, পেলে কি নিরঞ্জন? 
ঘরে চোর হয়ে ইঁদুর ঢোকে, নিশিথ ঢোকে বুকে
নানান মালঞ্চে তার ফণাফণা পড়ে আছে প্রেম, 
পড়ে আছে মায়াঘড়ি, অবলুপ্ত কড়িকাঠ-আদি 
পড়ে আছে, থাকবে বলে, বহু কাল হতে বহুতর 
কালান্তের পথে তার ধূসর চলিষ্ণু ছায়া, স্বপ্নের
মতো মরে যাওয়া, বেঁচে ওঠা জীবনের মতো - ভাসমান, 
এসো,
নানান রঙ্গে এসো, 
ভোর হলে, তেঁতুলের জঙ্গলে 
স্মরগরলে 
সবুজ আভার ভরে মায়াবী প্রজাপতি আসে, নিখাদ তৃপ্তির মতো,
অপার বন্দরে আসে, বহুকাল তৃষ্ণা কুড়োবে বলে খুদকুঁড়ো,
ব্রীজ বাঁধা শেষ হলে, যবে, ঘুমিয়ে পড়বে সবকটা কবি ও ফসল
তখন মানুষের কাছে আর কিই বা উষ্ণতা দেবে, ইছামতি, দাবানল?
বুকভরা জল কেটে অভিমান এঁকে যাও, সেই বুকে 
ঢুকবে নিশিথ
সেই জলে নামবে অতল কুমীর কিছু, স্মৃতির মতোই, 
অশ্রুমেয় - নামবে বলেই 
অপেক্ষমাণ, তটের কাছে, রাতের শেষে, 
কিরণ এলে, ছুঁলে কি তাকে? ছুঁলে কি নিরঞ্জন?

Nine Riders from Hell

Presented hereinbelow are translations of one poem each from nine Bengali poets who had embraced martyrdom in the early years of Naxalbari.

1. Saroj Dutta (encountered by police action on August 5, 1971)

Ratnakar

bloodied feathers fall on calm river

a sky chewed up through chest-smashing calls of parting

Hunter – the Nishadh –

He stands, shameless, stoic, stark in laughter,

Inebriation of non-violence in hand, red eyes,

Bandit Ratnakar awakes

sad questions in eyes, he stays awake, stunned by this sudden pain

two eyes of one swan – hurt to death

– strewn astray by feet

Rishi, speechless in shame, Vedic mantras make no answer

Golden dreams of fortitude in eyes,

the Hunter has won

From ashes of forgetting rises –

a past, aflame

Vessels of blood burn in brutal wrath,

Rishi burns in the hatred of denial

-- Today, by the rice-bereft hut, does she still stay awake?

His lover, her breasts are made of skin – does she hold a baby-skeleton to her?

In peals of laughter the Dasyu poet

– he tears those false flags of non-anger

Day of darkness, fulfilled,

to end by the dimly caving shores

…

2. Dronacharya Ghosh (tortured to death in police custody, 6^th February 1972)

Prehistoric

Broken bones scattered everywhere, untouchable skeletons

One or two half-complete animals;

No light cuts through the vines & orchids to hit the eye

flint-sparks inside occult caves make sunlight

Borderlines of prehistoric humanity nearby

Mother of smooth, naked youth –

One community- one woman – piercing through the atmosphere

No other eyes

Ghastly sharp screeches of beasts

The ancient shape of skulls strewn afar

Suddenly, stone-dagger stabs rabbit-heart

Warm blood – inchmeal writhing and wriggling

Making love with own mother –

there’s some bloodshed in that too

Strewn astray, all around, rocks, diamonds, and

remaining human bones,

Passion for one or two eldritch arts

Stiff, doughty roars – desire of lioness before dead lion

Fades, slowly, to identity

…

3. Murari Mukhopadhyaya (killed by police firing in Hazaribag Jail, 24.07.1971)

Hiroshima Askance

If a boy, sullen, with ruffled hairs,

comes to me and says –

i wanted to be established in life

why did you kill me? if he asks –

i have never harmed you

why did you harm me?

could you, with all my bones,

slay those violent, hateful monsters that

stand against life?

then why did you not let me live?

What will i reply?

I am American,

we have killed that student from Hiroshima

while he was going to school.  

…

4. Timir Baran Sinha (beaten to death in Behrampore Jail, 24^th February, 1971)

Walking, Sad

Some nights, I have cried

like wild rain

Poured fire on blind niches

Turned mad

Walked sad

In darkness

Through fields, bereft, after harvest…    

…

5. Amiya Chattopadhyay (beaten to death in Alipore Jail, 26^th November, 1971)

Hunger of Land in the Face of Guns

Rain! Rain! It rains all day

In the hot hills of the northern country

On minds, humane, deep inside forests,

Blazing fires roar out in waves

Frightened warnings from the rear,

like brutal, caged beasts,

Seek to pull back minds that boil in fury of blood

Huzur, go ahead

attack the flames of the sun

foil all rebel-dreams with your thousand rancid forces

Soldiers who seek for you

Plucking experiences from dark hollows of time

They shall raise arms!

They shall make vicious enemies fail

They shall make them wither, one by one

Naked minds flare up

Forces billow up wild in fury,  

to lash out against enemy camps

 Heavenly dreams flop down like landslides

Inside hilly minds

Land roars out in hunger in face of guns

O humans, look!

Babies born today, in houses

of the workers and the farmers

Poked by bayonets, before the glinting sparks,

They dream of a new world!

…

6. Ashutosh Majumdar (Tortured to death in Jadavpur Police Station, 9^th March, 1971)

Weaver, Weave Your Loom

What pledge shall I keep? On what trust?

Even today

Two minds do not meet

What hopeless oath shall I take?

Two minds do not meet

On what certitude must I go? Those pure outcries

Hit the ears, lucid evermore

Weavers weave looms in my mind

Knots clutter the mind up at times

It’s complicated

I think, with what hopeless pledge must i move?

Whether it will work, or whether it won’t? –

these two minds of the two

Troubled, all the while

Status quo brings weariness

Weaver, weave on your loom

Inside my mind

…

7. Tushar Chandra (Beaten to death in Burdwan Jail, 27^th May, 1971)

In the Villages of India, Struggling for Freedom (Song-Lyrics)

In the villages of India, struggling for freedom

Countless farmers have risen

Behold, storm approaches!

Storm of revolt approaches!

Dashing through the vicissitudes

Hurling all that’s tattered asunder

Severe hurricane charges in

Farmers wage war in great anger

Shattering all shackles, hoisting the blood-red flag

Storm approaches…

…

8. Kalachand Dalal (Encountered by Police on 12^th May 1972)

Broken Clouds and Broken Moon (song-lyrics)

Broken clouds and broken moon

Playing hide and seek

I row my boat down the wild river

Hoisting sails of freedom

Playing hide and seek –

The moon has leaned, the morning star

Points at hints of light

Robins sing, cuckoos croon in tune

The carnival of music is on –

Playing hide and seek –

May yellow leaves fall today

May all that’s new flood today

May foul breezes go away

May the dusts go with them

…

9. Sudipto Bandyopadhyay (Disappeared while in underground and after being afflicted with encephalitis. Last  traced in 1970.)

Song of Walking the Road

The spring of 1970 arrives

When wintry mists of melancholia

Were, like those in throes of tuberculosis

Seeking for light, seeking to breathe clean air

Ceaseless dark smoke from chimneys

Had lit incense sticks made of blood and sweat

The spring of 1970

Cuckoo-voice of lovers sing

Love me, beloved

Love me,

And love the music of our thoughts

The music is harsh

The song is ruthless

The right to love

Across all the countries of the world

Beloved, such is your love

Do you remember Shona Boudi?

You, who had defied Ahalya,

Beloved, do you remember that day

when peals of spring thunder rang through the northern clouds

and the daughter of Terai sang out loud?

It is not your evening lamp

It is torches, ablaze

You did not hear it right

It is not happy sounds of faithful festivity

It is the rifle roaring out from the hands of Nirmala

I am that lover of yours

Who walks along the long roads

To bathe in the sun

Won’t you be my sun-bathed lover?

The green fields & forests,

Of the Santhal Parganas, of Andhra

And, far far away, a sound

Moves with the echoes of livid explosion

Moves with the spring of 1970

Moves with your love, with my love

Stay, beloved,

My love is not that tiny nest

It is but a dream – i seek splendid rhythms of life

I walk the roads

I shall find them, I will.

Lovers of spring paint with blood today

Around the villages, around human settlements

Far away and further

And yet so near

It forms a circle

The circle gets smaller

And when the dark night of the bats is over

It becomes that tiny nest

Beloved, if I am no more on that day

And, if spring arrives,

Set the voice of my rifle to tune

Remember, i used to love

The song of walking the roads

…

(Earnest gratitude to Frontier Weekly and Milansagar for making the original Bangla verses available in public domain)

epitaph

born like grass in wombs of time

live like sounds of bells that chime

gliding by all easy paths

dead like birds at aftermaths 

ever at large, ever alert

weep for the windmills, musafir heart