fear lane

spotted owlet sits on its half-blue heart -
ghosts heave silence on time
one down city trying to speak through silts and phlegm

for all these beautiful people

what we had wanted – silence, through the centuries of el dorado,
discreet charms of the bourgeoisie, saturnine –
but the streets are full of gold and blood
cities fill with lonely people – all we had yearned for become little tattoos
and dangle down the cheeks of forever – 
where bugles dream of rice and love,
soldiers dream dreams that rich people dream – of increments and royalty,
blue blood flowing like wine through blue glasses,

but if I get love I will break the blue glasses
I will pee on the blue wine
and stand by the banks of the Nile
and wave my wand made of freedom
and stand at the brink of all beginning and end
and wave my flag made of dreams
and maybe do a little jig or two on the sides with Rumpelstiltskin who loves me,
who feeds my soul.

each day

each day turns a bit

like senor che turning 

in the tombstones of revolution 

লুক ব্যাক ইন অ্যাংগার

সকালে বাম্পন্থী কেত্তন
দুপুরে ইউক্যালিপ্টাস পত্তন
বিকালে সস্তায় আদিবাসী মাগী তোলা 
সন্ধ্যায় সোনাঝুরি-তলে মহুয়া গেলা
অতঃপর গম্ভীর অমানিশা।

আত্মজীবনী প্রথম স্কন্দ

আগমপোঁথি, ইষ্টমালা

নাটুকে নাগর, ঝালাপালা

চর্যা-চারণ, বিসমা হৈ'

চতুর বায়স, যাচ্ছে কৈ?

কর্ণফুলি, বাজবে ডুলি

পুর্ণ হৈবা, ভিক্ষু ঝুলি

পূর্ণচন্দ্র, মাধুকরী

ডমরু বাজে, মাদলা মাতাল

চক্ষে চন্দ্র, চমকে চাতাল

মেঘমন্দ্র, অথই পাতাল

বদন ফাগে, বোধন জাগে

আগুনপাখি, সবার আগে

উড়নচাক্তি, সুপ্রভাতে

জিৎকুণ্ডে, ঘোর সাভাতে

মোহন অগ্নি মৃগদাবে

মৃগনাভী বক্ষ ভাবে

হৃৎকুটিরে, হৃদ লুটি রে

শরঋদ্ধ, বিদ্ধ দিঠি

শোণিতরঞ্জ খঞ্জনীটি

ঝঞ্ঝা-নীড়ে স্বপন ঘিরে

তুফান থামে শান্তি নামে

অচিনভূমে, নিবিড় নিঝুম

সান্ধ্যসোঁতে, নির্বাঁ নিগুণ

অরূপ আলোক, অরূপ আঁধার

অচিন বিথি, উজান বাদার

কালসিনেমা, একাখ তারা

একলা ধূসর, হৃদয়হারা

চলছে, বলছে, কর্ণ মলছে

চলচ্ছবি, আসমাঁ ধাবী

ইত্যবিধঃ ইত্যবিধঃ

হণ্য হণন, কাহ্ন-সীদো

অগ্ণিবারি, বিপ্লবাসূ

সুকের সারী নির্নিমিসু

মনের বনে, বনের কোণে,

সারিগানে, সম্মোহনে

হাপুস যাপন, দিবা-নিসু

হতচ্ছাড়া, পিপুফিসু

sad poem

horses return home all evening
horses don't drink moonlight 
no creature drinks moonlight except in fairytales
fairytales are pictures of love and rain
in clouds trees houses roads etc 
but the roads are too harsh for the horses
the clouds too heavy
the houses won't let them stay anymore
the trees won't bear them anymore
the rivers are drying up fast
oceans, unlike those from pastiched aryan myths, 
churn toxin 
fairytales churn indifference 
faces in heart of vision stare stoic
faces in eyes of heartbeats turn pages with pictures of love and rain
horses turn into ghosts of horses, 
into shadows bounding through sands of time
into spaces between letters,
into silences between notes;

horses never die in fairytales
and dreams of love are never nightmares of lacklove out there.

Read-reaction to a poem from Ratulda's Bawkkhopinjawr book

a musical conference on the musical confidence of textile experts –
experts shall be strongly vocal
they aren’t vocal enough about all the nice postures of sex;
but people, writhing around the bog-nail of time and life
they show – anger, pride, hurt urchins and hearts of urchins,
But then law-makers and their electoral assemblies,
and case administrators –
and all sorts of justice dudes from the Panopticon
They arrive on helicopters and lay down the terms of the heart and of the hurt diseases of dreams;
the urchin, in his dreams, sees peace simmering from a fairy tale unremembered, unlearnt

কালহুলো

পৃথিবীর সমস্ত রাত্রি এভাবেইই স্থিত হয়ে আসে
দিনে দুপুরে অরূপ অলখ আড়ম্বরে
পৃথিবীর বহু দিন এভাবেই ইতিহাস, ইকিড়মিকিড়
দু'র মাঝে ফুটিফাট দরজা, নকশী সিনেমাকাটা ডোরাহুলো
গুঁড়ি মেরে চলমান, বস্তুতঃ - কিমিত, ক্ষয়বাদী

ঝপ!

ধর্মের ষাঁড়গুলি বাতাসেই নড়ছে
বনবিড়ালের কথা বনে মনে পড়ছে
হনহন খরসন বাইসন চলছে
রাজপথে রক্তের মোমপরী জ্বলছে
তেলচিটে ডেকচিতে ছিঁটেফোঁটা হেঁচকি
ফোঁড়া কেটে খেয়ে নিন ন্যনতম ছেঁচকি
জননী জাবালা তাই জাবাল সত্যকাম
রাত্রির ছাদ ধরে থমথম তিন থাম
একটিতে আঁকা থাকে লৌহ মৃত্যুনাম
আরটিতে তারাদের মোহমায়া কামধাম
তিন নম্বরটিতে গম্ভীর ঘনশাম
কেউ চলে সিধা পথে কেউ চলে ডাঁয়েবাঁয়ে
নায়িকারা খ্যালা করে নায়কের বিছানায়
এহ্যানো পেট্রিয়ার্কি কজনা সইতে পায়
নিঘন ঠাট্টাইয়ার্কি রোদ্দুরে খালি গায়ে
বিকেলের রঙগুলো সব ঘেঁটে ঘ্যাঁঘাসুর
ধেইধেই ধুনমেখে গান ছোটে সুমধুর
ভীষ্মলোচন ক্রমে নিঃস্ববচন ভ্রমে
চামচিকা হেরি ঐ মরীচিকা মরুধামে
ছুটে যায় হায়হায় আগুনে পোকার মতো
প্রেমিকের বুক ভাঙে ফাগুনে বোকার মতো
লালফিতে নীলফিতে ছড়িয়ে ইতস্তত
খাপে খাপ সাপেদের লাফঝাঁপ যথাযথ
থমথম তিন থাম ভ্যাবাচ্যাকা থতমত
তারাদের শাহাদতে বেহিসেব হতাহত
এইবারে ঠারেঠারে আড়েআড়ে বুঝে নিন
লালবাতাসার থলে চুপিসারে গুঁজে দিন
ডাবলিনে গব্লিন রাতদিন দ্বিধাহীন
চাহিদায় আছিলায় ঝপ করে ড্রপসীন,
ঝপ!

shanti rides a green horse

shanti rides a green horse
and sets out for a place
where all the pieces fit in
and all the dots are joined

shanti rides a green horse
for the poet can never be happy
the painter can never be happy
the king can never be happy

shanti rides a green horse
there's calm light shining in the skies
and there's cold fire blazing in the skies -
another cold fire burns me,
burns my flying bronze horses

shanti rides a green horse
thirsting for place,
lost in misty dreams,
where love is silent and silence is love,
where time sings of memories, memories sing of time,
and all the dots are joined

get well soon, world

house by the sea
house by the hills
house in the winds
and in the windmills too!

house made of legs
of roads lightyears long
house made of dust,
of your unsung song

house made of love
of stardust ages old
of days of angry sweat
of nights long and cold

house by the river
in shipwreck islands far
house with endless doors -
ever aback, ajar.

বিন্দু

যবে কমলে কুলিশে
লুটায়ে ধুলি সে
বিন্দু জাগিবে হৃদিনদে গো
তবে,
বহিবা নদী হোয়্যা
রহিবা বোধিমায়া
সিন্ধু দুতর মৃগদাবে গো

যবে নিরবে নিভৃতে
কাননে শোভিতে
করুণা পুষ্পে
স্ফুরিলা গগন সায়রে গো
তবে
লুটাও ফকিরা,
লুটাও শূন্যে
চকোরী জাগিলা, বহিলা রঙ্গিলা
ভইলা সকল উজাগর গো

যবে কমলে কুলিশে
চোরেতে পুলিশে
মুষিকা মার্জারী প্রেমালাপে গো
তবে, সিক্ত বালিশে
অশ্রু নালিশে
গাহিও গাহিও, সখী
এ বিলাপে গো

কেমনে স্ফুরিলা
কমলে কামিনী
নিঘন যামিনী
করপুটে হৃদি ধরি
ভরি প্রভাতী ভিখারী
ভিক্ষা ঝুলি এ,
প্রেমে অপ্রেমে এ'
নিরবধি গহন সজল এ পয়োধী গো...

just wanting you

wanting is - this crazy afternoon
meandering its way to that crazier evening
like a grand elephant, swaying its head
like the sad heavy heart of some ancient demon-lord -
wanting is that demon's shadow - heaving, throbbing -
as he weeps when nobody's around,
and even the shadow weeps

but you won't be knowing this
you have seen the beast rave and rove along the rugged ways of the world - angry, aimless, fatal;
you haven't seen it weep, you haven't
seen it wanting to weep into your hair, to bring the sun and the moon down with love so strong
that everything's freedom -
everything's a bright haze of blue -
wanting is the blue of your mind
and the twilight of mine

it never mattered when the moon rises -
except when it really does -
wanting is those horizons - gulped down by the hounds of mist
with a winelike dash of rain -
wanting is to breathe in, without expecting to breathe out - to live, to die, eternal - wanting to dream all dreams with you,
light all magic lanterns with you

it happened one day

so one day the Supreme Court met the Center
and they signed a Merger Agreement
the new Company thus formed was named the Supreme Center
and the first Commandment they thundered down from
their throne in a mound known as the Raisin Sized Gonads Hills
was as follows:
'all ye shall be the property of the state like ye always were'

the folks laughed dry like sad people do
and said - fuck yeah, do you think we haven't known this thus far?'

confused, the Supreme Center Co. Pvt. Ltd called a shareholders' meeting
and hauled up a shareholder named Mister Education System
the other shareholders accused him of having too many holes
and hung him upside down.'

i meant hanged.

Nazrul Nazrul - A Birthday Tribute

it's your birthday today
the liberal 9 to 5-s will hold tame celebrations
throughout Calcutta, throughout Dhaka 
not everywhere, only in places where they stay
and make their sounds and eat their food
and sleep their sleeps
they won't see the blood of the fucked billions in their food
they won't hear the wild wails of the slaughtered billions in their nightmares
but i won't grudge all that today
it's your birthday and purple flowers have bloomed,
familiar birds had chirped all morning - and we all will live
because humans always do
Rebel poet, lover poet, may my heart be true.

Freaking Excitement for Do-Nambari Proximity!

morning window brings your story of love

morning window brings your picture of love

there's no forest around but morning window brings your evening mirror

all birds, all rivers, and all other borrowed phrases for this zero-coloured truth

it's all a mask, maya, but morning window is a song on a river, 

is a picture of an evening

প্রভাতী বাতায়ন

চিত্তহর বাতায়নে দেখি' যা'র মুখ
প্রাভাতে প্রভাতফেরী ভেতো উজবুক
চিত্তহর আয়নায় দেখি' সারি-শুক
বন্সথলীর দোদুললাসে শূন্য সর্বভূক

Naked, Lonely Hand: A meek translation of my all time favourite Bangla poem

Darkness deepens in the skies again

This darkness – she’s like the misty sister of light

who has loved me forever

and yet whose face I have never seen

like that woman,

darkness gathers dense in love on the springtime falgun night

seems like a lost city

a palace of the city, lost in dust, awakes in heart.

By the shores of the Indian Ocean

Or maybe by those of the Mediterranean Sea

or else by the Tyre Sea

It was there, this city, one day it was

today it isn’t. There was a palace

decked in rare furniture and pomp –

gardens of Persia, Shawls from Kashmir, flawless pearls and coral plucked from the waves of Berin,

my heart – extinct;

my eyes – dead;

my faded dreams and wants –

and you, woman –

all these were in that world that one day

there was orange sunshine,

there were many macaws and pigeons,

there were many leaves in deep shades of mahogany

and there was much orange sunshine

much orange sunshine

and you were there;

it’s been so long, so many centuries have passed by –

that I haven’t seen your face

that I haven’t looked for your face

Springtime darkness brings these tales from across those sea-shores,

Lines of pain drawn of splendid pillars and domes,

smells of lost pears,

gray manuscripts made of skins of countless dears and lions

rainbow-coloured glass-windows,

endless waves of curtains made of peacock-plume colours

from room to room

from orbit to orbit

to rooms far and further away

across orbits far and further away

glimpse of aura –

Ageless silence – stunned –

ageless amazement.

sweat jumps from blood-coloured sunshine on curtains, on gardens

wine made from watermelon in red glasses!

your naked, lonely hand;

your naked, lonely hand.

\

Shabarpa

Shabarpa, Shabarpa enter the skies

Clouds cloud the north of east 

Shabarpa feels the earths shake

Shabarpa sees his temple burn

Shabarpa sees his gods dead

Shabarpa roars: "Bhoomkaal!"

Yeah, Nishaad! 

Go for the kill, 

for hunters must hunt

And Adonis must die for the red flowers to be

Heruk burns thunders across the oceans 

White Tara blazes my eyes in cool, calm beauty

Her legs are white

Her skies are music of life and love

Green Tara dances crazy in the skies

Her legs are green

Her skies are music of life and love

Across times and histories that, unlike life, 

had never meant much 

Go for the kill, Shabarpa

Your god is stolen

Your temple has burned 

Your earth has shaken

Like all wheels roll and all rivers flow

So go for the hunt like all hunters must.

Buddha Purnima

sheel, rain in my heart
pragya, rain with my heart
samadhi, rain my heart

to a long lost phonecall and love

sweet jaggery sundance, sweet jaggery sundance,
when i left your station the skies were all on fire; 
and now it's just a big fat city,
and i'm just a big fat liar

চন্দ্রালোকে চারুলতা

চন্দ্রালোকে চারুলতা তন্দ্রালোকে বিহঙ্গ
অহং বরং গরগরাগম হুল-মুরারী ত্রিভঙ্গ
মাদল বাদল আদল ত্যাঁদল গাঁদাল বাদাড় ভাদ
ভরম ভপন ভাপভূমাভূম ভূমকাল ভূমনাদ
হুহুম হুহুম হুতুম ভুতুম নিশুথ ত্রিশাখ শঙ্খিনী
টিটিং মিটিং টিকিট কাটিং সনসন্তাপ সন্তিনী
বোশাখ-শিখি পোষাক পিকি পিকিপিকপিক পিঞ্জর-এ
ধুধুম হুধুম ভাদুম ভুদুম ঋনিশিঞ্জিন মঞ্জরী
পাখনা শাটিং ঝাটিঙ্গা-হট থমথমাথম থমবরে
রণথম্বরে জলস্তম্বরে দদদম্ভরে ঘন অম্বরে
আম্রকুঞ্জ শক্তিপুঞ্জ কুঝিক-কুঝিক খিকম্যাজিক
খিদমতগার আকার-বিকার প্রকার সকার কিরিংক্রিক
কটক খটক খটখটাখট টক-টক্কাশ টক্করে
ঝকঝক্কাস বকরাক্ষস ক-খ-খসখস অক্ষরে
দধাম ধধাম দমদমাদম ধরাধাম-ধূম ধুনক-তুন
নিম্ন-নিড়িং নিমতিতাতাম তিড়িংবিড়িং খুনের নুন
গথাম যথেষ্ট যুথযৌথন জগ-ঝম্পেশ যান-আসুন!

unscientific confessional

let's look for a river 

looking at which 

we can forget at times

that all histories flow and that rivers can't be wise in terms of material reality. 

‘That Boy’ a short story by Sandipan Chattopadhyay (1933-2005)

- Hey, do you have parents?
- No.
- Both dead?
-Yes
- Sisters?
-No
- Are you alone?
- yes
Silence.

- what do you do?
-i beg
- how much do you get every day?
- 20 paisa. 30 paisa.
- is that enough?
- yes
- What do you eat?
-MuRi, mostly
Silence.

- how much did you make today?
- i haven’t begged today
- why?
- didn’t feel like
- feeling sick?
- no.
Silence.

- Nice shirt. Chains and all! did you buy it?
- No
- Did anyone give it?
-No
- Where did you get it from?
- The drain
- O
Silence.

- and the pant?
- mom gave this
silence.

- Saw your mom die?
- yes
- what happened?
- she was sick
- where did she die?
- there. there.
- what was her name?
- Gouri
- And dad’s?
-Suryaprasad Singh
- Ever seen your dad?
- No
- Mom told his name?
- Yes
- how long back did he die?
- many days
- what’s your age? Seven?
- many days.
Silence.

- Are you sick?
- No
- Do you feel any pain?
- No
- Can you sleep?
- Yes
- Where do you sleep?
- Here
- On this rug?
- Yes
-If it rains?
- Let it
- do you dream?
- yes
- can you recall?
- no
- did you dream your mom?
- yes, once
- can you recall?
- no
- how’s your shit?
- hard and sticky
Silence.

- heard of Jyoti Basu?
- no
- Indira Gandhi?
- no
- Shakti Chattopadhyay?
- no
- Uttam Kumar?
- I don’t know Uttam Kumar
- Never seen a movie?
- No
- Where does the sun rise from?
- Here, there, everywhere!
- Do you know the name of your country?
- Country?
- This, the land, the soil where you are sitting?
- BT Road
Silence.

- Aren’t you scared?
- No
- Of no one?
- I’m scared of the police
- You didn’t beg today. So, what did you eat?
- That pipkin of curd
- The one there that the shop has thrown away?
- Yes
- So, you scraped the curd stuck inside?
- Yes
Silence.

- You know that dog?
- Yes, it is my dog!
- Your dog?
- My mom used to take care of it
- What’s its name?
- Robi. Oi Robi – Ooss. Ooss.
Silence.

- Remember what I asked you first?
- ‘Do you have parents?’
- One of your eyes is huge and red – do you know this?
- No
- Don’t you look at mirrors?
- Looked at one long ago
Silence.

What’s your name?
Ganesh.

-----------------
Bangla text first published by Tarzan Minibook – 11 in 1980 and reproduced by Ripan Arya through his facebook profile on 21st January 2015

Song For Nathaniel Halhed

halhed! halhed! i sing for you
the sun is true and the moon is blue
your ghost flies from Portugal
and sails straight to Bally Khal
yours be the ship, admiral
shagor awthoi, TalmaTal
ratri awthoi, TalmaTal
yours be the oar and yours be the hull
your grammar book is the greatest thing
since Icarus and his wing
firang nam upkar arth
mirth takes birth on worthy earth!

বামপন্থা

বামপন্থা -
পয়দা হতেই বেজন্মা কুত্তার বাচ্চা
বামপন্থা -
বেজন্মা কুত্তার বাচ্চারা খেঁকুড়ে হয়ে উঠে যখন কামড়ায়
মোটাসোটা হাসিহাসি মুখগুলি
হয় আরো হাসিহাসি হয়ে ওঠে
নয় কাঁদোকাঁদো হয়ে ওঠে
নয় কেঁদোবাঘের দোসর সেঁদোবাঘ সেঁধিয়ে যায় খাটের তলার স্তূপাকৃতি ডাব-নারকোল-সুপারিগুলির মধ্যস্থ নিরাপত্তায়
আর নয় তো বুড়িমার চকোলেট বোমার মতো
ভড়াক করে ফেটে যায় সামনে পিছন উপর নীচ দিয়ে
মোদ্দা কথা, খ্যালাটা বাইনারী নয়
ঐতিহাসিক রাসমঞ্চে ঐতিহাসিক পালাবদল
লেনিন বা চৈতন্য থেকে আলাদা আলাদা রস পায় আলাদা আলাদা জনগণ

এবার বল শালা তুই কোন সাইডে!

Early Morning Photograph

you're so beautiful that love seems to be the running force of life
you fighting for the world
it's like Turgenev's mom-sparrow fighting for her baby
like light rising from darkness
like blind soldiers seeing the source of light
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting Russian literature for you and thinking of you as Margarita
unlike moobier hairier perver pervs selling faith for votes
Adonis goes hunting with Angulimala
many houses burn within a radius of 100 kilometers
burn, Radha
my love is so selfish that it romanticises fire and hates real flames
i'd rather look at photographs of you fighting for the world to come together and sing,
think that things are all in place in the universe
despite knowing that the construct of balance is elusive
and knowing that some people will forever walk the world
and see how the coldest, softest moment of the night turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows go out to fight for their babies
and see how the warmest, softest moment of the day turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows come back to fight for their babies
the house where i had stayed from birth till high-school ended had an occasional readhead Krishnachura swaying a headful of flowers in the green rain beside the window that opened to the South and an occasional orange-head Radhachura swaying a headful of flowers by the one that opened to the North



by the time i came to know that all trees are hermaphrodites they weren't there
but poetry with endless blue skies rolling overhead and words filling a few blank spaces up  and all blank spaces wrapping words up - have always been there and so have memories of a couple of Bangla poets who would look at the skies and at the streets and feel hermaphrodite
the streets took one of them
life took the other
and poetry took both
it's like that, something taking in the binaries and the void - love is

and then, the roads are always thirsty and none of them lead to anywhere specific,
except for people who believe in battles, and for fools and philosophers
and for the moon behind the mirror
and for all lamps that flicker
and for the uneasy relationship between storms and nests
and for the easy relationship between the sea and the seagulls
and for the relationship between fishes and the water where ease and diseases flow by, like life, like Eliot's women for Prufrock and Yeats' horsemen passing by
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting English literature to feel good about loving you,
the transparent cold of death wraps eyes of fishes
i have seen them staring at blank spaces from the other side of highly polluted slabs of ice

and in Lorca's city there's everybody asleep
and Pagla Meher Ali screams: 'Beware!'
and flames of devotion burns the sages
and hot streets burn musafirs
in the city the times are harsh. they sing songs of Lalan with greed for fame
and five odd timid stars sing and dance their carnival of sadness out in the five star sky of a dead poet's novel, their sadness melts in cheap cosmetics of sweaty, beautiful women from the streets, along their sweaty necks down their flabby flaneur-fleshes - i call them Shujata and think of them as mercy
April is mostly a cruel month in any case
Even sparrows don't talk much and crickets don't sing much in April cities.

But i'd rather think of the void and be happy
I'd rather look at a photograph of you fighting for the songs and for the baby-songs and think that there is something called balance and that the universe is in perfect balance now
and be happy
you're so beautiful that love seems to be mom-sparrows and baby-sparrows singing songs and baby songs of life

And so on

Sincerely,
(Or like Mr. Wren or Mr. Martin had once written in their book of grammar:
Yours, etc)




 

How the Brahmins Got Screwed Over in Jajpur

A li'l bit of anarchy:

This was in the 13th century. 5 centuries had passed since Shankaracharya had plagiarised the Buddhist treatises on Nagarjuna's Madhyamika from his guru Gaudapa and had his forces turn the guns against the sanghas, monasteries and koumos of the Bhikkhus. Vijay Sen had risen from the Barracks of the last Pala kings of Bengal and had set everything on fire. The Brahmins established their rule over the feudal gentry. There was much blood.

The bhikkhus had to save their wisdom. Many took it with them and went to the hills. Tibetan Buddhism had kept the gods of Vajrayana that had, till the 10th century, prevailed in Bengal. A few of them became the Nath Sidhyacharyas, and a few wrote the Charya songs in crypted texts and in a misty language that was to become Bangla and Assamese of today. The ancestors of the adherents, and also many of the 'pa' wizards like Dombipa and Shabaripa were, before the advent of Bodhidharma, from the lower castes and the tribes. Their gods were all there too.

But the Brahmins were making fast inroads. The monasteries had to be converted to Maths. The monastery in the hills had fallen to them and had become the temple of Badri. The one by the Ganges had fallen and had become the temples of Kashi-Vishwanath. The one in Puri belonged to the Shabar (Soro) people. The wooden god of the Shabars was captured by ugly, powerful people who came to the sea with chariots. The thunder-scepter of Heruk was burning and so was the lyre of White Tara. The Hor people of the eastern wilderness, who are the Santhal people lost their king Adisur/Adur to Durga. Today the east has been tamed by 'civilization' almost in entirety

Nalanda stayed up for a while. Scholars like Tilopa, Naropa, Milerapa et al had managed to hold Nalanda for a while, aided by the heritage and legacy of Atish Dipankara, who had moved from the soft plains of Dhaka Bikrampur, had taken the long hard journey across snowy peaks and killer passes to Tibet with the words of Bodhidharma in the 10th century AD, and had stayed over as Chiyo Rimpoche - one of the initiators of Tibetan Buddhism. But, before long, Nalanda wore off. The Brahmins were mighty and scary.

Then came the 13th century. A period of anarchy, one demarcated as the 'Dark Ages' of Bengali Literature by all the Hindu Indian Nationalist Bengali post-partition scholars from West Bengal. Established scholars from East Pakistan like Mohd. Shahidulla had chosen to maintain stoic objectivity.

So, in the 13th century, the Brahmins kept getting stronger and stronger, and then, one day, Bakhtiyar Khalji rode down to Bengal. Suddenly, the people who were being browbeaten back to the caste system by the Kulin Brahmins found some hope in the anarchy. The poem Niranjan-er-Rooshma by Ramai Pundit tells a beautiful tale of resistance against the Brahminical exploitation by the people of Jajpur. He had to tell it in a tad cryptic form. Thank goodness for that, or else it would surely have been burned in course of the eight centuries that have followed!

Here's the poem:

The plaintiff is from Jajpur, Sol Shah’s family has read the Vedas
He asks, why this tax?
The harlot goes to the South, can’t find a home
She curses the earth to ashes
More taxes in district Malda, everyone has to pay
Nets can’t tie the sides up!
They are strong, they gather in handfuls
They destroy SadDharma

Vedas spelled out, flames circle up and gather thick
Saw and trembled in fear
Deep meanings held in mind, all say to keep Dharma
Who but you can be the salvation?

Thus the Brahmins wrecked everything
And injustice grew strong

Dharma, who stayed in paradise got the sign
and all darkness became Maya
Dharma turned Muslim, he donned a black cap,
He rode the three barreled cannon
and arrived – the three worlds began to quake
in the name of Khuda
Niranjan, formless, became Avesta-avatar
And spoke of the Dum, his words had the Dum
All the gods became one in mind
and got the Izar of Ananda
Brahma became Mohammad, Vishnu became Nooh
Adam became Shiva
Ganesh became Ghazi, Kartik became Quazi
All the sadhus became fakirs
Narad threw his disguise away and became Sheikh
Indra became Haji Malna
The other gods like Chandra and Surya became footsoldiers
And they all started making music!

Devi Chandika, herself she turned into Haya Bibi
Padmavati became Bibi Noor
All the gods became one in mind
And entered Jajpur!

And thus the war began
The temples were smashed, the prosceniums were looted
Sounds filled the sky: ‘catch ‘em bastards!’
Ramai Pundit holds the vessel of Dharma
and sings:
“THERE IS MUCH ANARCHY!”

I don't know where the Jajpur mentioned here is situated. It must have been a site of incredible anarchic resistance against the upper-castes! Jajpur is also the name of a district in Odisha. Kalinganagar, where Tata had unleashed much bloodbath on the night between the 1st and the 2nd of January, 2006, is situated in Jajpur.

From Jajpur to Jajpur, it all seems like a bloody straight ramrod!

কিরণমালা

ধূসর পাণ্ডুলিপি রেখে যাও কিছু

রেখে যাও আধক্ষয়া চাঁদ, 

ভাঙা রঙপেন্সিল 

রাগী রাগী বাবাদের মতো মেঘ

দুখী দুখী এলোচুল মত নদী

পুরোনো শহরে মিছিল মিছিল ঘ্রাণ

পাণ্ডুলিপি তবু কথকতা

ফুরোনো শহরে টবময় বিস্বাদ

এইসব বুকে ধরে ও-দেওয়ালের মান্ধাতা

অন্ধ জ্ঞানীর পাপ গভীর জননীতে 

এইসব ভিটামাটি অখণ্ড পৌরুষ

সমুদ্র সমুদ্র স্বর, পৌনঃপুনিক

সিংহের মত চলকে ভলকে কালনিম জ্যোৎস্না 

কাঁটা চেপে থমথম অমর প্যাঁচা

ক্যাঁতামুড়ি জবুথবু অমর বেড়াল

চাঁদ বলে চাঁদনীকে - আয়নাও সত্য

শূন্য যা কিছু আজ, দিল ও মনন

ভাব ও অভাব ঘেরে স্মিত বিচরণ

নদীতে নগর ছিলো, নগরে নদী

নদীতে প্রাসাদ ছিলো, প্রাসাদে কিরণমালা 

বোকারাই একদিন পৃথিবীর রাজা হবে

ভালোবাসা একদিন ফুল হয়ে ঝরে যাবে 

জেনেছে কিরণমালা, সুগভীর বোধে

Weep, River

thoughts knot up in head

a bit of time dies with time

a lot of wisdom dies with time

a few musafirs, a bunch of gypsies 

and a listful of nomadic tribes also die out

while roving with their shadows, 

because the streets are private property of civilization

shantih is a private property of law

the green valleys have boundary walls

and they kill you if you cross

and they kill you if you eat fruits from their trees

and they kill you if you eat birds from their skies

(it doesn't really matter that you love the birds and that the birds love you too. loving and eating are not linked all the time though living and eating are.)

and now there are clouds 

and the winds are strong

and dead people howl from the skies

and live ghosts howl from the earth

the skies won't rain fire for a while

and the earth won't bleed for a while,

a tiny bit while

but that's good enough for the shadows

to feel good for a while

and play around the silhouettes in sunlight

the walls will still be there

storms will break it 

and then they'll build new walls

and roaming the world will still be a crime

as will stealing fruits and birds that belong to other humans 

but the ghosts - they'll still howl

and the silhouettes - they'll still dance dances of hanged men

and the guns smuggled out by Rimbaud will still kill us, kill them

and Giordano will leap out from his stake

and he'll leap on the killers of wisdom forever

and Lorca will play a flute from his unmarked graves

and he'll play for all the unnamed humans sleeping in all the unmarked graves of the world forever

and sweaty heaps of coal will blaze their songs out from all boilers

as the ship goes down

with all its walls, 

and with all its humans caged behind all its walls

the hills might be all blasted down for gold and money

and the woods will be gone to make way for progressive leaps of science, technology and coordinate processes of production 

but i won't think of all these now

i'll be Lorca's kid and you'll be the gypsy moon

and i'll tell you to run when the bandits come

and i'll be Rimbaud's spider

and i'll turn into a little kiss and play on your throat

as you sleep; there'll be sunlight on your throat and on your neck and on your whole body

and there'll be some moonlight too

and there'll be some starlight too

and i'll be sunlight and moonlight and starlight and be on your body

and our slave-minds will speak slave-words to each other

and our minds will kiss like our bodies do

and you'll be a river and i'll drown in you

as the shadows get longer, 

come closer

and whisper stuff that we can feel but can't understand

we'll know of the dystopic shivers and ancient tales but we won't have words to speak them. we might have some silence though. 

or we might have a lot of silence

and other sounds - like, say, the sound of cosmic waves breaking against dead radios

the sound if real waves breaking against dead toxin-factories

the sound of rain washing hot blood from hard asphalt 

the sound of unicellular life dividing up

the sound of the archeopteryx as it flaps its wings

because it yearns for the horizons

the sound of the homa-bird as it cries 

because it yearns for the earth

the sound of pens scratching asses of papers as another Stalin, another Roosevelt, another Churchill as they sign on another treaty

the sound of horse-hooves echoing on stormy mango-forests as another Clive charges out against another Siraj

and so on and so forth

point being, homer can only nod

he can't die

and the ship can only go down

it can't kill the shadows with crime and punishment

so weep for the world, Cinderella 

we'll find out your tiny shoe someday

and the gypsies will not die 

and we'll all sing and dance under the open skies someday

and our carnival of death will rage mad in every naked road of the world

and lightning will turn your face blue like it turns the rivers blue

and i'll weep with you because you are beautiful, because the world is beautiful

and because the rivers are beautiful

and we'll weep together for everything that's beautiful

because that's all that there is to this madass badass being and belonging everywhere.

From a High Roof

on a high roof

there's nothing to look up to

and you can live

and you can die

and the rats won't bother

and the history of the universe won't matter

the ways and means are all the same

but the ladders are all broken

and the bulldogs are all dead

and the sparrows are all Philomela 

on a high roof

we won't fight for land and bread

we will look at the stars and tell ourselves that the war is over

despite knowing that there's no 'the war' 

and that it's never over

much knowledge we have tumbled through

pillar to pillar, ash to ash - imperious, ecstatic

blind

we have seen and heard it all 

and we have felt it all

but from a high roof

the world is a whiff of orange 

a little child plucks it from the shores

and gives her voice to the waves in stead

you can call her Komal Gandhar

you can call her Philomela 

or you can not call her anything at all

and see her eating oranges

and feel like Lorca does from his open window

from a high roof

stars die and fall, 

and some shoot in happy rage,

towards all wombs 

and towards all graves

and towards all pyres

and towards all city-snakes that slither their way

towards their bitches

and some don't shoot at all

and go catching those mad butterflies in the brain

or steal the thunder of Heruk to make a garden of love in stead

ergo, goblins of the world, unite

you have nothing to lose, not even love,

and winning has never really mattered in any case.

Another Dead Blogger

another star is stardust

another blogger dies

another cricket match to jerk off to

another slave raped by another orangutang in another amphitheater 

(hell, no Rome is sure ever built in a day!)

another bunch of spectators cheering with silence

i believe in things i find beautiful

i believe in words and thoughts i find beautiful

i believe in magic, 

i believe in poetry

i believe in music

i believe in dust

i believe in ghosts

i believe in martyrdom

i believe in the soul

i believe in the fight

i believe in the crazy roads of the world 

but i'm such a selfish asshole that i can't write for a dead blogger without going on spewing shit about all the beautiful jazz i believe in

dear dead blogger

i am sure that you were beautiful

and because i believe, most of all,

in beauty, 

i will keep on believing in your death

may it bloom on among the ugly killers and the uglier spectators

like lotus blooms in mud.

you are always beautiful

you are always beautiful
and little birds wake up and sing to your fruits on blue mornings like these which are like the Blue Danube
i've never been to Danube
but i've seen blue lakes and wild mountain-springs
i have jumped in some of them, and i have stared at broken sunsets on big wild rivers
i know of a poet who had seen broken red bits of sunset riding piggyback on the waves while he was waiting for his Wheel to return
it doesn't matter whether it returned or not
and it doesn't matter where and how the wheel turned and where and how wheels turn
except when they do and when little birds sing to your fruits which are the colours of mornings and sunsets and Blue Danube where i've never ever been to
and then i don't think of storms like i didn't think of storms that night

there's no war in poetry these days, and there's no peace either
Don Juan and Don Quixote take lessons of love from Lenin
but there's no love in hospitable maternity-wards of cities where they've learned to sell love for money and sell money for love
even you stay in a city but they can't touch you
because you are beautiful and because birds sing to you
hands of great anarchs send their breeze of love to caress your flowers
and your flowers are big and red, they start blooming
on the first full-moon night of Magh when they sing for Magha-Karam all night in the forests of Jharkhand that are barely intact, like their songs
they keep blooming as folks gather for Magha-Magul by the shores of Titas which is still a river's name
and they gather the flowers of Glory Bower
the same flowers that wept in your silver anklet when you danced like a torn wagtail in the palace of Indra the king of gods
and i was bitten by a big black snake
which a poet had called Black Divinity on the 15th of August 1973
but things are different now
and your flowers are big and red
and they bloom in your grand, fulsome beauty on the full moon night of love when springtime blazes the wanton night and even the moon is red
and your fruits are for the birds to sing to when the world is Blue Danube and the morning star has stopped burning in lonely anger all night
i stare at red, blue, green, yellow and white flags all night
i don't know if the Red Flag will bring me freedom or if Green Tara will

but when i was close to you and the fires were strange all around, woman,
i hadn't thought of freedom
i hadn't thought of Kabir's Bhakti or Lalan's lamp,
i hadn't thought of Bakunin's anarchy or Che's revolution
i hadn't thought how it would be if Tarashankar's Nitai makes wild love to Bulgakov's Margarita
i hadn't thought how the earth turns and how the sun burns
i hadn't thought if starlight can communicate with the smart wisdom of ghosts
i had talked a bit about starlights though, and i think about mists coming out of leaves of trees and turning into clouds and rivers of the world
and you had talked of being in a new city which could have not been new, Amarcord
and i was close to you, not close enough to feel your breathes rising with the magic of the night, but enough to think of dangling down the wheels and clockhands of time and dancing, though i can't dance in any manner that is considered to be aesthetically pleasing, but it didn't really matter then
and it doesn't really matter now,
except that when at the crack of dawns like these the skies are very blue and the birds are very chirpy
i stare from the fogged realms between sleep and torpor,
wanting to fill the world with poetry
i walk to your river and to your tree and they become the trees and rivers of the world
and they become endless roads weaving their way through the misty climes of life and the undisturbed universe to the unknown, shivery mokam, or samadhi, or whatever

so, that's how i am
and you are always beautiful

We Will All Be Bhagat Singh

river of life meets river of death

forests never walk, dear Macbeth

and there's no milk in the Milky Way

they hang Bhagat Singh everyday

the river of love - it flows on still

the sharpest knives refuse to kill

by the bends of this ceaseless fight

they burn Bhagat Singh every night

the river of blood - it sinks all boats

it guts all guts and slits all throats

'freedom!' 'freedom!' - the thunders shout

but that's not what it's really about

the river of hope - it freezes here

there's no dream, no nightmare

and martyrs aren't worth a dime

so they kill Bhagat Singh all the time

but there's a river that'll ever flow

no one knows what it's called though

but it gives them killers a mighty scare

for Bhagat rows his boat out there

there's no right and there's no wrong

all that's there is this lousy song

and the nameless river flows on strong

for Bhagat must be rowing along

Row on, Comrade, the skies are red

And my hungry kid is yet unfed

Selfish me, I think of you

For that's the best I can really do

flow on, fighter, the clouds are big

the ugly judge has lost his wig

there's no noose to hold your neck

but there are fleets we have to wreck

and there are chains we have to lose

and there are paths we have to choose

and for every knife on every throat

there's a Bhagat rowing our boat

the killers rule the earth and seas

and Rome was saved by cackling geese

but one day they'll cackle no more

for Bhagat Singh will stand by the shore

and we'll all go out and stand by him

and make our way through this ghastly dim

and the bells of freedom - we'll hear them sing

and we will all be Bhagat Singh