Lost Poets Series| Hungryalist poets translated by Arunava Sinha| Part 3

We present to you English translations of poems by four lesser-known Hungry Generation poets. All the poems have been translated by the acclaimed translator, Arunava Sinha.

A painting by Hungryalist painter Anil Karanjai

Source: Facebook page (with permission from his wife Juliet Reynolds)

Utpal Kumar Basu

1) The Ogre 

The other day I met loneliness on Suren Banerjee Road

I said: here's a letter with your address I was about to post

Can you read minds? Which train did you take? Actually

It wasn't loneliness, but a silent comb bought on the pavement

With a woman's long hair still caught in its teeth

2)

So much suppressed rage hidden in the luggage, packed into the bedding

Without being caught during checking, slipping through the electronic scan 

They traverse the airport with ease, even avoiding the cordon of bodyguards

To confront a line of flabbergasted presidents and ministers and commissioners

And ask them, 'You, what the hell do you think you're doing?'

Soldiers fire their guns in vain, the daggers fight on their own

The rage remains invisible through it all

‎Bhaskar Chakrabarty

1) Things that happen

The days aren’t passing badly for the two of us

Though it’s true we haven’t been to the hills,

We haven’t been to the seaside, for three years now

And poverty, it’s no small annoyance

Constantly borrowing money and asking my sister for help

Still, one or two interesting things do happen 

Tonight for instance you exclaimed: there, it’s raining

We went up to the window

But it was only the sound of someone pissing on the roof next door

Or, the other night, when I was writing in the tiny room

With the light on - someone from the street said loudly

Go to sleep, motherfucker

2) Calcutta

I really shall run away from this Calcutta one day

There’s only the sound of breaking glass in Calcutta

The clang of knives and forks being flung on the floor

I shan’t stay here

Here women knit all day and all night beneath a strange clock.

‎Mahadeb Saha‬ 

1) 

There's a chance that you might come back

That's why the monsoon is here before spring

That's why all the flowers have bloomed early

And morning has arrived before morning.

2) 

You show me the distant sky

A faraway world

But I want to see life round the corner

You want to show me inaccessible stars

Far-flung seashores

An extended horizon, remote mountains

You want to show me, even further away, 

A romantic island, a tranquil lagoon

I only want to see this familiar lake

The river nearby

You want to show me the enormous universe,

To take me close to eternity

My vision is limited

My eyes cannot see so far away

I only want to see the regions

That border on life

Leave the distant stars alone, show me

The map of proximity

Show me the river bank, the vine on the roof

The front yard

Not distant mysteries, I only want to unravel.

Parthapratim Kanjilal

1) To you, Bhaskar-da: 

I have known you for thirty-nine years

Since 1963, when people were already aware

Of your pen. You never

Considered me a trusted friend or supportive writer

But you loved chatting over a cup of coffee

In a tiny tea-shop.

But I used to love you

As a companion, friend, writer. I never

Felt discomfort talking to you

Just as James Corbett was the ideal Vaishnav even without being Hindu

You too were the ideal Christian though a Chakraborty

In every word of yours the bishop’s silver candlestick

Lived and loved, in the sounds of your conversation. Oh and

The reason I wrote the letter

So THAT happened on July 23, 2005. I was thinking 

We spoke so much, but I never told you about your work

In my own words, Bhaskar-da

You are the brightest and whitest among Bangla writers

That was when Gautam Basu from Annapurna and Shubhakal

Came to me with a folder – we looked at you for the last time 

Together, looked at your array of words in the folder once more

All of them white sapphires, I’m not exaggerating one bit, Bhaskar-da

Dazzling here, darkened there, flecked with gold or with silver

But white sapphires, all. How on earth was it possible.

I do not know. But I’m saying, there will never be another

Not even in Bangla.

2) The history of sunlight

In brothels there's little light and plenty of darkness, in which

Lechers appear like heavenly bodies and peep through

The bars to find the stars of the whores lying in bed...