Poems | Shiv Kumar Batalvi ( Translated by Sartaj Ghuman) | Part 1/2

Photo : LeeLa

borrowed song

oh sweet lord
lend me another song or a half
my fire’s going out please
give me another spark

in my early years of infancy
i’ve laid all my hurt to waste
for the season of my youth now
please lend me more pain chaste

give me a song like my youth
dusky, mystically beguiling
like the red of the day at dawn
sets aglitter the whole tank
or like in a treeless land
at twilight the first star
in my land too it’s getting dark
give me another star or a half
or like the redness fiery
in the lake dissolve me
without a lover i can spend days long
but not, o lord, without a song
a lifetime anyone can squander
a fortunate few are fated pain
and lord, is every shore graced
by a doe sipping at the lake
drain away the untouched waters then
of my lake too unclaimed
or the songs that you got me to write
take those too back again

let me not extol beauty
that as an equal to fire doesn’t stand
and not praise the eye, o lord
whose tears are but bland
let me not sing songs that aren’t in pain steeped
or say words that aren’t fragrant scented sweet
if not fragrant my words happen to be
break them off the branch
or like my youth lend me
another song or a half

in my early years of infancy
i’ve laid all my hurt to waste
for the season of my youth now
please lend me more pain chaste

 







virtuous father dear

when the cotton does flower bear
o virtuous father dear!
buy me that season of the year
o virtuous father dear!
i lost a song in this season of yore
that of longing a garland wore
its face pockmarked with sorrow such
its eyes full of water from a ruined well
a song that when by the lips touched
sends the heart fluttering along
o virtuous father dear!
buy me that song
o virtuous father dear!

one day me and my song
in this season bewitched beguiling
the heart’s soil we ploughed
and dreams pure we sowed
with a million tears we irrigated it
no flower it bore however
o virtuous father dear
buy me just one flower
o virtuous father dear!

what use all your land
if daughters are to wither so
what use your mansarovar
if thirsty the swans go
to what end your scattered crumbs
against pearls weighed
o virtuous father dear!
if you can’t buy me that season of the year
o virtuous father dear
when cotton does flower bear
o virtuous father dear!

gazal

of dealing with sorrow, i’ve learnt the art

learnt to slowly cry and distract the heart

it’s best that you are someone else’s now

it's put an end to worries of making you mine somehow

oh you who breathe, but for this one fear i’d readily die

they sell for money even the land to light the pyre

my friends, lend me not these breaths

for i have not the courage to repay the debt

don’t try and drive shiv’s sorrow away

the treacherous rascal has a mind to cry today

Poem | Sophia Naz

Poem for a Missing Man

Artwork : Matthew Bialer 

We share a birthday, you and I
and no doubt countless others
on this divided subcontinent
designated as each other's
unnatural enemies

Nations are expert at making
myth-meat out of men
even as they walk all over
us puny ants

They made you a Mahatma
but I like to dream your middle name, broken in two
equal cheeks of kindness, even though
Karam-Chand was deported yesterday
by his fraternal twin

All the moons are
ruthless now, narrow curvatures of scythes
A sea of eyes, symmetrical cemeteries
blind as albino piano keys play on

A martial music in the mindless key
of jingoism tolls

for us all.

Poems | Chris

Photo Credit : LeeLa

Comfortable silence

The quiet four had been sitting
in silence around the fire,
undisturbed
by thoughts and words,
for several hours

The moon traveled slowly
across the night,
crickets and frogs sang,
owls hooted and dogs howled
and the leopard walked quietly around,
waiting for a chance to grab
something to eat

The fire was kept low,
and now and then it would be fed
another log

Flames lept and flowed,
embers glowed
and wood slowly turned into ash

The stars and the planets
flew quietly by,
and one by one
the fire watchers rose
and made their way through the dark
and to their beds
until just one was left
at the fire's side,
keeping it company
a little while longer


And when the moon was halfway
to the other side,
he too got up
and returned to his hut
slowly




Into the dark

The smell of honey drifted
from the hive near the top of the eucalyptus tree
and mingled with the flames
that licked and danced their way
along the log that lay
upon the glowing embers
of those that had gone before
into the fire,
caressing the wood
as it shed its story
and turned into smoke and ash


The story that had been ingrained in the tree,
the record of what had occurred before,
vanished without complaint,
and as the glow of the embers flowed
among the cinders and the ash,
two friends rose and walked into the dark,
leaving their stories behind



Cat wisdom

Eat and drink,
sleep and play,
be quiet, observe and listen,
make love
and do nothing at all

Enjoy the company of others
and be happy alone

Purr and flow

Be simple

Be natural

Just be



A locomotive has no need for wagons

Through the lush greens of a late tropical summer,
a locomotive made its way down the tracks
pulling some wagons behind,
one for each year
it had been alive,
filled with memories and emotions,
weighing it down


And one day it realized
that it had no need for wagons
and all they contained,
so it uncoupled them
and let them fall behind


Free of the past
and without a thought in its mind,
the locomotive continued on,
enjoying the ride
and reflecting for a moment
now and then
whether to go left or right


Read other poems by Chris here

Prose | Uttaran Das Gupta | Part 2/2

Photo : LeeLa

Lunch at Mocambo*(continued) 

When it was nearly half an hour to midnight, Prabuddha agreed to drive us to St Paul’s Cathedral. Adhiraj, his girlfriend Ecaterina (a Romanian student of Bengali at the university), and I, along with Kanishka, a serious-faced guy who was completely drunk, got into the back of the blue Esteem. Sankalita sat in front. Kanishka sang “Silent Night” all the way.
It was foolhardy of us to imagine that we would be able to get in arriving so late. There was already a large and boisterous crowd at the church. Serpentine queues made their way from the enormous wooden doors of the 19th century gothic edifice, through the large grounds and gardens, nearly up to the iron gates on Cathedral Road. Almost everyone seemed to be wearing red and white or some shade of either colour; we were conspicuous in black and grey. The cold wind did not seem to bother anyone, most of whom were anyway drunk. Those interested in the religious proceedings had arrived early and taken their seats in the church. The larger crowd of latecomers comprised mostly revellers, most of whom were not Christian. A group of schoolgirls sang “Joy to the World” and “Rudolph”.
“Can’t we go somewhere else?” said Ecaterina when it became obvious that we wouldn’t reach the altar before dawn.
“But Manish said he would come here,” protested Sankalita.
“I want to light a candle and pray.”
“You can do that at the manger,” suggested Adhiraj.
The manger was quite elaborate, with coconut trees and camels of the Magi in the background of the stables where Mary sat cradled with the Babe, guarded by a hawkish Jacob. Too many candles had been lit in front of it and a sea of molten wax separated it from the gravel path where we stood.
“How quaint!” said Ecaterina.
“What?”
“Jacob and Mary and Jesus look more Arab than I have ever seen them. And look at the Magi: isn’t one of them Chinese?”
“But they were Arabs,” said Prabuddha. “There’s hardly any difference between the native Israelites and Arabs. And the Magi were eastern wise men.”
Ecaterina laughed, kneeled down and started to mumble a prayer.
“I never understood why the fuck was Jesus born in a stable,” said Adhiraj.
“They — Mary and Jacob — had to travel to Bethlehem, and since she was pregnant, they kept postponing their travel plans till it was absolutely necessary to do it,” replied Kanishka, slurring all the while.
“But why did they have to travel to Bethlehem?”
“Israel was a part of the Roman Empire, and the Emperor — Augustus Octavious Caesar — wanted to conduct a census. So he ordered all his subjects to return to their native places. Jacob lived in Nazareth but he was from Bethlehem.”
“Wow!” said Adhiraj, slapping Kanishka on the back. “Where did you learn all this?”
“Ben Hur.”
After Ecaterina finished praying, we returned to the car to find Manish leaning against it, smoking. When Sankalita saw him, she squealed in delight, ran to him, put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him passionately on the mouth. Manish reciprocated with equal passion.
Prabuddha coolly lit a cigarette and waited for them to disengage.
“I’ve got some news,” said Manish, “about The Derozio Project.”
No one said anything. Only Kanishka stumbled to the edge of the pavement, got down on his hunches, and started to throw up violently, punctuating his ejaculations with abuses hurled at Adhiraj for having slapped his back so hard.
Blowing a ring of smoke, Manish uttered almost inaudibly: “Rohini.”
Prabuddha and he looked at each other for a minute and then started laughing.

With her head bowed low over a plate of unfinished food, Rohini whispered to me: “I didn’t know. I didn’t know till the next morning when I read it in The Nation.”
I held her hand. “I was furious,” she said. “I was so angry that I kept crying the whole day.”
“Was it then that you…?” I didn’t know how to complete the sentence.
“Yes, that afternoon: No one was at home. I asked Melagrinia — you remember her? — to prepare a hot bath for me. Then, I took a bottle of wine and a blade, and got into the bathtub.”
Suddenly, it seemed to me that the bulwark of Mocambo’s acoustics had collapsed and we were exposed to the unbearable noise of cutlery and conversation. We finished our drinks hurriedly, and left.
Out on the pavement, the glaring sunlight reflecting off every available surface assaulted us, forcing us to seek shelter under a hanging veranda and put on our shades. Rohini lit a cigarette as we were not quite done with our conversation.
“I have often wondered what prompted you,” I said.
Rohini considered my question for a full minute before answering. “Are you familiar with the works of James C. Kaufmann?”
I was not; she explained: “He is a psychologist. In 2001, he coined a term you may be familiar with: The Sylvia Plath effect.”
The term was familiar. It referred to the propensity among female poets — more that artists and prose writers — to succumb to depression, mental illness and suicide.
“You mean to say that you had a case of the Sylvia Plath effect?” My tone must have been a tad incredulous because Rohini laughed.
“How can I tell?” she said. “The jury on whether such a thing exists or not is still out. But I have been reading up on it, and Kaufman, I must say, makes a compelling case.”
Before I could respond, something rather strange occurred; so strange, in fact, that it threw our conversation completely off track.
A woman who was passing by, approached us, and said: “Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes? Thank you. You see, I run a shelter for stray dogs and cats…”
As the woman tried to explain to me how she found it embarrassing to solicit help from absolute strangers for her noble enterprise, I took a close look at her: she was short and lean, with dirty hair and bad teeth. From her accent, it was obvious that she was Anglo-Indian but her English was not too good. She had nervous eyes and her uneasy fingers were caked with dirt. The blouse and skirt she was wearing were unwashed and gave off a musty smell.
Even before she had finished speaking, Rohini started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” said the woman, making no attempt to conceal that she was offended.
“You’ve got very bad memory,” said Rohini. “We’ve run into each other before. Don’t you remember?”
 The woman didn’t say anything. She just stood there staring at me.
Rohini said: “Get lost before I call the police.”
Our curious interloper stood for a few seconds, considering the situation. When she realised there was no profit in it, she walked away, muttering abuses.
“What was that?” I inquired.
“She is a regular feature on Park Street. A junkie, a cokehead, she usually tries to dupe schoolchildren. I’ve come across her before. When I challenged her to take me to the shelter, she bailed out. Anyway, where were we?”
I tried to gather my thoughts. “I was wondering: Did you ever talk to Manik Sarkar about the results?”
“No, what was there to talk about? It was obvious why I had been given the prize. Bloody insulting! I cut all communication with him.”
“Didn’t he try to communicate with you?”
“Of course he did. When I stopped replying to his calls and texts, he started sending me messages through my father. That’s when I moved out of home.”
Our conversation was interrupted yet again by the cat woman. This time, she was accompanied by a police officer.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he said, addressing Rohini. “I’ve a complaint against you.”
“Sorry?”
“This lady here…”
“She is a con. She claims to take money for ailing animals, but…”
“It’s not about that,” said the officer, holding up a palm. “This lady has complained about you smoking.”
Flabbergasted, Rohini stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
The officer explained, patiently: “Don’t you know it’s illegal to smoke in public? Also, it is rather indecent for a woman to smoke at all.”
My friend blushed in fury. “How dare you!”
“I’ll request you not to scream…”
“I’ll do exactly as I feel like! Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me what’s decent and what’s not?”
Ignoring her outburst, the officer turned to me: “Please restrain your wife.”
“She’s not my wife.” My voice was choked with indignation.
A small crowd had gathered around us, drawn by the shouting.
“What’s the matter?” asked an elderly gentleman.
“You see,” said the police officer, “this young lady was smoking in public, and when I tried to tell her it was indecent to do so, she started abusing me.”
“Look at her,” cried the cat woman, “drunk in the afternoon, making a nuisance on the road!”
“I drink with my money, not by conning others.” Rohini’s voice was also hoarse.
The elderly gentleman, in an attempt to placate her, said: “The officer is right. It is indecent for sons and daughters of good homes to behave like this.”
“I’m not going to listen to your lecture now!”
“Listen to me: I am like your father.”
“No!” cried Rohini, angry tears streaming down her face. “You are not like my father. You can never be like him.”
“Who is your father?”
She declared his name. It had an amazing effect on the crowd. A hush seemed to descend on it, the muttering stopped. The curious onlookers started melting away in twos and threes.
Rohini turned towards the police officer. “Arrest me, why don’t you?”
The officer seemed unsure. “I’ll not arrest you,” he said, “but I’ll give you a warning.”
“Okay, warning taken. Now get lost.”
The crowd had dissolved, the cat woman had disappeared. The police officer, too, hurried away.
“Are you okay?” I asked Rohini.
She was laughing. “It’s becoming impossible to live in this city. When did it become so moralistic? Anyway, I must go now.”
Rohini put her arms around my neck and hugged me. “I love you.”
We started walking towards our cars. 
“Did you get a call from one Inspector Arijit Sen?” she asked.
“Who’s that?”
“He is the investigating officer in Manish’s case.”
“What’s there to investigate?”
“The police have to ascertain whether it was a suicide or not. Inspector Sen interviewed me the day before yesterday. He took your number from me. I guess he will call you.”

The prospect of meeting a police inspector about Manish’s death did not please me in the least, but I guess it was inevitable.

This is the second part of the two part extract we published at TSC.You may read the first part here.
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*An extract from Uttaran Das Gupta's Novel 'Hungry', or 'In This Inclement Clime of Human Life', first published in TSC.  First published in TSC

Poem | Ajmal Khan

Artwork : Aakriti Kuntal

J&K Exit



A     The line called Kashmir wanted to exit from poem India or I
          and don't want to join the poem Pakistan or P either
But some words in the line were desperate to join in India
    and some to join in Pakistan


B     Some letters in the line K frequently shout Azaadi Azaadi, a banned word in India
In Delhi the center of  poem I, these letters are called Jihadis
and they sent as many as editors who needed to edit these letters and delete them


C They edit the letters without considering  small letters, capital letters, feminine, masculine or any other
Line K has undergone for editing and re editing many times from 1947 than any other lines in the poem and more than ten thousand letters have been deleted so far
Feminine letters are being raped and molested by editors and young letters are
deleted more



D During monsoons the line K will be flooded and few editors will help
letters to take refuge in the poem I
In the I-poem these images get circulated as the rhythm of the poem



E     Most of the times the poem I will declare, line K is the integral part of the poem
I have created a new grammar for the line K, its called AFSPA
and its strictly followed on the line K



F   Go back India, Go back India, shout some letters in the line K
that will again attract for editing and further deleting
Some letters even editors don't know where they have gone, they are known as D letters, or Disappeared



G       The broken letters in the line K are called H&W
H for half and W for widow
They also shout  Azaadi, Azaadi.
Seeing this, few letters and words from the poem I will stand up for K
Rest of them will shout, K is our integral part while the editing and deleting continues.