Stark Electric Jesus by Malay Roychoudhury. "প্রচন্ড বৈদ্যুতিক্ ছুতার"আব...

Six Haikus by Malay Roychoudhury translated by Arunava Sinha

 Translated by Arunava Sinha

Six haikus:

 

Spring in netherland

Swarms of bees knock at the door

The girl's floating corpse

~

Leaning out to see

The sky spread across the wind

Taillights just like blood

~

Her hands on her hips

Emperor Ashoka weeps

Black and freezing rocks

~

Crematorium

Coils of smoke and darting shrimps

The Buddha walks by

~

Someone's dead body

Hanging from the ceiling fan

There's a male spider

~

Memories of thieves

Tagore's slippers on the shelf

Much too large in size

Malay Roychoudhury's Poetry of Dissent : Translated from Bengali to English

Nay-Ballad

From uncoiled wings of the burning swan
after sea of blood was born out of green caterpillar
that skin sheared moon from cloud’s underbelly
ordered  waves to abolish horoscopes on crabs’ breasts
.
On the evergreen epiglotis of lotus full to the brim
the pollen fiddling honey bee waved  her double scarf
searched for drunk village of pride red beating crowd
humming songs sleeping side by side of worried distance
.
( Translation of ‘Na-Ballad’. Written on 15 August 1999 )

A Quasi Governmental Report

Unarmed military  offered prayers
One tin water is for ten rupees
.
Underground river cut off from source
Habitually disgusted because of envy
.
Strong words used for sealing border
Public Works Department has broken
.
Since at the day’s end in share market
A woman’s body cut in two with sickle
.
Postal ballot in hand amid tomato field
Lying pristine with great expectations
.
Ambitious pair of shoes for parliament
Let them say whatever  face betray
.
As if  rice field is scared of Tiger’s roar
Daughter of cultivator is in ministry
.
Tired cuckoo-man grieving  due to son’s death
From football field corner in direct shot
.
Solved the problem of freedom movement
On the forehead of dead that was the truth
.
( Translation of ‘Ekti Adha-Sarkari Protibedan’. Written in 1996 )

Sonpur Fair, Evening of Gumrahi Tart

Sliding jute curtain
flickers in tent lantern
dot beauty gait her
small coins in betel  box
was counting tobacco scent
in broken wine glasses
.
half naked on rope cot
coin colour  country liquor
leather shoes well oiled
beat stick resting at corner
and yellow stain turban
cheese-penis landlord
.
atoned in elephant shit
put red petticoat on shoulder
switched song amplifier
hemp torn milk wet
eye on eye sharp dark
depends on who is beneath
.
myrobalan under tongue
betel nut cutter in waist
box full of scent tobacco
corset on blown breast
strung undies on string
one suck tumbling tart
.
artificial hair on bamboo pole
hypnotized hornet-man
mosquito on naked bum
his thighs are of mafioso
one and five coins for police
she is whatever fair or pure
.
( Translation of ‘Shonpur Mela, Gumrahi Baier Sandhya’ L

Ruffian

I who am a swapping lapwing’s bullet ridden sky
was born out of drowned water filled bison’s horn
in idle-eye noon beneath the pearly neem tree
was enjoying black blonde’s adornment of soft-paw brows
in rain drenched gold-flower tucked in coiffure’s knot
.
I who am standing in front of grilled horizon of meadow-dawn
on the trampled foot-printed grass of mourning sun’s wet-earth
heard nightlong wood mite’s  buzz in my last wallowed bed
thought why should purposefulness  be bad my dear
is not there art of  sweat-salt in labour of post a chair holds
.
I who asked  gallinules what taste do you get from  wings of butterflies
like  chipko playing bride of thrice-wed groom’s hoof-sound headgear
am in a ship evading  lighthouse’s beam a saw-teeth shark
in the Secretariat cage-lift with a clerk having breasts of Jamini Roy painting
bawled shrieks of rider throwing stallion’s bridle snapping neigh
.
I who am a whispering song sung in cricket’s musical notation
have trapped Hilsa fish shoals’ colours in vagina shaped nets
beneath the fig tree of hanged martyrs during freedom movement
from corners of caterpillar-chewed  perfumed lemon leaves
flying out in sky from  nape shaved hillock of stone chip proprietor

( Translation of ‘Tapori’. Written on March 1, 1990 )

Crematorium, 1992

During a paddy husk flying noon, from the corpse of a white-owl, gnat children

were stealing butter

with their hands having fragrance of rice crispies

picked up lightly the throttled shrieks of last akanda flowers

in the brittle breeze of Jaisalmer

sickly happy

at the spiraling city, blood drenched minute hand of wall clock

and the faces were beaming in wood fire warmth

pigeons fluttered making sounds of torn documents, just a bit

of living one’s own life

from those colours of sunset  eyebrows, on the sad boat at web-tide

dead body wrapped in coarse mattress

I walked towards the gold rimmed estuary

in my palm I held the split moment of a knotted storm

at the breast beating grief of thrown parched rice

that was only mine

The Clapper

                   Then set out after repeated warning the grizzly

Afghan Duryodhan

in blazing  sun

removed sandal-wood blooded stone-attired guards

spearing gloom brought out a substitute of dawn

crude hell’s profuse experience

Huh

a night-waken drug addict beside head of feeble earth

from the cruciform The Clapper could not descend due to lockdown

wet-eyed babies were smiling

.

in a bouquet of darkness in forced dreams

The Clapper wept when learnt about red-linen boat’s drowned passengers

in famished yellow winter

white lilies bloomed in hot coal tar

when in chiseled breeze

nickel glazed seed-kernel

moss layered skull which had moon on its shoulder scolded whole night

non-weeping male praying mantis in grass

bronze muscled he-men of Barbadoz

pressed their fevered forehead on her furry navel

.

in comb-flowing rain

floated  on frowning  waves

diesel sheet shadow whipped oceans

all wings had been removed from the sky

funeral procession of newspaperman’s freshly printed dawn

lifelong jailed convict’s eye in the keyhole

outside

in autumnal rice pounding  pink ankle

Lalung ladies

echo forgets to shriek back sensing the beauty of sweat’s fragrance

.

thereafter

Operation Bullshit

ulcer in mouth

numb-penis young rebel’s howl on the martyr platform

non-veg heart daubed in onion paste

black eyed flowers

drenched lotus flower suffered from pneumonia

cloud’s forced roar on a hookah smoking octogenarian train

and lightning covered with gold laced spider web

frog-maid dropped a fat toad  from her back

.

creamy hell-fairy of Babylon

fed medicine tablets to north facing clouds

swirling green fireflies on castor-oil lamp

splints of songs from the crown of ruffled hair comet-face princess

swan with blood-stained feet

prayed for a spring season for the repatriated  armies

who arranged green-bed farmland for the shot-dead rebel’s parents

sulphur mist spread through secret savanna of lion-skin poachers

marriageable horseman The Clapper

Heigh ho

.

suffering from  angst of a little unrecognition

the garden which lifted the betel-nut palms on little finger

in long distance cyclone

below the lamppost

covered by clothes of rain

that broken gait is his form

the profile which searched for relaxing waves

the universe in tandava trance

mouth blocked with leucoplast tape inside a temple

The Clapper

.

when fire separates from smoke

within that flash

the epiglotis

feels bitter between two heart beats

feverish rebels invade through sluice-gate

palash flowers united themselves in blooming red during the cyclone

just like futureless in zoos

in the last breeze

tin-bordered clouds exploded firecrackers

as if  The Clapper will appear just now

.

in the morning the sweeper gathered all clappers assembled during night

in painless love

shoved sick Ganges river in a bag

one or three colour flapping rainbow

food plates were found in graves

 bone columns fell due to wails of exploiteds

nobody is happy

when asked how are you replied

fine

handed over rings of barbed wire from their waist

.

after the oath ceremony of depraved

corpse collectors started visiting towns and villages

people prayed for their right to cry

somewhere else The Clapper

in fractured health

was trying to correct the songs of birds

in star flickering darkness

pillow hugging rainy nights

fish smelling asthma of slippery catfishes in Palamou Jehanabad Rohtas districts

on the eyelids of snail-chin old woman gray dusts of  salt-petre-sulpher

.

for listening to songs of small wide-eyed fishes of half rotten Hooghly river

winter’s fine moult came out of cobra-girl’s attire

suddenly a porcupine

kapok flowers in red wedding dress

young sunflower stared on the side

healthy crab danced in hot oil raising her two scarlet hands

white muslin soft fairies leaped in rice-bowl

after he wept  in darkness The Clapper smiled in light

listened to the jingle of shackles with which he was tied to hospital bed

nightlong tick tock of incarceration of the table clock

.

( Translation of Bengali poem ‘Hattali’ )

Blood Lyric

Abontika, my house was invaded midnight  in search of you
Not like her not like him nor like them
Comparable not to this not to that not to it

What have I done for poetry plunging into  lava-spewing volcano  ?
What are these ? What are these ? Result of searches at home
of Poetry ? Bromide sepia babies from Dad’s broken almirah
of Poetry ! Mom’s Benares sari torn out of hammered box
of Poetry ! Breaths are recorded in the seizure list
of Poetry ! Show me show me what else is coming out
of Poetry ! Shame on you; girl’s half-licked guy ! Die you die
of Poetry ! Wave piercing sharks chew up flesh & bone
of Poetry ! AB negative sun from small intestine knots
of Poetry ! Asphyxiated speed stored in impatient footprints
of Poetry ! Delicate tart-glow in piss  flooded jail
of Poetry ! Mustard flower pollen on prickly feet of bumblebee
of Poetry ! Hungry farmer in dirty loincloth on salty dry land
of Poetry ! Rotten blood on feathers of corpse eating vultures
of Poetry ! Sultry century in faded humid spiteful crowd
of Poetry ! Black death shrieks of intelligence in guillotine
of Poetry ! You die you die you die why didn’t you die
of Poetry ! Fire in your mouth fire in your mouth fire
of Poetry ! You die you die you die you die you die
of Poetry ! Not like her not like him nor like them
of Poetry ! Comparable not to this not to that not to it
of Poetry ! Abontika, they came in search of you, why didn’t take you along !!
( Translation of Blood Lyric )
Mumbai 2011

Nail Cutting and Love

Tagore, this is for you after one fifty years :
who clipped your nails in offshore lands–
that foreign lady ? Or the chick adulators ?
There isn’t any photograph of yours with
your hands placed on laps of young ladies
cutting nails ; your feet on Ocampo’s knee ?

May be the girls on whose shoulder  Gandhi placed
his wings, cut his nails. As you know, it’s so painful
to reach the nail-cutter up to one’s feet at  old age–
oh, men like me without young girls for company
are aware. Love’s strange demand from senile age.

Gossipers say Sunil Ganguly did have for each nail
a struggling poetess. Joy Goswami also have had
the same ; the girls closed eyes and jumped  into muck.
I’d seen  Shakti Chattopadhyay’s lover clipping his nails
in the small Chaibasa room. Does Sharat do same for Bijoya ?

Yashodhara, did Trinanjan ever cut your nails ?
Subodh, have you ever took Mallika’s feet
on your lap and cut her nails ? Just a glance
at the feet of a poet tells you how lonely he is.
Think of Jibanananda ; he has been searching for
Banalata for thousand years for his nails to be cut.
( Translation of Nokh Kata O Prem )
Mumbai 2010

Immortality

Those who beat us to death after village court trial, they
did not spare you as well, Abontika ! We rotten corpses
drift in muddy Hooghly river ; what was our crime ?
You are Party boss’s wife, I am just an uncivil nobody.
There were endless praise of communism in last 33 years ;
nothing for lovers. For whose benefit were the tomes–
whatever are left of the rotten corpses of lovers remain
metamorphosed domestic bullocks yoked to grinding,
useless party-worker. Better to exude on chariot of waves
to the seas clutching each other in oceanic splendour.
( Translation of Amaratwa )
Kolkata 2006
 

Salt & Betrayers

You touched my sweat with your tongue
Abontika, and had said, ‘Ah salty beauty
heart of heart…scent of masculinity…’
That day, from Police custody to Court
rope tied to my waist and handcuffed
I walked along with murderers hoodlums;
circus loving crowd on both sides of road.

The betrayers, who volunteered in
court to testify against me, said, when
they came down from witness-box, ‘No,
the sweat was sweet and not salty ; thus
no question of treachery could arise–
and should not be marked as Betrayers.’
( Translation of Noon O Nimakharami )
Kolkata, 2005

The Spam Mistress

This is interesting ! In a flash you entered my desktop with mail
topless polygirl your smiling invite for a black night fling
The hungry wolf in me looks at  Baudelairian dark Venus.
In funny English you’ve written on your belly you love me
princess Africa hooker girl exposed trapdoor for  love
adorable soft thighs. What’s that,  colour or blood on shaman-nails ?

Which country are you from, mischief-sissy ? Kenya Uganda
Zambia Burkina Faso Congo Cameroon Sudan Niger ?
I am sure you’ve ganged up in Mumbai’s Nijerwadi.
How did you know I have never slept with an African chick !
Delightful to say the least your lighted lap sex appeal
you know quite well . That’s why invite for an embrace.
How many Rupees or Dollars for that experience
you haven’t indicated ; just a call to meet at Meera Road
Junction, where you’ll  descend in flesh from digital beauty.
( Translation of Spam Premika )
Mumbai 2009

Green Godchild

Oh, so you are the divine beauty I read about
in adolescence, whom Toulouse Lautrec, Rimbaud,
Verlaine, Baudelaire, Van Gogh, Modigliani et all
held on to waist curvature and took flights to
healing sweetness of  inebriated light
blazing hallucinatory juice of green lichen
on the coloured thighs of sizzling dance girls
who broke rhythms and picked up their
contorted feelings on paper or canvas

At De Wallen crowds in Amsterdam
wide mouth I ogle at almost naked
showcased blonde dark brown ladies
sourced from all over the world
pink halo tinkling in semi-dark rooms
twenty minutes fixed missionary style.
I count  Euros in my pocket and switch
to the old controversy of form versus content :
which generates more happiness and how
is Absinthe different from others ?
The guide retorts, ‘Why don’t you sleep
yourself and see semen turning green !’
( Translation of Sobuj Devkanya )
Amsterdam, 2007

Love Returns or Love Does Not Return

Saw you Abontika squatting on a milestone in gracious moonlit midwinter
your back and chest still carrying 44 year old dust and dry grass
wale mark of rashes  all over your body due to moon’s crime, aha, result of peity
you were shivering may be due to a vortex of hookworm in abdomen
your ivy strand golden hair flowed down your shoulders up to waist
seated on the signstone completely naked on third day of November
guides of death in guise of mosquitoes sang Death Metal around your head
you do not remember the last lover who deserted you at this place.
I said, ‘Abontika, do you still possess the 9mm pistol
with which you had killed me ?’
Waving your Naxal hand you brought down the pistol from air and
emptying all bullets on my chest you said,’Ya, here it is !’
I scooped out  44 year old bullets from my chest and placed on your invisible hand–
You said, ‘That’s good, we shall meet again Comrade.’
( Translation of Prem Pherey Pherey Naa )
Mumbai 2009

Elopegirl

I could not find you in your bedroom , what a mess, am at a loss
Abontika, which river has seduced you ? I unanchored my iceberg boat
have a look, in  Keleghai Churni Gumni Joldhaka Mayurakshi Kangsaboti rivers’
currents, no trace of scent of your sweat, am sad, the fishermen also
could not find your blind touch, full-moon is in the dark,
how would I manage, onions are not weeping, shit,
bangles are clamourless, in which dream you have saved the kisses
I could not locate, you could have informed someone, reflection of your face
you had thrown away  along with mirror, oh what a problem, at least
you could have left behind bed sighs, why the almirah is empty,
whom did you donate hair-oil from pillow and birth-mark of your navel
I could not recognize the voice of your mind, toothbrush is without music
slippers are without dance, why do you give such agony Abontika, your
name used to be tied with your fallen hair, I could not find even after sweeping the floor,
your office going road is waiting for you inside cobweb of spiders
your fish-breath drawing  routes on the palm has gone astray
there, there, that bugger with whom you fled, his
musical notes of  shoe-marks are loitering on the marble floor
( Translation of Elopekanya )
Mumbai 2012

Stoniness

Midnight may be called a kind of colour dogs dislike
stones too despise being locked up whole life within its breast
if picked up by someone at midnight it hurts their solid guilt feeling
it wakes up and listens to the dog’s moans
why is there such difference with a dead snail which even after death
has the right to nurture her lover’s gestures inside heart
probably because of blessings of sighs of couples
even a drunkard would not throw a dead snail at a dog
would abuse if he steps on it and hurts himself
but that is done by all lovers amid busy crowd
in the flesh of the snail whispers of his lover
continuously  resonate to  respond to sex-waves
pity the stone without a female organ
( Translation of Pathorata )
Mumbai 2012

Counter Discourse

Relentless salty invite of sea was telling me I am not the same I used to be dear
I am not because after my legs were tied to railing of a hospital bed

cultivators’ river and labourers’ river were flowing separately on both side of bed
an enforced discipline in which the sun rises and sets only once throughout the day

if one has to draw comparison one would say it is not wedding vows of frog and snake
when the half-wet seed has for the last time embraced its sprout

I knew I was not as I used to be as locks of all words have been opened
days are such that roses refuse to bloom without bonemeal of saints at roots

and some bugger has spitted red at the corner of the sky and fled
may be… may be… the raven seated upon the head of scarecrow

from the rag-stitched water of the pond during springtime noon
I have cleaned and picked up the last piece of shadow of my own
( Translation of Counter Discourse )
Kolkata,  30 March 2000

Objectivity

Regaining consciousness in a trickle
Hands & feet tied and mouth gagged on a railroad track
The silent whole
Shirt and trousers daubed in dew
Whining crickets drone
A rural gloom studded with night-chilled stars
Can’t shout as mouth is wool of spew
Ribs and shinbone smitten — not possible to move
Stiff stonechips bite at back
How beautiful is the world and peace everywhere allround calm
A pinhead light is rushing on rail route piercing the one-eyed dark
( Translation of Pratyaksha )
1986

Kurmitola, Jehanabad, 1989, Evening

Mother

while standing in waterweed, in the kitchen,  in her petticoat, was caught

by police, her hair unkempt

in wintery autumn flying horses stored in glass jar held in left hand, knitted in loincloth

a comet from the yellow piece of cloud

she floated her boat made of hay, unconcerned, lilies within shouts of children

I know what will happen to her now

Abdul, Gafoor’s brother, was first to bring the news

but Mother gave up, hazy domesticity in the dusts of her brows

why did she conceal behind Goddess Kali’s lamp-oil

broken pulses and rice crumbs  brought from Murshidabad

a little sun tainted skin, in unknown fear, palm on her chin, forgot her own name

damp shadows on her hung face

brain completely naked

in drizzling dewdrops, smiled a skinny deer

wooden shoes on snow, sky facing wolves, she cried whole day

the priest

drew blood in a syringe from her hand

pain at the corner of her lips, was tired to climb the stairs

( Translation of Kurmitola, Jehanabad, 1989, Sondhya )

To Save People of West Bengal

I do not know why
inside pinkflesh jailhouse of a shark’s stomach
during domesticated dangers in a wet honest alley of wayward rains
when the 205 route bus carrying darkness on shoulders reached Babughat
driver said go carefully to other side of river as it has gone for spawning to the sea
you must be aware apart from rotten corpses other funerals have been banned

I do not know why
in the No Entry zone where only scoundrels win
saw the parasite-ear crater-mouth reporter counting
with painless hands of Duhshasan ashes of last breath from burning pyre
whose only job was to contradict other people’s opinion in the motherland of bugs

I do not know why
men who prefer to lend tongue instead of ear to rumours
when they made it free to board and eat for accepting disorder as peace
victory arose from self named grave of poison smeared sheepfold
everyone was shouting Hail Revolution but we do not want transferable jobs

I do not know why
the day ditched girl inside frog-echo water-well
floated upward — sweet memory of iron-weight at grocer’s shop
was balancing wheat flour for Satyanarayan Puja
demeanour was such as if southern breeze was tickling fishes brought on land

I do not know why
faster than dementia of a wound’s  remembrance  of pain
I saw funeral ants in a row carrying candy particles on corpse’s forehead
( Translation of Pashchimbanger Manushkey Banchatey Holey )
Mumbai, 17 February 1999

Democratic Centralism

To be honest I became  plywood leader after giving up cultivation of teeth & nails
when I am in disguise my real appearance slips out
is there any original work other than  self-hostility ? Tell me !

To be honest I am a loose eagle haggard in  dilapidated sky
I feign to pretend and pass it on as life
I lead domesticity in a  hackery on swimmer dribbling  stream

To be honest I hammer out stone from heart of stone and find
through sandy glance rows of turtle-flesh eater gout sufferers
searching for wing-flight smiles from drowned girl’s livid lips

To be honest while I weep during adulterated smoke  offerings of ghee
I create truth create death create up & down circles
the snake was inside its hole I insert my hand to bewitch it as well.
( Translation of Ganatantrik Kendrikata )
Kolkata, 27 November 1999

The Empty Womb

After having layers of dust on ear lobes on breeze stitched paddy field
when cobra children started dancing around me
pointing nude fingers toward husky darkness
I saw jingled sounds of sunrise amid whispers of rain
the four squared universe seen through  soft barrel hole of a rifle
which was encircled by a thorn crowned slogan-wet wall

After the garden came forward to receive me
dancing bells of cobra mom-dad were strewn all over grass
and cobra housewife reminded several times
she would expose and reveal the real thing

The lady whose beauty I had ravished just by a glance at her
I could glean through twisted arms of her sexless embrace
my horoscope on dazzling  liquid breast of the crab
licked with smooth kissing lips by  cobra housewife

At the happy eating festival of the menu-card funeral
the sick street dog licked its own shadow from bodyfur
and over the bread crumbed map only then
ant columns marched from one country to another
( Translation of Shunya Garbha )
Ahmednagar, 12 October 1997

Two Worlds

We know we are incapable of redemption
but because of it why in your rain-echo drenched stingy  lungs
piranha shoals would swim wearing pink raincoats

Rumour is your veins carry ashen flight of one-dialect pigeons
we’ve heard you used to tame fat-belly clouds with your blind vision
you used to tuck  donkey brays of your daily diary in your armpits
and now you claim that even Karna of Mahabharata did not donate his vote

Everybody is aware that only coffin bearers are immortal
since you did not get someone to talk to in  darkness of semen
you searched for an one-shot lover in  clocktowerless city
you scoundrels don’t you have any address or it is your sinister blood
that the wrinkled mirror carries your pulpable image throughout the day

Shame shame shame you want back the breath after you breathe it out
I thought you would apply your power of doubt
instead you are shredding  your prehistoric body-hair with ding dong cotton-gin

My best wishes you get both hands of Duhshasana  of Mahabharata
with which you may count the sparkles of flints in your fort of smoke
( Translation of Duti Bishwa )
27 April 2000

Bite

India, Sir, how long will you carry on like this, really, I feel awful
India, I ate your jail food for  complete one month which means for 30 days
No job since September 1964, you know India, would you mind lending me 20 bucks ?
India, those guys are very bad, even rats are eating away your grains
What did Suhrawardy advise you in the Control Room India ?
O tell me — I am really happy, promise, I can make faces !
And I do not know where Kolkata is hurtling in this bitter renaissance
India, why don’t you get a few of my pulp published in Nabokallol magazine
I’ll also become saint, or guide us to Santiniketan
We would be servant of literature, you would give me a set of cultural attire
Let us go to country liquor den Khalasitola today evening, we would cook Bengali culture
India, why aren’t you exploding an atom bomb,  fireball suits the sky !
Do you want to try LSD ? Both of us would sunbathe at Nimtala crematoria
India, here, take this handkerchief, wipe your specs
In this election please help me win, I’d contest from Chilika lake
Which lecture of yours is going to be published in tomorrow’s newspaper, India ?
I have snatched the key from them which keeps you going
India, I surreptitiously read the love letters written to you
Why don’t you cut your nails ? There are dark patches beneath your eyes
Why don’t you apply colour to your teeth these days ?
You kill in revenge but blame us for murder when we  follow you
Don’t think I am just a cat’s paw
How about a self-compromise eating one’s own heart
India, withdraw Section 144 of Penal Code from paddy fields
Send all great books to Vietnam, Huh Huh
May be the war will stop
India, tell me what exactly you want !!
( Translation of Kamor )
Hungry Bulletin, 26th January 1966.

Chicken Roast

Puff your plume in anger and fight, cock, delight the owner of knife
smear sting with pollen and flap your wings.
As I said : Twist  arms and keep them bent
roll the rug and come down the terrace after disturbed sleep
Shoeboots—-rifle—whirring bullets—shrieks

The aged undertrial in the next cell weeps and wants to go home
Liberate me     let me go    let me go home
On its egg in the throne the gallinule doses
asphyxiate in dark
fight back, cock, die and fight, shout with the dumb

Glass splinters on tongue—breast muscles quiver
Fishes open their gills and enfog water
A piece of finger wrapped in pink paper
With eyes covered someone wails in the jailhouse
I can’t make out if man or woman

Keep this eyelash on lefthand palm–and blow off with your breath
Fan out snake-hood in mist
Cobra’s abdomen shivers in the hiss of feminine urination
Deport to crematorium stuffing blood-oozing nose in cottonwool
Shoes brickbats and torn pantaloons enlitter the streets

I smear my feet with the wave picked up from a stormy sea
That is the alphabet I drew on for letters.
( Translation of Murgir Roast )
1988

Repeat Uhuru

Hood-covered face, hands tied
at the back…On the alter plank
breeze frozen in bitter hangman’s odour
who composes time ?
Doctor    Cop    Judge    Warden    or    None !

I unfurl myself in the dungeon cloud
where salt-sweating history of dirt is tamed
the rope quivers fast at first
Weak jerks thereafter calm, with dumbness of bawl
wherein bards and butchers repeat their fall
I revive my rise.

This rising is singular. None other for the monster of words
whose feet adore the ruined universe.

I don’t face the gallows every time to keep alive
a dynasty of faith of those who are spawned for death.

Homology

I am ready to be mugged O deadly bat come
Tear off my clothes, bomb the walls of my home
Press trigger on my temple and beat me up in jail
Push me off a running train, intern and trail
I am a seismic yantra alive to glimpse the nuke clash
A heathen mule spermed by blue phallus ass
( Translation of Monushyatantra )
1986

Aamar Swadesh. Poem of Poet Malay Roychudhury recited by Bidisha.

Malay with wife Shalila in Holland

Malay Roy Choudhury, My Dad

Malay Roy Choudhury, My Dad-----Anushree Prashant

It is almost as if I can see him growing up. Feel his desperation and his need for independence. His solitary soul forcing him to try to break away, repeatedly, unsuccessfully from all the ties that bound him. The responsibility and the love for his family, and his writing, like stretched elastic, playing a tug-o-war amongst themselves.

My grandfather was no mean storyteller, but the most enjoyment I got was from hearing about Bapi’s escapades. Thakuma, my grandmother, felt, understood and forgave his spirit, loved him and was always afraid for him. I could always sense it in her voice. And at the same time, I believe, she felt an inordinate amount of pride at his repeated jaunts; when she would be scared to death fearing the worst, and also, hoping that this time round his desire for freedom would have been satiated.

I remember the quiet pride in my grandfather’s voice, as he would reminisce about Bapi, on the quiet evenings and weekends when he would teach me the rudiments of photography in the darkroom, after school hours, interspersed with terse directions. And then in the bright light outside, he would talk angrily about how Bapi gave Thakuma a scare when he was seventeen. He had hitched a ride atop a truck to Assam, with a large number of smelly goats for company, and had disappeared without a trace for three whole weeks and they knew nothing about his whereabouts. He never said he had been worried, but always, that Thakuma had been.

I can see Bapi, ten year old, with his pockets full of pebbles and dead decaying frogs, rats and chicks, he might have collected for the pleasure of doing so, and then as soon forgot about them. I can still see the amusement in Thakuma’s eyes, as she recalled to me, about the discovery of the decaying remains. I never saw the disgust that might have been more natural on her part when she had to wash the smell out from those clothes.

Dadu, my grandfather, was proud that his younger son had the intellect to choose Rural Development and Agricultural Banking as his career, and had not joined him in the family business. I wonder if he ever felt the lack of not having either of his two sons join. But he never showed it. Seen through the hazy pupils of my grandparent’s eyes, Bapi assumed almost mammoth proportions. And he became the idol. I wished to emulate.

My story-time was in the afternoons after lunch or at night, when I would sit patiently for Dadu or Thakuma to slowly talk their eternal ‘paan’ (betel leaf). The stories were many and varied, from the ‘Panchatantra’ to the ‘Mahabharata’, from Sukumar Ray’s nonsense verse to those they created themselves as the story progressed. But my most favourite ones were about the antics and escapades of my father.

About the time, when as a small child Bapi had been befriended by a Muslim bangle maker, and would get home coloured bangle pieces of glass in his pockets for a week till he had hurt himself enough while unloading them on my unsuspecting Thakuma, or probably because he had tired of the pastime. Or about the time when, he was sent out to buy a bottle of mustard oil, he found the chore suddenly becoming fun, as the shop keeper fished out a dead rat from the can of oil before filling his bottle. He recounted it with such glee, I wonder the feelings that this news might have evoked in my grandparents at the time, whether they had already consumed the oil or it was awaiting consumption. Knowing Bapi, I am sure he would have told, after they had consumed it, just to see whether one felt any after-effects of consuming poisoned oil.

Bapi recalled the poverty of his childhood days with a fair amount of nostalgia, always with a far away look in his eyes, which never showed any sorrow, but instead a lot of joy at the incidents he remembered of those times and which he took a delight in sharing with us. He always recounted the ones when he had either evoked laughter or even when he had been able to enjoy himself, never the ones that might let us have a taste of the grim realities of those times. In his way, he could rouse within us a feeling of delight, as yet unsurpassed by any storyteller I have met since then.

I was very young, when once he said, in answer to a comment made by a relative, with complete disinterest, that no one has a right to claim as inheritance, that one has not worked hard and sweated for. Looking back, it seems to me that I grew up that day, in that single moment and learnt to hold my head that much higher. Today when I recollect those words, I do so with the knowledge and the pride that he sincerely followed what he preached even unconsciously.

But he nevertheless was hurt, when he learnt that our near-relative, took away everything. He never felt bad about the loss of the monetary value of the property. But that, even his inheritance of memories within those walls were broken down to accommodate the dowry from newest addition to the family. And he and his beloved parents, like just so much dust, were swept away and washed out even from the minds of the nephews and niece who he had cherished and loved as his own kin. I would like to claim that he recovered from this utter disillusionment, but in truth that would be a falsity.

As far back as I can, I remember the far away look in his eyes, when he would be lost to everything around him; when people around him assumed the form of furniture, when their conversation was like the transistor radio, blasting away ephemeral and vacuous messages; when he would look through the person opposite him with his unseeing eyes, all the while concentrating on capturing that elusive thought whirling around in his mind like a transitory snowflake.

I also remember the time when he would come to pick me up from school, standing in the shade of an accommodating tree, be completely lost in his own world. He would come to with a jerk, when I tugged at his shirt, and would sheepishly ask me how long I had been standing there. My brother and I always recollect those moments with great happiness, as I could chat with my friends for that extra bit of time, and my brother could play the fool to his heart’s content, and Bapi would not come to know, till we reminded him of our existence.

But our mother must have found this trait particularly wearying and hard to comprehend. Sometimes she would get irritated, and then my brother and I would gang up against her and have a lot of fun pulling her leg. And sometimes she would feel sad and lonely; at those times we would try to cheer her up and amuse her, and try to take her mind away from the thoughts within.

Our mother always came across as ambitious, never for herself, but for her husband and children. She could never understand the moods and vagaries, eccentricities and idiosyncrasies of Bapi, and always had to explain them to herself, giving improbable and plausible reasons for his maverick behavior. Mummy has taken a long time to understand Bapi, almost her entire married life. That too she only did so through trying to understand me. I am quite like Bapi.

He let me run free, as he himself wanted to be, away from all tries and trammels of civilization but never could be. I read his poems when still in the process of learning my Bengali alphabet. I formed words and images slowly in my mind, and read his much acclaimed poems of Medhar Batanukul Ghungoor, and felt the thrill of immediately being transported to higher echelons, among the clouds. I learnt all about visual and sound poetry from reading Bapi’s works. His metaphors and picturesque imagery still enthralls me. He could bring to life the most common phenomena, with so much zest. Each word pieced together with utmost care, placed carefully on the tracery of his work; almost like pointillism. And they would turn out to be unique masterpieces.

I grew up under his shade, but never under his shadow, as , with apt timely criticism he would immediately drive me to better my work, be it in academics or otherwise. One harsh word and I would try to supersede my own goals and surpass his expectations of me. I always looked at myself through Bapi’s eyes, trying as hard as I could to win his approval and be a person of merit. Always racing to run ahead of his ambitions for me, striving, but never quite succeeding. But it has made me stronger, built in me a spine of stainless steel, able to bear sorrows, and joy with equanimity.

I am thankful to him for being the way he always has been, and hope he continues to inspire me and be there always, for me.

(Reprinted from Malay Roychoudhury Compendium (2001) edited by Murshid A.M. and Arabinda Pradhan. Anushree Prashant lives in Holland with her husband and two daughters.)

SABARNA CHOUDHURY CLAN OF UTTARPARA

Malay RoyChoudhury's Ancestory:

Malay Roychoudhury (1939), and his elder brother Samir (1933), of the Hungry Generation (Hungryalism) literature Movement (1961-1965) fame, belong to the Uttarpara (District Hooghly, West Bengal, India) clan of the Sabarna Choudhuries. Having been born in to this clan has given them a sense of being rooted to the pre-colonial history of West Bengal, as well as an organic geographical sense of belonging to the soil, which most of the contemporary Bengali writers are deprived of. It was natural that these two brothers alongwith Shakti Chattopadhyay, resident of Joynagar-Majilpur, formed the core of the Movement.

The Sabarna Choudhury clan of Uttarpara, like the clans at Halishahar, Birati and Kheput, is a branch of the Behala-Barisha (Kolkata) Sabarna Choudhuries. However, the clan did not suddenly emanate at Behala-Barisha. Like all rarhishreni Brahmins, this family also traces its origin in pre-Islamic Bengal, reportedly, from one of the five Kannaujia Brahmins, brought to his kingdom by Adisura-Sriharsa.

Atul Krishna Ray in his book ‘Lakshmikanta: A Chapter in the Social History of Bengal’ (1928) has mapped the course of the descendants of one of such 10^th Century Brahmins in this order: Vedagarbha (980AD), Shobhana, Shauri, Pitambara, Damodara, Kulapati (1182), Shishoo, Gadadhara, Halayudha (1282), Ayurama, Binayak, Jiyo, Paramshwar and Panchanan.

The historical mist gets clearer from the time of a person in flesh and blood at Amati village of Katoa in Burdwan who shifted to Gohatya-Gopalpur (now Goghat) in Hooghly district. His name is Panchanan Gangopadhyay, who gave up hereditory brahminical vocation of religious activities, and joined Humayun’s Afghan cavalry. There is no record as to how he developed the skills of a sword fighter; nevertheless, his ingenuity, bravery and quality of leadership during the reign of Emperor Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar entitled him to be conferred the military title of ‘Sakhtkhan’, and a promotion to commandant’s grade. He came to be known as Panchu Shakti Khan, a hero of oral ballads. Malay and Samir carry his genes.

The wealth he had amassed as a commandant allowed him to shift his base to a place which later came to be known as Halishahar. He had built a haveli or a palace, and the town was called Haveli-Shahar at that time. He invited vaidyas of Bikrampur, kayasthas of Konnogar, yajurvedi Brahmins from Orissa and Tamilnadu for settling at Havelishahar. Since vocations were caste-based at that time, he had arranged for the settlement of artisans, craftsmen and traders from various areas. Panchu Shakti Khan’s son Shambhupati (1500) reverted to Gangopadhyay title, and engaged himself in developing the area as a business centre; the centre was connected by river route with Bhushana (now in Bangladesh).

Shambhupati’s son Jia (1535-1620) broke the newly-built family tradition and reverted to religious inclinations. He moved from one temple to another with his wife Padmavati, probably because she was unable to bear a child. The couple visited the then Kalikshetra Kalipeeth, now known as Kalighat, the abode of goddess Kali. The legend, narrated in Kalikshetra Deepika by Suryakumar Chattopadhyay and Kalighat Itibritta by Upendranath Mukhopadhyay is that Padmavati in her trance saw a halo of light descend on the adjacent pond; she wanted to take a dip in that halo of light, which she did, and became pregnant. Hence the custom of childless couples taking a bath in the adjacent water-body. Presently it is waiting to be cleaned of filth. Next day Padmavati saw a hand right in the middle of the pond, signaling her to find out what is concealed at the bottom. On excavation, a piece of goddess Sati’s feet was discovered, reported to be locked in the temple-chest forever.

Padmavati gave birth to a son, and as the story goes, died after three days. Jia renounced samsara, and became an ascetic and moved to Varanasi; thenceforth he was known as Mahatma Kamdev Brahmachari, having been ordained by his guru Atmaram Brahmachari who was well versed in Persian, Arabic, Hindvi and Sanskrit. The present image of goddess Kali at Kalighat was installed by Kamdev Brahmachari. Since then ‘Sabarna’ is a password for clan members to enter the sanctum sanctorum of this overcrowded temple. Malay and Samir do have the spiritual tolerance of Kamdev Brahmachari.

Jia’s son was reared, educated and trained by Atmaram Brahmachari and his assistant Ananda Giri. The boy was named Lakshmikanta (1570-1649). The Sabarna Choudhury clan starts from him. Lakshmikanta was trained in the traits of Panchu Shakti Khan; the boy was a mathematical wonder. His mathematical prowess, command over several languages and wrestling skills drew the attention of feudal lord Srihari Guha of Gaud, who was a minister at Afgan Sultan Daud Khan’s court. Lakshmikanta got a job at Saptagram revenue department, and rose to become an advisor to Srihari Guha’s son Pratapaditya.

In Bangadhip Parajay written by Pratapchandra Ghosh, and Jashohar Khulnar Itihas written by Satishchandra Mitra, when Daud Khan was defeated by the Moguls in 1576, Srihari Guha divided his fiefdom, gave 70% to Pratapaditya and 30% to his brother Basanta Ray. Pratapaditya started encroaching upon the fiefdoms of other feudal lords and increased his domain spreading over Khulna, Jessore and 24 Pargana. Lakshmikanta’s diplomacy ensured a pact between Mogul subedar Islam Khan and Pratapaditya. Pleased with the quantum of revenue, Emperor Akbar conferred the title of Maharaja to Pratapaditya, and Majmuadar (Revenue Commissioner) to Lakshmikanta.

The title of Maharaja changed Pratapaditya to a different man. He broke the conditions of the pact, and along with eleven other feudal lords, refused to pay requisite quantam of silver to the coffers of the Emperor. He also conspired to kill his uncle Basanta Ray and his son. Lakshmikanta refused to be a part of the conspiracy, and fled to Halishahar. Akbar had sent a couple of military expeditions to defeat Pratapaditya but did not succeed; later, Emperor Jahangir sent a huge army contingent under Man Singh. On his way to Bengal, Man Singh had sought the blessings of Mahatma Kamdev Brahmachari at Varanasi. After capturing Pratapaditya, Man Singh requested the Emperor to establish Kamdev’s son Lakshmikanta as a feudal lord. Lakshmikanta was conferred with the titles of ‘Roy’ (for an annual fortune of one million silver) and ‘Choudhury’ (for a huge tract of land by the sea).

Roy Lakshmikanta Majmuadar Choudhury, the name did not go well with the brahmin caste to which he belonged. Since Gangopadhyay brahmins are sabarna gotra, his priests and the advisors decided to call the family Sabarna Choudhury. His kingfdom being spread over Behala to Dakshineshwar, Pargana Magura, Khaspur, Kolkata, Poikan, Anwarpur, Amirabad, Havelishahar, Hatigarh and a large area of Sundarbans, Laksmikanta established revenue collection centres at various places, important ones being Behala and Dihi Kolkata. The East India Company arrived and these two centres became quite busy. Malay and Samir have the organizational skills of Lakshmikanta, otherwise Hungryalist Movement would not have been possible.

According to Atul Krishna Ray, Lakshmikanta had seven sons: Ram (1590-1650), Gauri (1600-69), Gopal, Bireswar, Krishna, Gopi and Mahadeva (1639-1730). Ram had three sons: Ramballav, Subuddhi and Jagadish (1620-1690). Jagadish had four sons: Vidyadhar (1640-1720), Raghudeva (1642-1722), Ratneswar (1670-1720) and Rameswar (1674-1739). According to ‘Bangsha Parichay’ (1911) written by Amarnath Bandyopadhyay, Ratneshwar is Vidyadhar’s son. However, from this generation onwards the title Majmuadar was dropped, and Roychoudhury was exchanged for Gangopadhyay.

Vidyadhar established himself at Behala-Barisha, and the Sabarna Choudhuries of this area are his decendants. It was Ramchand (1658-1732), son of Vidyadhar, who with his cousins, Manohar (1730), Pran (1653-1700) and Rambhadra (1700), signed the deed of transfer of rent collection of three villages i.e. Dihi Kolkatah, Sutanuti and Govindapur to East India Company. These three villages came to be known as Calcutta (now Kolkata).

The story of the Uttarpara clan of Sabarna Choudhuries starts from Ratneshwar. Mahatma Kamdev Brahmachari had advised the family to spread out west of Ganges (Hoogly river in West Bengal), Varanasi being on the western bank of the river. In 1709 Ratneshwar purchased the northern tract of Chakbali of Sheoraphuli fiefdom of Manohar Roy; the area being on the north of Chakbali, it came to be known as Uttarpara. His palace, which has since been demolished for constructing a housing colony, was known as Sabarna Villa.

In his book Atul Krishna Ray has dealt with the genealogy of Behala-Barisha and Halishahar clans. For Uttarpara clan the book by Amarnath Bandyopadhyay is authentic, as it enlists all the families of Uttarpara in 1911. Malay Roychoudhury himself though did not get a copy of this book when he wrote Chhotoloker Chhotobela (2004) and Autobiography in Volume 14 & 215 of Contemporary Authors Autobiography Series. We may chart out the genealogy in this manner as given by Bandyopadhyay:

Ratneshwar->Ramjivan->Madhusudan->Gangaram->Ram Narayan. Ram Narayan had four sons: Chandicharan, Bhavanishankar, Bharatcharan and Gourmohan. Since we are interested in Malay and Samir’s ancestors, we proceed from Chandicharan (1691), whose son Jay Gopal (1718) had four sons: Jadunath, Trailokyanath, Kalachand and Kedarnath. Jadunath had three sons: Baikunthanath, Harinarayan and Lakshminarayan (1799).

Lakshminarayan’s sons are: Pramod, Sushil, Ranjit, Anil, Sunil and Bishwanath. Malay and Samir are Ranjit’s sons. Lakshminarayan left Uttarpara and reached Lahore where he learned photography and painting from the Museum Curator John Lockwood Kipling, Rudyard Kipling’s father. Thereafter he, with his wife and children, was always on the move from one princely state to another, painting huge portraits of the members of royal families. Assisting him, his children learned photography and painting. Lakshminarayan died at Patna while drawing portraits of family members of Darbhanga maharaja. The brothers were forced to settle at Patna, whereas Apoorvamoyee, Lakshminarayan’s wife, along with Anil, went back to their twelve-room Uttarpara bungalow.

Promod joined Patna Museum as Keeper of Paintings and Sculpture. Sushil opened a photography studio at Chhapra, Anil at Uttarpara, and Ranjit at Patna. Malay and Samir were also trained in the trade. The two young boys, guided by uncle Promod, had the rare opportunity to spend their holidays in the corridors of Patna Museum, and this experience has given them a sense of history of the micro and macro-level world that would be impossible to get by reading books. This experience has definitely been a contributory factor to the Hungry Generation Movement.

Ranjit was married to Amita (Bandyopadhyay) of Panihati, a vaishnava centre across the river. Amita’s ancestry is traceable from Durgadas Bandyopadhyay, who was incarcerated by the British in 1857 for inciting soldiers in the guise of religious preaching. His son Nanilal was a part of the 19^th Century renaissance, and got his three sons Lalmohan, Haridas and Kishorimohan educated in science, law and English language. Amita is Kishorimohan’s daughter.

Kishorimohan wrote articles in English and Bengali, and subscribed to various radical magazines of his time. He was made a member of the Royal Malaria Commission

(1899) and assisted Ronald Ross as a field investigator. Ronald Ross was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1902 for discovering the reasons and cure for Malaria. The responsibility of anti-Malaria campaigns rested on Kishorimohan. He traveled most of the affected areas in India, and used slide-shows for anti-Malaria campaigns. In 1910 the Imperial Government awarded him with a 500gm gold medal at a function at Kolkata, which was attended by a large number of intellectuals and politicians. He was also one of the founder members of Panihati Cooperative Bank, having made an initial contribution of Rs. 100000 and 1000gms of gold. Malay and Samir have Kishorimohan’s socio-political sensitivity.

Neither Malay nor Samir reside in any of their clan sites. They live in Kolkata and try to keep in touch with the Sabarna network, which by now has 20000 members spread all over the world. Malay’s son Jitendra (1975) and daughter Anushree (1969) also do not reside in any of the clan sites. Malay’s uncle Sunil’s children and grandchildren, however, live in the housing colony built on the land where once Ratneshwar’s palace stood in architectural glory.