LAFFAIRE literary

POST script 3
DECEMBER 18, 2011

SEVEN SISTERS

iNKPOT
PRANAB KUMAR BARMAN
Translator- Upasana Goswami

Gods in Guwahati
Hazarat Mohammad
How he reached Lakhtokia from the Middle East, I have no idea. How did he undertake such a long journey? Both his arms amputated at the elbows, Leprosy-eaten toes on both his feet. His eyes do not reflect the noon sun. How did he come? As he rolls over the filthy roads, A TV shop flashes a birth-control ad. Crowds throng the pharmacies Looking for the string of life. Caged chicken flutter in broad daylight. He is the Hazarat of my dreams Born in Medina. He covers one road after another, A citizen doing the myriad tasks of life. His Allah resides in his guts; Under a moustache, the smiles build The foundation of a famine-hit empire. He cannot shun his empire He is both ruler and ancient citizen. Lice roam his stench-filled body Betelnut juice and sputum create A multi-coloured masterpiece on it Pining to adorn some corner Of a tasteful housewifes drawing room. Why does he roll on like this The world philosopher? On Friday afternoons, when he sang Allah, Allah It sounded like hunger, hunger. As though he would run out to lay Prostrate before the god of famine. On his bare skin is etched The long picture from Mecca to the dargah. He crosses over the pitch-black tar and Breaks the crowds with philosophical moves, To rest like an eunuch by the shadow Of a billboard, where a prostitutes Hair blows unfettered in the winds. God hung himself from the sky; Still Hazarat does not die. Hunger increases his longing for life. He traverses all those busy streets in Lakhtokia Hindu or Muslim; the same Allah gives him! If you feel some pity, Throw a coin at him. He is the Hazarat of my dreams Born in Medina.

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TURNERS
ASHUTOSH AGNIHOTRI
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When you come to Jalukbari

Whenever you come to Jalukbari, Do see me. Knock on the closed doors of RCC or AT houses, and ask Does the lover bird stay here? My drunken friends will come out And say not here, not here He lies in the midst of smoke and high, The one reciting springs poems, The one shouting slogans What are you scared of? Who are you scared of? If bordoisila wants to come She surely will come; It is in him there. Whenever you come to Jalukbari, Do see me. I may recognise you, I may not. Still we shall laugh I shall ask how you are. I will be glad if you are well If not, I will share your grief. Then we can talk about country, King and sovereignty. When the subject becomes toxic We can come back to love. If you dont mind, we will drink And blow out cigarette smoke, Recite poems about light or life. I will admit to you that In this self-inflicted city exile I am a totally unhappy man. Whenever you come to Jalukbari Do see me. Do not go knocking for me On the doors of RCC or AT houses. The one whose looks burn All Krishnasura trees, The one who is lost in the Evening market of girlie giggles, The one who stands in the desolate bus stop Waiting for a dream to come by; Ask him, Are you the lover bird?

Sankardeb
Let us assume he is Sankardeb Writing times Kirtan Ghoxa on xasipat. The footpath is his xatra. He is meditating, Let us assume he is planning To draw the heavens on a hoarding Over a bus-stop in Panbazar. You might ask, How can that be? That sunburnt body, the tattered coat, Listless look, long hair and loin-cloth I do not believe you! His swollen abdomen, tar-black body His clothes made of gunny bags His knotted hair and beard, The stench from his body; his sunken eyes He cannot be, he cannot be thoo! Imagine Sankardeb is six hundred years old. While coming upstream from Kochbehar, He saw victory and defeat in wars He saw the fugitive king, the treaty of Yandaboo; He saw Patharighat and Kushal Konwars hanging, He saw the struggle for independence And proliferation of opium. He saw both the death of language and the birth of Jonaki; Slavery of the poets and the language movement, the great depression He saw rape, lathi-charge, gunshots and partition riots, He saw corruption and the buying and selling of jobs. The changing face of law in courts; The ones without flesh, the ones without roots, He even saw fashion shows and blue films. Experienced hunger in Dhokuakhana Saw long lists of martyrs names And false reports of journalists. Seeing these he went insane, dumb, deaf and blind. He exiled himself to the footpath of Ashwakranta Here he is Krishna, resting. He became hungerless, above cold and numbness, He became sleepless, derelict, beyond pain. The history of six hundred years Made him a god A wealthless god, a eunuch god. You cannot say he is not Sankardeb, It was he who gave you a lifetimes beliefs. You cannot despise his despicable living As it was he who said, Dog, fox, donkey, All are manifestations of Ram. Let us assume he is Sankardeb Nobody stands to gain or lose.
Photos:Bitopan Borborah

u How close is your relation with literature in general, and with literature of the Northeast in particular? t I consider myself very closely to literature. Being a voracious reader, I read a lot and revisit the classics. I generally read northeastern literature through translations. I am a member of the North East Writers Forum which comprises of people from the region who write in English. Whenever I get the chance, I attend literary meetings. I have been greatly impressed by the sensitiveness and inner essence of human mind which gets reflected in the works of writers like DN Bezboruah. He has translated poems of Nilmoni Phukan, Nabakanta Barua, Ajit Barua and many other poets. I intend to read more of northeastern literature in the near future. u What future do you see for literature from the Northeast? t Northeast literature is picking up fast. It has a very bright and promising future. With many young people emerging as writers, the region has great literary prospects.

u What does literature mean to you? Do you think it has any relevance in our day-to-day lives? According to you, does it have anything to do with all that is happening around us? t Literature for me is an expression of universal thoughts and feelings. These feelings transcend the barriers of language, caste and creed. It is a way to unite like-minded people. It makes you more humane and gives you deeper insight into human sentiments and emotions. Todays world is very competitive, stressful. It spares us little time for ourselves. It is very important to sit back and reflect. Literature expresses all that is happening around us through the writers pen. Literature not only enhances our ability to understand people but also helps us understand ourselves better.

Ashutosh Agnihotri, Deputy Commissioner of Kamrup (Metro) district, is an ardent reader. He is also a member of the North East Writers Forum. He tells Urmimala Bhattacharjee that Northeast literature has a promising future.

BOOK ABLE
CFP: International seminar on Contemporary Sri Lankan Fiction
Organiser: Department of English and Institute of Distance and Open Learning, Gauhati University Date: 23 - 25 February 2012 Venue: Gauhati University, Guwahati Don Bosco Institute, Guwahati What to submit: 300-word abstract and bio Deadline: 31 December 2011 Contact: Anjali Daimari (+919435084461) Dolikajyoti Sharma (+919864111289) Email:dolikajyoti@rediffmail.com, anjalidaimari@yahoo.com

ipen
Recollections on a wintry evening
(For Tasi) You will be a stranger in The city of dead fairies, she said How could I tell her that all this drifting Between minds and lands Had made me one long ago? At home, at the sheepmans last song Hai re hai, the togas butt is red And as it flapped away, I could only see its blackness Trailing against the winters white. Stepping on the sharp grass, my Feet cut on the edges And blood dewed out on the silver green edges. When segun pods burst to release The spirits within, I saw only dreams wafting On feathered backs.

My neighbour was a black water tank and A row of betel nut trees Until one evening I wandered into our common backyard And as cobwebs settled on my hair And one dry leaf grafted on my forehead, Stumbled on the lichen on two old tombs. Today my neighbour, a straw filled Desert cooler hugs me tight when I pass. Then as a strange pointy haired fairy of five I tried to blow fog to match my uncles cigarette tricks. Today, I dont wait for seasons or fog. And when I trudge my soul up the great mosques steps To cry prayer is better than sleep, My voice beats against the wings of ghosts. Then when the boatman anchored us on a sand bank, And passed a sky of blue tarpaulin paper over our heads, I smiled at two pairs of ancient teeth Rolling up hope and damnation in a Paper cylinder of weed. Then sneaked out to see the river lashing and lashing again On the nose of the boat . Here, I stand in rolled up pants Seeing the rain churn up streets Into a whirlpool of naked manholes. And pulling my feet away from its gargling, Open my palm for flowers Falling as soft as teardrops.

Dighalipukhuri
One claw on a bar, and crow lifts the other to his lips Blows the days first puff. His view races smoke through the fencing, conductors spank buses onDighalipukhuri. Dighalipukhuri. Long pond. He stares at a chirping he can never touch, at entwined buds, and pigeons floating together in air bubbles, and lovebirds in love rows, their heads under their wings. His downy heart bleeds over the bliss beneath. At home, his vulture waits, a spear in her hair and a carcass in her beak. Here he makes his day long, sometimes swoops down and scoops up beakfuls of love from the face of Dighali. Love like the blushes of hyacinths skimmed behind boats. The trees branded with Duryodhans incense, Bhanumatis anklets still tinkle under the paddle-boats, her turmeric and potfuls of milk her wedding tears and a few thousand years of love. He will return to blow the nights last mists. Notes: Dighalipukhuri, literally long pond, is an ancient pond in Guwahati frequented by lovers. It is connected by an underground tunnel to the river Brahmaputra and was supposedly dug for the wedding bath of the Pandava prince Duryodhana and Bhanumati,, the daughter of King Bhagadatta.

u Name one book that had a lasting impact on you. In what way? t There are many books that have caught my mind. One of them is Shekhar Ek Jeevani by Agyeya (Sachidanand Vatsyayana). It is the story of a boy who is extremely sensitive and too bright for his age. He tries to balance his own world and the outside without losing his innocence. I was extremely touched by the characters and ideas in the novel. u What book would you recommend for our readers and why? t I am a great fan of William Wordsworth. The poems of Wordsworth speak of the joy of simplicity, beauty of nature and the connection between human beings and nature. I would recommend his poetry any day to our readers to rejuvenate themselves in the tranquility of nature, away from the hustle and bustle of modern-day life.

CFP: National conference on Narratives of Migration and Memory in Assam

Organiser: Department of English and Foreign Languages, Tezpur University Date: 28 February 2012 What to submit: 300-word abstract and bio Deadlines: For emailed abstract: 18 Dec 11 For registration: 10 Feb 12 Contact: BK Danta bkdanta@tezu.ernet.in Sravani Biswas sravani@tezu.ernet.in Sanjib Sahoo ssahoo1@tezu.ernet.in

TUG-OF-WORD
I Kerang Kothama is a term used for folklore in which language? A. Kokborok B. Meitei-lon C. Mongsen Ao I Which of these is a Kokborok magazine? A. Ratnamai B. Kwtal Kothoma C. Khani Ruchapmung I In which of Arup Kumar Dutta, are Bubul and Jonti the adventurous twins? A. The Kaziranga Trail B. Trouble at Kolongijan C. Smack

Announcement: Guwahati Literary Festival

Theme: Enrichment through interaction, exchange and friendship Aim: To make the festival a unique and annual literary happening and part of the national calendar of literary events Organiser: North East Foundation Focus: Young writers can exchange ideas with famous writers, poets and essayists from all over the country Date: 6-8 January 2012

Photo:Himangshu Lahkar

NEW DELHI

Ans 1. A

2. B

3. A

SHALIM HUSSAIN