Hiren Bhattacharya
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
Who fights with death, the music of life
Is exact at the minuteness of death, sound is that
Tune’s eternal quote
Behind my back, there is a colossal man—poem person
I walk beside his shadow, colleting falling leaves of memory
Light passes through clear dreams. I don’t know what a poem is
Who the companions are on the road of my fearsome journey, or
My own trammels; I come out breaking my own statuette
Or in my entirety, I enter the ground
I am completely under the ground, soil touches my body
Soil surrounds me from above and below
Soil is in my salty tongue.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
The First Lesson
Hiren Bhattacharya
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
I, this persona, including everything, whatever there is
How they exist, the same way, without any addition or deletion
Or whatever is lost or what
I can never get even if I kill myself
That solitary dream of mine like the shadows of
Bougainvillea in the garden of ebullience, stays with me as such
That I cannot leave them even for a second
All that is lost or whatever is there, and whatever lies
In my incontestable future
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
I, this persona, including everything, whatever there is
How they exist, the same way, without any addition or deletion
Or whatever is lost or what
I can never get even if I kill myself
That solitary dream of mine like the shadows of
Bougainvillea in the garden of ebullience, stays with me as such
That I cannot leave them even for a second
All that is lost or whatever is there, and whatever lies
In my incontestable future
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The World is My Poem
Hiren Bhattacharya
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
Pen is my hammer of the smith, breaking
Beating, I create words
Sharp like a farmer’s plough, golden Sita in the furrow
Edged like a carpenter’s blade
Cracking the fibre of hard wood, I fetch
Blood-daubed words of experience, like the arrows of a tribal youth’s bow
Piercing is my each word
Grows expansive in blood-flesh-desire
Some of them are egoist like hills
Others docile like rivers and yet others, sombre like lakes
Do not obey anybody’s order
Drawn on ocean-rive-mountain,
I’m the poet of a vast continent
The world is my poem
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
Pen is my hammer of the smith, breaking
Beating, I create words
Sharp like a farmer’s plough, golden Sita in the furrow
Edged like a carpenter’s blade
Cracking the fibre of hard wood, I fetch
Blood-daubed words of experience, like the arrows of a tribal youth’s bow
Piercing is my each word
Grows expansive in blood-flesh-desire
Some of them are egoist like hills
Others docile like rivers and yet others, sombre like lakes
Do not obey anybody’s order
Drawn on ocean-rive-mountain,
I’m the poet of a vast continent
The world is my poem
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Priya Sarukkai-Chabria: Writer forever
IS a writer always a writer, or is a writer a writer only when ‘inspired?’ Priya Sarukkai-Chabria believes writers are forever. "One may not be writing anything at the moment, but being a writer reflects in your personality, how one understands life… One tunes one's self to hear what people what to say, what lies between the words… what people don't get to say."
For Priya, being a writer is a privilege. "When you write, you can assume multiple personalities, be it a tree or a bird, a man or a woman. Like the French novelist Gustave Flaubert said about the character he had written, Madame Bovery, "I'm her."
Then, are writers born or made? According to Priya, a course in creative writing or inspirations from past masters may help, but a strong desire, a burning determination to say something is the most important pre-requisite of being a writer. "Not only say," she adds quickly, "but to find out, find out about the self and find out about the world around. You cannot create art if you are comfortable with your situation. Unless you are curious, you wouldn't have anything to write about."
Her role as a writer apart, Priya Sarukkai-Chabria is multidimensional personality, who has never failed to find out about herself and the world around her creatively.
But she is a writer first. Her collection, Dialogue and Other Poems, was published by the Sahitya Akademi in 2005. Her novel, The Other Garden came out in 1995 and her latest novel, Generation 14 is in press. It's a dark political thriller and a science fiction, Priya informs.
She is not merely a writer, but also an activist for the cause of poetry. She has been involved with the city-based NGO Open Space, which hopes to foster change through the arts. She has not only conducted poetry workshops for Open Space and arrange poetry sessions, but also edits the poetry section of the Open Space website, Talking Poetry and edited a mini anthology All Poetry is Protest.
Writing poetry is a thankless job. And few read poetry anyway. Priya does not agree. "Poetry happens in that silence when you talks to yourself and the poetic potential is in everyone."
She agrees that poetry is personal. At the same time, she argues that poetry is to be shared because it helps one to live. Nobody is born poet. Everyone come to know and appreciate poetry some way or other. And Priya believes Talking Poetry is trying to introduce poetry to those who may be interested.
Priya doesn't agree that poetry is difficult. Poetry is not esoteric; instead, it's like the air we breathe, she argues.
But she agrees that people do not sufficiently buy poetry books, neither are they published often. This, however, doesn't unduly trouble her because poetry has found a new space in which to flourish: the web. "These days, many poets are read off the net. If you want poems, just google. That's a big help. It saves the hassles of publishing poetry and distribution."
As a writer Priya believes what a writer chooses to write stems from his or her immediate environment. "One is influenced by one's surrounding. Were I in New York, I would write in a different way than I write now," she explains. "Even if you use the same language, English, the difference would be visible in the choice of words, use of grammar and so on."
So, where does Priya find her inspiration? "The creative process is rather mysterious. You don't know where you find it. But there is always a search involved."
Priya does not believe in labelling a writer. "The largest prerequisite for being a writer is imagination. If you have imagination, you can assume any character, any role." She recounts how a mango tree inspired her to a series of poems called 'The Grove.' "If you have imagination, passion and the courage to experiment, you can write freely, yet righteously."
Priya has expressed herself both in prose and poetry. So, how important is form in creative expression? For Priya, the idea demands the form, and not vice versa. Besides, writing long narratives and poetry are two totally different experiences for her. She compares it with swimming. "In poetry you swim inward, towards memory. In prose, especially fiction, you swim out, toward the external world."
But what does the writing process actually demand? Priya explains the process of writing and the writer's relationship with the self and the world through the image of a person looking at her reflection in a pond.
To start with, the person observes herself. Then she sees her surroundings also being reflected in the water. Gradually, she begins to probe deeper, looks at the water, and tries to find out what lies beneath the water.
And, one book she cannot do is the dictionary. "How can you be away from words and their meanings," asks Priya.
Priya Sarukkai Chabria's world is full of words and their meanings. For, a writer is always a writer.
For Priya, being a writer is a privilege. "When you write, you can assume multiple personalities, be it a tree or a bird, a man or a woman. Like the French novelist Gustave Flaubert said about the character he had written, Madame Bovery, "I'm her."
Then, are writers born or made? According to Priya, a course in creative writing or inspirations from past masters may help, but a strong desire, a burning determination to say something is the most important pre-requisite of being a writer. "Not only say," she adds quickly, "but to find out, find out about the self and find out about the world around. You cannot create art if you are comfortable with your situation. Unless you are curious, you wouldn't have anything to write about."
Her role as a writer apart, Priya Sarukkai-Chabria is multidimensional personality, who has never failed to find out about herself and the world around her creatively.
But she is a writer first. Her collection, Dialogue and Other Poems, was published by the Sahitya Akademi in 2005. Her novel, The Other Garden came out in 1995 and her latest novel, Generation 14 is in press. It's a dark political thriller and a science fiction, Priya informs.
She is not merely a writer, but also an activist for the cause of poetry. She has been involved with the city-based NGO Open Space, which hopes to foster change through the arts. She has not only conducted poetry workshops for Open Space and arrange poetry sessions, but also edits the poetry section of the Open Space website, Talking Poetry and edited a mini anthology All Poetry is Protest.
Writing poetry is a thankless job. And few read poetry anyway. Priya does not agree. "Poetry happens in that silence when you talks to yourself and the poetic potential is in everyone."
She agrees that poetry is personal. At the same time, she argues that poetry is to be shared because it helps one to live. Nobody is born poet. Everyone come to know and appreciate poetry some way or other. And Priya believes Talking Poetry is trying to introduce poetry to those who may be interested.
Priya doesn't agree that poetry is difficult. Poetry is not esoteric; instead, it's like the air we breathe, she argues.
But she agrees that people do not sufficiently buy poetry books, neither are they published often. This, however, doesn't unduly trouble her because poetry has found a new space in which to flourish: the web. "These days, many poets are read off the net. If you want poems, just google. That's a big help. It saves the hassles of publishing poetry and distribution."
As a writer Priya believes what a writer chooses to write stems from his or her immediate environment. "One is influenced by one's surrounding. Were I in New York, I would write in a different way than I write now," she explains. "Even if you use the same language, English, the difference would be visible in the choice of words, use of grammar and so on."
So, where does Priya find her inspiration? "The creative process is rather mysterious. You don't know where you find it. But there is always a search involved."
Priya does not believe in labelling a writer. "The largest prerequisite for being a writer is imagination. If you have imagination, you can assume any character, any role." She recounts how a mango tree inspired her to a series of poems called 'The Grove.' "If you have imagination, passion and the courage to experiment, you can write freely, yet righteously."
Priya has expressed herself both in prose and poetry. So, how important is form in creative expression? For Priya, the idea demands the form, and not vice versa. Besides, writing long narratives and poetry are two totally different experiences for her. She compares it with swimming. "In poetry you swim inward, towards memory. In prose, especially fiction, you swim out, toward the external world."
But what does the writing process actually demand? Priya explains the process of writing and the writer's relationship with the self and the world through the image of a person looking at her reflection in a pond.
To start with, the person observes herself. Then she sees her surroundings also being reflected in the water. Gradually, she begins to probe deeper, looks at the water, and tries to find out what lies beneath the water.
And, one book she cannot do is the dictionary. "How can you be away from words and their meanings," asks Priya.
Priya Sarukkai Chabria's world is full of words and their meanings. For, a writer is always a writer.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Poem
By Abani Chakravarti
Translated from original Asomiya by
Dibyajyoti Sarma
The hummings of his dreams
He plastered on the walls of the houses
And the song that burst out from his lips
He wanted to play on a flute
That was not an accident
lying on the ground
In a natural posture
The picture printed by a newspaper
Coming out from there
Calls forth a camera
Inside his eyelids
Opening all the door and windows
Numerous ants
Are busy in their
Eternal construction
One by one
They carry the wings
Of his dreams
To the hole under ground
On his forehead instead of eyes
To cultivate more dreams
He had dug to dip wells
The arrows of light
Held in his fist
The heavy footsteps
Written by the fingers of his feet
Are silently carried beneath the soil
Now from everywhere he’s surrounded by
Soil, soil, and soil
A sesame plant is
Not a witness
Now he
Climbs the stairs of darkness
One body is the guard of another
He has not come out yet
Has not identified
His dead body
Translated from original Asomiya by
Dibyajyoti Sarma
The hummings of his dreams
He plastered on the walls of the houses
And the song that burst out from his lips
He wanted to play on a flute
That was not an accident
lying on the ground
In a natural posture
The picture printed by a newspaper
Coming out from there
Calls forth a camera
Inside his eyelids
Opening all the door and windows
Numerous ants
Are busy in their
Eternal construction
One by one
They carry the wings
Of his dreams
To the hole under ground
On his forehead instead of eyes
To cultivate more dreams
He had dug to dip wells
The arrows of light
Held in his fist
The heavy footsteps
Written by the fingers of his feet
Are silently carried beneath the soil
Now from everywhere he’s surrounded by
Soil, soil, and soil
A sesame plant is
Not a witness
Now he
Climbs the stairs of darkness
One body is the guard of another
He has not come out yet
Has not identified
His dead body
Friday, September 15, 2006
I Know, I Know My Song Too
Bipuljyoti Saikia
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
I know many things I should not know, that’s why
I suffer, I know, at times with humility and
At times with humiliation do I live
I know
How to bring heart’s blood to face without effort
My easy and beautiful door of wisdom is closed, I know
Magic! Magic!
From magic to magic again! I know and about my limits
Don’t I know, I know? I know, I know and I know
The void beyond the limits
Like an un-embodied soul funeral fires haunt me
In the river of beauty there’s music of unreal fascination
I know, magic! Magic
I know many things which are not worth knowing
Better not to know
I know that too
But I do not know after not knowing what
It’s is possible to pray god
Dream is an adjective of happiness, I know
And also dreamlessness – I know that too
And there are many other things I know
If it is known that I know so many thingsWould not they think that I know nothing…
Translated from original Asomiya
By Dibyajyoti Sarma
I know many things I should not know, that’s why
I suffer, I know, at times with humility and
At times with humiliation do I live
I know
How to bring heart’s blood to face without effort
My easy and beautiful door of wisdom is closed, I know
Magic! Magic!
From magic to magic again! I know and about my limits
Don’t I know, I know? I know, I know and I know
The void beyond the limits
Like an un-embodied soul funeral fires haunt me
In the river of beauty there’s music of unreal fascination
I know, magic! Magic
I know many things which are not worth knowing
Better not to know
I know that too
But I do not know after not knowing what
It’s is possible to pray god
Dream is an adjective of happiness, I know
And also dreamlessness – I know that too
And there are many other things I know
If it is known that I know so many thingsWould not they think that I know nothing…
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
On Whose Forehead I’ll Smear Colour
Nilim Kumar
Translated from original Asomiya by
Dibyajyoti Sarma
Who won’t let me remember last night, who
Will pierce me with saddening good nights and
Good mornings
Who with the colour of her tears will
Ask me to draw small household dreams, who’ll come
To sit along with me on the dining table, to comb the
Instability of my hair, to put a cover on my pillow,
To spread cold sheets on the bed, and to
wipe away the darkness of my inebriation,
who’ll offer me the blessing of her touch and sight,
who in some night will tangle me like creepers
on my breast will lay entwined the sleep of whose hair
who’ll hide my crimson shirts, burn my favourite
letters, arrange my old poems which because she
didn’t understood are not dangerous!
Who gradually will turn a stranger to me,
Go away, faraway from my heart!
To make my sadness more painful is she
Coming on whose forehead I’ll smear colour.
Translated from original Asomiya by
Dibyajyoti Sarma
Who won’t let me remember last night, who
Will pierce me with saddening good nights and
Good mornings
Who with the colour of her tears will
Ask me to draw small household dreams, who’ll come
To sit along with me on the dining table, to comb the
Instability of my hair, to put a cover on my pillow,
To spread cold sheets on the bed, and to
wipe away the darkness of my inebriation,
who’ll offer me the blessing of her touch and sight,
who in some night will tangle me like creepers
on my breast will lay entwined the sleep of whose hair
who’ll hide my crimson shirts, burn my favourite
letters, arrange my old poems which because she
didn’t understood are not dangerous!
Who gradually will turn a stranger to me,
Go away, faraway from my heart!
To make my sadness more painful is she
Coming on whose forehead I’ll smear colour.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Tenzin Tsundue: Poet Revolutionary
At the first glance, he looks like a direct import from the hippie days: long hair and a red bandana over the forehead, glasses with a black rim, an ethnic kurta (he’d insist it is Tibetan), complete with jeans and Lee Cooper shoes. A strikingly different personality in the crowd! Introduce him as a poet, he’d oppose vehemently. He prefers to call himself an activist, working for the cause of Tibetan freedom.
This is Tenzin Tsundue for you: a Tibetan refugee born in India, a poet who writes in English (has already published two books of poems, essays and stories, Crossing the Border and Kora), and an ardent fighter for the Tibetan cause, currently working as a general secretary of the organization, ‘Friends of Tibet, India.’
Tibet is in his blood. He breathes and thinks Tibet. But where is the real motherland? His generation knows about it only through their elders’ tales. For them, it’s only a dot on the map, a place occupied by Communist China.
For Tenzin, it’s a difficult experience to be a refugee, an exile: "You grow up in different places thinking about your home that you have never seen." It’s very much like Salman Rushdie’s Imaginary Homelands. Some years ago, he remembers crying while watching opening of the Olympic Games on TV, because his country was not represented in the march past. He writes: "I am Tibetan/ But I am not from Tibet/ Never been there/ Yet, I dream/ Of dying there."
It was this sense of identity crisis that led him into the path of activism. For him the Tibetans in the world are a desperate lot, scattered all over, and losing their identity by the day, especially the new generation. It is important to make them understand their predicament, their glorious past and their present. Tenzin explains discreetly: "I’m not a poet, or a writer. Whatever I write is just to create awareness, to spread the views across."
Currently based in Dharmashala, Himachal Pradesh, the seat of His Holiness Dalai Lama, 31-year-old Tenzin has a colourful, not to mention hazardous experience of life. He was born in Manali where his parents worked as labours. Though his parents later settled down in Karnataka, there was no home for Tenzin. He travelled from Karnataka to Dharmashala, then to Madras to do graduation and to Bombay to do an MA.
In Bombay his talents for writing found an outlet. He published his first book of poems Crossing the Border with money begged and borrowed from his classmates. In 2002, he published his second collection of poems, essays and stories called Kora. But his biggest literary achievement remains the first prize he received in the first ever "Outlook Picador Awards for Non-Fiction" in 2001.
The reality of being a refugee looms large in Tenzin’s personality. He writes: "We are refugee here/ People of a lost country/ Citizen of no nation."
The innocence and sincerity of hill people ooze from Tenzin as he speaks. Again, his revolution is restrained, stemming from his Buddhist cultural background. For Tenzin, being a Tibetan comes with being a Buddhist, which he sees one of the reasons why the struggle for Tibetan freedom has not geared up, as it should have been. Buddhism teaches tolerance, suffering and acceptance. That is why Tibetans (especially refugees) are not coming together to fight back the strong clutches of Imperial China. Tenzin writes: "But we are Buddhist/ People say we should be/ Peaceful and non violent/ So I forgive my enemy."
But in reality Tenzin could never forgive his enemy. As he explains Buddhist non-violence as different from Gandhi’s politically motivated non-violence, thereby failing to achieve the Tibetan aim, he has some other strategies. He believes, sooner or later, the Tibetans have to wage their war against China, and, for the present, he is doing the groundwork, motivating the youth. The process may be slow, but there’s progress nonetheless. For one thing, Tenzin and his group have been successful in banning the sale of ‘Made in China’ products in and around Dharmashala. He hopes to spread this agenda all over India.
At the same time, patriotism for Tenzin is a personal choice. He was enamoured by Tibet and its tragic sense of lose so much so that after graduating from Madras, he braved snowstorms and treacherous mountains, broke all rules and restrictions, crossed the Himalayas on foot and went to forbidden Tibet. The purpose was to see the situation under Chinese occupation and to find out if he could lend a hand or two in the freedom struggle. He was arrested by the Chinese Border Police in Lhasa before being deported to India.
Then in January 2002, Tenzin grabbed the media attention when he climbed the scaffolding to the 14th floor of the Oberoi Towers in Mumbai to unfurl the Tibetan national flag and a banner which read ‘Free Tibet,’ at the time when Chinese premier Zhu Rongji was inside attending a business conference.
This is Tenzin Tsundue, a living passion for the Tibetan freedom, the post revolutionary.
This is Tenzin Tsundue for you: a Tibetan refugee born in India, a poet who writes in English (has already published two books of poems, essays and stories, Crossing the Border and Kora), and an ardent fighter for the Tibetan cause, currently working as a general secretary of the organization, ‘Friends of Tibet, India.’
Tibet is in his blood. He breathes and thinks Tibet. But where is the real motherland? His generation knows about it only through their elders’ tales. For them, it’s only a dot on the map, a place occupied by Communist China.
For Tenzin, it’s a difficult experience to be a refugee, an exile: "You grow up in different places thinking about your home that you have never seen." It’s very much like Salman Rushdie’s Imaginary Homelands. Some years ago, he remembers crying while watching opening of the Olympic Games on TV, because his country was not represented in the march past. He writes: "I am Tibetan/ But I am not from Tibet/ Never been there/ Yet, I dream/ Of dying there."
It was this sense of identity crisis that led him into the path of activism. For him the Tibetans in the world are a desperate lot, scattered all over, and losing their identity by the day, especially the new generation. It is important to make them understand their predicament, their glorious past and their present. Tenzin explains discreetly: "I’m not a poet, or a writer. Whatever I write is just to create awareness, to spread the views across."
Currently based in Dharmashala, Himachal Pradesh, the seat of His Holiness Dalai Lama, 31-year-old Tenzin has a colourful, not to mention hazardous experience of life. He was born in Manali where his parents worked as labours. Though his parents later settled down in Karnataka, there was no home for Tenzin. He travelled from Karnataka to Dharmashala, then to Madras to do graduation and to Bombay to do an MA.
In Bombay his talents for writing found an outlet. He published his first book of poems Crossing the Border with money begged and borrowed from his classmates. In 2002, he published his second collection of poems, essays and stories called Kora. But his biggest literary achievement remains the first prize he received in the first ever "Outlook Picador Awards for Non-Fiction" in 2001.
The reality of being a refugee looms large in Tenzin’s personality. He writes: "We are refugee here/ People of a lost country/ Citizen of no nation."
The innocence and sincerity of hill people ooze from Tenzin as he speaks. Again, his revolution is restrained, stemming from his Buddhist cultural background. For Tenzin, being a Tibetan comes with being a Buddhist, which he sees one of the reasons why the struggle for Tibetan freedom has not geared up, as it should have been. Buddhism teaches tolerance, suffering and acceptance. That is why Tibetans (especially refugees) are not coming together to fight back the strong clutches of Imperial China. Tenzin writes: "But we are Buddhist/ People say we should be/ Peaceful and non violent/ So I forgive my enemy."
But in reality Tenzin could never forgive his enemy. As he explains Buddhist non-violence as different from Gandhi’s politically motivated non-violence, thereby failing to achieve the Tibetan aim, he has some other strategies. He believes, sooner or later, the Tibetans have to wage their war against China, and, for the present, he is doing the groundwork, motivating the youth. The process may be slow, but there’s progress nonetheless. For one thing, Tenzin and his group have been successful in banning the sale of ‘Made in China’ products in and around Dharmashala. He hopes to spread this agenda all over India.
At the same time, patriotism for Tenzin is a personal choice. He was enamoured by Tibet and its tragic sense of lose so much so that after graduating from Madras, he braved snowstorms and treacherous mountains, broke all rules and restrictions, crossed the Himalayas on foot and went to forbidden Tibet. The purpose was to see the situation under Chinese occupation and to find out if he could lend a hand or two in the freedom struggle. He was arrested by the Chinese Border Police in Lhasa before being deported to India.
Then in January 2002, Tenzin grabbed the media attention when he climbed the scaffolding to the 14th floor of the Oberoi Towers in Mumbai to unfurl the Tibetan national flag and a banner which read ‘Free Tibet,’ at the time when Chinese premier Zhu Rongji was inside attending a business conference.
This is Tenzin Tsundue, a living passion for the Tibetan freedom, the post revolutionary.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Finite/infinite
Mahendra Bora
Translated from original asomiya
by Dibyajyoti Sarma
There’s light here, a little light of peace that evening will erase away
Two buds of oleanders, a little intimation of love that will ebb away in tide of time
There’s a village here lined by betel groves, gorgeous
There will be a town here soon, covered by black smoke
Soften by a farmer’s sweat
In that field
There will open up a small movie-house.
Swathed with hyacinth flowers
The farmhouse near the pond
May at best be a police-station or a shop
Train’s whistle will bring the dawn of night’s end
Grafted orchids will notify the coming of spring
These are small, ordinary news of the birth of a town
A clothe woven with yarns of sorrow and desire
Which way went away the sour-sweetness of blueberries
This place was a dream once wrapped in the magic of bamboo-flower, dragonflies
It all went away in vapour with the golden yarn of blessed mother
Know it very well that one day the wheels of machines will
Take away
Little petals of poems that grew in the mind’s soil of poor people
Behind the woods there is a bridge there
Behind the bridge a town
Where people still enjoy small talks
Grave news heat up tea cups
The clerk of which office got how much bribe
Who got what gifts for which young lass
Where a small shop of leafy vegetables can also be a door of living
On the heart of that town one day rang the city’s sacred tune
Hawkers gave out the news there would be a capital soon
Paan shops would be busy in evening radio
Hanging on the sky there will be hotel
Night’s stay for foreign tourists
No accidental death of any poets can
Make anybody sad
At the most schools will get a half-day’s leave
Passing news of a city
Tear drops on glasses a group of gamblers
Share death of some old tart
The highway will be smooth like mirrors and at best two feet wide
Four times will be narrower people’s mind dammed by business brain
Yet —
Yet there is trust in friendship
And a bunch of gladiolus flowers
On the flowerpot of a tea-stall
Will sparkle with a handful of smile of spring days
Ever-revolving is this soiled earth ever continuous is man’s mind
Like that bursting brook under the magic shadow of that palm tree
And like the child in the nursery behind that
One day she become young
Climbing the stairs of age
Who knows when the liquid drops of palms turned parched
When began the murmuring of the bees
Perhaps that’s the truth; perhaps the truth is to
Ebb away in that brook like a paper boat
The truth is the fall of that gold dust
From the holes of a clenched fist
Yet is this a waste
Foggy myths of a meaningless life
Somewhere in that ever-ebbing, there must really be
A small islet
Shelter to the fast moving mind
Where the watch hands on table cannot create ripples on time
Know that the flowers that bloom in spring will bloom forever
Time’s wings cannot flap there
And —
Grandfather’s lap and grandmother’s desirous kiss
Will remain the same
That warm love coated with the dust of time
No need for a printed book to understand the price of that love
Which way it rises and falls
A little scent of flowers and a little beauty of togetherness
In life this only cannot be altered by the lines of agedness
That love, the flower is like un-flickering flame, stone image of Buddha
The star’s light on the forehead of a blessed woman
— The primal comfort of life.
Translated from original asomiya
by Dibyajyoti Sarma
There’s light here, a little light of peace that evening will erase away
Two buds of oleanders, a little intimation of love that will ebb away in tide of time
There’s a village here lined by betel groves, gorgeous
There will be a town here soon, covered by black smoke
Soften by a farmer’s sweat
In that field
There will open up a small movie-house.
Swathed with hyacinth flowers
The farmhouse near the pond
May at best be a police-station or a shop
Train’s whistle will bring the dawn of night’s end
Grafted orchids will notify the coming of spring
These are small, ordinary news of the birth of a town
A clothe woven with yarns of sorrow and desire
Which way went away the sour-sweetness of blueberries
This place was a dream once wrapped in the magic of bamboo-flower, dragonflies
It all went away in vapour with the golden yarn of blessed mother
Know it very well that one day the wheels of machines will
Take away
Little petals of poems that grew in the mind’s soil of poor people
Behind the woods there is a bridge there
Behind the bridge a town
Where people still enjoy small talks
Grave news heat up tea cups
The clerk of which office got how much bribe
Who got what gifts for which young lass
Where a small shop of leafy vegetables can also be a door of living
On the heart of that town one day rang the city’s sacred tune
Hawkers gave out the news there would be a capital soon
Paan shops would be busy in evening radio
Hanging on the sky there will be hotel
Night’s stay for foreign tourists
No accidental death of any poets can
Make anybody sad
At the most schools will get a half-day’s leave
Passing news of a city
Tear drops on glasses a group of gamblers
Share death of some old tart
The highway will be smooth like mirrors and at best two feet wide
Four times will be narrower people’s mind dammed by business brain
Yet —
Yet there is trust in friendship
And a bunch of gladiolus flowers
On the flowerpot of a tea-stall
Will sparkle with a handful of smile of spring days
Ever-revolving is this soiled earth ever continuous is man’s mind
Like that bursting brook under the magic shadow of that palm tree
And like the child in the nursery behind that
One day she become young
Climbing the stairs of age
Who knows when the liquid drops of palms turned parched
When began the murmuring of the bees
Perhaps that’s the truth; perhaps the truth is to
Ebb away in that brook like a paper boat
The truth is the fall of that gold dust
From the holes of a clenched fist
Yet is this a waste
Foggy myths of a meaningless life
Somewhere in that ever-ebbing, there must really be
A small islet
Shelter to the fast moving mind
Where the watch hands on table cannot create ripples on time
Know that the flowers that bloom in spring will bloom forever
Time’s wings cannot flap there
And —
Grandfather’s lap and grandmother’s desirous kiss
Will remain the same
That warm love coated with the dust of time
No need for a printed book to understand the price of that love
Which way it rises and falls
A little scent of flowers and a little beauty of togetherness
In life this only cannot be altered by the lines of agedness
That love, the flower is like un-flickering flame, stone image of Buddha
The star’s light on the forehead of a blessed woman
— The primal comfort of life.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Bestseller Basics
The story goes like this: There was a woman in Edinburgh, poor, recently divorced with a small daughter and without a job. She spent most of her days sitting in a coffee shop and pouring her energy into writing about the adventure of a young orphaned boy who was a wizard. Fast forward a few years. She is now richer than the Queen of England herself, thanks to the popularity of the young boy. Her name is J K Rowling and the young boy is Harry Potter.
Now, the question worth the entire fortune of J K Rowling is: What makes Harry Potter a bestseller? Its literary qualities? Harold Bloom and his friends would just smirk. (British critic Bloom once wrote a long article complaining Rowling of having no literary talent.) Never mind. Harry Potter is raking moolah anyway.
So, what makes Harry Potter tick, or a Paulo Coelho, or a Stephen Covey? What makes them bestsellers? Before that, another important question, what’s a bestseller?
Bestsellers are books that sell well, books that are still read despite all the TV soaps, movies, video games and what not demanding our time and energy, and most importantly, books that are pirated and sold on the pavements, of course, cheaply than the printed price.
For books to sell well we need a market. The market demands the kind of books to be printed and sold, and, sometimes books are promoted in such a way that they create their market.
Let’s take an example. I’m a big fan of Harry Potter myself. But Potter’s popularity surprises me. Why not Bartimaeus (of Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy) is as popular as Potter? Or Robert Jordan books (of The Wheel of Time series fame)? Rowling was at the right place at the right time.
For reasons good or bad, Potter kept making news (the latest being Lord Voldemort is Britain’s most-loved villain), and that saw a rise in the sale. Poor Robert Jordan!
Another person who was at the right place at the right time was Arundhati Roy. At the time when the West was all eager to read about India, she gave the readers an exotic India complete with family feuds and sexual fantasies. The book won the Booker Prize and, The God of Small Things was a bestseller.
One writer, one book bestsellers are not rare. Two names that come to mind immediately are Margaret Mitchell (Gone with the Wind) and Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird).
But there’s no foolproof theory of a bestseller. There are few some time-tested clues, however. Here’s some.
Create controversy. Ask Salman Rushdie how? Midnight’s Children was a masterpiece, but Rushdie was far from a bestseller till Satanic Verses happened. Overnight, Rushdie was selling like hotcakes. Or, probably write something completely outrageous, like Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code.
Write pop-spirituality. Sometimes back Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist was a rage. Why? Oh, the book can change your life. Really! Go, check it out yourself. Read the book. Make Coelho a rich man.
Teach how to win friends. Dale Carnegie is an eponymous bestseller. Stephen Covey is another (The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People). Covey’s strategy is surely effective. The recent star is Robin Sharma (The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari) who teaches you the tricks of buying a Ferrari before you turn into a monk and sold it. (Oh, I forgot to mention our very own Deepak Chopra, Dr Atkins diet tips and Sanjeev Kapoor’s Khana Khazana).
Tell stories of rich and powerful, which an average reader can only dream about but never experience. And tell the story in such a way that demands minimum use of the brain.
Finally, sex sells. From Nancy Friday to Shobha De to Tarun Tejpal (Alchemy of Love) will agree with you. Even someone like Upamanyu Chaterjee had to resort to sex to sell his book Weight Loss.
But the best solution is to get an obscene sum of advance for your book. Indian authors seem to be very good at that. Vikram Seth received 1.3 million pounds for Two Lives. Now, the news of big advance is Vikram Chandra who reportedly received 1 million pound for his latest tome Sacred Games. What made the publishers pay such a big sum? Please read the book.
But there are some oddball bestsellers too. Ayn Rand is one of them. She is too philosophical to be sold on pavements. But you can pick her books from any pavement. And who’s interested in a heavy-duty science book like Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. It seems people are.
Another story. J D Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye (1951) was not doing very well until the day John Lennon was shot dead on December 8, 1980. It was reported that the deranged killer was carrying a copy of Salinger’s book. Soon a public euphoria began to know what was there in Salinger and the book was a bestseller.
Now, the question worth the entire fortune of J K Rowling is: What makes Harry Potter a bestseller? Its literary qualities? Harold Bloom and his friends would just smirk. (British critic Bloom once wrote a long article complaining Rowling of having no literary talent.) Never mind. Harry Potter is raking moolah anyway.
So, what makes Harry Potter tick, or a Paulo Coelho, or a Stephen Covey? What makes them bestsellers? Before that, another important question, what’s a bestseller?
Bestsellers are books that sell well, books that are still read despite all the TV soaps, movies, video games and what not demanding our time and energy, and most importantly, books that are pirated and sold on the pavements, of course, cheaply than the printed price.
For books to sell well we need a market. The market demands the kind of books to be printed and sold, and, sometimes books are promoted in such a way that they create their market.
Let’s take an example. I’m a big fan of Harry Potter myself. But Potter’s popularity surprises me. Why not Bartimaeus (of Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy) is as popular as Potter? Or Robert Jordan books (of The Wheel of Time series fame)? Rowling was at the right place at the right time.
For reasons good or bad, Potter kept making news (the latest being Lord Voldemort is Britain’s most-loved villain), and that saw a rise in the sale. Poor Robert Jordan!
Another person who was at the right place at the right time was Arundhati Roy. At the time when the West was all eager to read about India, she gave the readers an exotic India complete with family feuds and sexual fantasies. The book won the Booker Prize and, The God of Small Things was a bestseller.
One writer, one book bestsellers are not rare. Two names that come to mind immediately are Margaret Mitchell (Gone with the Wind) and Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird).
But there’s no foolproof theory of a bestseller. There are few some time-tested clues, however. Here’s some.
Create controversy. Ask Salman Rushdie how? Midnight’s Children was a masterpiece, but Rushdie was far from a bestseller till Satanic Verses happened. Overnight, Rushdie was selling like hotcakes. Or, probably write something completely outrageous, like Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code.
Write pop-spirituality. Sometimes back Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist was a rage. Why? Oh, the book can change your life. Really! Go, check it out yourself. Read the book. Make Coelho a rich man.
Teach how to win friends. Dale Carnegie is an eponymous bestseller. Stephen Covey is another (The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People). Covey’s strategy is surely effective. The recent star is Robin Sharma (The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari) who teaches you the tricks of buying a Ferrari before you turn into a monk and sold it. (Oh, I forgot to mention our very own Deepak Chopra, Dr Atkins diet tips and Sanjeev Kapoor’s Khana Khazana).
Tell stories of rich and powerful, which an average reader can only dream about but never experience. And tell the story in such a way that demands minimum use of the brain.
Finally, sex sells. From Nancy Friday to Shobha De to Tarun Tejpal (Alchemy of Love) will agree with you. Even someone like Upamanyu Chaterjee had to resort to sex to sell his book Weight Loss.
But the best solution is to get an obscene sum of advance for your book. Indian authors seem to be very good at that. Vikram Seth received 1.3 million pounds for Two Lives. Now, the news of big advance is Vikram Chandra who reportedly received 1 million pound for his latest tome Sacred Games. What made the publishers pay such a big sum? Please read the book.
But there are some oddball bestsellers too. Ayn Rand is one of them. She is too philosophical to be sold on pavements. But you can pick her books from any pavement. And who’s interested in a heavy-duty science book like Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. It seems people are.
Another story. J D Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye (1951) was not doing very well until the day John Lennon was shot dead on December 8, 1980. It was reported that the deranged killer was carrying a copy of Salinger’s book. Soon a public euphoria began to know what was there in Salinger and the book was a bestseller.
Monday, September 04, 2006
An accident
To sit alone near a crowded sea-shore like the one in Juhu can be quite a task. The solitude of the jungle has its own charm; the silence among the crowd is quite unnerving. It would have been different in Calcutta; I’ve a routine there to ward of my loneliness. I’m new in Bombay, a tourist and evenings are the bad times for a lone and poor tourist.
I pass time by looking at the crowed, especially a couple, standing near the approaching waves, the husband with his hands in the pocket of his trousers and the wife clutching the fluttering pallu of her sari by her left hand; I am especially looking at her. I don’t know why.
A small boy selling small sea shell key chains accost me. Sir, take this bunch for forty rupees. I inform him that I don’t have money. He asks me not to make jokes with him and tells me: sir, you are like my big brother, I’ll give you the whole bunch for twenty rupees. Take it sir. Impressive marketing! I give it to the young chap. Does he go to school? I ask him. Yes, he answers.
Excuse me, Okan? The key chain seller nudges me; someone’s standing behind me, clutching the fluttering pallu of her sari by her left hand.
Excuse me, are you Okan, Okan Bhatt? I look at the woman. Yes, that’s me, and you?
Dada, I’m Nila. Don’t you remember?
Some things cannot be forgotten, but it is difficult to remember either. They try to cease the movement of time. They are like thorns in the garden of spring forgotten in the big fair of life, and one day when it pricks the sole of your chapped feet…
I don’t remember when I last saw Nila. The last time I went to her house, Machima prepared luchi and aloo bhaji, especially for me. And she cried. No, no, I forgot. I went to her place again for one last time. That evening too, Nila was not at home.
Machima opened the door. Seeing me she said sweetly, “Come, come, I’ve prepared khir today. I said I was in a hurry, just stopped by to say this: “If you are sure, then let Nila marry him. I don’t have any problem. I’ll just disappear from her life. Let her be happy.” Machima stood frozen on the threshold. She knew how much I loved Nila. She knew how much Nila loved me.
For many years I was even scared to think what’ll happen if I just bump into Nila some day. I’d imagine, after seeing me she’ll break into tears, will call me names – coward, hypocrite… will slash my hand with her long fingernails - nothing of that sort happened.
“Okanda, after so many years,” she cried. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask back. “How did you recognize me? My appearance has changed a lot.”
“Of course, one can count the hair on your head. But is it possible to forget you?”
I search for malice in her voice. There is none. It is the plain expression of a plain truth.
“We live here, what else,” she informed and called out to the man with his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers. “Rana, Adige asho, come here…” Then she turns towards me and asks: “Who’s with you?”
None. I answer. I am alone.
“Not married yet. Or ashamed to travel with your wife?’
Before I could muster an answer, like an obedient student, her husband stands beside her. Nila introduces him to me. By the look of it, he’s certainly one of those big corporate bosses: manicured nail, a wiseacre smile, and an unimaginative face.
She asks me what I was doing in Bombay. I mumble something. She talks about herself. She’s in Bombay for last two years with her husband. Next year they are moving to Australia. I feel like having a cigarette. I control myself. How Nila used to fight with me about my smoking habits. Finally I had to quit that small addiction of mine. It is a long time since I began smoking again. I look at her husband and smile. Does he smoke when she’s not around?
Once I thought I would never be able to face Nila again. And here she is, talking animatedly to me in a crowed beach, as if nothing had ever happened between us, as if she was not betrothed to me, as if she never told me that she could feel my breath inside her bones, as if we never planned our lives together.
It’s not meeting Nila, but the banality of the situation, the way she is responding to this sudden, strange meeting, the way she is blabbering, animatedly, the way her husband is grinning encouragingly…
Want to have some coffee? I ask and she answers, “no, bhel.” Her husband looks at her. Probably it hurts his ego. I join in some small talk with him. Just courtesy. Did Nila ever told her husband about me? If yes, just how much? Nila offers a plastic plate of Bhel to her husband and then one to me.
Nila enquires where am I am staying in Bombay. Then she asks tell me where you live in Calcutta these days. I will try to see you next time I am there. I look at her searchingly. Why she wants to see me again? Whatever was there between us is all over. I don’t want to scratch all those wounds that are, thank god, healing. This, today evening was an accident. Nila shrugs her shoulders and says: “Leave it. God knows when I’ll go home again.”
Am I jealous of Nila? Or am I angry with her? Bitch! Once she said, if she can’t marry me, she’ll remain a spinster. And today, how she’s fluttering around her rich husband. As if she doesn’t remember me at all.
And I? When people ask, I tell them, I got divorce before marriage. I don’t have the courage to put my hands into burning fire again. People laugh, they pity me.
Perhaps Maya was right after all. Whatever was supposed to happen between you and her is already over. And it was your decision. But is it wise to destroy everything for that one decision? I’m not asking you to forget Nila. But don’t kill yourself with her memory. You can start your life all over again. With me…
One day she too got married to someone else.
That decision was mine too.
It was a difficult time. Nila had already completed her graduation. Her family wanted her to get married soon. I was still struggling, doing odd jobs.
Machima said, son, why don’t you two get married. You’ll get a good job one day. Nila too can find something for herself. And for the beginning, even Nila’s father can help.
Those were depressing days. Those were the days of blunt ego. Nila cried. I screamed like mad: “Marriage, marriage. Just get married and you’ll see how all the love just vanishes like a smoke when there’s no money.
Leave that to me. I’ll manage. She said.
Serving me some extra aloo bhaji, Machima informed. A proposal has come for Nila. A suitable boy. Good job and everything. I didn’t know how to respond. Sitting beside me Machima said: We can’t even say she’s engaged, can we?
That night I took the decision. Let Nila get married. That’s better for her. There’s no point spoiling her life with a futureless person like me.
And that morning, I removed everything from the garden of my desire, packed the sun in a black cloth and locked it inside a cupboard. I tried to stop the passing current with my fist. There was no option but to burn away into a heap of ash.
Room service comes at eight. Then who’s knocking at my door at six in the morning? Yesterday was a bad night. I didn’t sleep a wink. I open the door, disturbed, irritated.
You? It’s Nila in front of me; a big polythene bag in her hand, water still dripping from her long flowing hair.
“Wouldn’t you invite me inside?” she asks. “You are surprised, aren’t you? She closes the door and sits on a chair. She’s wearing a cloud white sari. “We weren’t supposed to meet like this, isn’t it?”
It was an accident. I grin foolishly. If I were you, I would have just disappeared from the scene.
“I know. You are coward…”
Finally. Finally. I am prepared. After all these years, I have to face all her bickering.
“But Okanda, I couldn’t. All these years I’ve been praying to god only for just one thing, that you are still alive, that I see you at least once. You just disappeared. How I tried to find any information about you.”
Bending my head down, I listen. What is there for me to say?
“I couldn’t Okanda… I… I… still love you.”
No. Those are stories from the previous birth. I don’t remember.
Would you like to have some tea? I ask.
“No,” she answers. “I have to return back soon. I told Rana that I am visiting a temple.”
Why? Why Nila has come to meet me? I can’t ask.
“Why didn’t you get married, Okanda? Seems you tell people that you got divorce before marriage – do you tell them who filled for divorce?
Have you come to ask me this? Have you come to do the accounts?
“You did all the accounting, didn’t you? I had to accept you rulings. Don’t think that you are the only one who failed. I lost too.”
Then why have you come to meet me without telling your husband?
Without speaking a word Nila gets up and picks up the polythene bag. It’s filled with marigold flowers, my favourite. She spread the flowers on the bed.
What is all this drama, Nila?
“Drama?” she sits next to me on the bed and takes my hands between hers. (Oh, these hands!) Then she speaks softly: “Drama? You played drama with me, Okanda. You just disappeared into the blue. Couldn’t even trust me that much that I could love you without any money.
My hands are between hers. She smells of jasmine. What is there for me to say?
You are happy with your husband, aren’t you?
Nila smiles. A dazzling smile. “How easily you could ask, am I happy? Yes sir, I am very happy. Did I surprise you? I hope not. I’m very happy with Rana. My husband is a good human being and he loves me. And he’s rich. What more do you want from a husband anyway?
Her voice trails off. “And suddenly amidst the luxury of my husband’s home I scream out in pain.” She pulls my hand and puts it on her heaving bosom. “There’s a live wound there… sometimes it pains… then I need you…
“I’m still in love with you.”
Nila. Nila. Don’t speak a word. Please. I’ve wrapped the sun with a black cloth. Don’t uncover it.
Nila, it was not a good idea for you to meet me.
“For one last time.” She smiles. She gets up from the bed and stands before me. So, Mr Bhatt, since you had your divorce before marriage, how about honeymoon after divorce.
She pours her fingers through my unkempt hair. “You know, finally, Rana and I have decided to have a baby. According to the doctor too, it’s the right time.”
The proximity between us recedes. And she whispers on my ear: “Give me a baby. Give me a baby from your side.”
I pass time by looking at the crowed, especially a couple, standing near the approaching waves, the husband with his hands in the pocket of his trousers and the wife clutching the fluttering pallu of her sari by her left hand; I am especially looking at her. I don’t know why.
A small boy selling small sea shell key chains accost me. Sir, take this bunch for forty rupees. I inform him that I don’t have money. He asks me not to make jokes with him and tells me: sir, you are like my big brother, I’ll give you the whole bunch for twenty rupees. Take it sir. Impressive marketing! I give it to the young chap. Does he go to school? I ask him. Yes, he answers.
Excuse me, Okan? The key chain seller nudges me; someone’s standing behind me, clutching the fluttering pallu of her sari by her left hand.
Excuse me, are you Okan, Okan Bhatt? I look at the woman. Yes, that’s me, and you?
Dada, I’m Nila. Don’t you remember?
Some things cannot be forgotten, but it is difficult to remember either. They try to cease the movement of time. They are like thorns in the garden of spring forgotten in the big fair of life, and one day when it pricks the sole of your chapped feet…
I don’t remember when I last saw Nila. The last time I went to her house, Machima prepared luchi and aloo bhaji, especially for me. And she cried. No, no, I forgot. I went to her place again for one last time. That evening too, Nila was not at home.
Machima opened the door. Seeing me she said sweetly, “Come, come, I’ve prepared khir today. I said I was in a hurry, just stopped by to say this: “If you are sure, then let Nila marry him. I don’t have any problem. I’ll just disappear from her life. Let her be happy.” Machima stood frozen on the threshold. She knew how much I loved Nila. She knew how much Nila loved me.
For many years I was even scared to think what’ll happen if I just bump into Nila some day. I’d imagine, after seeing me she’ll break into tears, will call me names – coward, hypocrite… will slash my hand with her long fingernails - nothing of that sort happened.
“Okanda, after so many years,” she cried. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask back. “How did you recognize me? My appearance has changed a lot.”
“Of course, one can count the hair on your head. But is it possible to forget you?”
I search for malice in her voice. There is none. It is the plain expression of a plain truth.
“We live here, what else,” she informed and called out to the man with his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers. “Rana, Adige asho, come here…” Then she turns towards me and asks: “Who’s with you?”
None. I answer. I am alone.
“Not married yet. Or ashamed to travel with your wife?’
Before I could muster an answer, like an obedient student, her husband stands beside her. Nila introduces him to me. By the look of it, he’s certainly one of those big corporate bosses: manicured nail, a wiseacre smile, and an unimaginative face.
She asks me what I was doing in Bombay. I mumble something. She talks about herself. She’s in Bombay for last two years with her husband. Next year they are moving to Australia. I feel like having a cigarette. I control myself. How Nila used to fight with me about my smoking habits. Finally I had to quit that small addiction of mine. It is a long time since I began smoking again. I look at her husband and smile. Does he smoke when she’s not around?
Once I thought I would never be able to face Nila again. And here she is, talking animatedly to me in a crowed beach, as if nothing had ever happened between us, as if she was not betrothed to me, as if she never told me that she could feel my breath inside her bones, as if we never planned our lives together.
It’s not meeting Nila, but the banality of the situation, the way she is responding to this sudden, strange meeting, the way she is blabbering, animatedly, the way her husband is grinning encouragingly…
Want to have some coffee? I ask and she answers, “no, bhel.” Her husband looks at her. Probably it hurts his ego. I join in some small talk with him. Just courtesy. Did Nila ever told her husband about me? If yes, just how much? Nila offers a plastic plate of Bhel to her husband and then one to me.
Nila enquires where am I am staying in Bombay. Then she asks tell me where you live in Calcutta these days. I will try to see you next time I am there. I look at her searchingly. Why she wants to see me again? Whatever was there between us is all over. I don’t want to scratch all those wounds that are, thank god, healing. This, today evening was an accident. Nila shrugs her shoulders and says: “Leave it. God knows when I’ll go home again.”
Am I jealous of Nila? Or am I angry with her? Bitch! Once she said, if she can’t marry me, she’ll remain a spinster. And today, how she’s fluttering around her rich husband. As if she doesn’t remember me at all.
And I? When people ask, I tell them, I got divorce before marriage. I don’t have the courage to put my hands into burning fire again. People laugh, they pity me.
Perhaps Maya was right after all. Whatever was supposed to happen between you and her is already over. And it was your decision. But is it wise to destroy everything for that one decision? I’m not asking you to forget Nila. But don’t kill yourself with her memory. You can start your life all over again. With me…
One day she too got married to someone else.
That decision was mine too.
It was a difficult time. Nila had already completed her graduation. Her family wanted her to get married soon. I was still struggling, doing odd jobs.
Machima said, son, why don’t you two get married. You’ll get a good job one day. Nila too can find something for herself. And for the beginning, even Nila’s father can help.
Those were depressing days. Those were the days of blunt ego. Nila cried. I screamed like mad: “Marriage, marriage. Just get married and you’ll see how all the love just vanishes like a smoke when there’s no money.
Leave that to me. I’ll manage. She said.
Serving me some extra aloo bhaji, Machima informed. A proposal has come for Nila. A suitable boy. Good job and everything. I didn’t know how to respond. Sitting beside me Machima said: We can’t even say she’s engaged, can we?
That night I took the decision. Let Nila get married. That’s better for her. There’s no point spoiling her life with a futureless person like me.
And that morning, I removed everything from the garden of my desire, packed the sun in a black cloth and locked it inside a cupboard. I tried to stop the passing current with my fist. There was no option but to burn away into a heap of ash.
Room service comes at eight. Then who’s knocking at my door at six in the morning? Yesterday was a bad night. I didn’t sleep a wink. I open the door, disturbed, irritated.
You? It’s Nila in front of me; a big polythene bag in her hand, water still dripping from her long flowing hair.
“Wouldn’t you invite me inside?” she asks. “You are surprised, aren’t you? She closes the door and sits on a chair. She’s wearing a cloud white sari. “We weren’t supposed to meet like this, isn’t it?”
It was an accident. I grin foolishly. If I were you, I would have just disappeared from the scene.
“I know. You are coward…”
Finally. Finally. I am prepared. After all these years, I have to face all her bickering.
“But Okanda, I couldn’t. All these years I’ve been praying to god only for just one thing, that you are still alive, that I see you at least once. You just disappeared. How I tried to find any information about you.”
Bending my head down, I listen. What is there for me to say?
“I couldn’t Okanda… I… I… still love you.”
No. Those are stories from the previous birth. I don’t remember.
Would you like to have some tea? I ask.
“No,” she answers. “I have to return back soon. I told Rana that I am visiting a temple.”
Why? Why Nila has come to meet me? I can’t ask.
“Why didn’t you get married, Okanda? Seems you tell people that you got divorce before marriage – do you tell them who filled for divorce?
Have you come to ask me this? Have you come to do the accounts?
“You did all the accounting, didn’t you? I had to accept you rulings. Don’t think that you are the only one who failed. I lost too.”
Then why have you come to meet me without telling your husband?
Without speaking a word Nila gets up and picks up the polythene bag. It’s filled with marigold flowers, my favourite. She spread the flowers on the bed.
What is all this drama, Nila?
“Drama?” she sits next to me on the bed and takes my hands between hers. (Oh, these hands!) Then she speaks softly: “Drama? You played drama with me, Okanda. You just disappeared into the blue. Couldn’t even trust me that much that I could love you without any money.
My hands are between hers. She smells of jasmine. What is there for me to say?
You are happy with your husband, aren’t you?
Nila smiles. A dazzling smile. “How easily you could ask, am I happy? Yes sir, I am very happy. Did I surprise you? I hope not. I’m very happy with Rana. My husband is a good human being and he loves me. And he’s rich. What more do you want from a husband anyway?
Her voice trails off. “And suddenly amidst the luxury of my husband’s home I scream out in pain.” She pulls my hand and puts it on her heaving bosom. “There’s a live wound there… sometimes it pains… then I need you…
“I’m still in love with you.”
Nila. Nila. Don’t speak a word. Please. I’ve wrapped the sun with a black cloth. Don’t uncover it.
Nila, it was not a good idea for you to meet me.
“For one last time.” She smiles. She gets up from the bed and stands before me. So, Mr Bhatt, since you had your divorce before marriage, how about honeymoon after divorce.
She pours her fingers through my unkempt hair. “You know, finally, Rana and I have decided to have a baby. According to the doctor too, it’s the right time.”
The proximity between us recedes. And she whispers on my ear: “Give me a baby. Give me a baby from your side.”
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