Popular Assamese short story writer and poet Partha Bijoy Dutta passed away in February 2019. He was young. I did not know him, but I noticed condolences flooding my timeline. Most of my friends also shared an Assamese poem Dutta wrote, perhaps soon before his passing. The poem moved me deeply in its calm acceptance of impending death, without resentment, without regret.

I had to attempt a poor translation of the poem. Here it is.

God’s Two Hands
By Partha Bijoy Dutta

Finally, I reached the sea shore, and standing
next to the moored boat, I looked at the sky.

Making me forget the world, the sea kept me innocent.
On the way, thorns made my feet bloody. Still,
I had the never-ending desire for the sea.

Spreading the two hands, God said, we have been busy,
fixing the chart of your stars, but just couldn’t do it.

The future doesn’t have a forecast. It arrives and
rip life into pieces. Is it easy to put together
all the pieces of a violently broken life?

I searched for God. Spread your two hands.
Pick me up. Unlike my expectation, there was no
lightning, no appearance of divine providence.

She came in silence. Holding up the x-ray plates in light,
she said, matter’s sensitive. I kept walking through the
severity of it. Spreading my hands, I kept calling God.

The sea found me when the life-support machine grabbed
hold of me. Multicoloured boats floated in a sea of hope.

Setting sails where do merchants go? The cheerful
nurse said, where do you go, it’s an ebbing life.

She entered the room in silence. She said
it looks like it’s possible. Are you ready?

God has spread the two hands. I’m not a sea.
I’m looking for a way to return.

Translated by Dibyajyoti Sarma