In the Sallow Light
It all comes back. We sit face to face in the room,
Between us darkness
Pierced right through by a thick packing-needle, its thread—
In the pale light through the window-panes float up
Furniture, chairs, arm-rests and legs—arranged geometry.
In the middle the arranged posture of the body
Or was there a deep promise, I couldn’t quite make out,
If arranged, would you have sucked my lips in this way
So suddenly into your mouth crushing them against mine?
And yet a lingering doubt,
The kite-beak swooping up its prey?
Prey, or as if pleasure ripped out of its bud,
Insect biting into flesh, won’t let it go—
Couldn’t quite make out, do you also know nothing?
You only go on reading your palm in the sallow light,
My heart shivers as I look at your eyes, wide with strange innocence.
Conch
Conch on Goddess Lakshmi’s seat in home after home,
Breathing thrice on it summons every evening
Before being put back on the seat.
Yet the sea goes on pounding in its sleep,
Listen with care, the hiss of the breakers dashing into the sand,
Dashing into the sand, no, no, all is not dead,
The churning waters have left behind their gashes
On the conch’s white and on its every whorl is still alive
The writhing fear, sorrow, defeat, primeval scars.
Conch on Goddess Lakshmi’s seat in home after home, auspicious conch
Lies still with the pralaya whirlpool in its heart.
Weekly Worship
Shani Maharaj sits glowing on the low wooden stool. On wooden trays
Sliced fruit, sweet mix of milk and flour, soaked rice and bananas—
The crowd swells, sandals pile up,
Weekly worship, swelling crowds, all to counter planetary wrath.
The priest, a bag of bones out of a cast,
Ribs heaving up in wheezing spasms.
In between, some idle talk—
A jointly owned shop gone to the dogs,
He manages to keep going in this occupation,
Manages. What keeps him going?
At home, a disabled daughter and a drifter son…
As I keep on listening, I sense in the creases of his dented face
Knife-scars coming alive.
The worship is over. All sit tucking in and covering their feet,
The priest stands up to sprinkle the water of peace,
But as soon as he stands up, his entire body turns blue
Like that of Shani.
Water of peace
But not a drop of water falls from his hands,
All eyes and faces are sprinkled instead with warm blood.
I’ll push back this Earth
May you all be happy and have a long life,
Alive with all ends plugged,
Alive and kicking,
Let the roots spread like long-life grass in measured plots—
On this side the trample of death and
The toddling approach of life on the other.
The earth wants to pull everything into its heart,
So that in its drunken spin
In cosmic space nothing may fly off,
In the illusion of stillness, it tucks the mouth into lifespan.
Snapping this umbilical heave of the earth and
Stripping off the newborn grass, words on words, that covers the body
I want to see in the void behind the visible
The face of creativity,
See how words rise out of silence.
A foothold there and
I can push back your earth,
I will.
All poems here appeared in the author’s first collection, ‘I’ll push back this Earth’ (Kolkata: Ananda Publishers, 2003), and have been translated from Bengali to English by the author.
Shirshendu Chakrabarti : Retired Professor of English, Delhi University. B.A. (English Hons), Presidency College, University of Calcutta 1971. M.A. (English), Delhi University (St Stephen’s College) 1974. D.Phil., Trinity College, Oxford University (Inlaks Scholarship) 1981.
He has published widely on English and modern Bengali literature and has five volumes of Bengali poetry from Ananda/Signet, a reputed publisher of Bengali literature in Kolkata.
