In the eyes of Banalata Sen

A lost wind I am seeking a path undismayed
Along the narrow lanes of life.

The Pressure fluctuations that mothered me
Or, the hurricane haunting hopes
I am meant to merge with,
Nothing really I have on my mind,
Except a mania for motility.

Every path I pry
Ends up becoming a part
Of a long asphyxiating labyrinth.

Yet, when the sun undoes
Its cloak of invisibility,
I wrap up my world of words
And embrace the road
With the only hope that one day,
Like all my predecessors denied salvation
I too would seek an eternal refuge
In the cosmic eyes of a Banalata Sen.

*Banalata Sen is a famous poem of Jibanananda Das
-punya

Death

By the bedside of bereavement
the mourning stand, stand-alone
like the far-away lights on alien lands
he- the one death bereaved and she-
the one soul-scattered to be the air
that would, now on, caress his hair
And abandoned, for both, in the space in between
giant grief that sounds like what you would
call a hollow moan or a broken bone or a pain overgrown.

-@Punyasloka,2016

Death 2

Death- 2

'If I should die,
And you should live..'
you would bring this up
in a moment of pure bliss,
the old argument we borrowed
from Emily Dickinson’s,
and i would hurt you with my honesty
(ha! the only way i know how to hurt)
and turning your face fumed (with an emotion
known only to those who get hurt too often)
putting a pillow in between
that would grow up to be
an undestroyable Berlin wall
on our flowery bed
in a minute for a night.

In a minute for a night
All the daisies and daffodils, we long nurtured
Trading our egos, ethos and emotions,
would vanish from the bed
Just like the fishes freshly warned.

As empty as a desert night,
The bed, a sickbed now,
With a pillow indented with otiose emotions
And I would be a weak winter sun
To whom no snow surrenders.

I would survive the night, so would you,
but the ones slain would be
our unborn babies.
And now I would start it all over,
Again I would repeat
'If I should die,
And you should live..’
.
@Punyasloka,2016

The Brothers Karamazov and me

when the mad man melted
He mothered many tributaries
Feeding each a part of his long-cultured madness
As colostrum

The soil and vegetation they flew through
Gave them their colors, disparity and eyes
To look through: Dmitri became sensualist, Ivan- a rationalist,
And Alexei, a committed theist, and they all chased ‘truth’ in the paths of their own.

Along with the mad father, I too had melted and flown through,
Quartered and corrected with them: when I exchanged a long glance with Ivan
And remembered feverish nights, sweating with my forehead against the cold window of my room,
Cursing every stoned statue I bowed down to, thereafter.

Along with Dmitri, I chased mirages and was cursed for the constant culpability that fell around.
And in a good day, I forgave every sinner, like Alexei and sang along with Kafka
‘They’re not all lunatics – just "incidentally mad", like the rest of us.’

A castle on cloud, just like the Brothers Karamazov
I was in the end.

-punyasloka

Untitled

Four hours into sleep
and the morning sun
 teases me with it's false golds

the westward wind
coated in a wintery-chill
whispers my name.

The deal is to
to wake me up,
to make me move,

I am more than
just myself

my dreams are no more
mine alone

The road ahead
knows my destination.

I am already a part
of a motile maniac on auto

that the universe is in real.

-Punyasloka

untitled-2

Guilt sits cozily between them-
he the one with sun-stained cheeks
and forehead furrowed
and she, with eyes full of arctic winter

Wind, a de-winged bird
dying once after every helpless hop-skipping
and the moon, more penumbral
than real (call it the curse of you moon-marred men)

all that's green has gone on hibernation

only monotony of concrete prevails

-punyasloka

Untitled-3

let me take away
tonight a twisted fabric
from our rough-cut
reality and weave it
with a fantasy anew

let it begin with you-
a simple incantation of
a long nourished name
striking madly at my
vocal cord since forever

and end with desires
that wear more hunger
than the biggest black-hole
and in between well-placed
silences. 'Open Sesame',

when i say, consider that
all the dusts of disturbances
have now long settled down
and it's time for final move-
to wear the night's dark

mantle and morph into nothingness-
uncommon threads ahead
of time's course- naked, free
unformed, just how
lovers are meant to be.

let me do this once more
(what i always say)
my best trick ever-
let me make us whole
right from this rubble.

-@Punyasloka,2016

Untitled-4

Setting sun leaves
lasts of its angers
on winter trees
bonfire bodges from
branch to branch,slowly
like a truth unveiling
If looking inside
is awakening and
outside, dreaming,
in me a dream awakens every time
only to fall in to a deeper dream;
contrary winds-the only constant thing
The setting sun inside
is you abandoning a world
we once built for ourselves
and the winter trees that
undo all learning is
the 'ús- part' in me
That the night
resets everything
@punyaslok,2016

In A Dry State: Day-1

I am in a 'dry state' due to my new job assignment and i would like to mention my experiences( out of the office only).

  After a night without dinner, woke up to see the wall clock in my hotel room striving towards 12, a shock that  only stayed on for next 30 secs as my mobile phone showed 7.30. A breathe and again i tried going back to sleep. But a stomach full of hunger didn't let me. I went down the hotel room for food, as no food is served by the hotel people. The first of  the persons i eyed on were ladies dressed in typical Gujarati wear,selling sweet potatoes in heaps. And they were the ones sober. As three out of the ten people i came across were drunkards, yes, in a dry state. Smuggling  alcohol to this part of the state is easy, this being close to the boarder with MP, the nearby state.

How do you survive
in a state, where rain reigns
for a period shorter than a memory
to be called sweet?

In a place
where three out of ten
people you meet in the morning are drunkards
and rotten coconut water is sold
in 50 rupees with pride-
you never prepared me for this,
while letting me eat your breasts
and pouring me the best of the wines
from your eyes- you ruined me!

How would i not get lost
in a city where roads get entangled with everything
absolutely for nothing
when the only thing i marked in my mind
is you-your sight and smell, love and hatred

RIP Sourindra Barik

As i switched my tv on this morning , came news of sad demise of Sourindra Barik, an eminent 'modern' Odia poet belonging to the lot that holds proudly the names such as Ramakant Rath, Brajanath Rath, Prasanna Mishra,Haraprasad Das, Pratibha Satpathy, Sitakant Mahapatra among the others.

Born in the mid-30's, Barik counts many awards including the Sahitya Academy Award(Akasha Pari Nibida, 1988), Bisuv Samman etc.

Apart from 'Akasha Pari Nibida', 'Upabharat', 'Anubharat', 'Luhathu bi Antaranga', 'Samanya Kathana' are some of his major works.

The link below takes you to a translation of Barik's poem translated by the eminent poet Sitakant Mahapatra: The Circus Boy

RIP Saourindra Barik!

ଆନ୍ତର୍ଜାତୀୟ ମାତୃଭାଷା ଦିବସ ଶୁଭେଛା ସହ କିଛି କ୍ଷୁଦ୍ର କବିତା

(୧)
ରକ୍ତପୋଖରୀରେ ପହଂରୁଥିବା ପଦ୍ମ -ମୋ ଅତୀତ
ଫୁଲ ତୋଳି ଯିବ ତ ମାଳୀ ମାଗେ ‘ରକ୍ତ ଦିଅ ରକ୍ତ’
(୨)
‘ରାତି ଲୋ ରାତି! ବୟସ ତୋ କେତେ?’
ରାତି କହେ, ‘ତୋ ଆଖିରେ ନିଶା ଯେତେ’
(୩)
କାଲିର ସ୍ମୃତି, ଆଜି ଜଳନ୍ତା ଅଂଗାର
ମନେରଖ-ସେତକ ତୁମ ନିଜର
(୪)
ଆଶା-ଜହ୍ନ ଉଏଁ ଶୋଷର ଶେଷସୀମାରେ
ବାଟୋଇ ପୁଣି ପଡେ ମରୀଚିକା ମାୟାରେ
(୫)
ସ୍ଵପ୍ନ ମୋ ସୁକ୍ଷ୍ମ କାଚର ଘରଟିଏ
ବିପଥ-ପବନର ବି ତା’ ଉପରେ ନଜର ଥାଏ
(୬)
ଶୁଷ୍କ ପୃଥିବୀ, ଉଲଗ୍ନ ଆକାଶ
ତଥାପି ଆଖି ଖୋଜେ ପ୍ରେମର ଅବଶେଷ
(୭)
ଚାଷୀଭାଈ ମୁଁହରୁ ଶୁଭୁଥିବା ଗୀତ
ରାଗ-ରହିତ, ତଥାପି ବି ମୁଁ ମୋହିତ
(୮)
ଝିଂକାରୀର ଝିଂ-
ରାତିଚରଂକ ଅତି ପ୍ରିୟ ଲୋରୀ

-ପୁଣ୍ୟଶ୍ଲୋକ

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RIP HARPER LEE

“Naturally, you don't sit down in 'white hot inspiration' and write with a burning flame in front of you. But since I knew I could never be happy being anything but a writer, and Mockingbird put itself together for me so accommodatingly, I kept at it because I knew it had to be my first novel, for better or for worse”- yes, an honest Harper Lee nodded that in a 1964 interview.She wanted to be the Jane Austen of Alabama. 

To Kill a Mockingbird, like they say, is one of the books everybody reads at some point of time, and i am no exception to this. I had read it, or i should say i was made to read at a point when my teen was ending, with my all madness. Published in the 60's, the book was an instant hit and ever since more than 30 million copies has sold, translated to many languages, adapted into an Oscar-winning movie. The book, winning the prestigious Pulitzer prize in 1961, voted 'the best novel of the century' and for her contribution to literature, Presidential Medal medal of freedom in 2007.

RIP Harper Lee!

Arnab called this 'hypocrisy' last night, and today, there she's, with a voice as sharp as sword, that you cannot ignore. I feel so proud of my country where words of dissents make through all odds to those who seek them. Hope the leftist don't get derailed from the purpose, the rightist learn to believe in healthy debates and peaceful protests , not in tyrannousness, and the nationalists judge the both on fair grounds and grow.

NB: I reprobate all anti-national activities happening/happened, and at the same time hope the Govt. does enough, to sit and discuss with all dissents and find a way best for the benefit of the society, not subjugate them.
 poet/activist Meena Kandasamy's article i am talking about

Kumarasambhavam( The Birth Of the War-god) Translation by Ralph Griffith

How do you deal with hypocritical praise or criticism? The both have never gone well with the Browbeaten Bookkeeper. It's all seen in political fanatics irrespective of their orientations, in reviews, in society-everywhere, wherever there is some sort of  power of judgement given to a person less deserved. And they do with all heart and soul, to prove the shrewdness even if it is without a sense.

The latest furor filled in me as i was poking around the pages of the 1853 translation of ' Kumārasambhava'( The birth of the War-god) by Mr.Ralph T.H.Griffith (1826–1906), a scholar of Indology( yes, that's what his wikipedia page says). The original work belonged to, as we all know, to the greatest Sanskrit poet and dramatist Kalidasa.

I had picked up the book from a road-side shop in the Abids area of Hyderabad a couple of years back only because of the age of the translation, as i had always wanted to read the original version of the book.( I feel, with every passing edition the genuineness of the version loses). But never the keenness, since then became a tidal bore in me untill a recent upheaval in my life, which i have no intention to chuck here up.

Anyway, after a lovesome caressing on the quondam cover page, i went forward to the preface that started well, depicting the apparent greatness of the Legend, saying him as one of the 'Nine precious stones' that shone in the court of Vikramaditya. But as i proceeded, i was bounded in brow-raising words. Mr. Griffith was judging him with his so-called European standards, finding him bald and prosaic,yes, those were the exact words stated in the book.

Though this was probably the first time Kumarasambhabam was getting European attention, but not Kalidasa. Sakuntala( Abhigyanasakuntalam or 'The Sign Of Sakuntala' was already familiar. Goethe, Humbolt, Schlegel and many literary legends mentioned 'sakontala' in their works in the earlier Eighteenth Century. The monologue 'Vikramorvasie' or 'The Hero and the Nymph' was already popular. Abhigyanasakuntalam was, if i am not wrong, was translated by Sir William Jones, a judge who worked in Bengal and have a long list of involvement with Indo-European languages and literatures, and the translation, as cited by many achieved a celebrity status in Europe.

Anyhow, i managed to digest the criticism thinking as always it everyone's right and moved on to Cantos one- Uma's Nativity or the description of Parvati's nascence, Parvati being referred as the daughter of the Himalaya. , so words rained down on the the mountain range which is well evident in Cantos one. 

The others- Cantos two an address to Bramha, Cantos three- The death of love, Cantos four-Reti's lament, Cantos five- Uma's reward, Cantos six-Uma's espousals, Cantos seven-Uma's Bridal, these are the seven cantos available out of the 22 originals.

Through out the marathon reading, not for a second i had any objection on the translation, the words being added with perhaps the most beautiful way possible.

Kumārasambhava, the epic poem originally written in the holy language Sanskrit by the 4th Century poet and dramatist Kālidāsa. The poem is considered as one of the finest example of Kāvya poetry where  abundant usage of Figure of speech, metaphor, Simile, hyperbole to create emotional effects. The war-god or the Kumara is an reference to son of Lord Shiva and Parvati, Kartikeya and the seven cantos implicate Sringara Rasa or the aesthetics. 

Ralph T. H. Griffith, is a sanskrit scholar educated in Oxford who accounts translations of Vedic literature such as Rigveda, Ramayana apart from Kumarasambhava of Kalidasa to his credit.