Poems of Naorem Bidyasagar
The Panggong Tree¹
Mother Khullakpi²
Wife of the village chief
Went everyday with lunch
Wrapped in cloth
To her field that hanged down the hills .
I never asked
What she grew there .
At the day - break , she went
And with the setting - sun she returned .
Uttering no words from her lips .
Her face charred as black soil
Of brooks between the hills .
Dissatisfied ,
I told mother Khullakpi ,
Let me accompany you , O mother !
I am fully grown up
I will lead you .
With the strength of my arms
I will dig the surface of the hills
And grow crops there .
With a smile , my mother replied ,
Are you willing to go , my son ?
I led my mother
With a hat of dried leaves
The spade on my shoulder
I crossed fields after fields
In the ranges of the hills .
From a distance ,
I saw My mother's field .
Oh ! what is it !
Instread of growing arum , pumpkin , cotton
Chingshu , Leihao or Uningthu³ ,
Perplexed , I looked at the Panggong trees
Growing densely
Their
red flowers
Spread
all over .
Wiping
two little drops of tear
With
the tip of her clothes
Mother
replied ,
Your
brothers have gone
In
search of me
In
the forests of dense hills ,
And
at the spreading foot hills .
I
have been waiting
At
the gate ,
And
at the frontal post of the house
When
will they return ?
They
know only the forward journey
And
never the road of return .
This
is why ,
Your
mother grows
The
Panggong trees
All
over the hills .
Where
will I find , once again
The
bodies of the unreturned ?
By
the side of my mother
Perplexed
, I stood
Like
the tall pine oak tree
Of
the conserved forest
Tr
: Dr. Th . Baba Chandra Singha ' Bastard teak , Butea Frondasa ( Botanical name
) , When the death of a person is not physically known , an image is made of
the stem and leaves of Panggong tree and cremated with the performance of
yajana , After that all ceremonial rites are observed for death . 2Feminine
form of Khullakpa , the village chief in the hills . ³Teak , Mishelia Mentana ,
Machilus Villosa respectively .
The
Ceiling Fan
A
ceiling fan is spinning
right
on top of my head .
in
the dead hours of night ,
my
mind too is spinning
like
a black spider
spinning
a web
snapping
and throwing .
the
threads again and again .
Raising
an inferno
burn
I did to ashes .
the
quiet straw shacks of villagers
in
the violent Naga - Kuki holocaust .
My
sabre preyed on the blood
of
toddling Rohingya babies
their
bodies soft like cotton wool .
In
battles ethnic
between
Hindus and Muslims
innocent
villagers fell in blood - bathe
their
heads axed from the trunk
like
meats in a butcher's shop .
Yes
, a ceiling fan is roaring
inside
my mind
dark
and rumbling
like
a Nor'wester thunderstorm
violent
and tempestuous .
Why
today
a
panic arises
from
nowhere in me ?
Ah
, pity my lusty steed
untamed
and furious neighed
flagged
tail in pride
kicked
heels and busted
the
precious watery urns .
of
young virgins many
shattered
into pieces .
Yes , like black spider
my mind webs
snapping and throwing
the threads again and
again .
I wander around the globe
.
Kashmir to Manipur
Pakistan to Myanmar
about Iran Iraq
and the remotest Africa
...
In the cities , streets
and alleys
in offices and markets
every nook and corner
I find ' I ' everywhere .
The ferocious Osama
like a sandy castle
gave way to dust
at the touch of a finger
.
A ceiling fan is whirling
above my head ,
its blades
shining bright like sharp
swords .
In the still of the night
fear rides me reined ,
I see the Sudarshan
Chakra
the all annihilating
weapon
flung off the finger tip
of Lord Vishnu !
Caught in a fright
I wake up and see only
a ceiling fan spinning
fast ,
How startled I was !
( Translated into English
by N Kirankumar Singh from Manipuri
Bonsai
What news is recounted.
By the cool gentle wind from the lake
Which has glided through the window
Towards the dwarfed banyan tree
Upon the shallow pot ?
Half a gulp of water
Every single day .
Cracked pieces of soil
For one moon ,
These are all
For the bonsai
Which decorate the drawing room .
It sees far away across the window
One big lake .
Cranes , gulls and pelicans are playing
Catching fish
Flying freely
Singing songs .
At the shore
Dragonflies play hide and seek
Among and atop reeds .
The bonsai is restive
And begins to sway to and forth
In the light wind .
Then , immediately
The wind Closes the window .
Like before , predictably ,
In one corner of the room
On a wooden table
There are
Empty wine bottles
An ashtray impregnated with cigarette stubs
One Bhagavat Gita bound tightly by cobwebs
Among the old tattered shoes .
While
looking around
The
bonsai can also see
A
lampblack covered cat
Sitting
on a dirty mat ,
A
sword hung on the wall
Stained
with dry blood ,
A
club with animal hair on it
Hiding
by the door ,
One
broom
With
its tail tucked between the legs ,
Layers
of mosquitoes
Under
the cot ,
Spiders
laying traps
At
every corner ,
Bunch
of keys
Under
the mattress ,
Worn
out accounts ledger
For
profit and capital ,
A
bunch of hair
Bound
by tear soaked handkerchief
Under
the pillow .
For
many years
These
are the things the bonsai
Has
witnessed .
It
doesn't want to see
Any
of them again .
At
that moment
The
cool breeze
Opens
the window again .
There's
a gust of fume
From
the wet firewood
At
the hearth ,
In
that suffocation
The
bonsai catches its breath
And
looks out fearfully
Across
the window Afar –
The
swoop of cranes and gulls
Which
bloomed over the lake
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