Prayer For Your Health
(dedicated to Satyajit Ray)
Wishing your recovery since you are the bridge —
Between us and sanity,
We, the humans, have not returned to mother nature
With our debts, not even art,
Thirsty and lost we have so long followed
Shiny mirages, but in vain.
You are the road I yearn for,
I come to you endlessly with the dividends of my dreams, you keep well
Please.
In the map of existence,
You are always,
my pathway to beauty.
Love
You wear my mask,
I put up yours —
For the time can we settle this as love?
Once we are done with this act,
I will send the masks to the museum,
Drowned in jars of sadness
They will look out from their glass conceals,
Slowly, and
slowly they will shrink,
Slowly, and
slowly the distance between us will enlarge,
Then,
When you try to remember love
Will it prick you a little —
the disobedient nail of your shoe
pinching your soft heel?
How Long Does Life Remain?
If one day the Sun dies,
For eight more minutes, the earth will remain warm,
Before death takes life, drowns all — animals and plants, also humans
in bitter darkness,
Never to be alive again,
Once the Sun calls off,
For eight minutes even after,
The earth will hang on to life.
If one day love extinguishes,
How long will life survive,
Carefully shunning the cold touch of death?
Is it eight minutes?
Does life wait for the warmth of love eight light-minutes away?
Or,
Even when love falls apart life carries along for long?
Lightyears pass by yet life doesn’t pass away easy —
Lifeless journeys lifeless in love-shunned avenues
Waiting to be called into that dark abyss, where
Love has been hiding for so long,
So very long.
Birthday
(remembering Akira Kurosawa)
He may again receive news of a death today,
At his age, turning 60 — this is regular,
One after another near ones part away leaving him alone,
Death comes an inch nearer, walks alongside, yet
No one thinks ever the man reached a ripe age —
Light dyed hair, upright figure — slim,
Sparkling healthy teeth, a lovely smile,
Who will ever think of death walking alongside him?
No one tells him, or will ever, but he knows the best —
the burning, loss, fatigue and sorrows engulfing him in this age.
He may receive news of death even today,
A companion in this game, a partner, rather,
Calling out to him each time — ‘Ready?’
He frantically wriggles away — ‘No, not yet, not now.’
The game of hide-and-seek goes on as life turns 60,
Even when the body looks healthy,
this game doesn’t stop, repeats —
Does death blow through his light hair —
A passing breeze whispering to him, ‘Ready?’
He then looks up at the sky
forgetting the game of fatigue, new clouds up there
A change of season garnishing life.
Silent Wreath
Forest snatched away his audio player,
Muted the radio he was listening to, news about the State,
Took away songs from his voice, whispered to him –
Keep quiet, be silent!
It had rained in the hills,
The rivers have grown,
Now all these can be heard.
A few cranes landed with a sonorous sound,
Clouds deflected off faraway hills,
Lightning from the clouds surprised the eye
Absorbed in darkness,
Garlanding him with beads of absence
Forest whispers again —
All the songs that I snatched away from your voice
Are here, in this silent wreath.
Once the Live-Together Ends
Once the live-together ends,
Leaving with bags and holdings even,
The boy comes back
To take back his favourite shirt
Still worn by the girlfriend.
Love has never seen these television advertisements,
Sporting a torn-button shirt
One day he travelled a galaxy to reach here,
On the day of return
He didn’t think a bit what to take back
In his knapsack.
In their own rhythm seasons arrive and leave,
Works of flyover never reach their end,
Migratory birds fly in and out
Of canals, ponds, marshy lands
So many times, without a fail,
Love has never seen television advertisements
Crossing a galaxy in a flash he returns
Like his arrival —
An empty knapsack,
Torn sorrows, cracked discontents stay back.
What Remains
Writing down everything will not be just,
Only the conclusion will be left to be written,
Carrying ritual garments of mourning
Death will come, and wait.
I don’t wish to write of becoming silent just yet,
There will be lightning
Of sorrows and sadness,
Remembering the celebrations of desire and fulfilment,
Fuel to fire memoirs,
Will smile only a trifle
Nothing more.
Still, breaking apart all rainbows
Forgetting the young debts of dream,
Holding the stick of a traveling ascetic
I don’t want to leave everything just yet
To become a monk.
Before writing down the whole of it
I wish to hoodwink terror,
Enjoy with the young,
Drawing chariots, waving paper flags,
Then what remains is nothing
But,
Only an insignificant conclusion.
What Will You Live With?
What will you live with?
Which belonging, happiness measuring closely?
Like a young child,
Silently learning from the broken toy
How much of it is left for playing!
What will you lean back to?
If all is vain, all, a lie?
Only a faint smile in possession,
If no account ever matches, if
a broken glass never mends!
It doesn’t take a lot to live,
Laughter and tears filling the boxes
with joys and sorrows,
Still, don’t we need something more,
If not perfume or jewelry, at least love?
Rummage all belongings,
overhaul debris — fake diamonds, broken chandelier,
find that elusive brightness,
hiding somewhere —
in silence.
Excerpted from Walking through the Mist by Soumitra Chatterjee, translated by Amitava Nag, Dhauli Books (2020, Rs 295)
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