A few Poems of Kukil Saikia / Translated by Arunabh Debendranath Konwar

 Original ( Assamese ) : Kukil Saikia

Trans by : Arunabh Debendranath Konwar

 

A Horse

 

1.

Is a horse mightier than might?

 

On the thorn in the path to a different dream,

I am the exotic fruit that is spiked on it

Come, eat me

Savour my yellow taste,

On my lips, the tender clouds.

 

2.

On the edge of your dream,

A horse is standing still

The horse of your dreams.

 

From under the bridge

The wind that whistles in song,

Is ringing there,

Come here,

Fill your path of flowers that bloom in dark

With the taste of the wind.

 

3.

I am a horse

I dream while I standstill.

I have my reins in your hands.

 

Yet I can break away from my reins

To the other side of slumber

Gallop at the speed of light

From heart to heart

To the blue waves of the river.

 

4.

My father once desired to be a horse,

To gallop across the living town

Across the wilderness of the forest.

 

Because I am a horse,

I hunt – a hundred poets’ sleep

I hunt – the curves of a woman

I hunt – the desolate dusks of war

I hunt – the raging fires of a hundred pyres.

 

See, the moon folds into the river at the sound of my hoofs,

The rains will gulp the river’s heart

In a bit.

 

In a bit, in my neighing,

You’ll carry the whistles

To the strings of a sitar,

In its tunes, will lurk the fragrance of flowers that failed to bloom.

 

5.

Because I am a horse, I am breaking these stones

These stones will one day fill

The void under a woman’s veil.

 

Because I am a horse

These stones will one day,

On the neck of the plastic butterflies of the town,

Hang the vases of thirst,

And they will quench themselves with

The whistling of the wind under the bridge.

 

6.

Keep your hearts under covers,

I am a horse,

I have never learnt to graze

On grass that has already been cut.

 

---

 

 

A Great Life

A great blunder –

Of life what you’ve said for years

And that we listened to,

All of it is false.

 

I am an indifferent being.

 

Your word is an etching into stone,

My withered soul finds comfort in the pyres of husk.

 

And then my eyes turn a tinted yellow,

I rest under the shade of the sky as if it were the wing of a bird,

Content with exhaustion, I look for Dutch courage,

Drink I the fuming magma.

 

Speechless, starved, indigested.

In angst of helplessness,

Bark at the indifferent passers-by

Bite the girls on their way to the college.

 

And then we are jailed, we are hanged –

And as we descend from the gallows,

Your words lure us into repeating our crimes.

 

We are born in fallacies,

In fallacies, we metamorphosis.

In fallacies, being mistaken we become

A post-modern mistake.

 

O’ Guru Drona, Pitamah, Shankara, Jesus,

Einstein, Elliot and all the world’s all great men,

To the little men, a flawless doctrine

You couldn’t provide.

 

---

 

There’s no rule as such

 

Indispensable necessity or the complete lack of it,

There’s no rule as such.

 

There must be dark for there to be light,

There’s no rule as such either.

 

I love you

And you must also love me,

There’s no rule as such.

 

I will go to Dak-Chapori in the evening

Eat pork and drink rice beer to the fullest

Even if it’s late, I will have to return at night,

There has never been a rule as such.

 

Apart from the irrefutable sorrow and the bare facts,

There are no unfailing truths.

 

And

The rest that were

Are no longer truths anymore.

 

---

 

Soap

 

The soap erodes itself to cleanse our bodies foul

Even then, the dirt persists in the crevices of the skin

Anti-germ soap is also a germ.

 

It is sad,

Without the water, the soap never did learn to froth.

 

Because it is slippery, fragrant, and soft, I like the company of soap

But a little lack of attention, and it slips onto the dirty bathroom floor

And then, to pick it up and rub against our bodies again, it disgusts.

 

I have a soap story from my home

It is the same story for every home.

 

My mother goes to the bathroom in the morning

And then my father

And then my brother

And then my sister relishes long hours of soap

Till its death, the soap is disgraced in this way.

I also go to the bathroom in the morning waking up late

And then in my company, the soap inches a pinch towards its death.

 

There is also a soap called ‘Cloth Washing Soap’

Alas, he isn’t privileged to a handsome man, a beautiful woman or the soft skin of a child.

 

Nevertheless, he licks clean with his tongue

My mother and sister’s lingerie

My father and brother’s underwear.

 

That is why soap is bisexual.

 

It is important that soap is dignified.

 

---

 

Kaalchetonar Awoh Kobita

 

1.

O’ musician, why are making your violin cry?

A horrendous thing has happened

The birds are committing mass suicide.

 

The impoverished hills have no owner

The deep caves have no darkness

The currents carry away an image, a village

 

Instead of the sounds serene of the hills,

The weeping of children echo.

 

2.

Of course, there will be ruptures

In our materialistic passion, unplanned dreams and clay masks,

In the dove nests.

 

Of course, there will be ruptures in our books of prayers

We preserve to read by earthen-lamps in dark times,

Long before the times turn dark.

 

3.

Returning soldiers of several wars won

On the brink of bursting out of my brain,

My legs will to take me with unmatched pace

To a fossil village on the other side of the century.

 

I want to touch this bountiful water – I can’t.

I want to see this breathless greenery – I can’t.

 

I want salvation amidst this world only,

Freedom from the owl’s hoots, from the soulful songs,

I want freedom from the dark and the light

From all screams forlorn. I want freedom

From myself.

 

We live in an unhealthy environment,

Where the touch-me-nots don’t flinch at touch anymore.

And in what ways have man learned decency.

 

O’ musician play, play the Dhrupad

Where time disrupts a poem

Is also a poem

Naxalbari or Somaliya.

---

Verses of Independence

 

The rope on which your flag of freedom unfurls
Is the one on which hangs your skint farmers.

 

From Jallianwala to Bogidhala,
From Lord Dalhousie to Modi,
Blood drizzles onto this valley,
Oppression and Treachery –
The clouds that hang over;
What do we call this valley?

-          India.

 

Who are you?

-          Independence.

 

Meaning?

-          Bhanimai, Nirbhaya, Gauri Lankesh, Naxalbari.
(or on your will, pick a 90’s Axomiya)

 

Where is your home?

-          In the pages of the lengthiest constitution

-          In the wounds of the bullets fired

-          In the penises of the rapists

-          In the lathi-charges

-          In the politico’s speeches

-          In the forests

-          In the tea gardens

-          In the factories

 

What do you like?

-          Oppression, Oppression, and Oppression.

Oh peasants, oh labourers, what is this independence?

-          Expectations, Destitution, and Paranoia – prolonged.

-          Do not ask us anything.

-          We do not have the freedom to speak.

-          Our legs are in chains, our heads on gunpoint.

-          Don’t ask us more.

 

I did not ask the political leaders what is independence,
I know, Independence and Freedom have never been healthier.