The Ghaat Within
Biswadeb Mukhopadhay ______________________ This is a poet of circularity—of the potter’s wheel, the rotund staircase, local implements like the maku and the turpun, the chakravyuh, the foundation-stone, the navel, the chalice, planetary orbits, the vortex in the pond—such motifs reappear. This is also a poet who believes that each creation, including the very idea of I, owes itself to the superimposition of the wave function of individual particles, continuously taking shape all around us. Thereafter all kinds of permutations and associations are possible. Sometimes that happens through vaak, through which we exchange bhava. Bhava is a many-valued proposition, a hypothesis which we may also give the name of wonder. Poetry gives shape to wonderment, and so it plays sounds and particles that stay in the nooks and niches of our everyday existence. This exchange of wonderment may sometimes prove incommensurable within the frameworks of our relationalities but it is not impossible to work that out. Perhaps poetry comes closest to bridging this incommensurability. The poet knows that the all scenes of marvel and wonderment are taking place within a smallish planet called earth, revolving around a mid-sized star in the milky-way. The poet has to forever be aware that art’s source and canvas is finally, the universe itself. The poet’s life, therefore, is a kind of sadhana, the same as that of the scientist. This sadhana, a repetition and an augmentation at the same time, is also a function of a perpetual flux: one that runs between the inner universe of our subjectivity and the outer, galactic presence. Does one travel from thought to mind, or is it the reverse? Do one and one make two or does the very idea of one envelop all duality within it? Does the brahmanda reside within our anubhavas or do anubhavas amass as entropy in this cosmos? We come back to the circular. The new returns, as the poet rearranges syntax, breaking form— again and again. He also renews an ancient bond with all that is the heart’s—apparently forgotten and left out, and yet all the time, they travel with us and with this our rushing planet. Characteristically, his poem titled Address, from the collection Pa Rekhechhen Parom (Parom Sets his Feet), concludes in this manner— Biswa Brahmanda post-office Zila Birbhum. ———————————————- Sorrows and Grandma In your next life, like kakurs you shall hang on kakur trees Saying this, my grandma Once blessed sorrow It’s difficult to say why she did this, may be since It never left us even in times of great distress. Reasons apart, We are told— That since that day, thus proliferated This our immense fruit garden Some utterances work like a mantra Though after this Grandma said so many other things as well —placing her palm on didi’s head She had said: “Be a Rajrani.” To me too She had said something, and engraved with baba’s name That mannat-pebble still dangles in the Peer’s abode. Baba is no more. This our sorrow and grandma’s tale We may also call it poetry, if we wish. If you are doubtful, why don’t you visit us around twilight someday? Come, sit around this our courtyard. You’d see How leaden darkness descends slowly, slowly… And right underneath the kakur-tree macha You’d spot, dangling Dark black, tall long, just-like-that sorrows and their fledgling little brood. *** Kalighat Temple No legroom in the temple, because everyone brings sins befitting his means, hence, the hustle to unburden those is also acute. One man supplicates, as if to cede All his depravity, another flings a coin And a third, anointing himself in temple-dust, smeared with tears Says, “All my sins I hand over to you thakur.” As prescribed, in clusters The disciples return each to their homes But Hari! Hari! The same stony weight each still carries within! Then More darkness Descends on the temple-precinct Roams alone, forlorn In Kali-kshetra, only a dog despondent. *** Ghani At the end of a long day’s trek Evening at a Kohlu’s house There, Kohlu’s daughter, standing with a lantern, Lights up the well-side. On the raised deck Water in a brass urn, a folded gamchha, And a footstool standing by. Moorland Hertalpur Dusk drops in torrents there Afar, the thuggee village… That horned moon now, splits open the kaash grove— The nightlong pestle rotates in the starry courtyard Tup Tup Honey-like sounds. In the morning an ancient earthen pot brims with oil. *** Tanti Colony’s Sleepy Time There spins the spindle, the bobbin whirrs So late at night. Arre O Paban, in the tant-room Why weave so frantic baap? Won’t you hit the sack? In the room, dust swirls Busy rats, yonder the rusty handle of an Old umbrella, chaupaya, pillow-wrapped Blanket, tattered rugs… Through the low lying windows, afar, strings of roofs Bolted door. Sleep. Encompassing Dhanekhali, Shantipur Hums the sound of tant, tant spins, someone weaves tant. *** Contentment Some go in darkness, some go in shadow At lantern’s end children are from lessons distracted There is only babel. The babbling stays close, so Sitting at evening’s portico A few kinsfolk chat, contented. *** The Husk Like a pillow cover, one day, a swift wrench shall invert me. Steadily the hand wreathes. Flakey cotton swabs underneath Fog’s unique body… All through the night The inside turns out, the outside in. *** Ghaat Who is that who scrubs dishes all night? Is the ghaat lodged inside the body? Yes, the ghaat is lodged inside the body! *** Path If the insect decides to traverse the path obverse To the old-man’s, will it by and by re-enter the body As the ancient sperm-tick? The old-man trudges northward Toward the embedded insect inquiry. *** The Listener From two throbbing meatballs emanate Joy’s ether-waves In the middle, sprawls a cosmic termination Dust-particles cipher-like. Unconnected…