Champak, Certified
Shubham Shree Comrade I right through the evening, samosas wolfed pakoras, bread rolls gobbled a million cups of tea guzzled marking time for those mess bells at the age of 28, measuring the mirror those piercing eyes. a few grey hairs, ailing father and some relatives mother’s absurd clamour for a studio-photograph home a door bolted. in my eyes you smiled a fist stretched a fiery slogan a poster, off-colour, on the wall a kurta trailing thread chappal-straps unpinning polycystic ovarian syndrome. quietly you are that too. life unspools, thus dreaming politbureau chores for the mahila-morcha hawking manifestos at seminars or out on streets, baton-beaten some days in remand making it to the newspapers but in the room, the pillow that remains drenched malodorous where do I report that, comrade? *** Comrade II that pole 20 centimetres by the tape and his body are matched evenly at 30, a loosely hanging shirt, remnant of the early nineties and the denim, a gift from the archaeology department even after the last drag on the circulating cigarette if that parantha remains elusive then a fit of laughter is fine. MA second division whole-timer used to be a mental patient until last month his party membership an inheritance from a dead father chuckling, nonchalant this comrade, knows all about the world but not about his home inundated by last night’s flood. for a fortnight, his cellphone balance =zero! *** About That Boy with three days of stubble every guy looks hot (that is what I believe) and if, instead of the gym, for a week he is hospital interned then his eyes turn philosophic yellow and melancholic burning and lifeless unsalted laughter, shriveled smile walking but to tire on a fulsome evening, shawl-wrapped—looking at infinity eating once, puking thrice crouched in syringe-fear. running her palm over the wistful face of that boy the girl thinks deep within, let me die but nothing should happen to him ailing boys become suspicious of their lovers they cannot read minds—these ailing boys. *** Women they were to pick-up Asia’s patience Africa’s endurance Europe’s sense of fashion American glitziness but they lost their bearings they gleaned love from Asia philosophy from Europe Africa gave them uprightness America, revolt they lost all the competence of a good wife and ended up as blemished lovers too. *** Till Language Gives Us Words my mind will brace me countless dreams I will dream squeezing my native power to the final drop I will love you. whatever the yoke, as long as language lives there is complete freedom *** Love the Ganga’s the sun’s the harvest’s the flowers’ my dialect’s and your enchantment will not wane however life goes till the scent of your bosom lingers on my tongue the heart will not break. *** Rubber-Band on Socks Golu of class I, early-morning lone and shy tiptoes tothe monitor of the second grade and submits: “Please, will you give me that rubber-band from your plait?” “Sir will spank.” “Please, give, na? Sir will not thrash girls, really he won’t, My socks, they are slipsliding away.” *** Elegy Written for the Champaks Lout I was, lout I am, lout I will be whether I say it or not it will be plain from my face wily, oily, roily if you say so sure shall flash all thirty-two and endure not of this world, custom made, bonafide shall still study Hindi. Champak, certified. _____________________________ कॉमरेड I पूरी शाम समोसों पर टूटे लोग दबाए पकौड़े, ब्रेड रोल गटकी चाय पर चाय और तुमने किया मेस की घण्टी का इन्तज़ार अट्ठाइस की उम्र में आईना देखती सूजी हुई आँखें कुछ सफ़ेद बाल, बीमार पिता और रिश्ते स्टूडियो की तस्वीर के लिए माँ का पाग़लपन घर एक बन्द दरवाज़ा — हमारी आँखों में तुम हँसी हो एक तनी हुई मुट्ठी एक जोशीला नारा एक पोस्टर बदरंग दीवार पर एक सिलाई उधड़ा कुर्ता चप्पल के खुले हुए फीते की कील पॉलीसिस्टिक ओवेरियन सिण्ड्रोम भी हो तुम चुपके से ___ यूँ ही गुज़रती है ज़िन्दगी पोलित-ब्यूरो का सपना महिला-मोर्चे का काम सेमिनारों में मेनिफ़ेस्टो बेचते या लाठियाँ खाते सड़कों पर रिमाण्ड में कभी-कभी अख़बारों में छपते पर जो तकिया गीला रह जाता है कमरे में बदबू भरा उसे कहाँ दर्ज करें कॉमरेड ? *** कॉमरेड II टेप से नापकर 20 सेण्टीमीटर का पोल और उसका शरीर बराबर हैं तिस पर एक झलंगी शर्ट 90 के शुरूआती दिनों की और जींस पुरातत्व-विभाग का तोहफ़ा पैंचे की सिगरेट के आख़िरी कश के बाद भी पराठे का जुगाड़ नहीं तो ठहाके ही सही सेकेण्ड डिवीजन एम० ए० होल-टाइमर मानसिक रोगी हुआ करता था पिछले महीने तक दिवंगत पिता से विरासत में पार्टी की सदस्यता लेकर निफ़िक्र खिलखिलाता ये कॉमरेड दुनिया की ख़बर है इसे सिवाय इसके कि रात बाढ़ आ गई है घर में पन्द्रह दिनों से बैलेन्स ज़ीरो है ! *** उस लड़के की याद तीन दिन की शेव में हर लड़का हॉट लगता है (ऐसा मेरा मानना है) और जिम के बदले अस्पताल में पड़ा हो हफ़्ते भर तो आँखें दार्शनिक हो जाती हैं पीली और उदास जलती हुई और निस्तेज बिना नमक की हँसी और सूखी मुस्कुराहटें चले तो थक जाए भरी शाम शॉल ओढ़ कर शून्य में ताके एक बार खाए, तीन बार उल्टी करे दुबक जाए इंजेक्शन के डर से उस लड़के के उदास चेहरे पर हाथ फेरती लड़की मन ही मन सोचती है मैं मर जाऊँ पर इसे कुछ न हो बीमार लड़के प्रेमिकाओं पर शक करने लगते हैं मन नहीं पढ़ पाते बीमार लड़के *** औरतें उन्हें एशिया का धैर्य लेना था अफ़्रीका की सहनशीलता यूरोप का फ़ैशन अमेरिका का आडम्बर लेकिन वे दिशाहीन हो गईं उन्होंने एशिया से प्रेम लिया यूरोप से दर्शन अफ़्रीका से दृढ़ता ली अमेरिका से विद्रोह खो दी अच्छी पत्नियों की योग्यता बुरी प्रेमिकाएँ कहलाईं वे आख़िरकार *** जब तक भाषा देती रहेगी शब्द साथ देगा मन असंख्य कल्पनाएँ करूँगी अपनी क्षमता को आख़िरी बून्द तक निचोड़ कर प्यार करूँगी तुमसे कोई भी बन्धन हो भाषा है जब तक पूरी आज़ादी है *** प्यार
Notes From The Underground
Avishek Parui Picture a train leaving an underground station. Neither the name of the station nor the destination of the train should be important. Names and destinations rarely matter. You could be anywhere while picturing the train. Anywhere with a river before you, preferably standing on a river-bridge. For rivers are like trains. They help you imagine moving bodies. Moving bodies help you make memories. The loveliest memories are of course of things and events that did not happen. How many real rivers have you really seen? Liffey, Brahmaputra, Thames, Ganges. But don’t digress. Bring yourself back to the image. Picture a train leaving an underground station. Of course you are in the train. On a lovely window seat if you like. Looking out at yourself standing on the platform. Two pairs of hands waving goodbyes at each other, if you want to picture something more sentimental. This isn’t a dream by the way. This isn’t real by the way. There aren’t many ways anyway. You look at yourself leave in the train. You think of leaping in front of it. Not now, not yet. But that would be so much better than jumping off a window ledge or a bridge. You could never do it. You have tried. Why only last night. You were sitting on the ledge of your hotel window. Overlooking the Liffey with all its bridgelights falling across the cold Dublin nightair. For twenty minutes or so you ceased to care. You felt so free that you wanted to fly, knowing you will fall. You didn’t care. You just wanted to end it all. But it never works out that way. And you always end up with a tiredness that traps you back. Then it all dies with the thoughts about things to do and stuff to produce and reproduce. Stuff you know you cannot produce and reproduce. For your life is a long lonely struggle not to be found out. So you step down. From the ledge or the bridge. Hoping you will climb again soon. Your stories are never complete. Waiting for trains in a platform full of strangers is a good exercise in existential solidarity. For you end up sharing a slice of time with a random group of people, a slice of time that will slip into all your lives and connect you all for as long as you live although you may never see each other again. All your lives will always contain this wait. Standing with strangers in a metro station makes you feel most comfortable with yourself. You feel freer, sweat lesser and breathe easier. Away from the familiar faces you endlessly entertain with your overdone orchestra of mindful mannerisms and manoeuvres. Waiting at a metro station is a pleasant break from the barbed wires and booby traps in the world of contraptions above. Till the train that comes to take you back. There’s always a train to take you where you don’t want to go. To what you don’t want to know. But waiting for a train isn’t that bad. Especially in the underground where the white platform light oversees yellow trains swishing in like monocled machines. The lights cross and mix with the electronic announcements and screeches. Like metronomic music pieces. Triggering off a synaesthetic stream of consciousness. Together the alchemy makes you feel more alive than you really are. Everyone seems to behave better in the underground. And noises turn to smaller sounds. You may also want to experience the smells in the underground station, if you like. It’s that time of the night when the smell of bleach mixes with sweaty shirts in quiet corners. You have always thought bleach smells a lot like rotting knee-wound, especially mild bleach of lesser quality. You could be mistaken. Perhaps you smelt bleach right before or after you first smelt a rotting knee-wound. Your knee-wound. Perhaps that memory stayed with its associative effect. Memories of smells and their subconscious stains. But you digress again. Meanwhile, someone in the platform has just peeled off an orange, or a peach, if you please. An orange smells better though, you think. And then there are evening newspapers with coffee smells and old leather bags and warm groundnuts bought from the station entrance above. Smells bring back memories, as scientists say and novelists show. Almost everyone around you is remembering something now as the bleach, sweat, orange, coffee, leather and groundnuts mix in unequal intensities. The train is still leaving the station. Slowly slowly slowly. Just in case you don’t lose sight of it in your mind. You can quicken or slow it down as per your wish. Remember. You are in it. Step back a bit. Step up again. Position yourself in the platform perfectly diagonal to the driver’s cabin. Till the train becomes a hazy yellow. Till the only things clear are a wholly peeled orange skin on the platform and you sitting in the moving yellow by a glass. Let a moment pass. The faces around you have become apparitions. Apparitions in a cold morgue like metro. Think of all the madmen you have met. The ones who revisit you in narcoleptic afternoons, standing on the edge of your Rapid Eye Movement visions. By the Brahmaputra, the Thames, the Liffey, the Ganges. Rivers again. Rivers leave memories and madmen behind by their muddied banks. By the bridges. The Howrah Bridge, Old London Bridge, Ha’Penny Bridge. All have homeless madmen along their railings staring at stars. Not all madmen are homeless though. Some draw salaries and drive their own cars. Look at yourself sitting on the train looking at you on the platform. One of you should be leaving behind the other. You aren’t sure yet who is really being left behind. The train is now a river. A yellow river with no name. Remember. A certain madman before the closed Coffee House in Calcutta had told you that the State shouldn’t exist, except as an idea
We Are All Fragments Of The Sun
Anupam Roy ———————- ————————————— ——————————— ————————————- —————————————————- ———————————– —————————————- ——————————- ————————– —————————- ————————— —————————– ———————- ———————————— ——————————— ———————————————– —————————————— ——————————- —————————————– ————————- adminhumanitiesunderground.org
I Am Not A Man
Manmohan Dutta —————————————- What am I? I am a man. But I do not have humanity in me. In order to have humanity one has to master the art of showcasing hypocrisy, a variance in words and deeds; one must partake of chest-thumping, manifest activism, and arrogance. But I am unable to do all that. Therefore there is no humanity in me. I am unnatural and insane. But those who call themselves human beings—I do not see any natural stability in them either. The whole world is manic. Perhaps that is the reason it is unable to comprehend its different streaks and qualities. And so I am insane. I know this world is but a game of shadows; our existence a seductive trompe l’oeil. I have come alone and will disappear so. None will come along with me. I have realized that one requires both friends and enemies. Just friends will not do. That is why I and my kind of people are not humans. The creatures who call themselves humans loathe us. What shall we do? I am the forest flower. I took birth in the forest. In the forest is all my lingering. I persist there. I do not mind anyone’s not calling me a human. But my only thought, my heart’s desire, is that I should perish in the forest too. Let my final bed be spread amidst the hushed, caring lap of vana-devi. Let me merge and mingle where every atom cries that aching song. There are so many people in this world. So many are rich, others well-regarded, then there are the poor, or stupid, scholarly many, happy or sorrowful, small and big—all are but humans. But not me. Who am I? I am not any other creature. But I could not become a man worthy of his name. So I am mad. Why mad? Because I realize that to work silently here is a waste of energy. Only the one who, with great fanfare, can trump up his eminence and power is mobile. The silent one is dead. I usually do not smile. Why don’t I smile? Is there any subject at which one can smile? Some people smile in order to annoy somebody else. Some other fellow smiles so that he can sweeten and mollify another’s mind. I do not like such smiles. I do not have any interest. So I do not smile. What is smiling? At some beautiful high point of our mind is the source of true smile. Meaningful contortions and distortions of facial muscles have nothing to do with smiling. Where has that smile gone—that truest form of smile that arises from the deepest region of the soul, traipsing along, rejuvenating our heart and mind, reverberating through our veins and arteries? I realize the worth of such a smile. Whereof I cannot smile, thereof I remain silent. So I am a pariah in human society. Therefore I am not a human. I do not have humanity in me. I am useless, insane! Selflessness is the maddest option in this world. So, my kind of people are insane and useless to others. Everyone has one purpose or another. But I don’t have any. Humans are selfish. In every pore and atom of his heart the seed and imprimatur of the self is embossed. Selflessness is a subject beyond their ken. So I am insane. I am useless. Yes, that is the reason that the infant or the teenager, the young man, the middle-aged or the elderly—no one can tolerate me. As soon as they see me, their spite and enviousness automatically spring up. As soon as nature’s child, the tiniest of toddlers, spots me, there emerges a speck of smile on his lips. Sarcasm and mockery writ large all over his distorting and contorting face. The naughty child becomes naughtier the moment he sees me. With his natural mischievousness, augmented manifold, he scrambles toward me. A fresh tide of hope washes over the young-man’s mind as soon as he notices me. Oblivious to the whole of creation, forgetful of every care, he dives into the waves of the snickers and shrieks of my manic condition. The middle aged man begins to foster and ripen contempt and repugnance as soon he recognizes me. He finds a fresh fillip to bring grave charges of fraud, deceit, posturing and swindling against me. For one final time the old man’s begrudging jealousy is inflamed as soon as he spies me. As he gets a sense of my fearlessness, my broad heart, unperturbed by the thoughts of death, he begins to bark and bluster, following the adage. My ways are all against the tide of worldly laws. Therefore, I am useless, insane. I am doing fine being mad. I do not chase worldly distractions. Do not think you can distract me with those gestures of your body or eyebrow. I despise such cleverness. So, they try to ignore and shove me away. With inflamed nostrils, muttering all kinds of known and unknown swear-words they crown me with appellations. Ways to brush me by the wayside. No harm in that. My heart says: Yours and mine, our friendship dawned Infamy was the award Let people spread buzz and slander You and I did our job তেরি মেরি দোস্তি লাগল লোক সব বদনামী কিয়া। লোক সব্কো বকনে দিজে তোমনে হামনে কাম কিয়া ॥ Than-didi says, if you are able to be blessed with your husband’s love, it does not matter whether you receive other kinds of love. But I do not get familial love. Let them ignore. I have spoken to my soul. O my soul—it is very difficult to be good to people. Do not expect the love of ordinary people. Try and turn bad and base as much as possible. You will be freed from all responsibility of being human. Since the zamindar does not accept tenancy tax from fallow land, you will be free. Is it because I follow