By Govinda Das

Ghosha:  O’ Soul Govinda Gopala
                   You’ve set, O my Kind-Heart, the game of Maya

Pada :      A house was made with care and hope for the living
                  That house was blown away while it was storming
                  O Mind, make the house and fasten the door
                  Leaving your home the others’ you cry for 
                  Rafters are set in rows for the ridge two beams fixed
                  Twenty posts in all are firmly pitched
                  It is dark for walls raised on all four sides
                  Nine doors are fastened on all nine sides
                  At nine points are nine sentries on guard 
                  Within is sitting Hari, the all-cheering God
                 There is a woman that house to manage
                 One who stays away from her is a great sage
                 And there is a river that flows so fast
                 Across two birds Time and Timeless stay perched
                That pair of purple birds with the bluish-black wings
                 Have never ever come across as hatchlings
                 The swan has flown away leaving behind its feathers
                 On the sands of the Jamuna that body also weathers
                 Says this the slave Govinda again and again 
                 But the feet of the Guru no ways remain

Translated by Nirendra Nath Thakuria

Govinda Das, an Assamese poet of the 18th century.

Nirendra Nath Thakuria, retired Associate Professor of English, is a translator.

Click here for the original Assamese poem.

By Jatindra Kumar Borgohain

At the end of a long night
A terrible day dawns.
The sun descends.
Light spreads terror.
The unforgettable dawn
The wings of fear
In the heart of a dream.

Translated by Ananda Bormudoi

Jatindra Kumar Borgohain (b. 1950-d.2013) was an Assamese poet, author, journalist and social activist.

Click here for the original Assamese poem.

By Jyotiprasad Agarwala

Know I know I know
Nothing goes in vain, my song too
All my drops of tear
Merging with the shrine water
Will gleam on the worshipper 
In every cell of him.

Know I know I know
All my songs are so novel
Smell like lotuses in bloom
I know I know
They'll wake the world's soul.

That morning star lonely yonder
Lost in the song of its own
Sets in the lap of dawn
Giving its smile in the glow
Know I know I know
Nothing goes in vain, its song too.

Wake up in novel rhythm
All lotus words mute in charm
Gather in chorus in countless voices
Wake up honeyed melody in ecstasy.

Translated by Nirendra Nath Thakuria

Jyotiprasad Agarwala (b.1903-d.1951) was a noted poet, songwriter, playwright, filmmaker and freedom fighter of Assam.

Nirendra Nath Thakuria, retired Associate Professor of English, is a translator.

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.

By Nirmalprabha Bordoloi

If somehow the smell of the wintry fields
Reaches my nose
I recover my father

In the fragrance of the gamosa 
Laid open from its folds in the shop
I recover my mother

For my children
Where shall I leave myself,
Where?

Translated by Krishna Dulal Barua

Nirmalprabha Bordoloi (b.1933-d.2004) was an Indian poet, lyricist and folklorist of Assam.

Krishna Dulal Barua is a prominent translator and writer based in Nagaon, Assam. He received the Katha Award for translation in 2005.

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.

By Navakanta Barua

Now, just now I have set me on fire
Burnt up my ancient wings 
Wings I could not fly with anymore 
But only flapped the wind—the wind
And aroused mockery and despair

I have set my backbone, thousand years old, aflame
Whence sprang forth countless branches of brittle bones 
The fluid in their marrow dried up.

I have set my ancient heart on fire
Stuck in stasis
Like clock hands standing still
In an eternally meaningless present.

Burnt up my obsolete wisdom
Buried in the bulk of my inert pride.
Ah! My age-old body-sap enmeshed in the senses
Is burning 
With an ecstasy of self-annihilating delight!

With the letters in my own funeral ashes, I thought,
The name of my father would be scripted on water
I thought the funeral ashes would nurture 
the dream harvest of future.
I didn't know that it was only me who fathered myself
I didn't know that it was only me who was born of myself.

In a strange flare of light
 I had a glimpse of my funeral pyre 
Shadow of my father
In the cool touch of strange death
 I could feel the warmth of my fuel
My offspring
My blood
I was born
I was born.

Translated by Dr Pori Hiloidari

Navakanta Barua (b.1926-d.2002) was a noted Assamese poet, novelist and translator.

Dr. Pori Hiloidari is a critic and award winning translator of Assam. She teaches English in Handiqui Girls’ College, Panbazar, Guwahati.

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.

Hiren Bhattacharya

Hours before I'd a few glasses of liquor
The inebriation hasn't died down altogether
Perhaps in this way
The entire night will pass over

Sometimes I drink in this way!
And its inebriation shifts me to the serene woods of my mind
Where
I converse with myself
About issues never conferred with anyone before

How pleasant are these nights!
Where the puffed paddy of words burst*
Among stars in the azure sky
The river of my heart cleanses
The wholesome body of the night
With its cool mellifluous water



...............
* puffed paddy of words burst : distinct articulation of words (Assamese idiom)

Translated by Krishna Dulal Barua

Hiren Bhattacharya (b.1932-d.2012) was an Assamese poet and lyricist best known for his lyric poems.

Krishna Dulal Barua is a prominent translator and writer based in Nagaon, Assam. He received the Katha Award for translation in 2005.

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.

By Hem Barua

Here is our grandmother, eighty years old.
Ignoring the scorching mid-day sun during summer 
And the devastating flood
Ignoring winter cold alike
She moves on with her flowing grey hair like jute.

I met her and asked her,
"What have you been looking for, Aita 
Bending over your stick
And scrutinizing the ground?"

Aita looked up to me
Raising her pale eyes 
And told me one thing,
"You will not understand my dear.
I am looking for the lost twenty years of my youth and dreams 
Wondering if it perished in the dust of the road."

Translated by Ananda Bormudoi

Hem Barua (b.1915-d.1977) was a noted Assamese poet and politician.

Please click here to read the original Assamese poem.

By Lakshminath Bezbaroa

O Friend, what shall I talk of my woes
Poison came out in churning nectar
The sweet honey turned bitter

I wore a jasmine wreath on my bun
Its petals fell off
I kept the bird in a gold cage
That too flew off

At dusk a togar bud blossomed
When the evening breeze sighed
Seen by none smelt by none
That too wilted and died

Translated by Nirendra Nath Thakuria

Lakshmiath Bezbaroa (b. 1864-d. 1938) was a renowned poet, novelist, playwright and satirist of Assam.

Nirendra Nath Thakuria, retired Associate Professor of English, is a translator.

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.

Durgeswar Sarma

There, the car brakes beside the gateway
And awaits in unrest.
The one inside the car shouts,
Are you ready?
Come on, hurry up, don't delay.
It's a long long way
Even if we keep going all through the night
We'll reach there only in the morning.
You don't need to pack any luggage
You needn't carry a thing
Once you reach there, you'll have everyone
Ready to fulfill your needs.
This house will remain stuck here
Where you'll never return;
Time shall wear it down to bits
Leaving not the faintest trace.
You'll clamber over one house to another
Abandoning one after the other
A country of your own lies in some other land
You're languishing here in peril.

Translated by Krishna Dulal Barua

Durgeswar Sarma (b.1882-d.1961) was an Assamese poet and playwright.

Krishna Dulal Barua is a prominent translator and writer based in Nagaon, Assam. He received the Katha Award for translation in 2005.

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.