by Navakanta Barua

Mother, I am in hell. Its not so bad. 
Love is loose change, 
Sucking the bones of making a living.
Life is quite a plump dog,
The dog does not remember the road
The great journey. 

Oho, my mistake- no one here forgets anything.
Its just that one feels afraid to think. 
That’s why, with soft, heavy,trivial and big talk
We keep kicking the eternal rolling stone.
But then, without this babble,
Its difficult to live in hell.

The earth’s memories are doled out in little pieces, 
To hell’s whole citizens. There’s a ban on love. 
If you are thirsty, there’s booze,
Tea and lemonade, but you won’t find
Cool water. If you send some in a bottle,
It might perhaps look like medicine.

If you see a spring somewhere, and go towards it, 
A love from earth comes and hangs a ‘NO’ sign.
You know, mother, 
The spring is all earth, the border, of the earth
You live in, the earth apparently
Does not want to trade with hell.

What to do, mother, 
I could just manage to smuggle out 
This secret letter.
If you can, do come forward, a little,
I too will get out of my hell
To the heart of that spring. 

There, in that river island, 
You will remove the earth’s tired air,
The closed road from earth.
I too may flee dark emotions, my deep blue thirst. 
Else, perhaps, I will have to stay
Without alternative, in this hell

Sucking trinkets of love, and making a living.
Just that, mom, 
Don’t give me solace, 
That its only the mind that’s hell.  
Only then, would I be, truly helpless. 
My mind. That’s something that’s still mine.  
Yours. 

Translated by Amlanjyoti Goswami

Click here to read the original Assamese poem.

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

Amlanjyoti Goswami‘s new collection of poetry is Vital Signs (Poetrywala). His earlier collection River Wedding (Poetrywala) was widely reviewed. His poetry has been published in journals and anthologies around the world. A Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee, his poems have also appeared on street walls in Christchurch, exhibitions in Johannesburg, an e-gallery in Brighton and buses in Philadelphia. He has reviewed poetry for Modern Poetry in Translation and has read in various places, including New York, Delhi and Boston. He grew up in Guwahati and lives in Delhi.

By Bishnu Prasad Rava

The temple of melody
  The silver fetters of which
    You’ve torn apart and opened
      The golden doors
        O’ Priest!
          O’ Priest!!
            You worshipper of beauty!!!
             The enduring 
            Dulcet Borgeet
           Melodious Bongeet
          Sing, O’ the Assamese people
        Filling your heart and mind
     O’ Priest!
    O’ Priest!!
   You worshipper of beauty!!!
In your touch
  The ecstasy of the heart
    Shakes off slumber
      Attains freedom
       Contours of ragas
         Move on wafting
          O’ Priest!
            O’ Priest!!
              You’ve set up the altar
                  You’ve placed the idol
                      Performed the worship too
                 Shaping the idol of freedom
            O’ Priest!
      O’ Priest!!
 O’ Priest!!!
Blow the conch
   Strike the cymbals
       Begin the rituals of prayer
           Light up the lamp
              Welcoming with elation
                 O’ Priest!
                   O’ Priest!!
                      You worshipper of beauty.

[Translated by Uttam Duorah]

Click here to read original Assamese poem

Bishnu Prasad Rava (1909-1969) was a renowned artist, writer, actor, song writer and politician of Assam.

Uttam Duorah, the translator, retired as the HoD, English, Women’s College, Tinsukia and is based in Tinsukia, Assam.

By Parvati Prasad Barua

You were engrossed with your flute
The entire half of the day
Standing by the river;
I too was there
Entranced by your side.
Your flute echoed
Anecdotes of my life,
How soothing!
How mellifluous was your rendering
Of the Ragini*!
You left with the flute thumped on the ground.
Lifting it tenderly 
I kept blowing on it again and again --
It didn't sound;
After a close look I spotted --
The flute had been split.

*Ragini : traditional pattern of notes in Indian Classical music used as a basis for improvising a piece of music. Conventionally, a ‘ragini’ is regarded to be feminine by nature contrary to the masculine quality of a ‘raga’.

Translated by Krishna Dulal Barua

Click here to read original Assamese poem.

Parvati Prasad Barua (1904–1964) was a noted poet, song writer and film maker of Assam.

Krishna Dulal Barua is a prominent translator and writer based in Nagaon, Assam. He received the Katha Award for translation in 2005. He can be reached at kd_barua2008@rediffmail.com

By Mahendra Bora

I bawled out over the field
Towards far off
Across the horizon beyond the range of vision
No response came back as an echo

The bell around the buffalo’s neck made with wooden cover
The vapid sounds of which are 
Wafting
In the static void of the field in the quiescent evening

As if an ancient beckon since aeons
Shivering and dancing
Spreads over the swamp grass, stubble and bog
From welkin to welkin

Feel like following that soft whistle
Which has been calling me from across the patch of fog
With a swishing sound the whole day
Towards far off

[Translated by Uttam Duorah]

Click here to read original Assamese poem.

Dr. Mahendra Bora (b. 22.08.1929-d.09.04.1996) was an eminent modern Assamese poet, critic and translator.

Uttam Duorah, the translator, retired as the HoD, English, Women’s College, Tinsukia and is based in Tinsukia, Assam.