NELit review

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APRIL 22, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

With This Morning

With this morning the sun began a journey I looked at elves and thiefs but the sun disowned me and brought a harvest in the fields, and a ray of light which simmered. October's sun I whispered like ether you vanish, but when you descend like God's glory, birds hum and we tone hymns of past. October's sun you great infidel you cheat and deceptively bring winter's hope. You are a thing of the past.Let your riotous colours drop dead . You will not know these arcane myths of the hills as you bring moments of surrender.

Aftermath Of Neruda...
They said I was a nit wit who only liked to recite poems which entered foibles of the mind in school, when I should have wielded a hockey stick, or gone leather hunting in the football field. Amidst Shillong's drizzle and the implosions of rain the mind became a torrent ( of rains) tears, rhyme and verse. Higgledy piggledy. A boy's shorts couldn't look at the crescent moon and believed there was fire there, or poetry? Stop me I told them stop let wounds gape at these words, let this romanticism vanish into night's thicket and Tagorean dances. Let the honeyed incense glow into warmth of the penurious heart. Yes, trees were cataclysmic. Skies a holoucast. Then it poured. Words and the aftermath of Neruda.

ipen
SAJU ABRAHAM
GUWAHATI

Death in Shillong
It was one of those oratories on Sundays, Walking down the narrow roads, And into the foot of the hill, Borrowed backpack on my back, Full of cheap magic items, I was full of energy, But I was in for a strange Sunday. The poor hut of an oratory, With its broken door shut, Bore a deserted look. I looked around for some life, And then I felt the tug at my sleeve, A tiny ward of mine looked up, Pulling me by the hand to the cliff. I saw a great crowd feasting. Everyone eating and drinking, Most of them red in the mouth, Betel leaves and limestone, Lots of laughter and banter. Lots of food and drinks in the hearse, Decorated with the best of Shillong daisies. When I saw the old man laid out, In his three-piece Sunday suit, I felt liberated unsure from what, Death primitively celebrated.

Prays...

iNKPOT

ANANYA S GUHA I never knew I would cling to wraiths like a hound, derelict gnashing teeth. It's all broken. Dreams and mirages. It's left overs. Mortal remains. Gnashing continues. And hammocks run dry. Subterfuge. The pain is in the killing, not simply in explosions. Newspapers can reel names of death. Unconcerned about its philosophy. Where does the body wake, or go to? Conundrum in death. In life. Besotted creature he goes by the holy book only when his wife turns loquacious. Damned unholy. Damned unholy. Damned unholy.
The prayer reposes in morning's calm. Holy, holy, holy! The little bird is an interloper. Prays.

Wipe The Tears...

They are deserting these villages sprung with marigold hair and thicket of forests. Where pines weep in winter and streams ripple to wake you from dull foreboding reveries. They are deserting these villages with no cafes, no restaurants or a plush looking waiter. Where time's realities are secretly stolen. Where gold fish cannot be found, no aquariums only the hiatus of misty hills, where blue is bluer green geener. Where the thatched huts fall under sun's monotonous glaze. They are not palaces. Houses. Houses quivering under fireflies of hope. They are deserting. Wipe the tears.

Ananya S Guha teaches at Indira Gandhi National Open University, New Delhi. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, journals and websites.

Sensitive and multi-layered

MURLI MELWANI

POTTING Veron, the title story in Ankush Saikias collection Spotting Veron and Other Stories, really begins with its last sentence. To put it differently, the narrative curve of the story is like the symbol of a snake curling round to eat its tail. What the last sentence does is light up the various dimensions of the story. The story can be summarised in one sentence: it records the 40-plus-hour journey of the narrator from Shillong to Delhi by taxi and train. What cannot be summarised: the thoughts of the narrator about the passengers who board and disembark in various cities; the narrators reaction to what happens during the long journey. The three flashbacks of his stay in Shillong, as well as references to his feelings of unease and unexplainable irritation, help to fill in the background and personality of the narrator. This story was entered and shortlisted as a travel piece in the Outlook/Picador-India non-fiction competition in 2005. Yet it reads wonderfully well as a short story. The reason: the element of suggestion gives depth to the story. The author rightly depends on the readers sensitivity to fill in the blanks. Suggestion, in fact, is what characterises each story in the collection and gives it its

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but the remnants of antidkhar feelings linger on. The story relates the nostalgia experienced by a Bengali young man, Siddhartha, who is sent from the Gurgaon call centre of a US-based company to recruit callers from the Northeast, since youngsters from here were supposed to speak English well and have a Western outlook. Siddhartha grew up in Shillong and regards it as home. He looks forward to the five days hell spend here. In between interviewing the candidates, he catches up with his schoolmate, Daniel. They drive round his old haunts in town and drink. He swings by the house in the locality called Laban and is saddened to see that the colour, light green, which held memories of his parents and his early years, has been painted white. He has been symbolically wiped off, forgotten. On Saturday Daniel arranges a picnic with his girlfriend, Christine, another friend, Tony, and Tonys cousin, Gabriella, who lived and worked in Delhi for two years before returning home. Riding on the euphoria created by the picnic, Siddhartha invites his friends to the hotels disco where they dance and drink. Siddhartha is drawn to Gabriella and he

SPOTTING VERON AND OTHER STORIES

Ankush Saikia Rupa Publications, 2011 `195, 181 pages Paperback/Short Stories
power to move. This is strikingly evident in a story like Two Ending. In just two-and-a-half pages, Saikia recreates the atmosphere of fear and lawlessness that characterised the movement, in late sixties and seventies, in Khasi Hills, especially in Shillong, demanding the ouster of dkhars (non-tribals) and the creation of a separate state. By the time we come to The House in Laban, a separate state has been created, lawlessness has been put down,

considers making a life with her here. A lot of skeins of his past and present life are woven skillfully in the narrative of his stay in Shillong. He remains in touch with Seema, his girlfriend in Delhi (who represents the future just as Gabriella draws him to his past). He is aware of the difference between the honesty of his thinking of himself as one of them and the reality of being seen by them as a dkhar. He feels like shouting above the music, people, brothers, Im one of you, I grew up here, now Im back to hire people from here. At the same time, he could sense a slight resentment from Tony and Daniels two relatives, who were sitting slightly apart with the girl and talking in Khasi; his radar could pick it up from them, the age-old resentment against the dkhar, or nontribal, who was daring to get friendly with their women. A House in Laban is a multi-layered story that examines an aspect of the eternal theme of home and belonging. This story would be my selection for an anthology of Indian Short Stories in English, 2000-2010, if one were proposed. Gabriella and Daniel turn their back on the rat race represented by the big cities and return to the relaxed lifestyle in the hills. Robert, the protagonist of Caught Somewhere in Time, never leaves

Shillong. A promising musician, he chooses to marry, live with his wifes family and work as a petty clerk in a government office. While Siddhartha, at the end of his assignment, is promoted, Robert has to succumb to bribery to make ends meet. This story introduces one of the unique features of Khasi society, the matrilineal system, in which the children carry their mothers family name, women rule the roost and the youngest daughter, not one of the sons, inherits the family property. In fact, the Khasis and Garos of Meghalaya are the largest surviving matrilineal group in the world. The Nairs and Mappilas of Kerala are the two other matrilineal groups in India. Robert exemplifies the negative, the demoralising effect of this system on males. The name of the schoolboy in The Test is also Robert. Robert forgets that he has to prepare for a test. He cheats during the test and is sent to the principals office, where he is caned. The story carries cameos of an outdated but effective form of discipline and also the effect of an easy-going way of life on men. Roberts father, a serious, hard-working government employee, had been in a foul mood that evening. One of Roberts numerous brothers had failed in a school examination and another was in trouble with the police after a drunken brawl in front of a cinema hall.

His father was at home, reading a book in bed. Must be a hangover, Robert thought, thats why he didnt go to office. The Dog at the Wedding, set in Meghalayas neighbouring state, Assam, is a serio-comic study of adult behaviour during the preparations for a wedding. A stray dog is responsible for the pathos as well as the gentle satire. Jet City Woman is a sort of video shoot of the uninhibited lifestyle of the rich and the well-known in and around Delhi who know no limits to every conceivable form of indulgence. Close observation of human nature and social commentary combine in an unobtrusive manner in writing informed by sensitivity and suggestion in Ankush Saikias collection of short stories. The cultures of the Northeast are very different from those of the rest of India. Mainland India has a distorted view of this corner of the country and its inhabitants. A corrective is long overdue. Fiction best conveys culture. We have our fiction writers in English, our Siddhartha Debs, Janhavi Baruas, Dhruba Hazarikas, Temsula Aos and Mamang Dais. But they alone are not enough. Ankush Saikia, having lived and worked in Delhi and other parts of the world, has the experience and objectivity to observe from both banks of the river, as so much in this collection and in his 2007 debut novel has demonstrated. In brief, Ankush Saikia has the outlook and writing skills to serve as a literary bridge. A unique opportunity is his for the taking. T

Abode of Clouds
I rue my estranged home unchanged ten years on. But in my moments I miss the rustic west of the Abode of the clouds. Like a ghost I'd roamed every foot of that wild west, And it comes back to haunt my moments of loneliness. The day I set my foot there was the dark part, People clad in heavy clothing complete with shawls, Loaded with the day's purchases and petrol torches, Took me back to scenes from some Eastwood movies. Their rugged look and bettle red mouths stirred my fears, But I learned to revere them even more gradually. I often stared at the white sky with blue patterns, That seemed to be placed to perfection by an artist. There was a hazy halo around the sky. It was nature at its best granting a glimpse of the divine. Evening sky was an art gallery of unequalled artists. Winter was the only unforgiving aspect of this land, The cold could freeze your emotions, The relentless fog wipes clean the impressions in the sky. But then one always enjoyed freshly rolled tobacco, And the stroll to some wooden house for a drink or two, When you crossed path with some wasted drunks. One of those nights still linger in my mind, Memory smeared with taste of tobacco and Dan Seals. West somehow brings a charm of its own. That's the charm beckoning me to return to the Abode of the clouds.

Inspiration ipen
M
Y failure gave birth to a baby called frustration. It was a mature and cruel baby. It toyed with the idea of tortures. Sometimes, in solitary moments, itd thrust me into cactus and enjoy watching me squirm, bleed, and weep. It lived and grew on my failure. When it slept, Id be alright. But itd wake up any moment. When it played, Id weep. When it crawled, Id feel like drowning. It wasnt possible for me to throw it out. To do that, I felt I must either find a job or fall in love with an inspiring girl or engage in some creative endeavours. Since the time Babas cane crushed my first crush I hadnt let a crush take shape even in a favourable ambiance. As my heart ached for a girlfriend, no beautiful girl could evade my gaze. Now that I was a young adult, I felt I had acquaired an absolute right to forget about Babas cane. Though I was in search of an inspiring and attractive girl, I didnt find any around. So the best alternative was writing plays. And I decided to become a playwright. Not a bad decision, indeed, said Anis Ahmed, my friend. From school to St Xaviers to Calcutta University, we had studied together. Anis both admired and criticised me. The legal profession couldnt lessen his interest in plays. He was a good actor and director. He couldnt write plays. He could write poetry. Hed written a lot of poetry. Enough for two books. Anis asked me to join a one-act play competition at Diamond Harbour. I wrote a play on his idea. Though I never used others ideas, I couldnt dampen his spirits. The play, The Patriots, was about three national heroes: Gandhi,

NIKHIL KHASNABISH
GOALPARA

Nehru, and Bose. I used them to point out their sacrifices, our political stupidity and hypocrisy, our corruption, and the rise of chaos and separatism. Anis OKd The Patriots. Rehearsal was done in their sitting room. On the day of the competition, he drove us to Diamond Harbour. The two plays, which had been staged, were not so interesting. The actors failed to do justice to their roles. The Patriots was a better play. Excellent make-up made the young people fittingly old. Anis played Nehru; Bipin Dastidar, Gandhi; Ronty Roy, Bose. I directed the play. Among the judges was a famous stage director. We hoped for the best.

In the middle of our play, some audience began to catcall and pelt the actors with tomatoes and eggs and clods of earth. Some audience threw shoes too. Before the curtain was dropped, some audience had run onstage. Down with The Patriots! Go back, you bloody scoundrels! Your play is a slur on us. On the whole nation. Youre traitors. Beat the bastards down to the ground. The hall exploded into chaos.

Chairs flew. People stumbled into people past people. Whos the playwright? Wheres the director? Who did allow you to lower the prestige of the nation with your bloody shoddy play? Smash the heads of the bastards. They dragged Anis, Ronty, and Bipin into the greenroom. I remained standing at the stage door, The Patriots trembling in my hands. It was an unforeseen attack. I couldnt decide what to do. A middle-aged man appeared out of the blue and snaffled The Patriots from my hands. Baring his canine teeth in extreme anger, he tore it along the length and threw it in my face. Eat them, you donkey! You are a militant with a pen. He punched me on the nose. Giving a hurt look at The Patriots lying scattered and crying for immediate treatment, as I was mutilated and limp, I tightly pinched the tip of my nose to stem the dribbling blood, my body bent double, my vision

blurred with pains, anger welling up. I set my glowering eyes on his right eyetooth zone and punched him out and he fell on his bottom on the floor, messing up the make-up, his eyes closed, his hands securing his eyetooth zones. Anis, Bipin, and Ronty stepped forward with minatory gestures. I asked them to go back to where they had been. They complied. I spat my bloodstained saliva in his direction. He was then completely done over. We havent used the sacred voices of the great patriots to demean you bloody stupid people. Understood? I said, noisily sucking my teeth. I made another punch ready and he disappeared through the empty hall. With the handkerchief I lightly rubbed the tip of my nose, the dry blood on my shirt over the bosom and the belly. I collected The Patriots. We wouldve been beaten like anything if the police hadnt appeared in time. I couldnt guess there would be uncivilised people in the audience. I couldnt guess they wouldnt be able to understand The Patriots. Anis, Bipin,

and Ronty stood by me silently after the sympathisers and the stagehands had been gone. Leave me alone, I said, breathing a deep sigh. As I got to the exit, a hand landed on my shoulder, sending shivers down my spine. That was the hand of an old man. The old man reciprocated my faint smile. The young girl, who was beside him, didnt lift her eyes from my face. Im afraid this is now Kolkata, not Calcutta. I live opposite Aniss. Im a stage-struck freedom fighter. You tell the truth, he said. She smiled at me. Hi! Hi! Call me Priyam. Priyam Majumdar. Im Srijan Ghose. Visit us, if you find time, he said, then slowly walked off with his rolling gait across the strip of light out through the large window of the flat on the left, Priyam beside him. She was really very attractive. What did I see in her eyes? Inspiration? Yes, inspiration. Certainly. T