NELit review

POST script 3
JUNE 24, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

Pherengadao: breaking dawn

T
RAVELLING from village to village, holding meetings and following the jungle path, it was late evening by the time he reached Rajapanisonda village in Rani. From the southwest direction, great masses of cloud were beginning to gather across the sky. Immediately as he entered the village, he was filled with a great sense of the romantic his grandfather Xoniram Mosahari had been born somewhere here around 1830... ...The moment he entered the village there was immense excitement among the villagers. He had not yet settled down properly, when through the thickets men and women, boys and girls, everybody from the village emerged to crowd the courtyard all the way up to the gate, to see their 'king'. Seeing the people converge, he came down from the veranda to the courtyard and suddenly broke into a song, in abandonment, almost as if chanting: Bissar sonde sonde mohanonde anonde nasa tamohara debo nasa. To the rhythm of the universe gloriously, dance, you destroyer of the dark. Slowly, the recitation became rhythmic and turned into a soulful song. The people, at first, stood speechlessly gazing at him. Then one by one, the audience joined in the chorus and finally all the young men and women joyfully surrounded him and started dancing to his tune. A moment after the song had died down, clouds began to rumble in the skies. First it rained drop by drop, and then it fell like water flowing over the rim of a koloh (pitcher). The people ran helter-skelter. The owner of the house called him in from the veranda. A newly lit fire illuminated the inside of the house. Over the fire hung a black copper koloh. Below, another koloh stood on a round stand of hay. The man said: "Uncle, just boiling some water." For a moment, he looked at this newly found middle-aged nephew of his. He knew this was the owner of the house and guessed that the young man who had come with him must be his son. But he didn't like the arrangement, and said: "Dont boil the water too much. Pour it while it is lukewarm. Otherwise the thing gets spoilt." At this, the owner told the man sitting in front of the line of village headmen to bring the pot down and strain the liquor before the water started boiling. It was still pouring outside. It was dripping loudly from the thatched eaves. He remembered how on the day the first rains of the year had come he had sat on Anupomas threshold and sung that old song of his: Medur meghor madol kobai Gogon gogona alphule bai Bijuli notir nasonti sai Deudi deudi nasim Mor jibonor akaxote Indrodhenu gorhim Xat rongere mina korai Moromere torim. Beating, The dark clouds drum Playing, Softly the gogona in the sky Watching,

iNKPOT
TRANS: UDDIPANA GOSWAMI EXCERPT: CHAPTER 4

RRRRRRT G

HE had not yet settled down properly, when through the thickets men and women, boys and girls, everybody from the village emerged to crowd the courtyard all the way up to the gate, to see their 'king'
The eripolu, after attempting to wriggle and writhe its way upwards for a while, gave up its grasp on the branch and fell off. His whole body suddenly shuddered. At the same instant, the owner's question also fell on his ears. He hadn't heard most of what the man had said. But he remembered the young mans question. And not really saying much, he gave that distant smile of his and drowned himself again in a sea of thoughts... Not just his grandfather Xoniram Mosahari, but others had also left in search of better prospects: the ancestor of Bolo Basumatary from Kerakusi, Jogya Basumatary, Norkixor Basumatary and Belbong Subadar of Dudhnoi Khara Lalpara: and hundreds more of such poor peasants. These simple cultivators were the casualties of the new ceiling act of the British. With the aid of this act, in the administrative centres, a new bourgeoisie had appeared. And the agricultural village folk had become the new proletariat. The bourgeoisie used their newfound affluence under the British to exploit the farmers. They used all the new tricks of manipulation they had learnt under the tutelage of the imperialistic exploiters. To aid them, a whole bunch of devious, ruthless, middlemen had spread all over the rural areas. As a result of all this, thousands of peasant families had lost their only means of livelihood, their only refuge their land. And finding themselves suddenly rootless and lost, people like Xoniram Mosahari had left their homes and families to go in search of fortune. He had become quite lost in his thoughts. Learning that his ancestral home had been in that region, the young men were filled with great curiosity, but nobody had had the courage to break his brooding silence. A moment later, however, he woke up to his surroundings. For a while he looked at the inquisitive faces of the men seated in front of him. Then, to lighten the situation, he addressed a young man seated, aloof, at the back: "Oi, let's see your face. What did you say your name was?" "You have not asked me my name so far." "So Im asking you now." "My name is Protap. Protap Rabha." "Where do you stay?" "In Kulosi Dhanopara." By now the youth had stepped forward and his face had become clear in the light of the lamp. Seeing the handsome face, he was filled with affection for the boy. He continued in jest: You haven't spoken to me at all so far. Theres nothing left for me to say. Youve already said whatever there was to say. That means you do not agree with whatever I have said? What do you mean not agree? I agree totally, which is why I have nothing new to add. How far have you studied?

I did my matriculation. He was quiet for a while. In his mind, he was satisfied that his mission had not been a failure after all. A youth like this one was a great asset to the peasant society. He looked again at the young man's face with a sense of accomplishment. Just like that life-long revolutionary Lokenath Barua, this boy also had self-determination in his voice. However, there was something effeminate in his mannerisms. Before he could ask him anything further, the young man spoke up: "Abou, wont you be going towards Borduar? Five people have died there so far from starvation. One died the day before yesterday. But the other side says they have died of cholera." Although he smiled faintly, his entire face lit up when he stopped talking. Then, conscious of being watched so closely, the youth lowered his head in confusion. He said: "Im supposed to go tomorrow. Gobinda Kalita will also come along." "I had actually come to give you that news only. I will leave now, Abou." "Where?" "Same place. Ill make arrangements in advance." "In this dark? And it's raining too. How will you go? Stay here tonight with me. Well go together tomorrow morning." The youth smiled and trying to be at ease, said: "Abou, you have yourself said that the sun and daylight are not for the dispossessed. Darkness and the rain suit us best." Saying thus, he rose to leave. He saw a bundle under his arms and finding an excuse to delay the young man for a while longer, he asked him if he had any of the papers. "I got the Lal Nissan today." "Give it to me, let me read a little. You wait for a while." "You keep it, Ive already read it." Handing him the newspaper, Protap disappeared into the incessant rain and veiled darkness outside... It had stopped raining outside. In the hills nearby, there was the sound of a turbulent stream coming downhill. The clouds that covered the sky had cast a pall of gloom everywhere. His heart was also heavy, deadened. With difficulty he was trying to think about the plans for the next day. Even though the people wanted him to be the leader of the Dighol Letheri expedition, he had not been able to convince himself on several counts. He thought of taking to the bed and just as he turned to ask somebody where his bed had been laid, he saw a young lad come running into the room. The owner of the house was standing just behind him. Seeing the lad, the owner went forward to the doorway and fell into a whispered dialogue with the latter. When their discussion was over, the man turned towards where he had been sitting a while ago, and stopped with his mouth agape. The fireside was empty. The guest had disappeared with the wind. T (Bishnu Rabha was given this epithet, Pherengadao. It is the name of a bird that heralds the dawn with its songs)
Medini Choudhury is author of Ananya Prantor, Banduka Behar, Jadugharar Kirtimukh and Taat Nadi Nasil. He won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1999 for Bipanna Samay

Bishnu Rabha, how far into the night are we?

iNKPOT
BIRENDRA KUMAR BHATTACHAYYA TRANS: UPASANA GOSWAMI
Bishnu Rabha, how far into the night are we? You are awake and so are we; The whole world lies awake. The melancholy strain of a siphung flute Floats in the Bihutoli, The rhythm of the Bodo lasss dance is broken. Tears fill peoples eyes. At midnight on the highway who passes by, Mourning, Bishnu Rabha is gone? You are awake in your silent cell Sleepless are the mute brick walls. Your voice and tunes are in chains, And so is the rhythm of your dance! You are awake, awake are they The conscious crowd, the sleepless night. Bishnu Rabha, how far into the night are we? We are all waiting in the Bihu field. Our friend Manorama is waiting too. The whole highway filled with new sounds of Anticipation; thousands shriek without pause. A query marks every face this Bihu nightWhen will the prison gates open? When will tethered creation be free? Lifeless are the songs, words and tunes, Lifeless is this Bihutoli. In the grief of the shackled artist Rises madness of the red life And the sun of true emotions. Whose cries fill the cemetery at midnight? Theres an uproar my friend, an uproar of life Eleven pages of the Das Capital left to be read! Which Trinayan reads in the midnight Light! Light! There is the sun in Udayachal! In the threshold of fresh life History remains the only witness. Bishnu Rabha, take up your brush again. Paint on those brick walls a picture Where a thousand artists soar and Notes of unknown hopes and emotions flow. On that very brick wall shines Das Capital dreams. As the night ends on the highway, Who passes by shouting? Words of the unknown Turn the hengul-haital red. You are awake, so is he, The eternal friend of your artist life. Where you are is a small prison Only a few brick walls stand there. Where we live is a dungeon Hundreds of serpents its only life. Our Bihu meet and yours is not too far off. Well bathe in turmeric Our heart and mind, and gather In the morning of a new life. Bishnu Rabha, can you see out there? The red face of the round sun Shows true emotions Trembles with hopes of freedom. At the end of the night, comes a procession Of the unknown, who sing in chorus Light! Light! There is the sun in Udayachal! [Siphung- Bodo flute; Bihutoli field where Bihu celebrations are held; Trinayan he who has three eyes; Udayachal literally, land of the rising sun; Hengul-haital red dyes]

PHERENGADAO
Medini Choudhury Kiran Publication, 2004 `125 Hardcover/Fiction

The lightning dance I will sway In ecstasy. On my lifes horizon I will build A rainbow Gilded in seven colours I will hang it up With love. Just half an hour after Barua and Gopaldas had left that day, it had started raining torrentially. Anupoma had brought out her father's old harmonium from under the bed and placed it before him and asked him to sing a song to welcome the fist rains of the year. His heart had also become somewhat exhilarated. He thought he would sing a monsoon song. Bahirot boroxun pore dharaxar, dugaledi boi mor sokulu dudhar Outside, the rainfall; Inside, my tears fall this song would be perfect for the occasion. But Anupoma wanted to hear something else. She wanted to hear that song about the clouds drums... He was staring at the eripolu (silkworm) hanging from the pole near the wall beyond the hearth. The tup tup sound of the falling eripolu lumps felt good at first. In the end, his attention was captured by a lone worm thrashing about on an era leaf. He felt as though an invisible thread somehow secured his and the worms destinies together. After a few days surely, the worm would ripen and entangle itself in a thread of its own making and disappear forever. Maybe, like that worm, in the web of some predicament of his own making, he too would have to get enmeshed and annihilated.

Birendra Kumar Bhattachayya is the first Assamese writer to receive the Jnanpith Award in 1979 for his novel Mrityunjay. In 1961, he won the Sahitya Akademi Award for Iyaruingam

My red river
My red river When you carry away Yesteryears failures and pangs I sit on the bank of your solace Counting the dead My red river You have been there all along Revolution soaked in the false taste of freedom A dream distant and fading? Only Satan wears the torn boots of revolution now? My red river They want, you now They want you mad, want you dead Lonely banks and barren hearts Where is it, your red? My red river Wiping tears and blood, we come Who will deny our brotherhood? Roots that bind us, far and deep The red that is you, is also I My red river.

ipen
ANURAG BARUAH DELHI

NEW PRINTS
MASTANI
Kusum Choppra Rupa Publications, 2012 `195, 274 pages Paperback/ Fiction

My valley
The night Cold like the colt Deep sunk inside my body Is a paddy field of memory And the little boy smiles and cries Lost bodies and lost freedom The fog reminds me of the enemy Across the fields, I hear him The little boy smiles and cries Kalashnikovs and hunger dont go well together Comrades! I have long lost my father When the black smoke mingles with the night Death dawns upon our valley The Red river the yellow faces hopes and tears together we are one.

historical fiction about Mastani, who married Peshwa Baji Rao I but was relegated to anonimity by various forces

KABYANURAG
Arun Sarma Banphool Prakashan, 2012 `80, 95 pages Hardcover/ Poetry

A
THE EDGE OF DESIRE
Tuhin A Sinha Hachette India, 2012 `195, 324 pages Paperback/ Fiction

collection of Assamese poems

story about the wife of an IAS officer, who is raped by local goons and her fight with fate