NELit review

POST script 3
MARCH 18, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

Post-colonial Poems
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We, the guards of the Water Fairy From the depths of the river As we reached its bank The last ship of the remorseless merchants Laden with all the river had Had sailed away, tearing through the darkness The waters of the river flowed, over the stains That stuck to the sands, like greasy Blood stains Like thick clots of dry blood Thickening and growing, over the ages The Water Fairy became A woman alive And she told us and our robbed wretched people, that For long have we stayed silent. Silent witness To the suffering and suffering of justice long denied. But today we have got back Our mind and our strength Our conscience And our speech. We are guards of the Water Fairy Alert guards of her water country History is on our side now. At dawn, one day The Old Spirit of the old tree In the middle of the muddy pool Stood standing next to the lotus bloom. His lonely mind in flight, to the Expanse of the field of the plants of rice From the field of the plants of rice Had come carried then, screams of neighing Of horses of war And had come carried then, a loud load of music Of their victorious masters and the last cry of a Dying aged man Famine struck the people And famished people famished towards death They remained no longer human For human became inhuman Days passed, and passed into the forgotten Nights passed, and passed into the past The Old Spirit of the old tree His mind took flight, again To the expanse of the field Of the plants of rice At dusk, one day, in the village The old and the wise Saw the lifeless corpse of the Old Spirit In the naked field of the Plants of rice Nearby were footprints and hoof marks Of men and their animals
Graphics: Sanjoy Seal

ipen
SHRUTI SAREEN DELHI

Untitled
This poem is about the Indian bullet. It is about Naga tribes in Manipur and the Meghalaya which was a part of Assam. This poem is about the island of Majuli. This poem is about the fertility of guns and the orality of bullets. It is about the reality of the unknown It is about you, and me, and them. It is about us. This poem is also about flowers.

iNKPOT
Kamal Kumar Tanti Translator: Manjeet Baruah

In the tea garden of Tebhaga

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I dont have even two bighas of land I work in a tea garden As a labourer. I dont have money, its the famine na There is nothing to eat, so I eat khichdi everyday. There are three daughters, a family They dont have clothes so After washing them they wait For the clothes to dry. The zamindars men come to sell water I tell them no money. Dont want water. The bastards, they pour the water on the ground And ask me for payment.

A gust of the Windy wind And swept away were dust of the road, old waste of the fields But there remained beside the ancient pond Seated our Old Man A windful of memory held in his restless thoughts We too were ruminating, studying Of lives perished long ago Of time that perished long ago. So we asked our Old Man What is life: Momentary water slipping off yam leaf And what is history: Tales of rich and famous Of people and country bought and sold Of minds and thoughts no longer ones own Of wasted shorter routes to being bought and sold. We asked him again Who are we? Nothing and nothing yam leaves, crushed beneath their white feet Muddy waters under stomping hoofs, left behind in the path of riders Startled souls in fear, at the very ringing of a gunshot Then who are you? We asked again our Old Man I am History: of two lost centuries Of centuries lost in the time of the colonial Of centuries lost in the time of the colonized

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When the birds cried in the blue hills When the fields of paddy dripped, dripped in blood The hills and its forests, and its birds cried Peoples hearts burst of pale blood And the day when the termites sang in the woods And sang and screamed And the ships of the merchants waded upstream Then the tiny boats and their wounded boatmen All sank, sank deeper, all boats, and river, and blood and men Scared, shrunk, the poor countrymen They lost their speech, they lost their courage And dawned then the dawn of the eternal night Of the war for power between those brown and white On the last day of the war, the crows gasped Water, water, water, water The riders of the horses pushed, pushed the brown To one end of the black iron chains And the other end of the heavy chains were tied To the hoofs of the horses of the fair People crawling in front of death Crawling in the mud of life, growing roots And metamorphosing into ghosts of glory Chained around necks, alive in slavery the ghosts of glory

BOOK ABLE
News: Panel Discussion
Eclectic Times, in association with North East Writers Forum (NEWF), organised a panel discussion on 11 March at the NEWF office, Nehru Stadium, Ulubari. The panelists included Rakhi Kalita Moral and Bibhash Choudhury. The event aimed to enable interaction between readers and writers to find out how Northeast Writing in English is distinctive from Indian Writing in English as a whole. English writing in the region has evolved over the decades. With a new breed of writers emerging, a discussion on the changing trends of writing and the new voices from the Northeast was topical. Many known names in the field of literature, media and academia attended the discussion which was quite lively. The discussion was preceded by an interactive session with Matt Christensen, investment banker, traveller and writer and with P Datta, author of The Sins of His Father.

Chameli Memsaab
B
ANGLES jingled. I looked around. I saw no one. After a while, a bawarchi put a liquor bottle and a glass before Berkley Sahab. He fetched me a cup of coffee. Berkley Sahab had already started drinking. I, too, started sipping my coffee but my mind was wondering where Chameli Memsaab was. Berkley Sahab was gulping down one bottle after another. I was amazed at his drinking prowess. He was sitting, puffing on his pipe intermittently, immune to any external influence. Maybe he understood I was not feeling at home. He told me he was very happy that day because I was beside him talking and drinking coffee. I felt embarrassed. So I didnt object to him. But I couldnt hold back my curiosity about him anymore. I simply said: Why dont you go back to England? Shut up. Who are you to ask that question? yelled Berkley Sahab, hurling a look of spite and hatred at me, just as a snake would spreads its hood immediately after being injured. I bowed my head. Berkley Sahab, realising that he had reacted sharply, walked up to me and patted my shoulder, and asked me not to get him wrong. I didnt misunderstand him. It was getting dark. I took leave of Berkley Sahab. When I was returning home, one thing was lingering on my mind: why is there so much disparity of human life? Someone gets everything in life, someone doesnt get anything. The pain of not achieving what one wants can be deeply felt in the harshest moment of life. Someone experiences that moment, someone doesnt. That moment did not come to Berkley Sahab either. In the dead of night, Berkley Sahab told me of things about his life, things that were perhaps or perhaps not known to others in the tea estate. But I guess no one knew what I knew about him. Berkley Sahab told me how he fell in love with a girl, called Chameli, working in the tea plantation, how h i s love for her deepened, and how he finally brought her to his bungalow. He didnt hide anything about his feelings for her; he candidly asked Chamelis father, Birbal Sardar, if he would allow him to take her to his bungalow. Birbal Sardar found no reason to disagree. Chameli of Line 2 became Memsaab. Chameli Memsaab. Days went off well for Berkley Sahab and Chameli Memsaab. It was not long before a misfortune befell them. Berkley Sahab had a gnawing suspicion that Chameli was out of condition, which he initially chose to overlook, treating it as a simple thing. He let his physician friend know the matter the day he had come as a guest to the tea estate. After examining Chameli, the doctor looked grave. Its a case of leprosy. Her body shows clear symptoms of the disease, said the doctor. Berkley Sahab breathed a sigh of frustration. Chameli cried. Berkley Sahab couldnt bear

iNKPOT
Excerpt Nirode Choudhury Translator: Siba K Gogoi
seeing her cry. He decided that Chameli would live separately. He had a house built to the east of the tea plantation. All the people on the tea estate came to know of this. Berkley Sahab arranged for her treatment but it yielded no result. After a few months, Chameli gave birth to a baby girl. That day Berkley Sahab, forgetting all his sorrow, smiled and so did Chameli. Then came a day when Chameli laughed until she wept. Berkley Sahab became very sad again. The growth of the hands and legs of the little girl was not in proportion to her age. She had not spoken a single word even after three years of her birth. The doctor said: ..... Berkley Sahab was overcome with grief. The worse was yet to come. He made a point of seeing Chameli every day but never stayed with her at night. That day, too, he went to Chameli. When he wanted to leave Chameli in the still of the night, she told him that she would probably never get well, for her entire body was becoming dysfunctional. She wished him to give her company as she felt something was going to happen to her that night. Berkley Sahab didnt stay back. He consoled her with deep love and then went away. Chameli also left him. And she was gone. Next morning there was a commotion on the tea estate. Berkley Sahab arrived at the scene. The body of Chameli was still hanging at the school. A green saree was wrapped around her neck. It was a ghastly sight. Flies were swarming all over the body and a stench pervaded the air around the school building. Berkley Sahab told me those things impassively. After some time, he finished off the bottle and asked me to follow him into the inner part of his bungalow. It was a neatly ordered room with a bed in a corner. A mosquito net hung on the bed. As I was hesitant, he himself took me close to the bed. Pointing to the bed, he said: Look, shes sleeping. A girl, as innocent as a flower,

was sleeping, a girl who will never live like a human being; hers is a living death. On hearing the jingle of bangles I turned my head. The ayah was coming. Perhaps, she had woken up from deep sleep. She saluted her master. I looked at the face of the girl through the tiny holes in the mosquito net. I wanted to see on her face the face of Chameli who I had never seen but only heard about. While I was gazing at the girl, Berkley Sahab said: Im just waiting for her death. Ill return to England once she is dead. I looked at him as though I didnt understand what he said. She must die, my boy ... must die, said Berkley Sahab. His voice later broke when he cried. I didnt ask him anything again. Without turning back, I came out of the house. I didnt have the courage to look back at Chameli Memsaabs bungalow. It was well into the night when I reached home. Pehideu and others were sleeping. After entering my house, I saw food was kept for me in a room. I silently washed my hands and face. I didnt have any desire to eat. I drank a glass of water before lighting a cigarette. Niloy w a s

snoring raucously. I opened the window. A light breeze wafted in. I again looked at the bungalow with the reddish tin roof. Lights were still on there. Perhaps Berkley Sahab was still there. Who knows how long he will stay like that. I went to bed leaving the window open. I knew I wouldnt be able to sleep. Still, Ill have to sleep. Ill have to drift off to forget everything. The eyes of my mind remained restless. Xon da, does man become a ghost after his death? This is a question from Niloy. Pehideu feels Berkley Sahab is a bad man, a man of bad character, and has earned a bad name. She must die, my boy... must die..., Berkley Sahab had said. The smell of green leaves of verdant tea bushes... Memsaab... Chameli... Chameli... Chameli...T
Nirode Choudhury, one of the most well known Assamese writers, has written many stories. A number of his works like Chameli Memsaab and Banahanxa have been made into classic movies