Today

Today,

This day,

Somewhat,

Five quarter hours ago,

Curtains called on a drama,

We act and enact just out of fun,

and the jest, of earning our place in companionship.

When, with the dust of a disgruntled old file,

falling down on the velvet curtains,

A stolen memory resurfaced,

totally out of regard,

for your aloofness,

or my act.

It will,

try its best,

and act so fallible,

An obvious misguided deed,

in letting even a dormant wind,

catch it by its smug little feathers,

And having it fly among the dust in the wind yet to settle,

Then, I ,for this once, have to be inhospitable,

For I can't take this anymore,

What with the breeze,

The lazy raindrops,

The memories,

And you.

-Palash

July 2012, Lumding.

(The lines were born out of a love for order and geometry. It is a concept that has always fascinated me, the insertion of rigid mathematical order into the quivering world of poetry.)

(Each stanza in the above has thirteeen lines, each increasing in length till the 7^th line, when they gradually start to fall.)

Hiru Da Aru Nai.

“Mrityutow ata shilpo,
jibonor kothin shilot kota nirlohb bhaskarjya”

I wonder how the mind and the heart of the soul that penned the most beautiful lines ever on death, must have self-experienced the unbounded pain, reaching up to a crest hidden in the immortal clouds and then the final release, draining all physical existence from this world.

Hiren Bhattacharya, or as people lovingly called him, Hiru da, is no more in our midst. It is hard to define the void that he leaves behind, a departure of a cloud that for so long, so unrelentingly, so unfailingly showered his calming drizzles in the world of Assamese Poetry.

Looking at the numerous local news channels over the past week telecasting the recent events of his death, I felt sad. Sad and Hopeless. The world has begun to turn a sad departure into a cacophonic drama. Four words blaring over and over- “Hiru Da aru nai” for 5 long minutes and then taking off the show of guilt, happily switching over to an ad on how the Oxomiyas should finally turn to some stupid liver tonic to ward off the after-effects of the now-so-common binge-drinking fevers. 

 “Hiru Da aru Nai”

For some time maybe, it will continue to seem like the title of some story set in never land.  Story of a poet, a Jajabor, whose lines and voice travelled to all corners of the land, creating flutters among many a lost soul, and then echoing back to the person with the innocuous muna (bag), chappals and dreamy eyes.

The following day, the new channels went on damage control. Recitals of his timeless masterpieces over telecasts of his cremation in Navagraha were meant to turn people teary eyed (or TRP-eyed perhaps) in gloom. A carefully planned show of solidarity we were meant to watch and appreciate.

Meanwhile, a certain Zubeen Garg, sitting dazed with spirits near the departed, declined to comment on TV  how he felt at the great poet’s demise. “Aji no comments bey..”

And he continued slowly and sadly thumping his chest.

Xosake, Aji aru no comments.

-Palash

July 2012