Poems by Angshuman Kar
Abandoned
Some houses stop growing at lintel. No roof, no windows, no doors. At the end of a village, in the corner of a field, such a house, dusty, stands alone. Its bricks gather black moss. Who owns it, who stopped its construction midway—one can only know after a thorough investigation. The house, however, does not remember the owner. Some young boys dig up its floor, light fire, and have a feast. Using brick, someone writes on the black moss: Suman + Mallika. And on another day, someone crushes the petals of another Mallika in it. The anger of the entire village blooms on its walls as slang. The house which is complete, has windows and doors, cannot have any feast. No one crushes any Mallika in it, no one writes slang on its walls. For all this, you need a house which stops growing at lintel, a house that wants feasts, wants slang to be written on its walls like inscriptions of the Stone Age, wants Mallika to come gingerly and wait for Suman.
Wound
A hole in a tree is actually its wound.
Once upon a time,
a poisonous snake used to live in it.
Then, for some time,
a bird whose name nobody knows.
Even now, every day, one or two drops of sunshine
and one or two teaspoon-full of moonlight
live in it for a few seconds.
A squirrel also lives there.
It, however, is not in the hole right now.
It’s playing on the grass.
After sometime, it will go back home.
A hole in a tree, which actually is its wound,
is a shelter to many…
Tiger
1
Standing in front of a flower,
I understand that there is a tiger inside it.
That’s why it has bloomed without shame
and is staring at me.
While standing close to the water, I can hear the roar of a tiger.
It is howling against the chains of a dam
as it does in a zoo.
While standing in front of a beggar,
I understand that there is a tiger in him, asleep.
At night, when the sky gets full of stars,
it seems
the eyes of a tiger are glittering,
and our galaxy is cautiously moving through
a dense, mysterious forest.
2
From a different village,
Ganesh uncle used to come to our village
and rule our neighbourhood like a king.
His eyes were as red as a china rose.
His movements were like those of a tiger.
Once he took us to a picnic.
He made a temporary woven, collected fuel,
and cooked our meals—all alone.
He has a sore in his leg now.
Now he limps.
I watch him limping and understand that
neither the howling, nor the black and yellow stripes,
nor even the trotting—
A tiger is, actually, the youth of a man.
3
Riding his noisy bicycle on the aal beside the wetland,
I see a tiger going towards the forest.
I see a tiger gravely teaching morals to the students of class seven.
A smart tiger, tying the knot of his tie,
is climbing down the stare fast.
If he gets late, he will be snubbed by another tiger
whose Mercedes Benz is flying now
on the Maa flyover like Usain Bolt.
Yes, Usain Bolt was also a tiger
as was Mike Tyson or Michael Jackson.
Oh yes, Shakira too is a tiger.
Everywhere,
in my front, back, right and left,
so many tigers—
But, all of a circus.
aal: is an uppish strip of mud that demarcates one piece of land of cultivation from another. People can walk on this strip.
4
It feels good to visit a forest at intervals.
It seems, I was actually here
as a witness to the love of leaves and sunshine,
as a friend to that waterfall,
as an eternal guardian to the squirrel and the butterfly—
I was here.
A thought like this satisfies the hunger of my eyes—
I feel happy.
Then
I become restless to go back home.
A man who has enjoyed the company of men
is like a bloodthirsty tiger.
He will cross the boundary of the forest
and enter the locality.
5
There is a tiger inside every human being.
Sometimes I have seen the tail of that tiger,
sometimes the stripes,
sometimes the fur beside the ears,
sometimes nails, sometimes the shine of the teeth.
Only once or twice I have heard the roars of that tiger.
There is a tiger inside every human being.
There was a tiger even inside that man
who has committed suicide.
To come a little close to the humans,
coming out of the forest, it entered the locality.
The village people have beaten it up to death.
Artist
A bird is chirping.
We think, it is singing.
A bird does not sing every day.
One day it laughs.
One day it weeps.
Even when it weeps
We think, it is singing
And
We stop weeping.
Poet
A Poet is like a pencil.
The more you cut,
the sharper it becomes.
Television
1986
To see Maradona we purchased for the first time a Konark black-n-white, large, television for our home. The first day the TV came, fifteen-to-twenty neighbours were invited, milk-payesh was served along with luchi—all huddling together in a semi circle goggled at ‘Pallikatha’*—they all got to know the Saswati-Chaitali duo; Pramanik auntie explained, “You know, they are two sisters”. For quite a long time, all in the neighborhood believed that duo to be two sisters.
1995
Papa and Mamma, and we two brothers were in Purulia. Every one of our friends had a colour TV. So for our home also was purchased a colour TV, though a portable one. Our home was filled up with colour. Our frequenting the cinema-halls lessened. And shortly the Saswati-Chaitali duo dropped off our memory and we grew familiar with Annu Kapoor and Renuka Shahane. The first time I saw Baywatch, my eyes were glazed blind. But I don’t remember the name of that TV company, since that set was sold in a short time.
1996
BPL. Large. Colour. When purchased for our home, for the first time I began thinking we’re also getting rich-men-like. Sourav’s century I saw, Anaida’s album, films on STAR-Movies. Mom became an addict, a movie-worm of various serials, but Dad only of cricket and old films on Zee-cinema—of sixties-seventies—the Hindi films with dishoom-dishoom.
2000
Dad passed away.
2003
Even today that self-same BPL set of 1996. Forty-nine channels. Brother says, “This model has gone out of fashion now. Do you know how many channels we’re deprived of seeing?” For the last seven days, brother, Tinni and Soma are away—only me, Mom and our maid Asha are at home. Returning home at midday I find—Mom is busy with her needlework but the TV is on. “When you are not watching it, can’t you switch it off?” “Actually, you know, in the empty house, none of you are at home—that is my sole friend—when it’s on, I feel someone’s near about, talking to me—at least I’m not alone”.
Without informing us
Sometimes our friends change their numbers
With however much force we press the green button then
And dial the old number
It does not ring
Sometimes, however, it rings
And a grave unknown voice says
“Wrong number”.
Sometimes
It rings and I hear “Hello” . . .
I think I am talking to my old friend
I keep talking.
Ten seconds elapse, twenty seconds
The line does not get disconnected.
Then, after a while,
The person who, in a slightly melancholic voice, says
“Wrong number”,
Is also a beggar of words.
Without informing him
His friends too
Have changed their numbers!
A Defeated Man
To his friends,
a defeated man is an object of pity.
He is apparently alive, but actually dead.
This is true that
the blood of a defeated man is cold like
the blood of a toad.
A defeated man gives an uneasy smile
at the obscene jokes about his wife cut by his friends.
From those friends he takes money—
Rs 200, Rs 500 as loan,
tells them that soon he will repay but does not.
If you see a defeated man on the streets,
you will easily understand
that he is actually a defeated man,
that he has the blood of a toad in his heart,
a mountain on his back,
and that his modesty is the result of his defeat.
Whatever his friends say about a defeated man is absolutely true,
only this is not true that
he is apparently alive, but actually dead.
A defeated man is never a dead man.
A defeated man is a defeated man
who believes that he is defeated today
but will win tomorrow.
The friend is dead.
The cook has taken her saree, bangles, spectacles, salwar.
The maid has taken the colourful bag,
a gem purchased from Rajasthan, and Avon lipstick,
knowing full well that these won’t suit her.
My friend’s husband has hidden inside the drawer
books, notebooks, pencils and pens
as these are giving him pain.
No sign of the friend in her house.
Just
Won’t be of any use
Still
Can’t delete
9831580259
—Ten meaningless digits
from my phone!