‘I only count the exile years of my life’ – Five poems by Gopal Lahiri
Photo: Karan Madhok
‘somewhere the curling script of history hangs over / the old crossword book of migration’.
Exodus
Walk together, walk alone, day and night
between towns and villages,
their unwashed faces carry the blackness of life.
hunger and poverty
mix with rain dirt and mound, rough as gravel,
weave a mist of conflict and loss,
somewhere the curling script of history hangs over
the old crossword book of migration,
the veins are replete with scratches on grooves,
weary eyes widen, turn into a meandering river
its flow measures the colour of wound
spreading the numbness,
the sky is tarnished by errant clouds,
a shadow of branches rewinds the past,
searching for the left-over roots.
*
New Horizon
In the moment of leaving
the blue stretches of sky linger inside,
the longing for my village curves a deep furrow,
the slender path is in denial, overlooking
bird cries, the stories excavate the past.
A journey into an open road,
a journey into unknown for living-
crumbling walls around,
lights spillage, spreading near and far,
winds now carry burden of the unwanted.
Coming out of the deep deluge and escape
from the hunger
and the vice like grip of thirst,
The morning sun creates a trajectory of hope
in a new place, in a new horizon,
*
Crossing Borders
Somewhere between my past and present
the life has frozen.
the worst is already with us,
the wind is calling, the leaves, the little flicker,
dogfight, politics, barrel-bombs, battered clock-tower,
whimper beneath the time capsule.
What else can capture? deluge and wildfire?
they They must be a part of the oil paintings,
drying in the rust-ruined sun,
scorched, faceless children, women,
the photos are in monochrome,
too white for the social media,
hot, charred bodies are chasing bodies
tortured, numbed to the outside world,
snake-eyed agents, touts, body sellers prosper,
Night slits the throat for crossing borders,
I only count the exile years of my life.
the cycle of transitions encircles in silence.
*
Kolkata
Only once through a local train’s window
I watch all those
silent streets open up for a conversation,
Walking in the rain
I follow the silvery tram lines and mark
its route charts.
A city with weather-beaten face does not
always follow geography,
dropping petals on the courtyard of the houses.
Trees laden with orange fruits never reach
the overgrown shadow;
rickshaw pullers drink tea on the earthen cups.
The setting sun descends on the calm water
I take your hands in mine
the river bank buries our whispers.
A word appears on the sign board speaking
Kolkata
directly to the crowd.
I stitch seven striking letters in your palm- Kolkata
*
Recital
I remember you saying when the sun goes behind
the clouds, we should just shut doors
and stay home.
I never listen to you as I love the cloudy sky
for spelling it out, for showing me where the
edge of the rainbow is,
Nothing about furious storms overturning the canoes
or bird tweets under the shades of the branches,
or thousand other nameless events,
A strong westerly wind has shaken us
leaving us on the vast paddy field,
the smell of the earth is strong, dews absorb our silent words.
I remember your eyes become blurred and dense
because loud thunders frighten you like a child,
because low whispers are crowding in around us,
It’s not so much that I follow you, or you me,
more like others going on ahead before we catch up
and move further into the last horizon.
I know that in all of these places where the colour blooms
and a part of me stands there still, till a few drops of rain wets the soil
and I follow it out, as I do always break into a song.
***
Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata-based bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator. He is the author of 22 published works of poetry and prose in English and Bengali. His poems, translations and book reviews have been published across various journals in 12 countries and translated in 10 languages. You can find him on www.gopallahiri.blogspot.com, Twitter: @gopallahiri, and Instagram: @Gopal_Lahiri.
