Tuesday, December 19, 2017



Abbulish (Intermission Signal) by Indranil Biswash
(Bhinnomukh, Kolkata, India, 2015)

In Belief in Disorder in Indranil in Abbulish[1]

Here’s my journey to search the life-border by playing Abbulish (Intermission Signal)– A poetry book by Indranil Biswash, written in Bengali, an Indian language.The process of journey through this intermission signal has created the green-struck eyes inclined to the suicide border. The foot is surrounded by melancholic water-kiss. I walk to search the life-border in a hanging boat. The bridge entangled on my fingers is opening the disintegration of relations. The broken prow could see the innocent weep. It’s so silent that the eyes turn back to water-ripple. Late afternoon is keeping down Abbulish on apathetic lips. Gradually I become navel-centred in the buri[2]-touched return. Yet I keep the illusion along the tangent. You could say it’s a pleasant trip. Which one precedes whom, the boat also gets confused. Only the scull floats with a darken crescent. The internee light is opening the window of bosom-magic one by one. The in-between-lines are laughing by opening the order in the broken balcony of bosom. I keep my fingers lightly in the union-immersed belief in disorder in Indranil in Abbulish.

My journey through intermission signal has created the space for me to reconstruct my own poems in an internalized language[3]. In the process of reviewing Indranil’s book, I wrote these poems, with a structure of combination of prose and verse, originally in Bengali. The Bengali version has been published in my review anthology, Tamoser Alokbhromon (Light-Travel of the Dark) published by Kaurab publication in January 2017. Here I am presenting the translated version of it.

At the very beginning let me present few tunes of the intermission Signal:

There remains some melancholic doorway
With the face towards our sunlit chairs
The mirror is compensating the slight shortfall of light
The moving bed scene discovers the glassy soiree
Apparently rejected fourth part grant,

Mother-hand is picking up rice by churning the rice-vessel
Becomes granules during the process of enlarging
From granules to an article of gifts, few consumers
An entire region becomes the railway bay
Silent in black and white
‘Come on my dear friend, hair….’ fastened the courtyard        Parallel

                                                                      [Abbulish-1, P-9]
                                                                      [Translated by Reviewer]

Crossing the melancholic doorstep
all words are painting the path avers to stream
on either side of the sunlit chair
The shadow-face is hanging here and there
Slight shortfall of light in the conscious position
Coming down to reflected image
Abolished image in glassy soiree
Shoreless memories are awakening
in the churning of rice-vessel
The speechlessness gazes at wonder identity
Removing memento’s pebbles
the hood of sorrow is hanging without winking

Is the sleeping stair speaks about motion? As the firefly’s water-hoax inside sleep, the water-jingle of life is at every steps of round stair. I’m marinating sleeping death-trap in the flavour of surrender-less indifference. I’m measuring the missing zodiac in the word-colour, mad of cloud. Yet there is intention, yet the predicate. It’s a moving search. I think of rose in a vast expanse of sand. And beside that many oasis raise the alternate hedge. A hazy lens could see the other side of the blazing living. Relieved grief is winding up itself in the darkness of myopia. The embryo of story is flying in indifferent audacity of homeless night. Whether morning comes or not if abbulish becomes wet, I can cross the desolate day with gentle-stream motion.

The capricious demand is pattering in a mirror enclosure
I start from the hybrid mistake with the wet-soil aroma
Harmony surrounds handkerchief
cold courtyard
I wipe out the arrow mark of hunger with sea-foam
Some false arrows remain in the bow
Hidden glacier becomes wet
Some thundery signs also

Return is an inevitable ceremony. Yet rented letter doesn’t come back again. It’s a secret attraction from Evening greetings to Morning Prayer. It calls from the nook and corner of the sleeping path. The alternate God set rolling His assurance of majesty. Waking bell of Krishna-carol rings from the two minutes silence of inbox. Chant of Krishna-name even after missing the syllabus. It’s a confession of one hundred and eight names of Krishna. I entered into the deep watercolour by opening the missing warrant, entangled on my finger. A pleasure bickering of spread pop-rice starts a lone song of childhood chorus.

A deep sigh becomes formless from an Abbulish
Teardrops inside the form
Unresolved maths getting piled up bit by bit
Countless stairs
Accumulated quarries
The uprooted plate nibble off forty seven[4] seventy one[5]
Mother has been weaved with the barbed wire of border
Mother is the name of own land
Her feet are dyed with liquefied lac
Her ornamental hem bends to her feet
Taking the pronoun from the hanging relationship
it flies towards the un-decayed evening
In a feminine feelings
I opened the entangled full-moon on my finger
to see that the favourite search
of tears and ornamental hem
becomes inevitable

The non-direction with lost footprint is scribbling. The shadow of dumb diamond is looking through the mirror of fifty two cards. Within calculation there are some incoherent afternoon, some dry sunshine and globular race of lone boishakh[6]. In non-calculation there are rice from paddy and its grit, a small amount of excess emotion, water-illusion etcetera. The dreamy imagination falls off from slit-less sign of subtraction. Self-excavation gazes in melancholy till the death of unshaped delta. The world swings between the self-questions. 
I groped in and out
Silent dangling
is it?
Life goes on very far
I accumulate few sorrows on my palm
frozen time
feather’s address
just in a measure where three beats strum
The foggy gap on the finger of forgotten anchor
The south west corner of past scribbling
keeps down its limit
at the musical termination

Your flood-sign rests on the serpent-twisted wrist. Thirst of gazing life smeared in the saucer-filled light. The wishing cow is scattered here and there, water bursting too.  Camouflage of light sits on the lap of memory’s confluence. It’s a safe void of sparkled labyrinth. At one end the suffocative living of construction. At the other end the personal cessation of deconstruction. Certain death is hanging on the pendulum of uncertain life. Memories wrap its body. Sometimes it’s sound of rain, sometimes silent words. So many conversations are there with painted motion.

Odds and ends of love
tit-bits of passion
scattered memory particles
All were stable in the page of neuron
for a long time
Now the dawn is perfumed with sandal
Rajanigandha[7] is pouring itself in cold
The silent incense stick burns in its own perfume
The new star has blossomed just now
by defeating light
in the quiet sky

I’m collecting behaviour from the periodic table. It’s a long way from assumption to conception. Like a passenger-less train it’s penetrating the aerial darkness. Continent-like father and star-plucking mother make a family and all your trips along its way. School-return tit-bits and family trekking are copying down the silent lighthouse. Some addresses are missing. The world is brimming with stretched out sigh of winter-calling vein. Along this long way the brittle echo of silence touches the eternal sound of beauty. The octave of beauty crosses the bondage to reach non-bondage.

Small pieces of discipline in the undisciplined balcony
makes the rhythm in the school of practice
I’m in the play of breaking rhythm
in the missing bondage of words
in the trek-return upstream
in winter thrill
in silence
The un-destined new is crossing compromise
from zero to absolute
to motionless retreat
Perhaps other molecules
other atoms
will germinate in unknown vibration

Is the mirror believes in image? It may think of white disbelief. Image knows the difference between real and virtual. During the bridge-crossing play with self-position, external darkness entangles on my finger. Who is mirror in non-light? Just then, the ascetic colour in the hand of moonshine calls ‘Moron Moron’[8] with a whistle. The triangular rehearsal is still on. In the corner of separation, the dearest face sparkles with foster-affection one by one. Slight masking if the unrestrained is caught. The border of moonshine breaks down in the moon-dissolved water with slight excitation one by one.

Stairs are coming down from breast-pocket’s math
Dark is walking
New call from north east
Disbelief in mirror
How every death-scream hides itself
in the silent word-cell
How every salted pearl-drop makes the wavy pleasure
under the mask of dark
at the deep background of infinity
How every waiting eyes look for the peerless light of absolute
in lighted live-together with death
All goes to failure in the merciless jokes of delusion
So the smile-hawker repeatedly trying to prove
that the story of the shipwreck
is just an insanity

Breaking the remake I saw a reliable ream. The circumference is painted with the water-picture of life. Unknown immersion is playing along the border. When we sit face to face with lost childhood, confusion starts in heptameter colour. When the couplets of anklet know the mortality, the whirlpool of burning becomes silent. Teary illusions become intense. Yet our coming and going entangles with these remake mornings.

An opened-shore call comes in the closed room
Ferriage on the finger
World is coming down in ablution
You are made of unknown light
Perhaps some darkness in the unseen cave
crossing the stream-line in light addicted darken play
In this intense dark of practice
remake-bird is flying for non-destination
In the finger-forgotten Abbulish
you are the perfect
imperfect also
How does it matter
This is you
whose hand has been held by infinity
with green wonder

[1]Abbulish (Intermission Signal) – Collection of Bengali poems by Indranil Biswash. Publisher: Bhinnomukh, 8/4e Nepal Bhattacharya 1st Lane, Kolkata – 700026, Year of publication – Jan 2015
[2]Buri – A goal post for the run-and-touch play
[3]Internalized language– It’s a language with which I like to review poetry books. Reviewing a poetry book is a pleasure trip for me. Internalized language—the journey through this excavation process has created the space for me to reconstruct my own poems in an internalized language. When I read a poetry book, if the poem triggers me, if I can assimilate the original poems in my way of realization, then I can construct my own poem from the original one. In this process deconstruction comes into play first. Then I spread the assimilated feelings in a continuum of my own way of life and construct my own poem with an internalized language. This process demands a lot of space in the original poem.  In the process of reviewing Indranil’s book, I wrote these poems, with a structure of combination of prose and verse, originally in Bengali, an Indian language. The Bengali version has been published in my review anthology, ‘Tamoser Alokbhromon’ (Light Travel of Dark) published by Kaurab publication. Here I am presenting the translated version of it.
[4]Forty seven – 1947, the year of independence of India, which divides the British India into two independent dominions, Pakistan and India. The partition involved the division of two provinces, Bengal and the Punjab, based on district-wise Hindu or Muslim majorities. The partition displaced between 10 and 12 million people along religious border line, creating overwhelming refugee crises in the newly constituted dominions; there was large-scale violence and loss of life.

[5]Seventy one – 1971, the year of Bangladesh War of Independence, which divided Pakistan into two parts. The West Pakistan was named as Pakistan and East Pakistan was named as Bangladesh. An estimated 10 million Bengali refugees fled to neighbouring India, while 30 million were internally displaced. The war involves a large-scale violence and loss of life.

[6]Boishakh – Bengali name of month of summer.
[7]Rajanigandha  - Bengali name of a white aromatic flower
[8]‘Moron Moron’– Moron isBengali word for death


Ms. Runa Bandyopadhyay, from West Bengal, India, is a poet, writer and reviewer in Bengali language. She is the Scientific Officer in Bhabha Atomic Research Centre, Mumbai, India. As she herself says: "Philosophy, history and science are the subjective face of my poetry, but not the subject itself. I roll down from subject to wonder, to confusion of object in a centripetal travel. Weaving the truth of moments with silent tears, I start writing the alternative history of life-river. I like to review those books which trigger me to write my own poem in my own way." Her books include: poetry,  “Aseemer Khelaghor” (Playroom of Infinite), “Tamas Journal” (Journal of Darkness), “Poroborti Songbad” (The Next News ); reviews, “Antarbarti Pangkti” (Between the lines), “Tamoser Alokbhromon” (Light-travel of Darkness); and stories, “Parankotha” (Word of bosom), etc."

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