RUNA BANDYOPADHYAY Engages
Abbulish (Intermission Signal) by Indranil Biswash
(Bhinnomukh, Kolkata, India, 2015)
In
Belief in Disorder in Indranil in Abbulish[1]
Abstract:
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
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’m
where?
I groped in and out
I’m
why?
Silent dangling
I’m
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
[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.
[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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