Nilim Kumar

.

 Poems of Nilim Kumar 

Translated from the Assamese by Dibyajyoti Sarma

In Love with the Corona-Infected

1

As she returned from Italy,

she was already gasping for breath.

Those two hands that taught

mathematics to the students in Italy,

those two hands that I had

grabbed the moment we met,

those two hands that we had forgotten

whom they belonged to since we met —

those two hands refused to touch me today;

even my two hands were fearful.

Both her lips and mine acted as if we hadn’t

seen the quivering of each other’s lips.

She beckoned me to the shores

of the Arabian Sea. She always said

she carried the waves of the sea

in her heartbeats, she always

started conversations of love

with these waves in her heart.

I said we’d sit at a distance of one metre.

She said one-and-a-half metres.

Always one-and-a-half metres, she insisted.

It’s good to know your math; she was good at math.

We did not utter a word. Our eyes spoke

everything that we wanted to share.

Seeing the flowing rivers of our eyes,

even the Arabian Sea was mournful.

She said, I have come to see you 

for one last time.  I informed the cops.

2

She was taken to a hospital, where

only the Covid-19 viruses spoke —

their conversations were sums of death

hurriedly jotted down with both hands.

She counted her heartbeats, our kisses,

our furtive touches, and our sleeplessness.

She talked to the oxygen tank,

she called it by my name.

She knew how desperately I wanted

to be that oxygen tank, for her.

3

Full of smiles one day

she descended the hospital stairs.

Looking at my moist eyes,

she asked, is the sea still there?

I said, you are my sea,

my heartbeats the waves.

Then we both raced

towards the seashore.

No trace of fear in her heart,

only the sea's laughter.

Waiting to be wiped away by

our joy, the sands still bore

the footprints of police boots and

the one-and-a-half metre signs.

In that moment of touch,

in the unbroken embrace

we noticed on both our hearts

the ebb and flow of the same waves —

the ebb and flow of the same waves,

and their refusal to return.

Puberty

In great secrecy, a red hibiscus blooms within her bosom.

As the driblets of petals fall on the ground, 

weeping, she informs her mother.

For seven days and seven nights, 

she doesn’t show 

her face to the sun, the moon, the stars.

For seven days and seven nights, she drinks succour of soil;

a clay lamp over a pot full of rice keeps guard

near her head on an earthen bed.

Women arrive, buzzing, chanting; they fill the pots 

with flowing water. Hiding behind the water ferns, 

the fishes listen to the distaff hymns

Within a holy enclosure, a banana sapling 

becomes the bridegroom. Women smear 

the bride and the groom with sesame seeds and turmeric. 

Carrying in each hand a pot full of flowing water, she adorns 

the sapling’s neck with a garland of beads. Two gusts of winds 

of two hands, the banana sapling graces her hair.

Wearing a red dress, she touches the soil,

corn seeds fill her lap, the very bottom of her heart weeps alone.

At night, some fireflies enter her heart.

Someone takes away 

and buries the banana sapling 

behind the house.

Enwrapping wind in infant leaves,

I was the banana sapling

during her puberty ceremony.

The Fern House 

For just three days, I wasn’t home. Returning, 

I got into the lift to my house on the fifth floor. 

Opening the door, I noticed, ferns growing

on the marble floor of my house. I screamed in happiness — 

wow, what a surprise, what a surprise — a fern house. 

Though it was no ordinary matter, I did not tell this 

to journalists. Because, if they hear about it, they will 

come running, leaving their half-drunk tea. Their click-click 

sounds will startle the ferns. Spotlighting the ferns, 

the cameras will circle them. Heaving their chests, 

the journalists will offer statements. 

But no one will know for what secret the ferns grow 

through the marble floor. No one will know

what the city can do in just

three days without anyone knowing. 

Now, whom do I call to witness this scene? 

Whom do I tell about the incident? 

Whom do I ask — why my house turns 

into a fern house while I am away for just three days?

Is there any journalist 

who can ask this to the city?

In a Hurry 

everyone is in a hurry

even the dead bodies

while on the way to the crematorium

the dead body wants us to take the shortcut

NILIM KUMAR (b 1961) is an Indian poet writing in Assamese. He has published 21 volumes of poetry, three collections of short novels, and other prose writings. He has won several prominent awards, including the Uday Bharati Nation Award, Sabda Award, Raza Foundation Award, Ramanath Bhattacharya Foundation Award, Distinguished Leadership Award (USA), etc. His poems have been translated into French, Spanish, German, Portuguese, English, Nepali, Hindi, Gujarati, Kannada, Marathi, Urdu, Bengali, Hindi, Tamil, Telugu, etc. He also has two collections of poems in English translation, and two in Hindi. His poems are taught in Bengaluru University, Gauhati University, Dibrugarh University, and Cotton University. Nilim Kumar has presented his poetry in many national and international poetry festivals. He has also visited France as part of the Indo-French cultural exchange. He lives in Guwahati.

Writer and editor DIBYAJYOTI SARMA has published three volumes of poetry (the last being Book of Prayers for the Nonbeliever, 2018) and three books of translations (the last being Indira Goswami: Five Novellas about Women, 2021), and two academic books, besides numerous writing credits in edited volumes and journals. He was born in Assam and now lives in Delhi, where he works as a journalist and runs the independent publishing venture Red River.