|
J.P.
DAS is an Oriya poet, playwright and short story writer was
educated in Utkal and Allahabad Universities. He is the author
of nine collections of poems, five collections of short stories,
four plays, a historical novel and a book of poems for children
His works have been widely translated and his plays have been
performed in different parts of the country, besides being
broadcast on radio and television. A Ph.D. in Art History, his
scholarly works on Orian Art include Pun Paintings and
Chitra-pothi.
English translation of his works include First Person, Love is a
Season, Tim escapes, Silences, all collections of poems; Before
the Sunset and The Underdog, plays; and, The Magic Deer, The
Forbidden Street, The Spider’s Web, collections of short
stories.
Having given up career in the l A S to devote himself to full time
research and creative writing, he works and lives in New Delhi.
History
There are no witnesses
here any more.
Achievements are immured
in palaces and caves.
Proofs of excellence
are recorded
on commemorative pillars
and the Kamasutra.
The desire for immortality
is petrified
in the citations
of inscriptions and edicts.
There is no word
of caution here,
nor any moral lesson.
That events take place
as contingents
is acknowledged unanimously.
There is no dearth
of logic and explanations
or justification.
There is a slot for everyone
in the bottomless pit
of obscure history.
In the successful hands
of the court pundits,
chapters get amended.
Saints and heroes gravitate
from the headlines
to foot-notes and appendices.
A strange conspiracy of events
pick up a forgotten villain
from the dustbin of time
and catapults him
to the throne above.
The country, the time
and the people survive
in characters, covenants,
draft compromise deeds,
blind alleys, trap doors,
secret chambers, arrows,
cannons and hydrogen bombs.
In the sacrifices of ashwamedha
and atomic weapons,
the limits of existence
are determined.
Beneath the crowding
shadow of excitement,
the civilization grows older.
People standing outside
stare with unconcern
at the successful events.
By the hands of capable people
newer chapters are written
only to be offered
to omnivorous worms of time.
Statues and replicas
pretend to originality.
Jesters become serious
and bestow philosophical meanings
on their silly jokes.
Everything finds its way
into the moth-eaten pages.
Scholars of the future
continue to wait
with undeciphered alphabets
in their hands.
Tragic anecdotes
that had already happened
are enacted yet again
as burlesques.
Two Birds
One
Standing on a heap of garbage,
he pretends as if
he would pluck the sun
from the niche of the sky,
and proclaims proudly
the arrival of the morning
with the cacophony of arrogance.
And then,
the whole day long
he keeps chasing shadows.
Wearing a red crown,
head held high
he paces up and down
with hauteur,
even though
no one turns round
to look at him.
No one stares at him,
oh no,.
no one bothers to listen.
The sun completes
its diurnal rotation.
The bird falls asleep
near the garbage heap,
satisfied and satiated,
tucking its vainglory
within its feathers.
Two
To all and sundry
it preaches moral lessons
and the essence of knowledge.
But then,
it dashes against the lights
and retreats hastily
to the inauspicious
corners of darkness.
Behind the bowers
of thick leafy trees,
it sits silently
through the whole day,
closes its eyes
and pretends philosophy,
to hide away
its own blindness.
Quiet is the interior
of the hollow of the trees,
and there is no one about.
Yet, in a meditating gesture
it casts scholarly glances
consoling everyone
with its head
nodding knowledgeably.
When the last light
has been extinguished
from the tree-tops,
it emerges from its hole.
It gathers with its claws
all the superstitions,
and hopping from branch to branch,
it scatters them
all over the land
with scoops of darkness.
|
