Bangladesh Impressions Poem by Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih

Having crossed the Akhaura Check Post,
Murasingh, arms outstretched, proclaimed,
Bangladesh!

Two minutes later, the Land Customs Officer
made him pay a hundred and thirty Takas.

We climbed into an auto-rickshaw.
The rickshaw-pullers jammed the road.
Murasingh said, we are in a hurry,
we travel how we please.

The pullers raised their curses and their fists.
Murasingh transferred our baggage one by one.
And that was how we missed the train.

Murasingh muttered, the needs of
rickshaw-wallahs are always first.

A naked man bathed himself with the roadside dust,
howling and thrashing with frantic rage. To the left
were men working the paddy fields, to the right
were men eating at the paddy fields. Ahead were
dogs pulling at a dead cow tied to a tree.
Murasingh asked, what is the lunatic so mad about?

We were emptied at Akhaura like litter. The pullers
announced, as promised, the railway station!
Murasingh mumbled, when the train has gone,
what use is the station?

The auto-driver had tailed our trail like a hound.
He picked us up promising a bus.

We tilted to the left. We tilted to the right.
Murasingh yelped, careful dada, careful.
Not me. The road. The side streets have been
half-eaten by the floods. No use blaming
the government. The floods feast on the tar
every monsoon.

Dhakka! Dhakka!
What? Where?
Have we reached Dhaka already?
But Murasingh said, he wants you
to get down and to push.

India strained its muscles.
But where is it pushing Bangladesh?

The auto grunted, slipped, slid, lurched
and dragged us from dusty village
to dusty village.

No parking! No parking!
They rushed upon us
like a rapid action squad.

But they need a bus to Dhaka,
pleaded the auto-wallah.
Take them away. We need our Taka.

Finally Tantara. We stretched our legs.
What happened back there?
Murasingh explained, those were dalals,
they push people into buses for a living.
No out-of-town auto allowed: territorial rights.

Women draped in black robes like friars.
No, Murasingh said, they are not
young widows. Ours are draped in white
and some have shaven heads.

The luxury bus bumped along like a horse-cart.
Seeing me clutching my entangled entrails,
Murasingh promised, it will stop very soon.
This is the National Highway.
It stopped four and a half hours later
at the Safiabad Central Bus Terminus.

Dhan! Dhan! Dhan!
Where is all this paddy going?
Is Bangladesh exporting?
Murasingh replied, twenty crore bellies.

The magnificent Meghna.
Two magnificent bridges and Nuttall.
Murasingh said, Bangladesh is developing
like anything with foreign aids. Having
spoken he flew out of his seat.

Arriving in Dhaka is like flowing
into an ocean of neon. I was a firefly
seeking dreams like a search light.

Dhaka, city of tall towers and starred hotels,
wide streets lined with trees and foreign cars.
But Murasingh said, it is a city where
rickshaw-wallahs fight with Toyota drivers.
As for the trees, they have taken the colour
of brown dust.

Dhaka University: a huge colourful pandal,
giant loudspeakers, musicians, folk singers
and a thousand-strong crowd, humming.
Have we come to a carnival?
But Murasingh said, everyone is a poet.
Bangladesh produces poets like paddy.

Jatyo Kabita Utsav 2003. A loom of orange,
green, red and black threads. The weaver
of songs, the music of words, the integration
of poets, the celebration of life.

Guards in black khaki and blue shirts.
Are poets under threat in this country?
But Murasingh said, they are VIPs.

A procession of poets to Nazrool’s samadhi:
“Joy kabitar, joy manobatar, ” long live poetry,
long live humanity. Is anyone heeding them?
Murasingh explained, unlike India, poets here
are opinion makers. The words of Shelley
are alive in Bangla.

Bangabandhu, giver of freedom!
Cruel Dhanmondi, the bullet holes
on the walls are monstrous sockets.
Since you died the eyes of the nation
had been gouged out.

Ten in the morning to ten in the evening.
Murasingh asked, are you tired? Come
with me to the garden of poetry.

A park of trees, birds and lovebirds.
Wall magazines, photos of past festivals,
dead poets, living poets, news stories,
comments and reviews. Murasingh revealed,
next year our photos will also flower here.

Nowhere have I heard poems chirping
with birds or seen them blooming like
eternal lovers. Dhaka, having made
this pilgrimage, I am at peace.

Ridoy, Munir and lovely Rourkela
escorted me back to India. We walked to
the check-post. I ducked beneath a pole
laid across the road. Just like that,
I vanished from their lives.

A car with a steering at the front
facing south, a steering at the back
facing north. Bangladesh, for the sake
of your paddy and your poets, I hope
the women at the wheels are not
Sheikh Hasina and Khaleda Zia.