Poems by-Pijush Kanti Barua
The Entrapped Breath
A breath is entrapped in the color bands of rainbow and has been counting time to be liberated since the days of pre-calendar.
A breath is entrapped among the politics of Red-blue White-Pink pannels since the first day of childhood education and it dies in vain in the corridors of the educational institution.
A breath is hold in the tv advertisement of beautifying cream and it slides gradually in the model’s unfair face.
A breath is made pet in pockets of the majority.Now and then it feels suffocation like the grass under a brick due to the power of majority-minority equation.
A breath was caged in the chest of the nibbana seeking monks who were hidden at the back of pond-stairs during the endangered Pala Dynasty. The sword, following the rule of fishes, had every chance to would find out them to slaughter the throats even if it sounded during exhalation.
A breath was enslaved between the chains of both the legs of Kinte Kunte and endured the torture of the master; even Alex Halli couldn’t redeem it.
A big and prolong breath was stopped in the palm of Hitlar which hasn’t been emancipated yet from the golden flexor surface due to refusal to shake hands.
A breath was chained in boxer Mohammed Ali’s applaudable butterfly dance and it is coffined in his chest cage till this date.
To liberate a breath, Martin Luther King Junior, Bishop Desmond Tutu fought but it has been entrapped still in the appartheight for long days. Even great Madiva’s effort couldn’t free it from the white bear’s paw.
To free a breath, it was yelled , ‘We need a change, we need a change,we need a change…’ before thousands of peoples .But yet it never descends.
To liberate a breath, Masterda planned to uproot the Pahartali European Club where dogs and native Indians were prohibited. Suryada is hanged but the breath is not liberated yet today.
To liberate a breath, it was George Flloyd who protested the latest. But the breath was taken away it’s life at the eleventh hour under the compression of the knee by the police of white skin.
Even after so many events, no prayer for liberation of breath hasn’t been granted by the destiny. The echoes may be heard for more centuries in ether like ‘Khudito Pashan’, ‘I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe…’.
There is no salvation of entrapped breaths. No salvation! No salvation?
Father’s Face In Colors Of White
Where there is any color of white drawn there my father’s face
The color of white becomes vibrant with smile like my father
Skyfuls of white clouds lead me to my childhood guiding by my hand
As my father would led me at times to my school
My father would led in front and I and my younger brother follow him
On the journey, familiar faces to my father would ask his well being
Someone would address him uncle, someone grandfather and someone would address him with honor ‘Babu’
Their love would sprinkle the fragrance of affection in my father’s soul
And my father’s pleasant face would enhance looking at us
Father is hidden in the white clouds and in the childhood as well.
In the spating white moonlit my father’s silhouette would imprint again and again
We could smell the fragrance of a festival mixed with my father’s love in our yard on Sunday night when he would return from bazar
Dinner on Sunday night would turn into Father’s Festival even in sleeping eyes.
Portrait of my father I find today imprinted in the white uniforms of school forever
It was not I but my father would roam at school with tons of jeals though he was confined at his job
The odor of my father is adhered in every white shirt everywhere
I didn’t see my father to wear any other color than white since my birth
White color and my father were indifferent twins in their post birth journey.
I can see now my father’s face in the letterless white pages of my school note books while rest of the world fallen asleep
He would coach me to bring perfection in Tagore’s graphology and supplied inspiration keeping the night sleepless
He would smile if Sachin batted well, I would laugh too and the whole family would smile seeing the cricket angels alive in the field in white uniforms
Still I can figure my father’s anxious face in those white dressed crickters.
The face of my father and his smile is compounded in the white color of everywhere
The sun-ray loses to my father’s purity of face
Defeat is applauded by the white cranes, puffed rice-color white, the white kaash in the banks of the Karnafuly
Father and the white color are the identical twins
My father is white both in outer and inner aspects
And white color is white only in outer show
Father means nothing but the white-colored life.
The Morning
The morning bloomed very sudden today
In my awaken sleeping stage of thoughts
And I was busy to write something on
The morning peeped in my web of thought.
The day started to unveil her and I awoke
The ball of baby sun rolled towards me
Eyes discovered enchanting morning glory
And the sea of happiness glistened in light.
I saw the morning a thousand year back
I saw the morning a thousand year next
And I’ve found the morning tongueful today
The tongue got life in the voyaging ray.
I’ve discovered the morning a monk in prayer
With the ablazing orange holy cloth on
I found my thoughts were chanted by him
I thought as if I was born!
