Sauvik Biswas

Hello. Welcome to my personal website.

Please use the navigation above to know about me or read my works.

Day 3–4: Tawang Journey from Tezpur to Tawang # During this pandemic, the authorities are not allowing more than five passengers in a shared Sumo. However, none of the operators care about that rule in spite of charging nearly double the usual price for a trip. One of the reasons is that they are not able to get enough passengers to make a profit from the trip. The operators often club passengers who are headed for Dirang and other towns on the same route; that is exactly what happened with the four of us headed for Tawang—we had four more with us. Day 2: Exploring Tezpur Tezpur (and its district Sonitpur) is a place known for its association to the myth of Banasura. In its modern avatar, Tezpur is what I would call a functional administrative town. Located on the northern banks of Brahmaputra, it is a nice, intimate town that has preserved some of the ancient sites while allowing a number of administrative buildings and a thriving market to flourish. It also acts as a connecting hub for a number of neighbouring towns and states. Day 1: Plans of North-East and a long travel Planning a trip amidst COVID-19 # COVID-19 and its aftermath posed one of the biggest problems in planning a trip this year. Like many of my colleagues and fellow servicemen, I had accumulated a lot of leaves that I had to consume within this calendar year lest they get lapsed. Earlier I had contemplated a couple of routes in the Northern states of Himachal and Uttarakhand. However, I decided to forego them in light of the recent surges in cases in and around Delhi and NCR—a gateway that I had to pass through for those aforementioned routes. Kids who light up the rain Have they abandoned this parking lot? We’ll borrow roller-platforms from those limbless beggars. We’ll skateboard; ride and roll up the concrete While they are too busy patting their sorrows to sleep. Let’s choose a downhill from those we already have, Discover trenches deeper than those we already found. Let’s roll up against gravity and hope of escape velocity And enjoy our time in the air. We’ll let the sparks from the bearings light up the rain. Have they abandoned these bent pipes? We’ll grip them to shatter a couple of glasses. We’ll play golf; hit stones to dissolve them in water. Maybe we’ll invent a brand new game— Mine is a golf club and yours a hockey stick. We’ll make the rules as we play; pretend we’re on TV. Let a stone fly against gravity to pierce the clouds And create a hole in one. We’ll let the sparks from its passage light up the rain. Have they abandoned these train tracks? We’ll press ears against the rails to figure that out. We’ll play hopscotch—jump between the sleepers. Maybe it’s an infinite ladder lying on the ground To erect against the walls of this infinite trench. Hit the rails with bent pipes—let the thunder propagate. Let’s steal some coins from those limbless beggars And arrange them on the rails. We’ll let the sparks from their flattening light up the rain. Note: I came across the phrase “The Kids that Rain Lightning” while browsing Buckethead Pikes website. It’s also one of his uplifting tracks. The rearranged phrase “kids who light up the rain” gives a completely different feel—impoverished, abandoned, angry kids who would do anything to escape their reality. Incidentally, I kept listening to Buckethead’s “Whispers Way” while revising the drafts of this poem. —S.B. (29.10.2020) Watching clouds pass by after an accident I see a white hare, it’s tuft floating there Traversing over blues. Can I have it? There’s a goose chased by dragon in the sky. Oh wait! Is this season duck or rabbit? Fuzzy shapes they make. Of muffin. Of cake. A bowl. Some noodles! Chopsticks! Artichoke? Look! A perfect one—encircling the Sun. Gods must be skilled in exhaling the smoke. A dark one looms there. It’s far. I’m prepared To name any shape that comes on blue screen. This game keeps me sane while waiting for rain To wash all the blood and mess I am in. Note: The genesis of this poem can be traced back to a weekend where I did nothing but lie on my bed and watch clouds drift by through a window. I wasn’t involved in any accident in real life. —S.B. (30.09.2020) Bowl for Alms Stranger, would you fetch me please my bowl for alms. I must have forgotten it at the edge of this world. A repurposed soup-can someone left me as a gift Rusted so slightly around the edges of its lip; And a dent from a kind-hearted stranger’s kick. Maybe it’s filled with the kindness of men Or perhaps with emotions discarded and stale. Feel free to take what feels joyous and good And leave all the undesired for me to consume. I’ll drink any emptiness if that's all it brewed. Forgive me oh stranger for the favour I ask. I am but bound here by the deeds of my past, Embedded in them are nuggets of regrets. I cannot face those who’ve inflicted more dents On my bowl for alms, a can at world’s edge. Note: I felt like I had hit a slight writer’s block. I was also bedridden with slight fever, congestion and weakness. The thought of me having left something at the edge of the world kept resurfacing in my mind. —S.B. (14.09.2020) Tabo Hills beyond a hill, indefinite until Brownish landscape meets with the sky. No sight of trees to slow down the breeze. He gushes with laughter as this river flows by. It all turns dry through winter's cold lens. Such is this provenance of his sentience. Marks on the cliffs reminds him of glyphs— Text of this Earth gets hardened, matured. Imprinted on lime are notes of his time And forces of violence the Earth had endured. His cosmos forced this dissolution intense. Such is this provenance of impermanence. Sutras of life, sutras describe, He passes them on as he himself chants Sutras of bliss. Initiated by his Master whose teachings he had to implant In disciples who tirelessly rehearse. Such is this provenance of his universe. The stupas behind—in there confined Meditating masters. Three jewels preside The souls that outlast the lives of our past. His old remains might still be inside These stupas and stupas in formation. Such is this provenance of incarnation. The white-dotted sky opens up wide. A luminous path paves its Milky Way To escape from this circle and ellipse Of birth and death bookending decay And of his rebirth in this confinement. Such is this provenance of enlightenment. Notes: Last year I stayed in Tabo Monastery for a couple of days. Every night I sat under the clear skies and wondered how the lives of the monks would have been a couple of centuries ago. This poem was a difficult one to write. I had a draft idea lying around for a number of days with no clue about how to approach it. Then, out of nowhere, the whole poem came together in a couple of hours. —S.B. (01.09.2020) Don’t forget to breathe You’ve been out for a couple of seconds You are a slimy drip, you are still. Someone then smacks your back You cry and let your lungs fill. Your first punishment in this world First life-lesson to be instilled— “Don’t forget to breathe” The city you chose to grow up in Is obscured in smog-like stuff. You play around but suffocate When the air is not enough. The corticosteroids will save you— You hear that inhaler puff, “Don’t forget to breathe.” You’ve brought on stage your nervous self Through your songs you emote. You navigate the highs and lows Then hold indefinitely a note; Claps and cheers intensify As the voice escapes your throat, “Don’t forget to breathe.” A being of beauty catches your eyes. Your desire, for yours to keep. A needle skipping over gramophone groves Your heartbeat chooses to skip. Jaws open wide, commotions drown You sense the being speak, “Don’t forget to breathe.” You may choose to detach yourself For the You you’d wish to find. And learn the ins and exhalations And the rituals to unwind. You have mastered all the patterns But then your master reminds, “Don’t forget to breathe.” Dusty chalks pollute the cracks, You hang on with your fingers. Slam your A-game against the cliff And challenge Nature to bring hers. Her stack of rocks stacked against you, In the breeze you hear her whisper, “Don’t forget to breathe.” Men had to fish your body— Been two hours that you slipped. No amount of pressure on your chest Or forced air through your lips Will make you hear or understand The words your loved one weeps, “Don’t forget to breathe.” Notes: I wrote this poem quite rapidly—over a period of three days. The idea of what could take one’s breath away kept playing in my mind. —S.B. (18.07.2020) A TV reporter stuck on page two-and-a-half “Here comes Mr. Roy—the rising young star, He steps out of mansion and heads for the car. His girlfriend is with him in a stunning blue dress. He himself in casuals is dressed to impress. Rumour has it—they are headed for a play. They met at a party an year ago, this day. Will he propose? His fans want to know. If he does, we will be the first ones to show.” She moves her mic, “Do you have it on tape?” Her cameraman assures, “Don’t worry. It’s safe.” Back in the office, her boss is annoyed, “What are you doing? Roy is unemployed. Two years have passed since he had his last hit. Rich dad has saved him from hitting the streets. His girlfriend is spoiling his money and his head. Now go edit that story on Kabir instead? He has a future. You will have, too,” And points at a junior, signals her to pursue. The junior smirks. Inside she feels dead And silently obliges hanging her head. Small concrete cage, two hours to return— All she can afford for the salary she earns. Two hours in a crowd that’s trained to destroy Motivation, enthusiasm and last drop of joy. Her mom calls her up, “How was your day?” She puts on a smile; says, “It was okay.” Mundane exchanges, then she winds up the call, And stares at a poster hanging on the wall. Roy from his last hit stares through her soul. There boss, here crush—no freedom, no parole. Next day arrives to shake yesterday off. She gets off her bed and forgets she was scoffed. She puts on her make-up; puts on a dress To ride in a crowd to that upmarket place. Her cameraman’s there. He hands her the mic. They wait for their prey and a moment to strike. As soon as he's spotted with his girlfriend behind, She fixes her hair and the state of her mind. Her cameraman signals as he shoots from afar. “Here comes Mr. Roy—the rising young star.” Notes: The topic came from a discussion with Amit Prabhakar. I told him that I can write a very short story. It became a poem instead. —S.B (09.08.2020) The Bomberman and the Locksmith Click here to download a pdf version of this play. Cast of Characters # SHAKYA Pahaadi About 35 years old. A god-fearing, traditional pahaadi person. He is married to a pahaadi woman from a neighbouring village across a pass. He has a 12-year-old daughter whom he considers to be very intelligent. Runs a guest-house-cum-tenting facility during the peak hiking season. He farms vegetables like spinach, potatoes and carrots during good weather.