Poetry : Nostalgia

Nostalgia 

The shadows of Mercredi linger still,

At fifteen heures,a learning will

As  I fly through distant skies,

the heavy weight of departure lies.

A stone’s throw away, yet worlds apart,

The winner remains within my heart.

A whispered “au revoir” to one so near. 

A final glance through the glass,

 where the horizon blurs into the memory of what was

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry : An Imposter

     

                                            C'est toi ce soir. 

          An Imposter

The Sun prepared its eastern rise,

As moonlight faded from the skies.

A silver cucco’s springtime cry,

Broke through the dark as night slipped by.

The clock struck two-and-thirty chime—

It was The Brahmamuhurta, The sacred time.

When seekers wake from silent sleep,

To find the soul and secrets deep.

Then soft as dew from Alpine peaks,

A murmur came against my cheeks.

"A dacoit, a quitter, a liar, a cheat,

An imposter, skilled in every tact"—

I felt the weight of every fact.

I weighed the lessons I had sought,

The humble grace that I was taught.

If all I’d learned was but a lie,

And all my virtues born to die.

The lessons of a humble heart,

Forgiveness as a quiet art,

The strength to keep my storms within,

Was this a failure? Was it sin?

The middle path was what I sought

The path that Gautam Buddha taught

The books of old, the philosophers light,

Seemed worthless in the dead of night.

Because I’m sensitive and kind,

The world deems me a "timid" mind.

Within a breath, the bridge was burned,

A "dear one" to a stranger turned.

I reached to find our old embrace,

But found an empty, silent space.

First vous, then tu, then vous again, A pendulum swings with a human brain. The formal rhythm, then the friendly tone, A social logic and it is done

I fumbled through the sudden cold,

To find the hand I used to hold,

But as I called into the air,

No voice returned to meet me there.

But I am no imposter’s ghost,

No liar’s tongue, no dacoit’s host.

I am a soul that seeks the light,

Beyond the whispers of the night.

Though I am gentle, I am brave—

To keep on learning till the grave.

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poem: The Wealth Within Pages

                The Wealth Within Pages

( Ever since we moved to the city in 1997, the International Kolkata Book Fair has been a cherished companion  in my life. In those early years, when my office was on Park Street and the fair transformed the Maidan into a literary wonderland, I spent my lunch breaks wandering through the stalls, hand-selecting books for my sons and myself.

As time passed, life’s rhythm changed; my children left for their hostels, and the demands of work and home grew, thinning that once-unbreakable cord to the fair. However, receiving a gift of books from the 2026 International Kolkata Book Fair—held at the vibrant Boimela Prangan in Salt Lake—has finally reconnected that old literary thread. Merci beaucoup, The Winner.

The following poem holds a special place in this journey. I wrote it in 2000 for my elder son when he was in the fourth grade; his teacher had asked him to write about books, a subject he knew well because his mother always brought him home a new world from the Kolkata Book Fair.)

Books are fountains of pure delight,

A golden treasure held in sight.

Constant companions, ever near,

To soothe a tired heart or dry a tear.

Through every page, I roam and trace

The vibrant heart of every race.

In travel tales and literature,

I solve the codes of Nature’s lure.

They carry me to mountain heights,

On wings of wondrous, dreamy flights.

A person’s greatest wealth, indeed—

The timeless world we choose to read.

                                              - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

GSI Field Diaries - 2

 

A Day with Nyishi Tribes

( My thanks are  due to  my  Ph.D Guide and Senior  colleague in GSI , Dr. J.R.Kayal professor emeritus, Kolkata, for narrating the actual  events  and   providing valuable insights  while writing this article .  This write up  is based on experiences  during Geophysical  field assignment  in Geological Survey of India)

  “Licha, where are you going?”  The driver stopped the jeep and, with a broad smile, asked a passer-by this question. In almost every office in India, the word “saheb” is used. The sahebs have left, but the word has remained.Licha replied, “Pal da, are you well?  The driver Pal babu was also from the Ranga Valley’s Nyishi tribe.Pointing at the officer, he said, “He is our danger saheb.” Licha was  above forty.  Wearing half-pants and a shirt.  On his shoulder hung  a long machete.  He was fair, with Chinese or Mongolian resemblance. Face clean-shaven. A simple, middle-aged Nyishi man with a smiling face. Hearing the word “Dangarsaheb,” the officer smiled. In Assamese, high rank officers are called Dangar saheb.  If known earlier, the officer would have preferred to be called Chota saheb (junior saheb) in the region.

In Arunachal, different tribes have different languages, but in the areas close to Assam, these tribal people understand and speak Assamese easily. Without saying anything further, Licha climbed onto the back of the jeep. A slender bamboo pipe for smoking was in his mouth.  Taking a pull of the smoke, he asked, “Saheb, will you give me a job?” Years ago, Pal babu had worked here for five or six months in another earthquake camp as a watchman. Licha too had spent that time with him.Seeing the GSI jeep’s steering, he understood another saheb had arrived for some survey work in their Nyishi Valley. So, at the very first meeting, he wanted to secure a permanent job with GSI.Long ago, the white  Gora sahebs of British empire used to work here.

Travelling from the GSI’s Hawa Camp along Ranga’s upward course, the jeep reached the larger and beautiful Yazali Valley of Arunachal Himalaya (or the Lesser Himalaya).The first observation centre for earthquake monitoring from the Hawa Camp was set up in the nearby Nyishi settlement. For setting up the second observation centre, the officers  arrived at the Yazali Valley.After leaving the Hawa Camp, the jeep climbed to the top of a mountain within a short while. From above the panoramic  view of The  Ranga River and the Hawa Camp could be seen. 

LIcha invited the officers to his home. Using bamboo and banana leaves cut from the forest, a Nyishi house is built within two or three days. A high bamboo platform becomes the bed.Climbing two or three bamboo steps, the officer  reached the veranda or balcony of Licha’s house.As he entered , a broad smile and warm welcome flashed  on Licha’s face: “Saheb, come inside.”Crossing the bedroom beside us, the corridor took them into a long hall. In the middle, on a clay platform, a wooden fire was burning. Above the fire stood a three-legged iron-ringed stand—an oven. On it an earthen pot. The water was boiling aiding to keep the room warm. Around the fire, Licha’s wife made them  sit on wooden stools. Licha’s wife was a young woman, much younger than Licha, beautiful, healthy. A smoking pipe in her mouth. She wore a green lungi and a red blouse. She looked like a Mongolian woman. Their small daughter sat near the fire like a kitten. There was no furniture. There was a mild, mixed smell in the room. She showed everything. Then from an earthen pot she took quite a bit of marua grain and placed it in a bamboo strainer. Using a bamboo ladle, she took hot water from the pot on the oven and poured it over the marua grains. Just like tea liquor, a light red Apong drink collected in the glass or mug below the strainer.With a smiling face, Licha’s wife held out a small glass of red Apong toward the officer. She served everyone. They themselves took large mugs. The officer requested for  less than a quarter glass.He  watched with curiosity, asking questions here and there.

 But once the Apong glass in  hand, the Saheb was in trouble. There was no way to hide it. Everyone was sitting right in front of him.  If he  didn’t drink, it would insult the hospitality of these simple people. It would hurt them. Coming to see Nyishi people and Nyishi life—he had fallen into a real fix. He thought to himself: it can’t be poison. And even if someone gives poison out of love, maybe one must still take it. Gathering all his courage, he took a small sip. He have had fruit wine abroad. Wine is not a harsh liquor—very soft, very mild, sweet to drink. He had  no experience with local country alcohol, and never heard of hot liquor. With fear, he closed his  eyes and sipped the Apong. He  felt a soft, sweet taste. Not harsh. After the first sip, he felt no fear or discomfort .He felt a slight touch of intoxication. He forgot the smell inside the room.His mind was filled with curiosity again.Licha told his wife to make more Apong. Marua is a grain like mustard seed. The marua pods grow like pea pods; the seeds are removed by rubbing the dried pods by hand. This grain is soaked in water in an earthen pot for seven to eight days. A spice is also used. Above the oven, a bamboo tray hung for drying the marua pods. When dried, the grains are separated by rubbing them with the hand.

Just as we welcome guests with hot tea, they honour and welcome guests with warm Apong.

                                                       - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

 

 

The Architecture of Absence

                               The Architecture of Absence

I stand in the glare of the shadows,

A ghost in a well-lit room,

Fleeing the eyes of the familiar,

Whose recognition feels like bloom

For the known is a weight I cannot carry,

A ledger of who I used to be,

But the stranger is a sudden rainfall

On the scorched earth of my memory.

With them, I am a blank horizon,

A story that hasn’t been told,

I trade the iron of my history

For a stranger’s fleeting gold.

We build a bridge of borrowed hope,

A fresh and fragile start,

Until the ink begins to settle

And they find the map to my heart.

And so the circle turns again,

The hunter becomes the prey;

Once they know the shape of my silence,

I am forced to walk away.

I am hit at the point of my greatest fracture,

Where the skin is thin and white,

Only to find my voice in the ink—

                  And the courage, once more, to write

                                                         -Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry: In Silent Rebirth

                     In Silent Rebirth

( In 2003, while living in the Central Government Quarters at Nizam Palace, Kolkata, my mornings were a whirlwind of activity. Between dressing the children for school, preparing meals for my elderly parents-in-law, and managing the house while my husband was away on six-month field assignments, the kitchen became my command center. It was a vast room, anchored by a massive window that let in the early light. Amidst that frantic rush, a quiet ritual took root: I began feeding grains to a lone sparrow that visited my windowsill. It became our daily appointment. Every morning at 9:00 AM, I would leave for the office, stepping out of the domestic chaos and into my professional life. As I walked away, I often found myself wondering if that little bird ever sat by the large window during the quiet afternoon, wondering where the lady who fed her had vanished for the rest of the day.)

If I were born again, a little sparrow I’d be,

To dance by the glass where a young lady feeds me.

She’d hurry through meals in the kitchen’s warm light,

With kernels of corn for my morning’s delight.

But when shadows stretch long and the stove fire is low,

I’d tilt my small head—where does my lady go?

 

If I were born again, a stranger I’d be,

Beneath the green canopy, walking alone.

With no one to answer and nothing to keep,

But the will of the wind and the forest so deep.

To laze in the woods as the dawn starts to glow,

And cherish the silence that only winters know.

 

If I were born once more, a flower of the wild I’d be,

On mountain-side ranges, wild nature's own child.

To blush in the silver of moonlight’s soft mist for breath,

I’d live a thousand tiny lives before a gentle death.

And if a weary traveler should pass my rocky height,

I’d bloom for him, and him alone, a star within the night.

                                                          -Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya