A note on Urban Body : entrapments & releases
70 years after freedom, India is clearly an important part of the global development paradigm. The trajectory is gradually but surely moving, tending towards an universalized architecture of urbanity. Yet pathways to future seems to be determined but not self -determined. The position of liberties which freedom offers are constantly evolving through a continuous discourse amongst diverse forces.
The urban spaces meanwhile are mangled, chaotic, polluted, dystopian – much an result of sudden influxes and accidental growth rather than of planned development – merely factories and supermarkets of bodies in motion – plugged effectively to a matrix which is centralized and oriented towards productivity.
Urbanity – symbolic of progress is also the colonization of the body, mind & soul. It is the desecration of the soul, deconstruction of the body and remolding of culture. 70 years after independence the urban body is entrapped, colonized, by powers which are invisible yet more efficient.
Hence we look at writings which examines this entrapment and the quest for release – to liberate. Writings which helps us to negotiate, envision and determine – to love , to live and progress as individuals & as a collective, in and from – this urban dystopia.
Here we publish poems by Dr. Srimanta Das from the series of writings.
The Crisis
The long work hours
And the silent wife at home.
Tears flow down
The cheeks of an unborn child.
Alone in the smoky dim light
That flickers,
I wait
For time that never comes.
Camaraderie with mates
Is arduous at best.
The foggy sky is dark at noon
But it never rains.
The light goes off at ten,
While candles speak of
Unpaid bills.
Torn bed sheets cover
The quarrels of the night,
The unpaid attention,
The lost vision of a child’s tears.
The gazing begins.
Deep inside the dread gnaws
As I wait for the rise.
After the Rain
Under the rain washed sky
The race begins.
After a brief pause
And a frail spell of rain.
Man’s temporary break,
Nature’s meagre allowance.
The city clock reminds
With a whistle.
Its time!
Rain’s no more!
It has died a premature death,
Much to the city’s relief.
Its time
To move on.
The Games We Play
In a game I feed the snake
Till it grows to kill itself.
In another, it bites me at sixty nine
And sends me back to two.
The bus moves on
Trembling.
There is a point earned
For every signal he breaks.
While Death smirks,
Busy minding his own business.
In him my hopes lie as I watch
My pawns dying in a game of chess.
The Queen survives.
My trembling fingers
Conjure a poem.
It comes from nowhere.
Soon it will die,
In the absence of paper.
I move again,
Climbing the ladder,
To thirty three.
Shall I throw
The dice again?
The Queen is alive in another game.
The Relief
The zero power lamp
And a host of doubts.
Fear gnaws in every bone and, of course,
In the act of undressing,
There are hundred questions.
The alcohol I drink is cheap,
The cigarette smoke weed.
Together they destroy and create
An illusion of desire.
The moment flickers
But continues…and then ends.
Home seems a long way,
In the absence of my bike…
I lost it on my way to glory.
An illusion, of course,
Built of hopes from a dingy alley.
I lost it as I bled on her bed.
I walk.
And on the riverside
I see myself
Hopelessly mutilated.
I smile and walk away.
About the Author
Dr. Srimanta Das (32+) is currently associated with Haldia Government College, Haldia, West Bengal, India, as Assistant Professor in the Department of English. He has completed his Ph. D in English Literature, his area of research being Masculinity in Late Nineteenth Century British Fiction. His current research interests include Gender Studies and Ecocriticism.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.