The Other Voice

About the Book

Dr. Nandini Sahu creates a genre of her own in her maiden collection of poems The Other Voice. The poems in this volume flash images of alienation and existential absurdity, interfusing classical art with the poet's personal as well as social consciousness. The personae seems to rejoice at the beauty of the creation, sometimes ecstatic about being a woman,some other times disturbing the slumber of the society on sensitive issues like mental slavery of the human, subjugation of women. Whenever time is ripe, a brainchild, a poem is born from her pen's tongue, setting a living, breathing world that adds fiery fresh flood of poems to the world of Muses.

A few Poems from The Other Voice

Poetry–I
While words dance
on my pen’s tongue
I feel language
is a flooded river
not to be dammed
discorded
and poetry flows
from the hedges of the mind
breaking the parapets.


Poetry–II
The gentle art of looking through,
A concrete experience of the abstract,
the union of life and peace,
the vision and the visionless
taken together,
the song and silence,
the corners where all the rivers flow
amid the heart’s dark floor,
a rapport with mortality,
a formula of sight,
a clarity of light,
a sign of the heart,
a look into the night,
a day that’s bright, . . . .
what else is poetry
but a clear insight?

Hand-in-Hand

A man was sitting sad

I did not know him.

I only knew the masquerading sorrow.

I smiled at him.

He did not know my smiles.

Only knew the sharing .

I extended my hands.

We did not know each other’s hands.

Only knew walking hand-in-hand.

I picked a handful of salt water.

I did not know his tears.

Only knew thirst quenched, hearts drenched.

Draupadi

Why is it that they tell me

I do look dignified

after such humiliations.

My life full of such trivialities.

I know this much,

I am in Arjuna, and he in me,

I am seeking release in the love of my lord—

Krishna;

And Karna—in a strange corner of my heart!

One after another shock

ensnaring me, like a China doll.

I am not myself.

I am not alone Arjuna’s love,

nor Krishna’s

nor even Karna’s  lone victim

nor the diadem-studded queen

none of these I am.

I embrace ‘all’ ,  I bleed in ‘all’ .

In the  Kurusabha

in my long clothes, my shame I armour,  spread-

eagling in all.

This body I wear is not mine.

Like the expansive earth, it encompasses ‘all’.

My five sons—

particles of my blood

I know not their roots. Yet I call them mine.

I bleed infinitely in the lost identity of ‘all’.

I wish if I could distance myself

from my own  self and be lost in one.

In Krishna, in Arjuna, or in Karna (?)

in one,

honestly I like to know

what it feels

to be absorbed wholesomely in ‘one’ .

This is  Kurukshetra—

the land of half-humans, demi-gods

on this  blood-torn land

I cannot wail, nor can I sob.

So my heart,

like fire I play with you.

Oh, fire!

I am fire,

I am born of fire, my life is fire,

I know not, if my death be fire too !!

Sycophants, one and all, encircle me

sway and swindle me, sweltering my bones

as if tickling me

by putting one after another tiara on my head

trying to heal my unlocked hairs—the

Kurukshetra

of the Pandavas.

An illusion I am

I suffer, I am the symbol of suffering.

Even when I laugh with the cruel, hot  blood

of Dusshasana,  I suffer.

And in the city of the dead

I die hundred times in delusion.

I seek release, I know not where—

may be in all !!!

In the Operation Theatre

I’ve wrapped that moment

within my naked memory

when the doctor, the angelic doctor,

put the scissor on me.

The moment when my blood sprinkled

 in  the operation theatre

and I cried out my age-old wails.

My blood, my innermost parts

gripped me to hang between life and death

and I was nailed to the cross,

the cross of all my sins,

desires, sufferings.

My soul was naked, body nude,

my eyes were vacuum

as my heart was.

I could  then  feel him.

To welcome him I moaned   aloud

as if   it were  the moment of my death.

The sombre room, the sharpened instruments

the green clothes,  multiple

hands  hovering  over  me

the photograph of the Mother and

the stillness of the silence

all, all entered into me

and I fainted.

After so many memories

after so many dreams

I woke up,

to find my  ‘reason’  to live, at last,

in the operation  theatre.

The bird from my heart’s nest was free,  the

pretty little fair bird.

I became the proud mother of my Parth

in the operation theatre.

Lines to My Son

You must ignore the dark face

of time my son and proceed

to a world that beckons you

with hands full of gold and pearls.

Never  try  to  fathom that

inherited  insecurity in me that may

someday  come your way, and my heart

where  anxiety sits on the corridors.

The old shadows that stand beside me

the shadows of cruel history and

my unavoidable defeats in the life-game

must  let you stand alone in your paradise.

While history sleeps in shadows

on the banks of fallen castles,

while the fallen heroes crawl to oblivion

you can trace your way from youthful sources.

One day while the water of time washes away

all,  the morning the dew  must

declare your presence, you may

uncover your existence across the rainbows.

And if, someday, you  land in an island unknown

and the tumults of agony deafen

your ears, my son, close your eyes, give me your hands

my dead face will be your staircase.

Micro Verses

(I)

Happy men are all alike

only the unhappy

differ in hue and abyss.

Like full-moon nights are

all alike, only the ‘other’ moons

differ in shape and smiles.

(II)

Some  self-decreeing

Shakespeares, Goethes, Einsteins

Da Vincies, Vasco da Gamas and all

suck juices of this civilisation

where we pose to live like creepers

taking support of the banyan trees.

(III)

Why not destroy the monster

inside than striving to raze the sinners

and saving the civilisation?

Why not pour water to the plants

of repentance  and regret to the sins

than watering to the seeds of vengeance ?

(IV)

Men who stand erect in all

calamites, men who smile and smile

in sorrows and pleasures.

men who pay little regard to sycophants

and bear with the critics, are the

pillars to the decaying times.

(V)

Childhood matures. Youth decays.

Love fades.Riches take wings.

Ambitions touch the sky, the limit,

Friends dissemble, near n’ dear accuse someday.

Sons say ‘hello’ on the facebook.

Only death levels, invariably comes.

                                                                                                                             

Two Drops: Sonnets

(I)

When

mind wanders

in agony

of realities,

when

heaven laughs cruel,

and when

hope’s embrace loosens

the moon is afar

trees are barren

birds lose feathers

then

you are the only way to release

choked, thickened anguish.

(II)

Tears are contagious.

To create a world

sans brutality

to save a civilisation

in crisis

to heal someone else

wounds

 to dry someone else’s

earth of floods

and to moisten his barren trees

you, the molten  elegy of two drops,

you, the gems of warmth,

crawl on cheeks, consoling aching hearts.

Tears are contagious.

(III)

When mind is filled with joy

unbelievable,

aching pleasures  float  us up and up

unbearable,

ripe fruits, leafy twigs fill the trees,

golden threads bind our

endless desires,

moving and moving like a gyre

 we dip in unfathomable

ocean of dreams in the

oasis of delight.

Then

from two shores of the eyes

you roll, two drops, like choked happiness.

(IV)

Death measures itself in two drops.

Was it Gautama who saw death

in his glamorous youth?

Was it Jara who pierced  Krishna

with his arrow and bow?

Was it Christ who bore

His Cross Himself up to the mount?

Were they Adam and Eve

whose Fall was the greatest of all?

Or was it Caesar whose death

filled history of Rome with blood stains?

Who on earth has  introduced

death to  tears ?

Death, in fact, measures itself in tears.

(V)

Don’t they,  just they,  bid adieu

at the valediction ?

Tears

 drench the dry womb

of loneliness.

They  give a home to the

homeless, lonesome cloud,

they  sing a song or even an elegy

to the deafened ears of Philomel

and   supply water to the dying plants of love.

To redden the white roses of memory

by shedding colours of love

the paralysed movements

of the two distant souls

touch each other in the ‘two drops’.

Aside

In the morning

I’m a daughter-in-law

serving hot tea

stitching broken bottoms

cleaning, cooking, frying,

stirring, wiping my son’s nose,

sometimes  nagging with  him when

the ever-complaining man

watches me. I’m a wife.

In the day I’m a

professor, facing young, obsessed,

 girls and boys

trying hard to look

professional, wearing the mask

of an official fool.

Again in the afternoon

I’m a mother, loving, kissing,

playing, caring, rearing my baby

hearing the daily saga

of phone bills, market prices,

taxes, policies, news-bulletins,

chiding the maid for cutting

vegetables rather small

or chopping onions

in the wrong side.

In the evening I’m a showpiece,

a perfect business butt,

bargaining, wearing a

matching lipstick

thinking of the evening menu

relishing yet inexpensive

smiling, smiling, ever

smiling behind a mysterious

face, knowing every

detail of mornings, afternoons and the

never ending nights.

Yes, in the night

till he smiles proud and sleeps.

And then !  And then

I drag the world to

my feet, a dreamer that I’m.

I reach the unreached, swim in

a  world of fancy

quench my feminine thirst

dry my hungry limbs.

I am every woman

dribbling, pouring desire

into the feminine mannequin .

In the morning I am a

daughter-in-law, wife, mother,

researcher again, mute, content (?).

I’m the goddess

who knows what are

the things to happen and

what not since time

has ploughed scars

on my virgin mud.

Sonnets Six

(I)

I told you that

I could recognise you

by the smell of your clothes

from amid a pile;

and that

I could close my eyes

just smell your

neck

and pick you out

from  a crowd.

You could guess

I meant to say

I love you.

You smiled proud.

(II)

White noise everywhere

when in fact

the world is silent

interrupted sleep

in late nights

a mood to have

holiday humour

the moon writing out memory

culling flowers

a balmy breeze

embracing us

and those spots on the Taj

as you’d say

whisper, we’re in love.

(III)

How long, how long

oh love

should I guard

the black clouds

the sea storms

against you

examine each ray of light

when you’re aside

in shade

lest they should

engulf you

shield you under their wing

before we reach

the goal !

(IV)

When every eye of the town

is asleep

and the world’s deaf

let’s portray some fancy

let’s celebrate a

festival of sparks

in our mirror-room,

let’s drink the soul

to our fill

through lips

then fan the flames.

After adding and subtracting

simply multiply

you get a zero...!

(V)

Do not go on to

define this relationship

do not rub off

the sugar n’ salt from

these sunlit walls

do not look back

to wipe out the love-scars

that you have given,

play on this squirrels’ game

this hide-n-seek

these helpless gestures

that we “call” love.

I’ve just learnt

that you belong so much to life!!

(VI)

May I confess

that again and again

I’m thrown away from

your arms

by just a heavy breeze

delicate that I am;

but your strong arms

invite me to search for the depths again

a blazing sun

to eclipse me

to crush me .

May I confess of my

eternal thirst for you

a wild stream that I am!

Patch Works

Woman is good at patch works.

Frills, long skirts, mirrors,

needle and thread

virgin colours, dreams ...

Oh yes, she is good at patch works

like Nu Guo who patched up the sky.

Patch up, patch up

broken smiles and relationships.

Keep smiling; some may say

“Smile distorts your (acrying) face”,

and some say, “this rainbow smile

hails life”. But smile, patch up

and sew up the whole universe.

You’re the needle

and you’re the thread.

You’re the sorrow

and you, the antidote.

You’re love, you’re lust

you, the renunciation

you, the redemption

you, the decadence

you, the omnipotent.

You look graceful

in this patched, frilled outfit;

you are pied and pretty

you’ve the proud possession

of a leaking, patched heart--

broken, stitched and patched

time and again.

You rummage for a piece of life

in the drie- up eyes

across the emptied, distant horizon

like a fallen martyr.

You extinguish all lights

grope in the dark.

Still you manage with a struggling flicker.

You know

the deeper oceans inside you

are still intact

and frozen.

You bring back life on your

feeble shoulders

you know how and when to patch up.

Two title eyes searching for life

two curious ears listening to the soul’s music

two tireless legs running after forlorn hopes:

what do you gain ?

It’s tough

very tough

for the caged birds to fly

for they seem to forget the art of flying.

But you find the remnants from the garbage

defeat hunger, thirst, fear

your dried up breasts ooze milk again.

Woman is good at patch works.

Frills, long skirts, mirrors

needles and thread

virgin colours, dreams ...

(In celebration of womanhood...)