Tag Archives: Assam

Shamik Banerjee, ‘Memories of a Flood’

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For one full week, the sun was dead,
     unloosening the gray,
wild clouds that swamped each paddy bed—
     the plowman’s great dismay.

The regal night sky, once agleam,
     was purloined of its stars.
Each lane became a water stream.
     Dinghies replaced the cars.

Mazdoors, waist-hidden, waded to
     their distant factory sites.
The Tongas‘ (since they were a few)
     demand reached greater heights.

But our town did what it does best—
     it kept the hoo-ha going.
In every church and temple’s chest,
     hope’s candles were still glowing.

On the roadside estaminets,
     sports went with malt whisky,
and there were pleasant tête-à-têtes
     on every balcony.

Mazdoor: an unskilled labourer
Tonga: a light horse-drawn two-wheeled vehicle
‘Memories of a Flood’ was first published in the San Antonio Review..

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India. Some of his recent publications include Spelt, Ink Sweat & Tears, St. Austin Review, Modern Reformation, San Antonio Review, The Society of Classical Poets, Third Wednesday, California Quarterly, and Amethyst Review, among others.

Photo: Times of India, July 5, 2024

Shamik Banerjee, ‘The Auto Drivers of K.G. Street’

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They know well when I clock out. Sharp
At five, on K.G. Street,
They welcome me with every tooth
And lead me to their seat.

Five friends—senescent, pyknic, bald,
In Khakis—ironed, clean,
With brand-new autorickshaws that
Are painted taupe and green.

One masticates areca nuts.
The shortest one takes khaini.
The other two smoke beedis by
A tall Mahogany.

They fall in with a mental pact
That tells them not to seek
To win me, for each one’s assigned
A fixed day of the week

To drive me home. “Today’s my turn,”
One says and bids me in.
While driving he tells stories that
Block off the traffic’s din:

The student loan he’s willing to
Take for his only daughter;
The municipal board has swelled
The price of urban water.

Arrived, I ask about the fare.
“Ah! Saab“, he shyly says.
I take a fifty rupee note—
A glow upon his face.

*****

Shamik Banerjee gives the following word meanings:
“Khaki: A type of cloth.
Khaini: A type of chewable tobacco
Beedi: Indian cigarette
Saab: Sir
K.G. stands for Kasturba Gandhi, the wife of Mahatma Gandhi. Most streets/ lanes/ roads in India are named after famous personalities, especially those who fought for our freedom.” 
‘The Auto Drivers of K.G. Street’ was first published by Willow Review.

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India, where he resides with his parents. His poems have been published by Sparks of Calliope, The Hypertexts, Snakeskin, Ink Sweat & Tears, Autumn Sky Daily, Ekstasis, among others. He secured second position in the Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, 2024.

Photo: Auto Drivers in Guwahati, Assam.

Shamik Banerjee, ‘Masjid Road’

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Fishmongers’ cleaver knives don’t rest at all;
Their heavy thuds outdo the termless spiels
Of colporteurs dispensing large and small
Versions of holy books. On mud-sunk wheels,
Waxed apples, sapodillas, apricots
Effuse their fragrance, trapping passersby
Who check the rates, then stand submerged in thoughts—
Some fill their punnets, some leave with a sigh.
Outside the mosque, blind footpath dwellers wait
To hear the clinking sound—the sound of true
Relief—while dogs, flopped by the butcher’s gate,
Get jumpy when he throws a hunk or two.
Loudspeakers, placed on high, say “call to prayer”
And all work halts; there’s silence in the air.

*****

Shamik Banerjee writes: “Crammed with saree shops, bakeries, small abattoirs, vegetable vendors, holy book distributors, toy stores, and sundry other things, Masjid Road is one of the very few tireless market places in Guwahati, my hometown. As a frequent visitor to this place of never-ending commotion and bustle, I have always been fascinated by these sellers’ devotion to their work. Though rest is a distant guest here, all activities come to a standstill right when the nearby mosque sends out the call-to-prayer through towering loud speakers.”

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India, where he resides with his parents. His poems have been published by Sparks of Calliope, The Hypertexts, Snakeskin, Ink Sweat & Tears, Autumn Sky Daily, Ekstasis, among others. (‘Masjid Road’ was first published by Bellwether Review.) He secured second position in the Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, 2024.

Photo: “Indian Shops” by Scalino is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Shamik Banerjee, ‘A Summer Evening’

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The sky begins to cloak its face,
Removing every streak of red.
Above, two weary fliers trace
The way back to their bough-held bed.

A boy, awash with joy, returns
Soil-vested from a football field.
To celebrate the victory earned,
He swaggers with his pride revealed.

Along the lined tobacco stands,
Pen-pushers at long last release
Workloads with cigarettes in their hands,
Exhaling little rings of peace.

Now earthen lamps begin to glow
In homes–it’s time for evening prayer.
Sweet wafts of scented incense flow,
Cleansing the jaded summer air.

*****

‘A Summer Evening’ was first published in 3rd Wednesday.

Shamik Banerjee is a young poet from Assam, India where he resides with his parents. His poems have been published by The Society of Classical Poets, The Hypertexts, Third Wednesday, Thimble, Ink Sweat and Tears, Shot Glass, and The Pierian, among others.

Photo: “Purity and” by HumanityAshore is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Sonnet: Shamik Banerjee, ‘A Lesson From Zaheer, Our Fishmonger’

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All things are measurable, son: the food
You have, the sprawling mains, for man has power
Over the world; He deems what’s bad or good;
Determines if a plant should wilt or flower.
But ordeals measure us—we take the test
Of mercy when affliction’s cavalry
Threatens to loot the kindness off one’s chest
As in the massacre of ’83,
When every lane had reeked of Muslim blood,
My Abba Jaan had fallen to the sword
Held by your neighbours; trembling on the mud,
He mumbled, “What’s my sin? My faith? O’ Lord,
Don’t charge them for their deeds.” Love was his wish
That lives through me, for I still feed them fish.

*****

Shamik Banerjee writes: “This poem was first published in Fevers of the Mind. The incident described by our fishmonger is the Nellie Massacre, which took place in central Assam (an Indian state) during a six-hour period on February 18, 1983. The massacre claimed the lives of 1,600–2,000 people. The victims were all Muslims. Abba Jaan is an affectionate term for one’s father (used by Muslims).”

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. When he is not writing, he can be found strolling the hills surrounding his homestead. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Westward Quarterly, among others and some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hoogly Review, Dreich and Sparks of Calliope.

Photo: “Old man inside Jamu Masjid, Fatapur Sikri” by nilachseall is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.