I am a child of Assam revolution started in 1979 under leadership of All Assam Student Union (AASU) aiming at the economic development, cultural preservation against illegal immigration from southern border of Bangladesh and above all, to evolve as an important part of India. My grandfather and his sons including my dad were actively involved in this peaceful revolt though there were instances of physical and mental harassment of police. In 1985, Assam accord was signed between AASU and Indian central government promising a new era of hope and optimism. This, soon, proved to be a delusion when state government failed to fulfill its promises. Hence, there was a shift in people's support to armed struggle by extreme reactionaries of AASU forming United Liberation Front of Axom (ULFA). Enthusiastic support of Assam's delusional public for ULFA started to wane by middle of the 1990s. My only memory of the revolution in 80's was that of my grandmother holding me tight (probably I was 2 years old) when one night, cops came to arrest my uncle. He was long gone after dinner and they took my dad instead.
I wrote this poem when I was twenty four but the message is still relevant not only in my homeland but in multiple pockets around the globe where basic human rights and values are violated by the armed "indigenous" organizations.
I
I was fourteen then.
I remember my parents' conversation-
Government oppression,
imperialistic hegemony,
self-rule.
Words, too obscure to me.
One night,
I was dreaming evening-glory of our paddy fields,
I was awoke by a knock on the door.
My dream was broken.
I saw two veiled men
and they asked my parents for shelter.
I thought my parents were
proud of helping them.
Hush of night surrounded us and
we were trying to sleep.
Suddenly, there was another knock.
No! that was a violent sound.
Some men in uniform came inside,
and there were sounds of bullets.
I was scared to death.
Our guests were lying in a stream of blood.
My parents were taken away somewhere.
Yes, they returned;
Next morning!
But, they were mute forever!
Old people were saying
“they fought for our freedom.”
Words, too obscure to me.
II
I am twenty four now.
Crumbling roads of human sweat and blood
drag me to the shadows of past.
I feel betrayed
by a philosophy melted on those roads-
blood, sweat and cries of agony.
Past haunts my new world.
My parents, nurtured their freedom
are laid in the darkness of oblivion.
Hollow become promises!
Only remnants of treachery remain.
Day by day,
Moment by moment,
their philosophy is asphyxiated
by sighs of human anguish.
Lets adieu to the songs of melancholy.
III
We are challenged again and again
by thoughts of washing away the past.
Backyard of our home,
a summit of survival,
became a graveyard
where optimism was buried long ago.
The crops of hope in fecund land
will bring back the precious smiles.
We need courage to flow
and energy to follow
the spirits of liberty
to build a place under the sun
Competing with the beautiful land.
Dreams will get animated
being chased by our wills.
Strings of life create orchestra
listening to which, is believing in dreams,
broken by two sounds on our door,
when it was still peace of midnight.
I wrote this poem when I was twenty four but the message is still relevant not only in my homeland but in multiple pockets around the globe where basic human rights and values are violated by the armed "indigenous" organizations.
I
I was fourteen then.
I remember my parents' conversation-
Government oppression,
imperialistic hegemony,
self-rule.
Words, too obscure to me.
One night,
I was dreaming evening-glory of our paddy fields,
I was awoke by a knock on the door.
My dream was broken.
I saw two veiled men
and they asked my parents for shelter.
I thought my parents were
proud of helping them.
Hush of night surrounded us and
we were trying to sleep.
Suddenly, there was another knock.
No! that was a violent sound.
Some men in uniform came inside,
and there were sounds of bullets.
I was scared to death.
Our guests were lying in a stream of blood.
My parents were taken away somewhere.
Yes, they returned;
Next morning!
But, they were mute forever!
Old people were saying
“they fought for our freedom.”
Words, too obscure to me.
II
I am twenty four now.
Crumbling roads of human sweat and blood
drag me to the shadows of past.
I feel betrayed
by a philosophy melted on those roads-
blood, sweat and cries of agony.
Past haunts my new world.
My parents, nurtured their freedom
are laid in the darkness of oblivion.
Hollow become promises!
Only remnants of treachery remain.
Day by day,
Moment by moment,
their philosophy is asphyxiated
by sighs of human anguish.
Lets adieu to the songs of melancholy.
III
We are challenged again and again
by thoughts of washing away the past.
Backyard of our home,
a summit of survival,
became a graveyard
where optimism was buried long ago.
The crops of hope in fecund land
will bring back the precious smiles.
We need courage to flow
and energy to follow
the spirits of liberty
to build a place under the sun
Competing with the beautiful land.
Dreams will get animated
being chased by our wills.
Strings of life create orchestra
listening to which, is believing in dreams,
broken by two sounds on our door,
when it was still peace of midnight.
