When, in the last quarter of 1994, I decided to publish the literary magazine The Scoria, I approached many established authors and poets. However, I didn’t receive much of a response.

However, at an event organized by the British Council in New Delhi, the well-known poet Mr. Andrew Motion and Niranjan Mohanty enthusiastically accepted my proposal to come on board, despite it being our first meeting. 

Later, Andrew Motion served as poet laureate of England from 1999 to 2009.

Niranjan was a professor of English and an established multilingual poet. He was fluent in Odia and English, and he used to joke that he is blessed with a two-faced mind under his control so he could think in both languages.

After going back from Delhi, Niranjan mailed a copy of his book “Prayers to Lord Jagannatha,” and Andrew Motion mailed one of his poems for publication in our inaugural issue.

We became very close friends, and I have some excellent memories – the days we spent in Calcutta (now Kolkata), Bhubaneshwar, Shimla, and at my home in Chandigarh. Unfortunately, he left this world very early.

Niranjan was fascinated with Lord Krishna and wanted to write a long poem. When I mentioned to him about Hindi poet Dharamvir Bharti’s book Kanupriya, written from the perspective of Radha, he was curious. 

Niranjan made a plan for us to meet in Calcutta and asked me to bring the book. 

I remember the evening when, after a long train journey, I reached Calcutta. I was tired, but he insisted me to start reading the poem immediately. He had kept the beer bottles ready on the table, and thus began my reading.  

Wherever required, I explained to  him the difficult words that he couldn’t get. It was early morning when we finished the reading.

He was full of praise and admired Bharti’s writing skill. 

Later, in a letter, he mentioned that he wanted it from the perspective of Krishna. For almost three years, I kept asking him about the poem, and his constant answer was “still thinking over it”. 

But when he started writing, it took him just three weeks to finish the poem. His style is incontestably simple, but sometimes it appears to be simplistic. And that’s what makes the poem incredible.  

Niranjan was also instrumental in publishing my first collection of poems, Always In Transit, from London.

Mohanty always sang, unpretentiously celebrating the rhythms of life.

Here I am sharing the last part of his long poem Krishna, and also sharing the last part of Kanupriya.

Read on - 

That afternoon, beneath the sequestered 

grove as we sat, the colorful birds 

refused to sing, for you were the song

that spread across the vale of their 

emerald joy. You constituted the myth 

of their salvation. All the birds

perched on the grove to drink 

the nectar of your smile. Holding 

my hands tenderly you asked:

"What is love?" Burying your face 

on my lap, you waited for an answer, 

when all the birds began to sing.

Abandoning all worries, you slept 

on my lap until a night bird warned: 

"Hey, your husband is around."

My sadness deepens, every time 

I think of history that would be 

written in our absence.

Is love a sin? Is our togetherness 

an unpardonable crime? 

Many such questions as these

madden me much before 

your unintended absence 

maims me. Where's there

an answer to all my queries, 

interrogations? Where's there 

an end to my endless waiting?

Where's there an end to this 

secret dripping of blood 

or tears, when our eyes refuse

to see things as they are 

and our hearts refuse to dream? 

Only the heart's contrition

goes wild in the midnight. 

I don't know the language 

of time. I know not who I am.

I treasure chagrins within me, 

cluttering the memoirs and memories 

of what I had been doing all these

clamorous years. I burn myself 

like clinker. I churn myself 

to get closer to myself, I follow

my shadow, assuming it to be 

myself. Nowhere did I get me. 

Only when I listen to the sound

of your footsteps on the withered 

leaves in the woods, and a linnet 

sings the song of your arrival,

I come closer to myself. I become 

myself once again, not knowing 

exactly why. Do you know

the heart-healing art? 

The secret clues of magic chart?

You always keep me alert.

What would people call me?

A lecher? A charmer of snakes 

and women? A notorious wanderer?

A vagabond without a roof?

An incredible idiot?

A showy seducer? Master

of vulgarities? Incarnation

of lumpen cruelties? Caretaker

of boisterous banalities?

A believer in uncertain

certainties? I'm sure, histories

would be rewritten, and poets

won't choose to write on me

or on my sempiternal love.

Why should I care? Let them

do it as they like. But I shall

go on flowing, touching the vale

of your love only.

Everything would change:

the people, their language, manners,

houses, roads, schools, books, poems,

posters, faces, eyes and sighs.

The modes of living and dying.

The avenues of lynching and lying.

The cupboards of memories.

The wardrobes of dreams.

Even the metaphors, metonyms

in the poems would keep

themselves changing. Voices

and colors, vapors, prayers,

sinners, rivers, vices, voyages.

Words and their syntactical

orders. All must change.

What shall I change myself to?

My songs of love only would fly

like white pigeons in the sky.

I'm Krishna. Call me Lord

or a fraud. I won't mind.

I'm the guide, the guard,

the guardian of my love.

I'm the sun, the moon

on the forehead of my love.

I glitter in her bright bangles.

Now, from Dharamvir Bharti’s book Kanupriya

क्या तुमने उस बेला मुझे बुलाया था कनु?
 लो, मैं सब छोड़-छाड़ कर आ गयी!
 
 इसी लिए तब
 मैं तुममें बूँद की तरह विलीन नहीं हुई थी,
 इसी लिए मैंने अस्वीकार कर दिया था
 तुम्हारे गोलोक का
 कालावधिहीन रास,
 
 क्योंकि मुझे फिर आना था!
 
 तुमने मुझे पुकारा था न
 मैं आ गई हूँ कनु।
 
 और जन्मांतरों की अनन्त पगडण्डी के 
 कठिनतम मोड़ पर खड़ी होकर
 तुम्हारी प्रतीक्षा कर रही हूँ।
 कि, इस बार इतिहास बनाते समय
 तुम अकेले ना छूट जाओ !
 
 सुनो मेरे प्यार!
 प्रगाढ़ केलि-क्षणों में अपनी अंतरंग
 सखी को तुमने बाँहों में गूँथा
 पर उसे इतिहास में गूँथने से हिचक क्यों गए प्रभु?
 
 बिना मेरे कोई भी अर्थ कैसे निकल पाता
 तुम्हारे इतिहास का
 शब्द, शब्द, शब्द...
 राधा के बिना
 सब
 रक्त के प्यासे
 अर्थहीन शब्द!
 
 सुनो मेरे प्यार!
 तुम्हें मेरी ज़रूरत थी न, लो मैं सब छोड़कर आ गई हूँ
 ताकि कोई यह न कहे
 कि तुम्हारी अंतरंग केलि-सखी
 केवल तुम्हारे साँवरे तन के नशीले संगीत की
 लय बन तक रह गई....
 
 मैं आ गई हूँ प्रिय!
 मेरी वेणी में अग्निपुष्प गूँथने वाली
 तुम्हारी उँगलियाँ
 अब इतिहास में अर्थ क्यों नहीं गूँथती?
 
 तुमने मुझे पुकारा था न!
 
 मैं पगडण्डी के कठिनतम मोड़ पर
 तुम्हारी प्रतीक्षा में
 अडिग खड़ी हूँ, कनु मेरे!

(Thanks to the respective copyholders of the text matter)

(Top Photo courtesy: https://www.beprimitive.com with thanks)