The Story of a Submerged Civilization
From the innocent faces of hundreds of displaced people, Whom do I ask to recount The tragic tale of being waterlogged? Who will tell, and how, the way it submerged— The village temple, the cremation ground, the schoolhouse, The mango orchard where we played Dahimankidi (monkey-branch game) in childhood, The shrine of the village goddess, receiving offerings since our ancestors' time, The drumstick backyard garden won during the brothers' partition, And the Bhagabata Tungi (village religious community hall) where we daily prayed, "Save me, O Lord, I am but a mere mortal"—how it all drowned? How did it feel deep inside the chest When the village banyan tree was being chopped down? The very tree where, after tying sacred threads for sixteen Tuesdays, The eldest daughter had left for her groom's house. When the bulldozer rolled over the temple steps Where, after four daughters, a mother had crawled bare-bodied daily Praying for a son—how did that strike the liver? The experience of the first rain, getting drenched with a lover in Mahuljhar, is now just a memory, For all those Mahua trees are now imprisoned under water. Since reaching the age of understanding, we kept hearing: A wide road will come to this village, Canal water will yield double crops, The fields will smile, the farmer will smile, No one will ever have to migrate for labor (Dadan) again, No one will toil at the brick kilns, No one will endure the bloodshot eyes of the labor contractor (Sardar). Now,…
