Santosh Kumar Pokharel
A man of strict human values and ethical norms and a poet of progressive trend with a track of leadership of student movements from Dhaka University who had been thirteen times arrested and jailed, is Poet Mohon Raihan. Mohon Raihan lives in Dhaka. He received me on 26th December 2022 at the Shahjalal International Airport Dhaka with a red big bouquet and we were taken to his Eskaton garden Road located Kobitapatra Dikchinha guesthouse.
Poet Mohon has my heartfelt thanks for organizing a good gathering of poets and publishers from Dhaka n 27th and felicitating this poet from Nepal. I remember I was moved with the love and honor extended to me by the poet community where 24 poets had recited their poems. I was emotional when my original poem MY VOW was recited by Ms. Naeema Chaudhary that had been taken somewhere from the internet. There was my other poem in Bangla translation which poetess Rina Talukdar did recite. In presence of more than sixty poets and publishers the event lasted three and half an hour where two teams of singers sang their songs that rejoiced the gathering even more. I was pleased to see my poet friends Ms. Sumana, Ms. Shamsunnahar, Md. Delwar and Stalin. Poetess Jharna Rahman beautifully conducted the program. Yes now, to the main theme of this post.
I never saw poet Raihan bareheaded, he always wore his red cap and I never asked him reasons behind this as he reminded me of Che Guevara. His hairs covered under his red cap protruded outside exactly like those of Che. He told he had been lately abducted from street by army and was put in dark cell his eyes bound with black straps and both hands tied on the back. He was nearly shot to death then. Nobody knew where had he been for several days as he was missing. He remembered his elder brother Zahir Raihan who is no more, and recollecting the ill incident, he wrote a poem titled MISSING that touched me and I present this poem to the world.
MISSING
by Mohon Raihan, Bangladesh
Mother mine, I do not know
how and where you are now.
As for me, I am fighting grimly
in a dark black unknown cave of death
for the last breath of my life.
The sweetest love of life
envelopes me from all sides;
one can still hear in my heart
the rustle and murmur of life.
I lie on my back
on the floor of a cold solitary cell,
with my hands and eyes tied,
like a born-blind.
There is so much light in the world
but there is no light in my eyes.
I can see nothing, O mother,
save your face in my soul.
It seems that all the four parts
of the world are now in darkness
at the fall of the sun
How are you now, where are you?
a simple sad village woman,
O mother mine?
Perhaps by now you have got the news
that I am missing and gone.
Hearing the news, you gave a loud wail
and fell down senseless.
A winnow full of paddy
slipped off your hands,
a crow flew away from the branch
a neighboring tree
cawing shrilly.
Perhaps by now the courtyard
of your home
was crowded with villagers.
I remember, when hurt by some
trifling matter
I was late returning home
you nearly went crazy with anxiety.
How are you bearing up now?
this terrible news that I am
missing and gone?
What crime did I commit?
What was my offence
that they had to abduct me
forcefully,
they bind my hands and eyes,
and hit me cruelly
like wild beasts?
They are demonstrating
the cruelest methods of torture
they are bloodying my body
with sharp whiplashes;
they have hung me up
from the ceiling like butcher’s meat;
I am almost suffocating …
I never thought before
that man could torture man
so cruelly, so brutally.
Sometimes I lose consciousness;
sometimes; struck at, I scream.
Perhaps my screams make
even the hardstone floor
groan in pain,
yet their cruel brutal whiplashes
do not cease.
Are they men,
or some ferocious beasts
in the guise of men?
Exhausted, they go away
leaving me behind,
but they will be back.
Seeing me regain my consciousness
the dogs will again scratch, bite,
and taste my blood.
I have fever at night,
my whole body aches
wracked by unbearable pain,
my body is swollen
like that of a jaundice patient.
I cannot turn on my side,
I somehow raise myself on my elbows
and lean against the wall.
My inside is parched and dry,
I suck my tongue.
but there is no spittle in my mouth.
The hunger of an eagle is devouring
my entrails.
O mother, you never hit me,
not even with the stem of a flower.
One day my father, very angry
because I did not comply with his order,
he beat me,
and you, mother mine,
sat awake all night by my bed,
weeping and comforting me.
Angry with your husband,
you did not talk to him for full three days.
And now, O mother, a few beasts
are gleefully torturing your darling son.
Perhaps you now sit all night
on your prayer-mat
fervently praying to God for me;
your tears wet God’s throne,
incense burns out and turns into ashes,
and angels in snow-white clothes
descend on your prayer-mat.
Give me back the song of the birds,
Give me back my university
vibrant with processions,
her face, the face of my friends,
the shade under the banyan tree,
Madhu’s canteen, the green square
in front of the library.
I want to go back
where life is bubbling with joy
in protests, struggles and processions.
I hear that they are going to kill me.
I have been charged with sedition;
I am guilty
of flouting an illegal law.
I am a terrible enemy of theirs,
and they are not going to spare me.
Perhaps in a short while
death’s icy touch will caress
my faintly warm lips,
They will dump my unclaimed dead body
in some lonely anonymous spot
or, remove it somewhere far away
from the gaze of man.
I can’t go back ever again
amidst people,
I can’t spread the fire of revolt
ever again against injustice
in hamlets, market places, townships and cities,
I can’t give any call to the
oppressed suffering have-nots.
O mother mine, I can’t ever again
see your serene beautiful face
and taste the wonderful
coconut sweets, rice and milk cakes,
cold watered rice,
delicious fish fry …
No one will find me in any
prison-house or cell;
jackals and vultures will tear out
and devour my unclaimed
dead body,
a prolonged grief will envelop Bangladesh.
Yet your hear-trending cries
will not reach cruel imperialist’s ears.
They will deny that I was arrested,
and like my elder Zahir Raihan
I’ll be lost forever in eternal darkness.
But, know this, mother mine,
they, too, can’t get away
with murdering your son
I have already rung their death-knell;
the militant masses are already
out on the streets;
I have ignited everywhere the fire
that will spread from home to home
protesting my killing
and will burn hateful brutal
capitalism into ashes.
Your son’s death will become the life
of the struggle,
against those who kill and murder
and torture,
who snatch away the rights of man
and his freedom,
who try to destroy equality
and still the voice of revolution.
The death-knell of the cruel rules
and exploiters will surely toll;
the fiery hymn of revolution
will surely spread
from heart to heart,
the helpless disabled illiterate sad
and deprived people will surely
rise up one day.
One day in this world
the right of everyman to speak up
to protest, and to live
will be ensured;
every man will have the guarantee
of a safe life;
no mother will have to lose her son
like you.
And on that day, mother mine,
you will surely find out
the whereabouts of your missing son,
and on that day this terrible news
that your son is missing and gone
will appear to be nothing but
a bad dream of a restless night.