Malay Quotes

Some 5,000 of Wallace’s 8,050 bird specimens he collected during eight years in the Malay Archipelago were actually collected by Ali. None are named after the young man.

With Wallace, Ali became one of the best-travelled young Malay men of the time.

We know quite a bit about Alfred Russel Wallace, one of the great figures of modern science. But we know relatively little about Ali, Wallace’s faithful companion who supported him during much of his eight-year sojourn in the Malay Archipelago in the mid-19th century.

I wonder what Ali thought about Wallace? How did he view this tall, gawky, bearded eccentric man? Did Ali defend Wallace when villagers thought he was an evil demon? Did he secretly giggle when he heard Wallace speak Malay with a strong British accent? Did he gossip about his boss with other locals? Why was Wallace enthralled to discover a new beetle or ant? Did Ali see his time with Wallace as a chance to better himself, a grand adventure? Or was his work with Wallace simply a job?

meja aku berterima kasih padamu air yang kuletakkan di dadamu tak jadi tumpah

Isang beses lang tayo makapipili ng daan at pagkatapos noon, paulit-ulit na tayo sa daan na iyon- paikot-ikot, habang kinukumbinsi natin ang sarili na umuusad naman talaga tayo, na nagpapatuloy tayo, na mayroon tayong pinatutunguhan- kahit wala nga, wala naman talaga, paikot-ikot lang tayo sa iisang daan na noon, noong hindi natin alam, noong wala tayong kamalay-malay, ay nagpasya na pala tayo’t pinili nga ito.

Wag mapagod mahalin ang mga taong mahal ka. Malay mo, sa bandang huli, mas okey pala ang ending.

It’s not Malays killing Chinese or Chinese killing Malays. It’s stupid people killing stupid people.

Islam is a religion based upon knowledge, and a denial of the possibility and objectivity of knowledge would involve the destruction of the fundamental basis upon which not only the religion, but all the sciences are rooted.

Manglish is the Malaysian form of English. It’s superior to Singlish when you’re in Malaysia and inferior when you’re in Singapore. It’s known for its love for Malay, Cantonese, Tamil, Mandarin, and Hokkien. Occasionally, there are English terms, too. It’s different from Indian English, which is spoken with a punchy tone, or British English, which is an endangered language in London. A key distinction between Manglish and Singlish is Manglish’s recognition of Tamil words. Singlish denies the existence of inferior Tamil words.

malam ini ribut dari utara akan tiba tebingmu akan pecah airmu akan merah

Manusia ini kuat, tapi nafsu mampu menundukkannya. Nafsu itu kuat, tapi iman mampu menundukkannya.

darahku mimpikan satu saat satu saat tanpa ancam dan pelarian darahku mimpikan satu alam satu alam tanpa kabus dan pagar

Bloody politicians and their bloody stupid rhetoric, speeches, ideologies. You ever hear anyone say words don’t matter after this, you tell them about this day, when Malay idiots and Chinese idiots decided to kill one another because they believed what the bloody politicians told them.

He had reached that condition of mind which the old Vikings used to call Berserk and which among modern Malays is termed running amok.

If, for instance, you put in a Malay officer who's very religious and who has family ties in Malaysia in charge of a machine gun unit, that's a very tricky business. We've got to know his background... I'm saying these things because they are real, and if I don't think that, and I think even if today the Prime Minister doesn't think carefully about this, I and my family could have a tragedy.

God will come barefoot looking for his lost shoe eaten up by pseudo sons waiting with charts of Obituary at every unreal heart-scope while volcanoes gather around me ( Selected Poems of Malay Roychoudhury )

Waktu untuk berbahagia itu sekarang, Tempat untuk berbahagia itu di sini, Cara untuk berbahagia ialah dengan membuat orang lain berbahagia.

I’ll tell you a thing that will shock you. It will certainly shock the readers of Writer’s Digest. What I often do nowadays when I have to, say, describe a room, is to take a page of a dictionary, any page at all, and see if with the words suggested by that one page in the dictionary I can build up a room, build up a scene. … I even did it in a novel I wrote called MF. There’s a description of a hotel vestibule whose properties are derived from Page 167 in R.J. Wilkinson’s Malay-English Dictionary. Nobody has noticed. … As most things in life are arbitrary anyway, you’re not doing anything naughty, you’re really normally doing what nature does, you’re just making an entity out of the elements. I do recommend it to young writers.

Malayan. It means ‘ashamed.’” He smiled to himself. It was a contraction of puki mahlu. Mahlu ashamed, puki a Golden Gulley. Malays grant feelings to that part of a woman: hunger, sadness, kindness, rapaciousness, hesitancy, shame, anger—anything and everything.

wajahmu masih berkerut dari jeritan sejarah rumahmu masih berbahang dari tumpahan darah

My two worlds were alive: Chinese and Malay rolled into one, blended by the centuries that had passed.

It's delicious. But why is Malay chili sweet? It helps the musicians write better love songs.

There is a theory that when a planet, like our earth for example, has manifested every form of life, when it has fulfilled itself to the point of exhaustion, it crumbles to bits and is dispersed like star dust throughout the universe. It does not roll on like a dead moon, but explodes, and in the space of a few minutes, there is not a trace of it visible in the heavens. In marine life we have a similar effect. it is called implosion. When an amphibian accustomed to the black depths rises above a certain level, when the pressure to which it adapts itself is lifted, the body bursts inwardly. Are we not familiar with this spectacle in the human being also? The norsemen who went berserk, the malay who runs amuck—are these not examples of implosion and explosion? When the cup is full it runs over. but when the cup and that which it contains are one substance, what then? There are moments when the elixir of life rises to such overbrimming splendor that the soul spills over. In the seraphic smile of the madonnas the soul is seen to flood the psyche. The moon of the face becomes full; the equation is perfect. A minute, a half minute, a second later, the miracle has passed. something intangible, something inexplicable, was given out—and received. In the life of a human being it may happen that the moon never comes to the full. In the life of some human beings it would seem, indeed, that the only mysterious phenomenon observable is that of perpetual eclipse. In the case of those afflicted with genius, whatever the form it may take, we are almost frightened to observe that there is nothing but a continuous waxing and waning of the moon. Rarer still are the anomalous ones who, having come to the full, are so terrified by the wonder of it that they spend the rest of their lives endeavoring to stifle that which gave them birth and being. The war of the mind is the story of the soul-split. When the moon was at full there were those who could not accept the dim death of diminution; they tried to hang full-blown in the zenith of their own heaven. They tried to arrest the action of the law which was manifesting itself through them, through their own birth and death, in fulfillment and transfiguration. Caught between the tides they were sundered; the soul departed the body, leaving the simulacrum of a divided self to fight it out in the mind. Blasted by their own radiance they live forever the futile quest of beauty, truth and harmony. Depossessed of their own effulgence they seek to possess the soul and spirit of those to whom they are attracted. They catch every beam of light; they reflect with every facet of their hungry being. instantly illumined, When the light is directed towards them, they are also speedily extinguished. The more intense the light which is cast upon them the more dazzling—and blinding—they appear. Especially dangerous are they to the radiant ones; it is always towards these bright and inexhaustible luminaries that they are most passionately drawn…

Dalam setiap hubungan yang sihat mesti ada perbezaan pendapat dan perbezaan pendekatan yang tidak semestinya membawa kepada perpecahan atau permusuhan

saudara waktunya telah tiba untuk aku melangkah kaki tiket yang kubeli terasa panas di tangan

If you do not know an oriental language, you are less than five thousand years old

Sia-sialah pembicaraan yang tidak mengaitkan bahasa Melayu dengan cita-cita besar membina tamadun bangsa dan negara, kerana dari tahap awal pertumbuhan dan perkembangannya, bahasa Melayu senantiasa menjadi petunjuk dan kayu ukur kemajuan bangsa.

If you're not lazy, you're not Malay, If you're don't cheat, you're not Chinese, If you're don't drink. you're not Indian To my friend I say, I'm Chinese but I'm no cheat, My friend's Indian but he's no drunk, Another is Malay but he's no slob, Chinese, Indian Malay or Others, We are who we make ourselves to be, Not the stereotypes we're out to be. But if we don't buck the trend, We'll forever be stamped.

tonight a storm from the north shall come your banks shall burst your waters shall run red

my friend the time has come for me to go the ticket i bought is warm in my hand

kubawa ia bak luka baru di keningku

Social Media Sites Creates illusion of connectivity .

Learn revenge from the spider

Love is a dog. Which dog ? It depends on your experience

Aussies and Enzees and black fellows and marys and Malays and Tamil and name it.

There is a point beyond which the human brain loses its kinship with the Infinite and becomes a mere seething mass of deleterious passions. Malays,

I had rather water in a port than from some uncertain creek or river on the Malay coast where for all you know there is a village hidden a mile upriver and crapping in it.

used by Malay royals to reward powerful businessmen, politicians, and philanthropists in Malaysia,

Eastern races have but small appreciation of punctuality.

Snouck could speak of the region of Aceh, on the nnorthern tip of Sumatra, as 'that country... that old pirate-state', and the American traveller Eliza Scidmore of ' the brave, liberty-loving Achinese'. Within a decade Aceh, however unwillyngly, was finally subjugated, its focus recalibrated from the Malay world and the Indian Ocean to Java, and its future rendered unmistakably as part of the Netherlands Indies

Even at brightest noon, it’s always Full moon in my country. In these streets of Tropic stone and Malay blood, daylight is Moonlight mugging me on every corner Where human shadows loll in an atmosphere Both lunar and lunatic. And while from either pole we’re Half a world and seas away, this Might as well be An arctic archipelago, where as The sun burns the colder it gets. This might as well be Equatorial Antarctica...

Some Austronesian words borrowed into English include ‘taboo’ and ‘tattoo’ (from a Polynesian language), ‘boondocks’ (from the Tagalog language of the Philippines), and ‘amok,’ ‘batik,’ and ‘orangutan’ (from Malay).

From Indonesian and Malay mythology, pontianaks are said to be spirits of women who died while giving birth. A pontianak kills her victims by digging into their stomachs with her sharp dirty fingernails and devouring their organs. Yum.

Love is like that girl, who had to drop out of school; Three-and-a-half days each month, Must wear dry grass tied in cloth; In monsoon, the grass is green, So, ash wrapped in cloth, to soak up the blood, seated quietly, alone, book-less.

So wait a minute. I go looking for the story of the guy who wrote this awesome wind scale tha tblew my mind. I start reading about his life, and before he's sixteen years old I've already run across a family's flight from the poorhouse, an early balloon flight, an eccentric father, a young man at sea, Malay pirates, shipwreck, castaways, buried treasure, and Captain Bligh, fresh off the mutiny on the Bounty. Not a single word about the wind, but honestly, at this point, who cares?

He recalled the rifles without sights, the cross-purposes of wars, and the dark Malays who knew only the most simple, the most fundamental language of all- life, love and liberty -and who now would find themselves within the coils of power and politics.

Then set out after repeated warning the grizzly Afghan Duryodhan in blazing sun removed sandal-wood blooded stone-attired guards spearing gloom brought out a substitute of dawn crude hell’s profuse experience Huh a night-waken drug addict beside head of feeble earth from the cruciform The Clapper could not descend due to lockdown wet-eyed babies were smiling . in a bouquet of darkness in forced dreams The Clapper wept when learnt about red-linen boat’s drowned passengers in famished yellow winter white lilies bloomed in hot coal tar when in chiseled breeze nickel glazed seed-kernel moss layered skull which had moon on its shoulder scolded whole night non-weeping male praying mantis in grass bronze muscled he-men of Barbadoz pressed their fevered forehead on her furry navel . in comb-flowing rain floated on frowning waves diesel sheet shadow whipped oceans all wings had been removed from the sky funeral procession of newspaperman’s freshly printed dawn lifelong jailed convict’s eye in the keyhole outside in autumnal rice pounding pink ankle Lalung ladies

Triti London itu yang mengorbankan tanah air bangsa Melayu, tidak hanya terpisah dan berpecah bentuk isi dan makna Kemelayuan Besar, tapi menjadi keping-kepingan kecil, tapi Melayu berkeping-keping kecil itu dihisap, diperah, ditekan, untuk dilenyek oleh pendatang asing.

Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm Would I have been like this if I had different parents? Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm? Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father? Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha? Oh, answer, let somebody answer these Shubha, ah, Shubha Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen Come back on the green mattress again As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of magnet's brilliance I remember the letter of the final decesion of 1956 The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time Fine rib-smashing roots were descending into your bosom Stupid relationship inflted in the bypass of senseless neglect Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah I do not know whether I am going to die Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience I'll disrupt and destroy I'll split all into pieces for the sake of Art There isn't any other way out for poetry except suicide Shubha Let me enter into the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora Into the absurdity of woeless effort In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart Why wasn't I lost in my mother's urethra? Why wasn't I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition? Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum-flux or in the phlegm? With her eyes shut supine beneath me I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize Shubha Women could be treacherous even after unfolding a helpless appeareance Today it seems there is nothing so treacherous as Women and Art Now my ferocious heart is rinning towards an impossible death Vertigoes of water are coming up to my neck from the pierced earth I will die Oh what are these happening within me? I am failing to fetch out my hand and my palm From the dried sperms on my trousers spreading wings 300000 children are gliding toward the district of Shubha's bosom Millions of needles are now running from my blood into Poetry Now the smuggling of my obstinate leg is trying to plunge Into the death killer sex-wig entangled in the hypnotic kingdom of words In violent mirrors on each wall of the room I am observing After letting loose a few naked Malay, his unestablished scramblings.

I never allow myself to be influenced either by atmospheric perturbations or by the conventional divisions of time. I would happily instate the use of the opium pipe and the Malay kris, but I know nothing about the use of those infinitely more pernicious and also insipidly bourgeois implements, the watch and the umbrella.

Counterman - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury Circumcision made me apostate I thumped thighs and turned Tartar The king will go and evil eves get raped Just as tutored Nadir Shah I'd kiss the sword and leap in air On galloping mare a burning torch I proceed towards falling outposts The metropolis burns A naked priest elopes with Shiva's phallus.

Tak Melayu Hilang di dunia.

কবিতার বিষয়বস্তু আমি, আমিই ভাঙাচোরা খেতখামার, আমিই সিসমোগ্রাফ, বলেছেন মলয় রায়চৌধুরী । তাঁকে আমার ঋষি বলেই মনে হয় --- সুবোধ সরকার

In the city, human beings celebrated and enjoyed material conditions and comforts, but were caught in the labyrinths and knots of spiritual shallowness and psychological confusion. In the city human beings wrestled with the demands of survival and profit but fled from life’s imperatives of honesty and moderation. In the city man was afraid to confront his own face.

Many rubber estates kept records of the daily output of each tapper, and distinguished between the output of Chinese and Indian workers. The output of the Chinese was usually more than double that of the Indians, with all of them using the same simple equipment of tapping knife, latex cup and latex bucket. There were similar or even wider differences between Chinese, Indian and Malay smallholders. .

Who claims I am ruined ? Because I am without fangs & claws ? Are they necessary ? How do you forget the knife plunged in abdomen up to the hilt ? Green Cardamom leaves for the buck, art of hatred & anger and of war !

লেখা পায় । লিখি ।। খিদে পায় । খাই ।। প্রেম পায় । করি ।। জ্বালা পায় । জ্বলি ।। নেশা পায় । গিলি ।। হাসি পায় । হাসি ।। ছোঁয়া পায় । ছুঁই ।। দেখা পায় । দেখি ।। রান্না পায় । রাঁধি ।। দান পায় । থুই ।। পড়া পায় । পড়ি ।। শোয়া পায় । শুই ।। হিসি পায় । মুতি ।। হাই পায় । তুলি ।। ঘৃণা পায় । করি ।। হাগা পায় । হাগি ।। হাঁচি পায় । হাঁচি ।। ব্যথা পায় । কাঁদি ।। পাদ পায় । পাদি ।। নাচ পায় । নাচি ।। গান পায় । গাই ।। শ্বাস পায় । হই ।। ঘুম পায় না । স্বপ্ন হয় না ।।

Motorbike - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury I am on motorbike yezdi yamaha when flanked by horizon gallop backwards through sand blizzard tinsel clouds explode at my feet without helmet and speed-split air at eighty in midsummer simoon each sound-cart recedes onrushing lorries flee in a flash No time to brood but Yes accident expected anytime may even turn into a junkheap in a drought-nursed field. Translation of Bengali original 'Motor Cycle

Agak aneh bahawa perkembangan madrasah di Haramyn sampai saat ini masih diabaikan para ahli. Jika banyak studi dilakukan atas pertumbuhan madrasah di tempat-tempat lain di Timur Tengah, kelihatan agak ganjil sedikit sekali perhatian diberikan kepada sejarah unik madrasah dan lembaga-lembaga keilmuan lainnya di Haramayn. Akibatnya, studi-studi itu tidak hanya gagal memahami tradisi keilmuan di Tanah Suci, tetapi juga sifat diskursus ilmiah di sana.

From uncoiled wings of the burning swan after sea of blood was born out of green caterpillar that skin sheared moon from cloud’s underbelly ordered waves to abolish horoscopes on crabs’ breasts . On the evergreen epiglotis of lotus full to the brim the pollen fiddling honey bee waved her double scarf searched for drunk village of pride red beating crowd humming songs sleeping side by side of worried distance ( From 'Selected Poems' 1961 - 2004

अंतरटॉनिक बीड़ी फूँकती हो अवंतिका चुंबन में श्रम का स्वाद पाता हूँ देसी पीती हो अवंतिका श्वास में नींद की गंध पाता हूँ गुटखा खाती हो अवंतिका जीभ पर रक्त का स्पर्श पाता हूँ जुलूस में जाती हो अवंतिका पसीने में तुम्हारे दिवास्वप्न पाता हूँ

অমরত্ব আমি অমর আলেকজাণ্ডার হতে চাই না আমি আরশোলার মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর চেঙ্গিজ খান হতে চাই না আমি কাঠপিঁপড়ের মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর হিটলার হতে চাই না আমি ঝিঁঝিপোকার মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর রবার্ট ক্লাইভ হতে চাই না আমি উচ্চিংড়ের মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর মীর জাফর হতে চাই না আমি উইপোকার মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর জুলিয়াস সিজার হতে চাই না আমি বোলতার মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর আত্তিলা হতে চাই না আমি গুবরে পোকার মতন অমর হতে চাই আমি অমর শাহজাহান হতে চাই না আমি ফড়িঙের মতন অমর হতে চাই

The trouble with you," Parvathi said with a wisdom beyond her years, "Is that you don't know who you want to be. Girl or boy. Chinese or Malay." "Ya-lah you!" Fatima said. "No wonder the kids in your school call you OCBC." There was a bank in Singapore called the Overseas Chinese Banking Corporation, or OCBC in short. So some cruel kid in school played on the initials of the bank to make fun of Peranakans. They jeered, "Orang Cina Bukan Cina." The words translated as Chinese person, not Chinese.

One thing about a tiny island like Singapore is that every man, woman, and monkey in it originated from somewhere else. Whether your distant ancestors sailed from China, India, the Malay archipelago or the United Kingdom, your decision to stay is the only thing that makes you Singaporean. Your presence counts more than your origins. At least, that’s how it was supposed to be. Beneath an upper crust of white colonial administrators, the rest of us were muddled together like a savoury stew under mashed potatoes.

আমি যে কিনা উচ্চিংড়ের স্বরলিপিতে গাওয়া ফুসফাসুরে গান বেড়াজালের হাজার যোনি মেলে ধরে রেখেছি ইলশেঝাঁকের বর্ণালী স্বদেশী আন্দোলনের লাশঝোলা স্মৃতির গাবগাছের পাশের ঝোপে শুকপোকায় কুরে খাওয়া লেবুপাতার পারফিউমড কিনার বরাবর পাথরকুচি কারখানা-মালিকের ঘাড়-কামানো পাহাড় থেকে উড়ছি

By 1900, a small white minority radiating out from Europe would come to control most of world’s land surface, imposing the imperatives of a commercial economy and international trade on Asia’s mainly agrarian societies. Europeans backed by garrisons and gunboats could intervene in the affairs of any Asian country they wished to. They were free to transport millions of Asian labourers to far-off colonies (Indians to the Malay Peninsula, Chinese to Trinidad); exact the raw materials and commodities they needed for their industries from Asian economies; and flood local markets with their manufactured products. The peasant in his village and the market trader in his town were being forced to abandon a life defined by religion, family and tradition amid rumours of powerful white men with a strange god-on-a-cross who were reshaping the world- men who married moral aggressiveness with compact and coherent nation-states, the profit motive and superior weaponry, and made Asian societies seem lumberingly inept in every way, unable to match the power of Europe or unleash their own potential.

অবন্তিকা বানুর জন্য প্রেমের কবিতা অবন্তিকা বানু, রাষ্ট্রের দিকে তোলা তর্জনী থেকে যে স্ফূলিঙ্গ ছড়িয়ে দিলি তুই দেখেছিস, বোরখা থেকে বেরিয়ে এসেছেন বুড়ি আর তরুণীরা মাথায় হিজাবঘোমটা অবন্তিকাবানু প্রান্তকে টেনে এনে মেইনস্ট্রিমে মিলিয়ে-মিশিয়ে দিলি এই বদল একদিনের নয় এমনকি শুধুই বদল নয় তোর ওই তর্জনী তোলা ভেতরে-ভেতরে ভয়ংকর ওলোটপালোট করে দিলি তোর দেখাদেখি হিজাবঘোমটা ফেলে হাজার তরুণী রাষ্ট্রের দিকে ওঠাচ্ছে তর্জনী হয়তো তুই শুধু ছবি হয়ে থেকে যাবি কৌম-আয়নায় কিন্তু ওই তর্জনী তোলা ভুলবে না কেউ সশস্ত্র পুরুষদের তোর ধমকানি এবং হুঁশিয়ারি আমার আশিতম জন্মদিনে সবচেয়ে দামি উপহার

Kita perlu faham bahawa hak manusia perlu diraikan dengan syarat mengikuti panduan syarak. Jika semua hak manusia perlu raikan, maka akan lahirlah manusia yang hidup tanpa undang-undang. Semuanya bebas atas dasar liberal. Nak jadi lesbian? Nak tukar jantina? Semuanya boleh. Hak manusia yang berlandaskan nafsu ini menjauhi fitrah Muslim yang sebenar. Jangan jadikan hak asasi manusia sebagai alasan untuk membenarkan tindakan. Kita sering kali fikir tentang hak manusia, tapi kita lupa bahawa kita adalah hamba-Nya, dan kita ini hak milik Allah. Bagaimana dengan hak kita sebagai hamba?

The Light I get a thud kick in pitch dark thick on belly and tumble Hands tied at the back on damp floor shack to humble Lights flash on face eyes blind in case I spin Then lights go off a boot or two rough on chin I feel blood drip snail down the lips in trickle The glare blinks on and off and on and off in ripple A hot metal rod scalds hard breast broad to snip flesh warm The lights hem in piercing-thin a ruthless swarm Red eyes get shut in blinding rut my vision erode Final blackout in grisly rout in ecliptic node I prepare my grit to encounter the hit as a fightback code. --Malay Roychoudhury

MANIFESTO OF THE HUNGRY GENERATION Poetry is no more a civilizing maneuver, a replanting of the bamboozled gardens; it is a holocaust, a violent and somnambulistic jazzing of the hymning five, a sowing of the tempestual Hunger. Poetry is an activity of the narcissistic spirit. Naturally, we have discarded the blankety-blank school of modern poetry, the darling of the press, where poetry does not resurrect itself in an orgasmic flow, but words come out bubbling in an artificial muddle. In the prosed- rhyme of those born-old half-literates, you must fail to find that scream of desperation of a thing wanting to be man, the man wanting to be spirit. Poetry of the younger generation too has died in the dressing room, as most of the younger prosed -rhyme writers, afraid of the Satanism, the vomitous horror, the self-elected crucifixion of the artist that makes a man a poet, fled away to hide in the hairs. Poetry from Achintya to Ananda and from Alokeranjan to Indraneel, has been cryptic, short-hand, cautiously glamorous, flattered by own sensitivity like a public school prodigy. Saturated with self-consciousness, poems have begun to appear from the tomb of logic or the bier of unsexed rhetoric. Published by Haradhon Dhara from 269 Netaji Subhas Road, Howrah, West Beng

It is all too often the case with certain types of scholars of Malay-Indonesian Islam, when dealing with Islamic texts such as the one in question in which they are confronted with a word they do not quite understand, that instead of admitting their failure to explain the word in the text as due to their own lack of understanding, they would proceed to conjure up some excuse for branding the word as an enigma, and then, because it is an enigma to them, they would proceed further to reject it with such pronouncements as: “it seems obvious that this puzzling word is due to a scribal error”, so that they might suggest their own futile substitute.

What was the name of that editor of Janata? 1961: On the front page, he wrote: “Won’t last, won’t last!” Him? Maybe he is called Mogambo. Then 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966 Who was that short man, wrote in the daily literary supplement “That? How long will that last? Won’t last.” What was his name? That man, at the Esplanade book stall Can’t remember? Where did he go, that man? In a famous little magazine he wrote— Him? Maybe he is called Dr Dang Then 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972 Can’t recall? Thick glasses, a swift stride— Him? Maybe he is called Gabbar Singh Why can’t you remember the names their fathers gave them? Forgotten in just 50 years? Where did they go? And that fellow who wore loose trousers and a bush shirt And wrote so many times: “Won’t last, won’t last.” Then 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1984, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014 What? Can’t remember yet? What a strange fellow you are! So many writers, editors, poets repeatedly Wrote: “Won’t last, won’t last, won’t last too long People will forget soon.” And yet you struggle To recall their names? Then let it be! Let Mogambo, Dr Dang and Gabbar Singh Be their names in the history of Bengalis.

Inside, the house was filled with people dressed in varying interpretations of the party's "Roaring Twenties" theme- chosen to commemorate the end of Kat's own roaring twenties. There were a couple of flapper dresses and Louise Brooks wigs, but the majority of the crowd was simply dressed up: girls in sequins, guys in blazers and jeans. They spilled out of the living room and onto the patio and garden surrounding the swimming pool; they clustered around the outdoor bar and the long table laden with finger foods: dumplings in bamboo steamer baskets, assorted sushi rolls, chicken satay made onsite by a hired cook- a wizened Malay man who'd brought his own mini grill and pandan-leaf fan.

The papers always referred to the strikers as foreign; as Chinamen, Indians, Arabs, and Africans. (Never mind Professor Craft.) They were never Oxfordians, they were never Englishmen, they were travellers from abroad who had taken advantage of Oxford’s good graces, and who now held the nation hostage. Babel had become synonymous with foreign, and this was very strange, because before this, the Royal Institute of Translation had always been regarded as a national treasure, a quintessentially English institution. But then England, and the English language, had always been more indebted to the poor, the lowly, and the foreign than it cared to admit. The word vernacular came from the Latin verna, meaning ‘house slave’; this emphasized the nativeness, the domesticity of the vernacular language. But the root verna also indicated the lowly origins of the language spoken by the powerful; the terms and phrases invented by slaves, labourers, beggars, and criminals – the vulgar cants, as it were – had infiltrated English until they became proper. And the English vernacular could not properly be called domestic either, because English etymology had roots all over the world. Almanacs and algebra came from Arabic; pyjamas from Sanskrit, ketchup from Chinese, and paddies from Malay. It was only when elite England’s way of life was threatened that the true English, whoever they were, attempted to excise all that had made them.

What happens to a highbrow literary culture when its fault lines-along caste, class and gender-are brutally exposed? What happens to the young iconoclasts who dare to speak and write about these issues openly? Is there such a thing as a happy ending for revolutionaries? Or are they doomed to be forever relegated to the footnotes of history? This is the never-before-told true story of the Hungry Generation (or 'the Hungryalists')-a group of barnstorming, anti-establishment poets, writers and artists in Bengal in the 1960s. Braving social boycott, ridicule and arrests, the Hungryalists changed the literary landscape of Bengal (and many South Asian countries) forever. Along the way, they also influenced iconic poets, such as Allen Ginsberg, who struck up a lifelong friendship with the Hungryalists.

After four years, he stumbled from the steamy jungles exhausted, his clothes in tatters, trembling and half delirious from a recurrent fever, but with a rare collection of specimens. In the Brazilian port city of Pará, he secured passage home on a barque called the Helen. Midway across the Atlantic, however, the Helen caught fire and Wallace had to scramble into a lifeboat, leaving his precious cargo behind. He watched as the ship, consumed by flames, slid beneath the waves, taking his treasures with it. Undaunted (well, perhaps just a little daunted), Wallace allowed himself a spell of convalescence, then sailed to the other ends of the Earth, to the Malay Archipelago, where he roamed ceaselessly for eight years and collected a staggering 127,000 specimens, including 1,000 insects and 200 species of birds never before recorded, all of which he managed to get safely back to England.

And then, I met him , Malay Roychoudhury, and a strange fear gripped me. Frankly, I am dead scared of such people. There is a community of artists who’re too real in their artistry. This class that charts names like, Allen Ginsberg, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain and many others are Art Extremists, a term I’ve coined for them. They exert an irresistible attraction towards the opposite sex, who’re drawn to the edgy and dangerous involvement they have with their art and times. Pablo Picasso is often compared to the Minataur, the half man-half monster. Like the Minataur he demanded women to be ‘sacrificed’ to him, a view that is corroborated in his tumultuous personal life, that left behind a trail of agonized wives, mistresses and children. Malay Roychoudhury told me of a woman who was 20 years his junior and who had threatened him with suicide if he didn’t marry her. She kept her promise and drank toilet-acid.

The language of the rebuild eludes me. It may as well be in Malay for all that I can grasp it. No, that’s not true. If it were Malay, in my limited experience of it, there would be a kindness to it, with declined nouns that invoke a sense of shared communities and values; and qualifiers that allow for misunderstandings, acknowledging this to be perfectly natural and human, and more importantly, a mutually adjustable state of affairs. The language of the insurer, however, is that of the worst of the corporate West. It is management-speak that hears only its own voice. It has closed meanings known only to the initiated; and omissions deliberately designed to confuse. The language of the builder is exclusive; dwangs, thermal-broken, and rondo battens are all terms that are potential minefields of extra expense, if they are not examined, priced, queried, rolled around the tongue for size and spat out for effect.

Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die My skin is in blazing furore I do not know what I'll do where I'll go oh I am sick I'll kick all Arts in the butt and go away Shubha Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon In the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain The last anchor is leaving me after I got the other anchors lifted I can't resist anymore, a million glass panes are breaking in my cortex I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart Brain's contagious flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness other why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's ass But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse In to the sun-coloured bladder I do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring within me I'll destroy and shatter everything draw and elevate Shubha in to my hunger Shubha will have to be given Oh Malay Kolkata seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organs today But i do not know what I'll do now with my own self My power of recollection is withering away Let me ascend alone toward death I haven't had to learn copulation and dying I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops after urination Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in the darkness Have not had to learn the usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh China-rose matrix Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm I am failing to understand why I still want to live I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna-Choudhury ancestors I'll have to do something different and new Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of Shubha's bosom I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born I want to see my own death before passing away The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm Would I have been like this if I had different parents? Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm? Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father? Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha? Oh, answer, let somebody answer these Shubha, ah Shubha Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen Come back on the green mattress again As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of a magnet's brilliance I remember the letter of the final decision of 1956 The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time Fine rib-smashing roots were descending in to your bosom Stupid relationship inflated in the bypass of senseless neglect Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah I do not know whether I am going to die Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience I'll disrupt and destroy I'll split all in to pieces for the sake of Art There isn't any other way out for Poetry except suicide Shubha Let me enter in to the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora In to the absurdity of woeless effort In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart Why wasn't I lost in my mother's urethra? Why wasn't I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition? Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum -flux or in the phlegm? With her eyes shut supine beneath me I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize S

धनतंत्र का विकास-क्रम कल रात बग़ल से कब उठ गई चुपचाप अलमारी तोड़कर कौन-सा एसिड गटागट पी कर मर रही हो अब उपजिह्वा गल चुकी है दोनों गालों में है छेद मसूढ़े और दाँत बहते हुए दिख रहे हैं चिपचिपे तरल में गाढ़ा झाग, घुटने में हो रहा है ऐंठन से दर्द बाल अस्त-व्यस्त, बनारसी साड़ी-साया ख़ून से लथपथ, मुट्ठी में कजरौटा सोले से बना मुकुट रक्त से सना रखा है एक ओर कैसे कर पाई सहन, नहीं जान पाया नहीं सुन पाया कोई दबी हुई चीत्कार तो क्यूँ सहमति दी थी गर्दन हिलाकर मैं चाहता हूँ जैसे भी हो, तुम बच जाओ समग्र जीवन रहो कथाहीन होकर

Can’t say my Uttarpara ancestral home isn’t my homeland, I know unidentified bodies, their eyes plucked out, float by in the Ganga. Can’t say my aunt’s Ahiritola isn’t my homeland, I know abducted girls are bound and gagged in Sonagachi nearby. Can’t say my uncle’s at Panihati isn’t my homeland, I know who was killed, and where, in broad daylight. Can’t say my adolescent Konnagar isn’t my homeland, I know who was sent to cut whose throat. Can’t say my youth’s Calcutta isn’t my homeland, I know who threw bombs, set fire on buses, trams. Can’t say West Bengal isn’t my homeland, I’ve the right to be tortured to death in its lock-ups, I’ve the right to starve and have rickets in its tea gardens, I’ve the right to hang myself at its handloom mills, I’ve the right to become bones buried by its party lumpen, I’ve the right to have my mouth taped, silenced, I’ve the right to hear the leaders sprout gibberish, abuse, I’ve the right to a heart attack on its streets blocked by protestors, Can’t say Bengali isn’t my homeland.

Chicken Roast Puff your plume in anger and fight, cock, delight the owner of knife smear sting with pollen and flap your wings As I said: Twist the arms and keep them bent roll the rug and come down the terrace after disturbed sleep Shoeboots-rifle-whirring bullets-shrieks The aged undertrial in the next cell weeps and wants to go home Liberate me let me go let me go home On its egg in the throne the gallinule doses asphyxiate in dark fight back, cock, die and fight, shout with the dumb Glass splinters on tongue-breast muscles quiver Fishes open their gills and enfog water A piece of finger wrapped in pink paper With eyes covered someone wails in the jailhouse I can't make out if man or woman Keep this eyelash on lefthand palm- and blow off with your breath Fan out snake-hood in mist Cobra's abdomen shivers in the hiss of female urination Deport to crematorium stuffing blood-oozing nose in cottonwool Shoes brickbats and torn pantaloons enlitter the streets I smear my feet with the wave picked up from a stormy sea That is the alphabet I drew on for letters. (Translation of Bengali original 'Murgir Roast')

Gossip is perhaps the most familiar and elementary form of disguised popular aggression. Though its use is hardly confined to attacks by subordinates on their superiors, it represents a relatively safe social sanction. Gossip, almost by definition has no identifiable author, but scores of eager retailers who can claim they are just passing on the news. Should the gossip—and here I have in mind malicious gossip—be challenged, everyone can disavow responsibility for having originated it. The Malay term for gossip and rumor, khabar angin (news on the wind), captures the diffuse quality of responsibility that makes such aggression possible. The character of gossip that distinguishes it from rumor is that gossip consists typically of stories that are designated to ruin the reputation of some identifiable person or persons. If the perpetrators remain anonymous, the victim is clearly specified. There is, arguably, something of a disguised democratic voice about gossip in the sense that it is propagated only to the extent that others find it in their interest to retell the story.13 If they don’t, it disappears. Above all, most gossip is a discourse about social rules that have been violated. A person’s reputation can be damaged by stories about his tightfistedness, his insulting words, his cheating, or his clothing only if the public among whom such tales circulate have shared standards of generosity, polite speech, honesty, and appropriate dress. Without an accepted normative standard from which degrees of deviation may be estimated, the notion of gossip would make no sense whatever. Gossip, in turn, reinforces these normative standards by invoking them and by teaching anyone who gossips precisely what kinds of conduct are likely to be mocked or despised. 13. The power to gossip is more democratically distributed than power, property, and income, and, certainly, than the freedom to speak openly. I do not mean to imply that gossip cannot and is not used by superiors to control subordinates, only that resources on this particular field of struggle are relatively more favorable to subordinates. Some people’s gossip is weightier than that of others, and, providing we do not confuse status with mere public deference, one would expect that those with high personal status would be the most effective gossipers.

उत्सव तुम क्या कभी श्मशान गई हो अवंतिका? क्या बताऊँ तुम्हें! ओह वह कैसा उत्सव है, कैसा आनंद, न देखो तो समझ नहीं पाओगी— पंचांग में नहीं ढूँढ़ पाओगी ऐसा उत्सव है यह कॉफ़ी के घूँट लेता हूँ अग्नि को घेर जींस-धोती-पतलून-बनियान व्यस्त हैं अविराम मद्धिम अग्नि कर रही है तेज नृत्य आनंदित होकर, धुएँ का वाद्य-यंत्र सुन कर जो लोग अश्रुपूरित आँखों से शामिल होने आए हैं उनकी भी मौज़ अंततः शेयर बाज़ार में क्या चढ़ा क्या गिरा, फिर टैक्सी पकड़ सामान्य निरामिष ख़रीददारी पुरोहित की दी हुई सूची अनुसार— चलना श्मशान काँधे पर सबसे सस्ते पलंग पर सोकर लिपस्टिक लगाकर ले जाएँगे एक दिन सभी प्रेमी मिल काँधे के ऊपर डार्लिंग…

I am a graduate of Calcutta University and employed as an Assistant Inspector, Calcutta Corporation. I am also a writer and used to visit the College Street Coffee House where young writers of Calcutta generally assembled in the evening. Samir Roychoudhury is a personal friend of mine. I came to know the sponsors of Hungry Generation, namely Shakti Chattopadhyay, Malay Roychoudhury and others. Although I am not directly connected with the Hungry Generation I was interested in the literary movement. Some of the manifesto of the Hungry Generation contain advertisement of my literary work. In one of the publication my name was cited as editor. This was probably done with a motive to exploit my reputation as writer but since my prior consent was not taken I took exception. The present publication in question also came to my notice. As a poet myself I do not approve either the theme or the language of the poem of Malay Roychoudhury captioned প্রচণ্ড বৈদ্যুতিক ছুতার ; I have severed all connection with Hungry Generation. I had correspondence with Malay Roychoudhury who often sought my advise in literary matters. Sandipan Chattopadhyay ( alias Pashupati Chatterjee ) 15 March 1965

He asked you not to like me, So why did you, Neera? Even now, I perform breaststrokes in caterpillar-stuffed north eastern clouds He didn’t ask me for any poems for 50 years, So why are you asking now, Neera? Even now, standing in 10-foot-deep water, I wield icy rods He wrote an editorial on my sub-judice case, Turning an editor, why are you asking for my writing, Neera? Even now, I love flatbreads stuffed with smoked penguin fat He did not confess to being my anthology’s publisher Why did you confess, Neera? Even now, I have family-pack yawns in the face of families, He didn’t like pronouncing my name So why are you telling it to youths, Neera? Even now, in bloody waters, I join the Bollywood chorus of tiger sharks He had said I have nothing of a true writer So why do you think I do, Neera? At Imlitala, I knew rat roasts don’t taste too good without charcoal smoke He said I have nothing creative in me So why do you think I do, Neera? Having burnt bank notes worth Rs 5,000 crore, I smelt death He said I’ll never write poetry So why do you think I have, Neera? On the banks of Amsterdam’s canals I have heard doddering old men sing limericks He transcended from sorrow to anger and anger to hate Why are you so generous Neera? Please don’t tell my grandmother.

The Hungryalist or the hungry generation movement was a literary movement in Bengali that was launched in 1961, by a group of young Bengali poets. It was spearheaded by the famous Hungryalist quartet — Malay Roychoudhury, Samir Roychoudhury, Shakti Chattopadhyay and Debi Roy. They had coined Hungryalism from the word ‘Hungry’ used by Geoffrey Chaucer in his poetic line “in the sowre hungry tyme”. The central theme of the movement was Oswald Spengler’s idea of History, that an ailing culture feeds on cultural elements brought from outside. These writers felt that Bengali culture had reached its zenith and was now living on alien food. . . . The movement was joined by other young poets like Utpal Kumar Basu, Binoy Majumdar, Sandipan Chattopadhyay, Basudeb Dasgupta, Falguni Roy, Tridib Mitra and many more. Their poetry spoke the displaced people and also contained huge resentment towards the government as well as profanity. … On September 2, 1964, arrest warrants were issued against 11 of the Hungry poets. The charges included obscenity in literature and subversive conspiracy against the state. The court case went on for years, which drew attention worldwide. Poets like Octavio Paz, Ernesto Cardenal and Beat poets like Allen Ginsberg visited Malay Roychoudhury. The Hungryalist movement also influenced Hindi, Marathi, Assamese, Telugu & Urdu literature.

Preparation - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury Who claims I'm ruined? Because I'm without fangs and claws? Are they necessary? How do you forget the knife plunged in abdomen up to the hilt? Green cardamom leaves for the buck, art of hatred and anger and of war, gagged and tied Santhal women, pink of lungs shattered by a restless dagger? Pride of sword pulled back from heart? I don't have songs or music. Only shrieks, when mouth is opened wordless odour of the jungle; corner of kin & sin-sanyas; Didn't pray for a tongue to take back the groans power to gnash and bear it. Fearless gunpowder bleats: stupidity is the sole faith-maimed generosity- I leap on the gambling table, knife in my teeth Encircle me rush in from tea and coffee plateaux in your gumboots of pleasant wages The way Jarasandha's genital is bisected and diamond glow Skill of beating up is the only wisdom in misery I play the burgler's stick like a flute brittle affection of thev wax-skin apple She-ants undress their wings before copulating I thump my thighs with alternate shrieks: VACATE THE UNIVERSE get out you omnicompetent conchshell in scratching monkeyhand lotus and mace and discuss-blade Let there be salt-rebellion of your own saline sweat along the gunpowder let the flint run towards explosion Marketeers of words daubed in darkness in the midnight filled with young dog's grief in the sicknoon of a grasshopper sunk in insecticide I reappear to exhibit the charm of the stiletto. (Translation of Bengali poem 'Prostuti')

Do you know what the expression ‘running amok’ means?” “‘Running amok?’ Yes, I think I do… a kind of intoxication affecting the Malays…” “It’s more than intoxication… it’s madness, a sort of human rabies, an attack of murderous, pointless monomania that bears no comparison with ordinary alcohol poisoning. I’ve studied several cases myself during my time in the East—it’s easy to be very wise and objective about other people—but I was never able to uncover the terrible secret of its origin. It may have something to do with the climate, the sultry, oppressive atmosphere that weighs on the nervous system like a storm until it suddenly breaks… well then, this is how it goes: a Malay, an ordinary, good-natured man, sits drinking his brew, impassive, indifferent, apathetic… just as I was sitting in my room… when suddenly he leaps to his feet, snatches his dagger and runs out into the street, going straight ahead of him, always straight ahead, with no idea of any destination. With his kris he strikes down anything that crosses his path, man or beast, and this murderous frenzy makes him even more deranged. He froths at the mouth as he runs, he howls like a lunatic… but he still runs and runs and runs, he doesn’t look right, he doesn’t look left, he just runs on screaming shrilly, brandishing his bloodstained kris as he forges straight ahead in that dreadful way. The people of the villages know that no power can halt a man running amok, so they shout warnings ahead when they see him coming—‘Amok! Amok!’—and everyone flees… but he runs on without hearing, without seeing, striking down anything he meets… until he is either shot dead like a mad dog or collapses of his own accord, still frothing at the mouth…

ओह मैं मर जाऊंगा मैं मर जाऊंगा मैं मर जाऊंगा मेरी त्वचा धधक रही है मुझे नहीं पता कि मैं क्या करूंगा जहां मैं जाऊंगा मैं बीमार हूं मैं सभी आर्ट्स को बट में मार दूंगा और शुभ को छोड़ दूंगा शुभा ने मुझे जाने दिया और तुम्हारे लौड़े के तरबूज में रहने लगी काले नष्ट हो चुके भगवा पर्दे की अप्रकाशित छाया में अन्य लंगर हटा लेने के बाद अंतिम लंगर मुझे छोड़ रहा है मैं अब और विरोध नहीं कर सकता, मेरे कॉर्टेक्स में एक लाख कांच के शीशे टूट रहे हैं मुझे पता है, शुभा, अपने मैट्रिक्स को फैलाओ, मुझे शांति दो प्रत्येक नस दिल तक आँसू की एक धारा ले जा रही है मस्तिष्क की संक्रामक लपटें अनन्त बीमारी से बाहर निकल रही हैं अन्य तुमने मुझे कंकाल के रूप में क्यों नहीं जन्म दिया मैं दो अरब प्रकाश वर्ष गया और भगवान की गांड को चूमा लेकिन मुझे कुछ भी अच्छा नहीं लगता है मैं एक से अधिक चुंबन के साथ मतली महसूस करता हूं मैंने महिलाओं को मैथुन के दौरान भुला दिया है और संग्रहालय लौट आया हूँ धूप के रंग वाले मूत्राशय में मुझे नहीं पता कि ये घटनाएँ क्या हैं लेकिन वे मेरे भीतर घटित हो रही हैं मैं सब कुछ नष्ट कर दूंगा शुभा को मेरी भूख को दूर करने और बढ़ाने के लिए शुभा को देना होगा ओह मलय कोलकाता आज गीले और फिसलन वाले अंगों का एक जुलूस लगता है लेकिन मुझे नहीं पता कि मैं अब खुद के साथ क्या करूंगा मेरी स्मरण शक्ति दूर हो रही है मुझे अकेले ही मृत्यु की ओर ले जाने दो मुझे मैथुन और मरना नहीं सीखना था मुझे आखिरी बूंदों को बहाने की जिम्मेदारी नहीं सीखनी पड़ी पेशाब के बाद अंधेरे में शुभा के पास जाकर लेटना नहीं सीखना था फ्रांसीसी चमड़े के उपयोग को सीखना नहीं पड़ा है नंदिता की छाती पर लेटते समय हालांकि मैं अलेया की स्वस्थ आत्मा चाहता था ताजा चीन-गुलाब मैट्रिक्स फिर भी मैंने अपने मस्तिष्क के प्रलय की शरण में जमा किया मैं यह समझने में असफल हो रहा हूं कि मैं अभी भी क्यों जीना चाहता हूं मैं अपने भ्रष्टाचारी सबर्णा-चौधरी पूर्वजों के बारे में सोच रहा हूँ मुझे कुछ अलग और नया करना होगा मुझे बिस्तर पर सोते समय आखिरी बार मुलायम त्वचा के रूप में दें शुभा का भोसड़ा मुझे याद है कि जिस क्षण मैं पैदा हुआ था उस समय की तेज धार वाली चमक थी मैं निधन से पहले अपनी मौत देखना चाहता हूं दुनिया का मलय रायचौधरी से कोई लेना-देना नहीं था शुभा ने मुझे कुछ पल तुम्हारे लिए सोने दिया हिंसक सिल्वर गर्भाशय मुझे शांति दो, शुभा, मुझे शांति दो मेरे मौसमी कंकाल को आपके मौसमी रक्त प्रवाह में नए सिरे से धोया जाए मुझे अपने शुक्राणु से अपने गर्भ में अपने आप को बनाने दो अगर मैं अलग-अलग माता-पिता होता तो क्या मैं ऐसा होता? क्या मलय उर्फ ​​मुझे बिल्कुल अलग शुक्राणु से संभव था? क्या मैं अपने पिता की अन्य महिलाओं के गर्भ में मलय होता? क्या मैंने अपना कोई पेशेवर सज्जन बनाया होगा शुभा के बिना मेरे मृत भाई की तरह? ओह, जवाब दो, किसी को ये जवाब दो शुभा, आह शुभा मुझे अपने सेलोफ़ेन हाइमन के माध्यम से पृथ्वी को देखने दो हरे गद्दे पर फिर से आ जाओ चूंकि कैथोड किरणों को चुंबक की चमक की गर्माहट के साथ चूसा जाता है

← জখম প্রচণ্ড বৈদ্যুতিক ছুতার ( Stark Electric Jesus ) ওঃ মরে যাব মরে যাব মরে যাব আমার চামড়ার লহমা জ্বলে যাচ্ছে অকাট্য তুরুপে আমি কী কোর্বো কোথায় যাব ওঃ কিছুই ভাল্লাগছে না সাহিত্য-ফাহিত্য লাথি মেরে চলে যাব শুভা শুভা আমাকে তোমার তর্মুজ আঙরাখার ভেতর চলে যেতে দাও চুর্মার অন্ধকারে জাফ্রান মশারির আলুলায়িত ছায়ায় সমস্ত নোঙর তুলে নেবার পর শেষ নোঙর আমাকে ছেড়ে চলে যাচ্ছে আর আমি পার্ছি না, অজস্র কাঁচ ভেঙে যাচ্ছে কর্টেক্সে আমি জানি শুভা, যোনি মেলে ধরো, শান্তি দাও প্রতিটি শিরা অশ্রুস্রোত বয়ে নিয়ে যাচ্ছে হৃদয়াভিগর্ভে শাশ্বত অসুস্হতায় পচে যাচ্ছে মগজের সংক্রামক স্ফুলিঙ্গ মা, তুমি আমায় কঙ্কালরূপে ভূমিষ্ঠ করলে না কেন ? তাহলে আমি দুকোটি আলোকবষহ ঈশ্বরের পোঁদে চুমো খেতুম কিন্তু কিছুই ভলো লাগছে না আমার কিচ্ছু ভালো লাগছে না একাধিক চুমো খেলে আমার গা গুলোয় ধর্ষণকালে নারীকে ভুলে গিয়ে শিল্পে ফিরে এসেছি কতদিন কবিতার আদিত্যবর্ণা মূত্রাশয়ে এসব কী হচ্ছে জানি না তবু বুকের মধ্যে ঘটে যাচ্ছে অহরহ সব ভেঙে চুরমার করে দেব শালা ছিন্নভিন্ন করে দেব তোমাদের পাঁজরাবদ্ধ উৎসব শুভাকে হিঁচড়ে উঠিয়ে নিয়ে যাব আমার ক্ষুধায় দিতেই হবে শুভাকে ওঃ মলয় কোল্কাতাকে আর্দ্র ও পিচ্ছিল বরাঙ্গের মি

A film, The Lost Continent, throws a clear light on the current myth of exoticism. It is a big documentary on 'the East', the pretext of which is some undefined ethnographic expedition, evidently false, incidentally, led by three or four Italians into the Malay archipelago. The film is euphoric, everything in it is easy, innocent. Our explorers are good fellows, who fill up their leisure time with child-like amusements: they play with their mascot, a little bear (a mascot is indispensable in all expeditions: no film about the polar region is without its tame seal, no documentary on the tropics is without its monkey), or they comically upset a dish of spaghetti on the deck. Which means that these good people, anthropologists though they are, don't bother much with historical or sociological problems. Penetrating the Orient never means more for them than a little trip in a boat, on an azure sea, in an essentially sunny country. And this same Orient which has today become the political centre of the world we see here all flattened, made smooth and gaudily coloured like an old-fashioned postcard. The device which produces irresponsibility is clear: colouring the world is always a means of denying it (and perhaps one should at this point begin an inquiry into the use of colour in the cinema). Deprived of all substance, driven back into colour, disembodied through the very glamour of the 'images', the Orient is ready for the spiriting away which the film has in store for it. What with the bear as a mascot and the droll spaghetti, our studio anthropologists will have no trouble in postulating an Orient which is exotic in form, while being in reality profoundly similar to the Occident, at least the Occident of spiritualist thought. Orientals have religions of their own? Never mind, these variations matter very little compared to the basic unity of idealism. Every rite is thus made at once specific and eternal, promoted at one stroke into a piquant spectacle and a quasi-Christian symbol. ...If we are concerned with fisherman, it is not the type of fishing which is whown; but rather, drowned in a garish sunset and eternalized, a romantic essense of the fisherman, presented not as a workman dependent by his technique and his gains on a definite society, but rather as the theme of an eternal condition, in which man is far away and exposed to the perils of the sea, and woman weeping and praying at home. The same applies to refugees, a long procession of which is shown at the beginning, coming down a mountain: to identify them is of course unnecessary: they are eternal essences of refugees, which it is in the nature of the East to produce.

Page 141: Group Polarization Patterns Political anger and demands for privileges are, of course, not limited to the less privileged. Indeed, even when demands are made in the name of less privileged racial or ethnic groups, often it is the more privileged members of such groups who make the demands and who benefit from policies designed to meet such demands. These demands may erupt suddenly in the wake of the creation (or sharp enlargement) of a newly educated class which sees its path to coveted middle-class professions blocked by competition of other groups--as in India, French Canada, or Lithuania, for example. * * * A rapid expansion of education is thus a factor in producing inter-group conflict, especially where the education is of a kind which produces diplomas rather than skills that have significant economic value in the marketplace. Education of a sort useful only for being a clerk, bureaucrat, school teacher--jobs whose numbers are relatively fixed in the short run and politically determined in the long run--tend to increase politicized inter-group strife. Yet newly emerging groups, whether in their own countries or abroad, tend to specialize precisely in such undemanding fields. Malay students, for example, have tended to specialize in Malay studies and Islamic studies, which provide them with no skills with which compete with the Chinese in the marketplace, either as businessmen, independent professionals, or technicians. Blacks and Hispanics in the United States follow a very similar pattern of specializing disproportionately in easier fields which offer less in the way of marketable skills. Such groups then have little choice but to turn to the government, not just for jobs but also for group preferences to be imposed in the market place, and for symbolic recognition in various forms. *** While economic interests are sometimes significant in explaining political decisions, they are by no means universally valid explanations. Educated elites from less advanced groups may have ample economic incentives to promote polarization and preferential treatment policies, but the real question is why the uneducated masses from such groups give them the political support without which they would be impotent. Indeed, it is often the less educated masses who unleash the mob violence from which their elite compatriots ultimately benefit--as in Malaysia, Sri Lanka, or parts of India, Africa, or the United States, where such violence has led to group preference policies in employment, educational institutions, and elsewhere. The common denominator in these highly disparate societies seems to be not only resentment of other groups' success but also fear of an inability to compete with them, combined with a painful embarrassment at being so visibly "under-represented"--or missing entirely—in prestigious occupations and institutions. To remedy this within apolitically relevant time horizon requires not simply increased opportunities but earmarked benefits directly given on a racial or ethnic basis.

Stark Electric Jesus Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die My skin is in blazing furore I do not know what I'll do where I'll go oh I am sick I'll kick all Arts in the butt and go away Shubha Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon In the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain The last anchor is leaving me after I got the other anchors lifted I can't resist anymore, a million glass panes are breaking in my cortex I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart Brain's contagious flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness other why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's ass But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse In to the sun-coloured bladder I do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring within me I'll destroy and shatter everything draw and elevate Shubha in to my hunger Shubha will have to be given Oh Malay Kolkata seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organs today But i do not know what I'll do now with my own self My power of recollection is withering away Let me ascend alone toward death I haven't had to learn copulation and dying I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops after urination Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in the darkness Have not had to learn the usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh China-rose matrix Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm I am failing to understand why I still want to live I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna-Choudhury ancestors I'll have to do something different and new Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of Shubha's bosom I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born I want to see my own death before passing away The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm Would I have been like this if I had different parents? Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm? Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father? Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha? Oh, answer, let somebody answer these Shubha, ah Shubha Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen Come back on the green mattress again As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of a magnet's brilliance I remember the letter of the final decision of 1956 The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time Fine rib-smashing roots were descending in to your bosom Stupid relationship inflated in the bypass of senseless neglect Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah I do not know whether I am going to die Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience I'll disrupt and destroy I'll split all in to pieces for the sake of Art There isn't any other way out for Poetry except suicide

ডোমনি ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, খয়েরি চাউমিন তাপের খোলসে জিভ দিয়ে পড়ে থাকি, টাকরা মন্দাক্রান্তা ছন্দে কাঁপে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, চরণ বিভক্ত তোর মধ্যযতি দিয়ে ঠোঁট চেপে পড়ে থাকি, বানভাসি ঢেউ খেলায় নদী ঢুকে আসে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, টানপ্রধান অনুষ্টুপ তোর তরল পয়ারে মুখ দিয়ে পড়ে থাকি শ্বাসযতি শ্বাসাঘাতে ছন্দখেয়ে টলি ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, বুকের স্তবকে রসের স্পর্ধা এনে দিস নাক দিয়ে পড়ে থাকি হরিণেরা কস্তুরি নাচে চৌপদীলঘু ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, স্বর্ণলতা কোঁকড়া চুলের আয়েসে কান দিয়ে পড়ে থাকি, বাণের বাকসম্ভোগী ডাক শুনি ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, আদি আলুথালু ক্রৌঞ্চী তোটক তৃণক গাল রেখে পড়ে থাকি, ত্রিগুণবারি বাকসম্ভোগে ঝরে কামচণ্ডালী ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, চাপল্যছাক্কস দ্রুতছন্দের আদিস্বরে গোঁফ দিয়ে সুড়সুড়ি দিই তোর কালিকাগহ্বরে, ধামালি দিগক্ষরা ওরে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, আমি খালিপিলি আকখা বিরামচিহ্ণে থামি মাথা গুঁজে পড়ে থাকি, অভেদ খুলে যায়, বেরোয় সিঙ্গলমল্ট মধু ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, স্হিতিস্হাপক লঘুদ্রূতি স্বরধ্বনি ওঠে হাত রেখে পড়ে থাকি, গোলাপরঙ ধরে, তোর মোহন আবসাঁথ উঁকি দেয় ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, অঙ্গটায় সুখ নেই, অঙ্গের চৈতন্যে পুরো সুখ বুক রেখে পড়ে থাকি, রঙমহলে ঢুকি, রিপুকে দমন করে নদীর রক্তমুখ ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, মন বলতে যা বোঝায় তা ওই দেহযজ্ঞখেলা উরু তুলে পড়ে থাকি, দেহমাতাল হই, মানবিক দেহযজ্ঞে ফারাক করিনে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, শরীরে রসের ভিয়েন, কামেই কাম নিবারণ সারাদিন স্বভাবঘোরে ঠেকায় সুরবাঁধা, গাধার পরজন্ম হয়, আমার তো নেই ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, দেহরস উর্ধগামী করাই সাধনা, অন্ত্যমিলে কোনো মিল নেই স্হানের অর্চক আমি, ডুবতে চেষ্টা করি, মাংস ছেড়ে প্রেমের স্বদেশ নেই কোনো ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, ফাটলের গান না বেরোলে বহু কষ্টে রাতদিন কাটে যতো ঝড় সব খামোশ তোর ও-তল্লাটে, চাতক প্রায় অহর্নিশি, চরণদাস আমি ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, লোকলজ্জার ভয় কাটিয়ে দিয়েছিলি সেই ষাটের দশকে তেকোনা মানবঘর আজব কারখানা, বন্ধুরা শত্রু হল শাঁখ-গেঁড়ি-শামুকের চেলা ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, মলয়দাস ভণে, শুনো গাণ্ডুগণ, কয়লাঅঙ্গ কালোলাল চাপান-ওতোর চলে, বিরল তিমিরজালে, মশকগৃহিণী বসে শত্রুদের নিতম্বপরে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, কৌশলে সাড়া দিস, বীজরস শুষে নিস, যেন চোরাবালি অনল-হিল্লোল-ধারা, মাথাথুয়ে বর্ত্মফাঁকে, বিচিত্র আলোকোদয়ে চাটি রসমধু ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, অলক্ষ্মী অলকায় যাক, অলক্ষ্মী অমরায় যায় যাক মাংসের ছটায় মজে, কালো পদ্মফুলে সেজে, চটচটে মাত্রাবৃত্তে অন্ধকার হবি ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, ঢুলু-ঢুলু দুই চোখে, ছটফটাস বেওকুফ মাস্তানের ঢঙে হাঁফাস আর বলে উঠিস, করুক্ষেত্র কোথাকার, ভেতরে ফেলিস না কেন ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, আমি তো বাউলক্ষ্যাপা, ওরে এটাই আসল শিক্ষে মলয়হাংরি বলেছেন জোয়ার ভাটায় চলে ফেরে সাগর কিন্তু শুকায় না রে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, কী করিতে কিবা করি, বীর্যে বোঝাই তরি ছিলুম কোথা এলুম হেথা যাবো কোথায় কার সনে প্রেমের উর্ধলোকে ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, মনের মানুষ বলে কিছু নেই, সবই দেহের মানুষী আদিশক্তি পরম যুবতী আমার দেহ চালাস তুই মানুষ আড়তরসিক ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, সাধনসঙ্গিনী, বিরল তিমিরজালে ফাঁসালি আমাকে বাবা বলে কেন ডাকিস, আমার আলজিভ নেই, গানের কন্ঠস্বর নেই ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, তুই কালচেদেহ, ডাগর দু'চোখ, চেরিফল বুক মা বলে ডাকতে পারি না তোকে, মনে হয় ইনসেসচুয়াস এই বাউলসম্পর্ক ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, আলোজ্বলা এ-সম্পর্ক, ক্ষ্যাপাহাংরি সহ্য করে বেমালুম মাবুদ মজুদ তুই এই শরীরে থাকিস, তোকেই ভজনা করি আমার কবিতায় ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, মলয়দাস বলে মিছে গণ্ডোগোল ভবে এসে শুনতে পাই এই যে বীজ বা বীর্য, এর কী আলাদা কিছু আছে ? চাঁদ সবায়ের এক, চাঁদের আলোও ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, মানুষের বীজে হয় না ঘোড়া, ঘোড়ার বীজে হয়না প্রজাপতি হিন্দু শিয়া-সুন্নি মুসলমান খ্রিস্টান বৌদ্ধ জৈন শিখ আহমেদিয়া ইহুদি অনাস্তিক ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, খাজাবাবা খাজাবাবা মারহাবা মারহাবা, মস্ত কলন্দর ওরে ইশকের গাঁজা ফুঁকলে হয় রুহ তরতাজা যেন নৌকা চরস টেনে চলেছে মাতাল ডোমনি, তুইই দয়াল, সুকুমার চৌধুরীকে বল দেখি আশেক হলে মাশুক মিলবে ওর পড়ে থাকুক জিভ ঠোঁট মুখ গাল বুক ঠ্যাঙ হাত দিয়ে মন্দাক্রান্তা আমিষাশি বীর্যকবিতায়...

ওঃ মরে যাব মরে যাব মরে যাব আমার চামড়ার লহমা জ্বলে যাচ্ছে অকাট্য তুরুপে আমি কী কোর্বো কোথায় যাব ওঃ কিছুই ভাল্লাগছে না সাহিত্য-ফাহিত্য লাথি মেরে চলে যাব শুভা শুভা আমাকে তোমার তর্মুজ আঙরাখার ভেতর চলে যেতে দাও চুর্মার অন্ধকারে জাফ্রান মশারির আলুলায়িত ছায়ায় সমস্ত নোঙর তুলে নেবার পর শেষ নোঙর আমাকে ছেড়ে চলে যাচ্ছে আর আমি পার্ছি না, অজস্র কাঁচ ভেঙে যাচ্ছে কর্টেক্সে আমি জানি শুভা, যোনি মেলে ধরো, শান্তি দাও প্রতিটি শিরা অশ্রুস্রোত বয়ে নিয়ে যাচ্ছে হৃদয়াভিগর্ভে শাশ্বত অসুস্হতায় পচে যাচ্ছে মগজের সংক্রামক স্ফুলিঙ্গ মা, তুমি আমায় কঙ্কালরূপে ভূমিষ্ঠ করলে না কেন ? তাহলে আমি দুকোটি আলোকবষহ ঈশ্বরের পোঁদে চুমো খেতুম কিন্তু কিছুই ভলো লাগছে না আমার কিচ্ছু ভালো লাগছে না একাধিক চুমো খেলে আমার গা গুলোয় ধর্ষণকালে নারীকে ভুলে গিয়ে শিল্পে ফিরে এসেছি কতদিন কবিতার আদিত্যবর্ণা মূত্রাশয়ে এসব কী হচ্ছে জানি না তবু বুকের মধ্যে ঘটে যাচ্ছে অহরহ সব ভেঙে চুরমার করে দেব শালা ছিন্নভিন্ন করে দেব তোমাদের পাঁজরাবদ্ধ উৎসব শুভাকে হিঁচড়ে উঠিয়ে নিয়ে যাব আমার ক্ষুধায় দিতেই হবে শুভাকে ওঃ মলয় কোল্কাতাকে আর্দ্র ও পিচ্ছিল বরাঙ্গের মিছিল মনে হচ্ছে আজ কিন্তু আমাকে নিয়ে আমি কী কোর্বো বুঝতে পার্ছি না আমার স্মৃতিশক্তি নষ্ট হয়ে যাচ্ছে আমাকে মৃত্যুর দিকে যেতে দাও একা আমাকে ধর্ষণ ও মরে যাওয়া শিখে নিতে হয়নি প্রস্রাবের পর শেষ ফোঁটা ঝাড়ার দায়িত্ব আমায় শিখতে হয়নি অন্ধকারে শুভার পাশে গিয়ে শুয়ে পড়া শিখতে হয়নি শিখতে হয়নি নন্দিতার বুকের ওপর শুয়ে ফরাসি চামড়ার ব্যবহার অথচ আমি চেয়েছিলুম আলেয়ার নতুন জবার মতো যোনির সুস্হতা যোনোকেশরে কাঁচের টুকরোর মতন ঘামের সুস্হতা আজ আমি মগজের শরণাপন্ন বিপর্যয়ের দিকে চলে এলুম আমি বুঝতে পার্ছি না কী জন্যে আমি বেঁচে থাকতে চাইছি আমার পূর্বপুরুষ লম্পট সাবর্ণচৌধুরীদের কথা আমি ভাবছি আমাকে নতুন ও ভিন্নতর কিছু কোর্তে হবে শুভার স্তনের ত্বকের মতো বিছানায় শেষবার ঘুমোতে দাও আমায় জন্মমুহূর্তের তীব্রচ্ছটা সূর্যজখম মনে পড়ছে আমি আমার নিজের মৃত্যু দেখে যেতে চাই মলয় রায়চৌধুরীর প্রয়োজন পৃথিবীর ছিল না তোমার তীব্র রূপালি য়ূটেরাসে ঘুমোতে দাও কিছুকাল শুভা শান্তি দাও, শুভা শান্তি দাও তোমার ঋতুস্রাবে ধুয়ে যেতে দাও আমার পাপতাড়িত কঙ্কাল আমাকে তোমার গর্ভে আমারই শুক্র থেকে জন্ম নিতে দাও আমার বাবা-মা আন্য হলেও কি আমি এরকম হতুম ? সম্পূর্ণ ভিন্ন এক শুক্র থেকে মলয় ওর্ফে আমি হতে পার্তুম ? আমার বাবার অন্য নারীর গর্ভে ঢুকেও কি মলয় হতুম ? শুভা না থাকলে আমিও কি পেশাদার ভদ্রলোক হতুম মৃত ভায়ের মতন ? ওঃ বলুক কেউ এসবের জবাবদিহি করুক শুভা, ওঃ শুভা তোমার সেলোফেন সতীচ্ছদের মধ্যে দিয়ে পৃথিবীটা দেখতে দাও আমায় পুনরায় সবুজ তোশকের ওপর চলে এসো শুভা যেমন ক্যাথোড রশ্মিকে তীক্ষ্ণধী চুম্বকের আঁচ মেরে তুলতে হয় ১৯৫৬ সালের সেই হেস্তনেস্তকারী চিঠি মনে পড়ছে তখন ভাল্লুকের ছাল দিয়ে সাজানো হচ্ছিল তোমার ক্লিটোরিসের আশপাশ পাঁজর নিকুচি করা ঝুরি তখন তোমার স্তনে নামছে হুঁশাহুঁশহীন গাফিলতির বর্ত্মে স্ফীত হয়ে উঠছে নির্বোধ আত্মীয়তা আ আ আ আ আ আ আ আ আ আঃ মরে যাব কিনা বুঝতে পার্ছি না তুল্কালাম হয়ে যাচ্ছে বুকের ভেতরকার সমগ্র অসহায়তায় সব কিছু ভেঙে তছনছ করে দিয়ে যাব শিল্পের জন্যে সক্কোলকে ভেঙে খান-খান করে দোব কবিতার জন্যে আত্মহত্যা ছাড়া স্বাভাবিকতা নেই শুভা আমাকে তোমার লাবিয়া ম্যাজোরার স্মরণাতীত অসংযমে প্রবেশ কোর্তে দাও দুঃখহীন আয়াসের অসম্ভাব্যতায় যেতে দাও বেসামাল হৃদয়বত্তার স্বর্ণসবুজে কেন আমি হারিয়ে যাইনি আমার মায়ের যোনিবর্ত্মে ? কেন আমি পিতার আত্মমৈথুনের পর তাঁর পেচ্ছাপে বয়ে যাইনি ? কেন আমি রজোস্রাবে মিশে যাইনি শ্লেষ্মায় ? অথচ আমার নীচে চিত আধবোজা অবস্হায় আরামগ্রহণকারিণী শুভাকে দেখে ভীষণ কষ্ট হয়েছে আমার এরকম অসহায় চেহারা ফুটিয়েও নারী বিশ্বাসঘাতিনী হয় আজ মনে হয় নারী ও শিল্পের মতো বিশ্বাসঘাতিনী কিছু নেই এখন আমার হি২স্র হৃৎপিণ্ড অসম্ভব মৃত্যুর দিকে যাচ্ছে মাটি ফুঁড়ে জলের ঘূর্ণি আমার গলা ওব্দি উঠে আসছে আমি মরে যাব ওঃ এসমস্ত কী ঘটছে আমার মধ্যে আমি আমার হাত হাতের চেটো খুঁজে পাচ্ছি না পায়জামায় শুকিয়ে-যাওয়া বীর্য থেকে ডানা মেলছে ৩০০০০০ শিশু উড়ে যাচ্ছে শুভার স্তনমণ্ডলীর দিকে ঝাঁকে-ঝাঁকে ছুঁচ ছুটে যাচ্ছে রক্ত থেকে কবিতায় এখন আমার জেদি ঠ্যাঙের চোরাচালান সেঁদোতে চাইছে হিপ্নোটিক শব্দরাজ্য থেকে ফাঁসানো মৃত্যুভেদী যৌনপর্চুলায় ঘর

In the eyes of many Malayans, it was a zero-sum game. Help for one race was viewed as a loss for another. Loyalty to the country would be difficult to nurture among the immigrant races if they felt they were second-class citizens politically. Acceptance of the immigrants by the Malays would be hard since they felt they should be favored over the immigrants. Unity and equity – could they be reconciled? It has been said that “high tides raise all boats,” and perhaps rapid economic growth could help solve the racial problems.

The ability of the Malay political leadership through UMNO to mobilize Malay public opinion caught the British by surprise. A people who only a decade earlier had seemed docile and apathetic were suddenly making their views known through mass demonstrations. The strength and emotion of the Malay reaction convinced the British that they had miscalculated. The British sat down with the Malay political leadership to come up with an alternative to the Malayan Union.

The Malays were outstripped economically in their own country by the immigrant races. In the words of historian Lennox Mills, “when the British came, the Malay was a poor man in a poor country; when they left he was a poor man in a rich country.” British attitudes and policies, what the Malays did for a living, the strengths of the immigrants and the nature of the Malay value system all contributed to their backward economic position.