My Mother by Rehna Sultana
I was dropped on your lap my mother
Just as my father, grandfather, great-grandfather
And yet you detest me, my mother,
For who I am.
Yes, I was dropped on your lap as
a cursed Miyah, my mother.
You can’t trust me
Because I have somehow grown this
beard.
Somehow slipped into a lungi
I am tired, tired of introducing myself
To you.
I bear all your insults and still shout,
Mother! I am yours!
Sometimes I wonder
What did I gain by falling in your lap?
I have no identity, no language
I have lost myself, lost everything
That could define me
And yet I hold you close
I try to melt into you
I need nothing, my mother.
Just a spot at your feet.
Open your eyes once mother
Open your lips
Tell these sons of the earth
That we are all bothers.
And yet I tell you again
I am just another child
I am not a ‘Miyah cunt’
Not a ‘Bangladeshi’
Miyah I am,
A Miyah.
I can’t string words through poetry
Can’t sing my pain in verse
This prayer, this is all I have.
Write Down ‘I am a Miyah’ by Hafiz Ahmed
Translated by Shalim M. Hussain
Write
Write Down
I am a Miya
My serial number in the NRC is 200543
I have two children
Another is coming
Next summer.
Will you hate him
As you hate me?
Write
I am a Miya
I turn waste, marshy lands
To green paddy fields
To feed you.
I carry bricks
To build your buildings
Drive your car
For your comfort
Clean your drain
To keep you healthy.
I have always been
In your service
And yet
you are dissatisfied!
Write down
I am a Miya,
A citizen of a democratic, secular, Republic
Without any rights
My mother a D voter,
Though her parents are Indian.
If you wish kill me, drive me from my village,
Snatch my green fields
hire bulldozers
To roll over me.
Your bullets
Can shatter my breast
for no crime.
Write
I am a Miya
Of the Brahamaputra
Your torture
Has burnt my body black
Reddened my eyes with fire.
Beware!
I have nothing but anger in stock.
Keep away!
Or
Turn to Ashes.
I Beg To State That by Khabir Ahmed
Translated by Shalim M Hussain
I beg to state that
I am a settler, a hated Miyah
Whatever be the case, my name is
Ismail Sheikh, Ramzan Ali or Majid Miyah
Subject - I am an Assamese Asomiya
I have many things to say
Stories older than Assam’s folktales
Stories older than the blood
Flowing through your veins
After forty years of independence
I have no space in the words of beloved writers
The brush of your scriptwriters doesn’t dip in my picture
My name left unpronounced in assemblies and parliaments
On no martyr’s memorial, on no news report is my name printed
Even in tiny letters.
Besides, you haven’t yet decided what to call me -
Am I Miyah, Asomiya or Neo-Asomiya?
And yet you talk of the river
The river is Assam’s mother, you say
You talk of trees
Assam is the land of blue hills, you say
My spine is tough, steadfast as the trees
The shade of the trees my address…
You talk of farmers, workers
Assam is the land of rice and labour, you say
I bow before paddy, I bow before sweat
For I am a farmer’s boy…
I beg to state that I am a
Settler, a dirty Miyah
Whatever be the case, my name
Is Khabir Ahmed or Mijanur Miyah
Subject - I am an Assamese Asomiya.Sometime in the last century, I lost
My address in the storms of the Padma
A merchant’s boat found me drifting and dropped me here
Since then I have held close to my heart this land, this earth
And began a new journey of discovery
From Sadiya to Dhubri…
Since that day
I have flattened the red hills
Chopped forests into cities, rolled-earth into bricks
From bricks built monuments
Laid stones on the earth, burnt my body black with peat
Swam rivers, stood on the bank
And dammed floods
Irrigated crops with my blood and sweat
And with the plough of my fathers, etched on the earth
A…S…S…A…M
Even I waited for freedom
Built a nest in the river reeds
Sang songs in Bhatiyali
When the Father came visiting,
I listened to the music of the Luit
In the evening stood by the Kolong, the Kopili
And saw on their banks gold.
Suddenly a rough hand brushed my face
On a burning night in ‘83
My nation stood on the black hearths of Nellie and screamed
The clouds caught fire at Mukalmua and Rupohi, Juria,
Saya Daka, Pakhi Daka - homes of the Miyahs
Burnt like cemeteries
The floods of ’84 carried my golden harvest
In ’85 a gang of gamblers auctioned me
On the floor of the Assembly.
Whatever be the case, my name
Is Ismail Sheikh, Ramzan Ali or Mazid Miyah
Subject - I am an Assamese Asomiya.