Moumita Alam

Author

Pratishtha Pandya

Editor

Atharva Vankundre

Illustration

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The words from my mother’s language are failing me these days. I need the language of birds, deer, peacocks, cows, goats. I need to borrow the alphabet from the trees, air, water, river, mountain, land, unnamed flowers, fireflies, crickets. But they are dying. Do the dead have a language too? Do they have words? I do not have to go in search of death; it visits me every day. Death of the dispossessed. Death caused by starvation, famine, flood, deforestation, decimation, discrimination, bulldozers, bombs. But I am left empty handed. The dead have no voice, no words. They only have a smell, like that of hidden sins. An all-pervading smell that no one talks about. But now this smell cuts across the masks that we have been wearing to protect us from a pandemic. And unable to tell my stories I am dying. My search for the language does not end and I write some broken poems:

The language of the fish, frogs and a few fractured poems

کیا مرنے والوں کی بھی کوئی زبان ہوتی ہے؟

చేపల, కప్పల, కొన్ని బీటలువారిన కవితల భాష 

ମାଛ, ବେଙ୍ଗ ଓ କେତୋଟି ଭଙ୍ଗୁର କବିତାର ଭାଷା 

மீன், தவளைகள் மற்றும் உடைந்த சில கவிதைகளின் மொழி

ਮਰ ਰਹੇ ਨੇ ਮੱਛੀ ਤੇ ਡੱਡੂ ਅਤੇ ਮਰ ਰਹੀ ਹੈ ਕਵਿਤਾ ਵੀ

मासे, बेडूक आणि काही भंगलेल्या कवितांची भाषा

ജലജീവികളുടേയും പരിക്കുപറ്റിയ ഏതാനും കവിതകളുടേയും ഭാഷ

ಮೀನು, ಕಪ್ಪೆಗಳು ಮತ್ತು ಕೆಲವು ದುರ್ಬಲ ಕವನಗಳ ಭಾಷೆ

क्या मृतकों की भी कोई भाषा होती है?

मुर्दा मन नइ बोलंय  

मछरी, बेंग, गाछ, गीध ना बचल, त भाषो बिला जाई

মাছ, চৰাইৰ ভাষা আৰু ভগা কেইটামান কবিতাৰ টুকুৰা 

মাছের ভাষা, ব্যাঙের বুলি আর বিদীর্ণ কবিতাগুচ্ছ

Bakali

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The language of the fish, frogs and a few fractured poems

A poet mourns the loss of language that comes along with many other losses of lives, livelihoods, climate, and a world as we knew it once. All at the altar of greed and power

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