Monua in Boston (revised)
My
sister told me how, in her college days,
She’d
traveled from South Hadley, a satellite
Of
Amherst town, to busy Boston, where,
One
winter’s eve, she waited for a bus –
And
everyone that passed by, in that cold
And
sullen night, seemed wrapped in such a fog
That
none could see through it. For each was
trapped,
It
seemed to her, within a private hell.
How much
of this was she, and how much they,
Those
strangers, passing, in that urban cold,
My
sister – born to sun, of sky and heart,
I do not
know – for this, she did not tell.
But what
she saw were tense expressions – frowns,
That
lack of recognition, which our towns
Impose
on those who yield. And this extends
To all
around, as if all else were dead.
But this
much, I can now surmise, with sight
That I
then lacked – that she perhaps was wise,
From isolations
that I’d never known,
And so
could see, how troubled were those souls,
So
locked within themselves – and round and round
In
endless circles of frustration bound,
With
self consuming self, without an out
From
friendship, love, or care for what’s without…
It is
this isolation – the living grave
Of urban
life within efficient towns,
Where
human contact and affections are
Redundant
– where so many daily live
As
jackals lone, whom Nature made as dogs –
That
leads, I think, to higher suicide rates
In
Scandinavia, where the Vikings live
In
indoor warmth, in winters cold and dark.
They
lack, perhaps, that rawest sustenance
That
humans give, to others of their kind,
By their
demands and their annoying ways
Which
draw us out of selves – and into sun.
And if
we see this, in the truest light,
We will
not turn away, although our souls
May need a refuge, finding deep delight
In
quietness – as in a silent night.
How much of this, my sister had surmised,
How much she hadn’t, only she could tell,
Who told me, Boston seemed a rung of hell.
I’m sure Bostonians might, at this, object.
And one experience, on a winter’s eve,
Should not be used to beat a city down.
But this I know, what Monua then perceived,
Had left its scar.
I heard – and I believed.
For Boston’s just a marker. What she saw,
We all might see in cities ‘round the world.
Wherever men and women take to heart
The dictates of the demon-engine, there
We find the blight that rots us from within.
It leaves us sickened, faces turned to masks,
As each is writhing in what Dante scribed –
A place infernal, though we walk on earth.
Babui
(Arjun) Janah
2006
June 4th, Sun.
Berkeley,
California
(revised
& with the last two stanzas added,
2013
Dec. 19th, Thu., Brooklyn, New York)
In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004
Note on pronunciation: My late sister’s name, Monua,
has, in Bangla (Bengali), three smoothly joined and almost evenly stressed syllables,
Mo-nu-a, with the three vowels being as in English “gold” (but shorter),
“put” (but slightly longer) and “arm” (but shorter).
The first vowel gets, usually, just a slight
emphasis – through a bit more of duration and loudness. Since the last two vowels form a smooth diphthong,
her name might also be thought of as having just two syllables, Mo-nua,
with the “u” being, however, a distinct short “u”, (as in “put”) not a “w”.
