THE TRUANT ONE and other poems of Prithvijeet Sinha

Poetry Editor Ananya Guha’s note: Prithvijeet Sinha’s poems are an expression of rootedness in his land. His poems have a verve and buoyancy about them. Written in a lyrical mode his poems gather weight with words.


There he goes flooding a hamlet,

fishing for a naturalist among all

Trades one last deal with the delta,as monsoon disrobes his rest.

Overhears South West Wind’s annual arrangement,

exercising his best butterfly stroke.

Then accosts naive plains

in one final lap

The sprite of rivers


Shedding his pen name Tsangpo

like a second skin,

swirling with his favourite tributaries,

He imitates flying kisses of Assam tea gardens,terraced bonhomie as it is.

The naughty man child Bhramaputra,

planting random pecks and stolen glances at folklores.

A radiant demand is sought

as fragrancy of Rongali Bihu harvests joy.

A time when he’s calm,shallow and draws margins of composure.

His overweening free will equal to streaming throngs at the hill top pilgrimage.

Kamakhya then restrains her third eye and guards her sentinels,

so high and far flung,

so as to minoritise his ego.

The Eastern truant

He swells with pride

Takes his community’s lead and lets loose his unnatural annual dance,as graceless and footless as it is.

To which he betrays none of his imp like ways.

Or the notoriety of the human burden.

Until he finds the true naturalist,

The non abusive patron

who simply tugs at his pure depth,

He charts his moody course.

Lest that one cannot be found,

Bhramaputra,the agile troublemaker, goes flooding plains of yore.


*Bhramaputra is a large river that flows through the state of Assam and is inevitably among the largest in the world, the state of Assam,on the other hand, is famous for its tea gardens and beauty.

Bhramaputra is known as Tsangpo too and also has made way for one of the largest river islands of the world, which is called Majuli island.

#Kamakhya: one of the forms of Goddess Durga whose temple is situated on a hill , below which the mighty Bhramaputra flows.

#Rongali Bihu: the popular dance form of Assam, meant to signify the season of good harvest and renewed possibilities.




The land of Bhramaputra overflows again,

An eulogy for your saltwater spirit and sweetened smiles

An elegy for God’s early call and determined will power,

He took you this time, in all finality.

We lost you to an unexpected flood,

Your promise of”I will come”all deposited in the eternal distance.

All these years, you said,” I will surely come to your city of royal charm and grand etiquettes”.

With red teeth, flashed a whisper of aborted joy.

A promise that travelled a thousand miles through telephone cords.

How I had longed to see you,

felt like Bhramaputra had flooded my veins,

so much outpouring of nostalgia.

Eight long valleys stood in way of years ,

every attempt at sweetened union failed to gather temporal certainty.

Now you are gone,

Gone are your cascading tresses,

Your irrepressible hands over your daughter’s head,

Gone is the Bengali simplicity.

Another part has left the stage,

left me with those black and white reminders,

snapshots of you as a dignified evocation which I saw a dozen times,

A day before your farewell stilled my exhilaration.

You are gone,

gone is the Bhramaputra’s high tide.

It has made shallow inroads into your address.

Your ship of sweetened promise has sailed,

Other boats have stayed firmly in deck.

Alas! The last ship has sailed,

with a banner of your red teeth and sweetened smiles,

They are my presents to keep.

# Bhramaputra: a mighty river .

#Bengali: from the state of Bengal or of Bengali extraction.

# This poem  is a tribute to a loved one lost.



Bellies protruded out,

A lithograph in blood

Below the waist,

Fatal consummation

Forged passes and ports

A Promised Land


Ethnicity crying foul.

One dark finger and one plea

Commissioned gun shots

One shriek became the

shrine of evanescence.

Boyish charm,rugged cheeks

Symbolic at eighteen

warrior temperaments and

The Promised Land revealed

Night time disturbance

Day time defiance

Your chance, my demand

At last, a failed misery

The streets are gallows

Lofty with dead swallows

A blackened landslide

Where chastened white

doves brood.

This poem is a tribute to the exemplary courage and worldviews of Malala Yousafzai.



Thunder was his stride

In observing tact lay my pride.

With limbs outstretched, I wanted to fly

His shadow cut me short.

Father’s, brothers and guardian angels,where do I then take my flight?

I never was told to take my steps back,

but knew my way was in walking around silent fortresses.

A walled city fortified by roving eyes.

Yet I prevailed.

I raised my voice,

pipped their power

Fathers, brothers and guardian angels told me

to maintain a dignified, shy, cool, feminine, womanly honour.

I defied their every word.

Armaments of hate,

instruments of rebuke aimed at me,

they hovered around.

Watched my every move with bloodshot eyes.

As if I knew my moon had stains on it.

My old man told me otherwise.

He said,” don’t let the desolate apex tear you down,

you were meant to break stereotypes.”

On most fine days,

eagles circled my sparse valley’s upper reaches,

looking for prey.

A muffled giggle passed my lips

Weren’t we too preys down here in our own sanctuaries?

Bombs and guns sheared our spirits

only if he could see it was not fear of death that held us captive.

It was the nightmare of disrobing veils of silence which outraged our modesties.

For a century, we bowed our heads in shame

Prostrated at the feet of our lords, masters and commanders

Bore them a generation to stake their manhood on.

A feudal twirl of the moustache informing the world of their invincibility,

then our doors were latched

That was it,our work was done, they said

“Dare to cross your thresholds, and you will know”.

I, with head held high,with eyes sparkling bright,

led the doors ajar.

Caught on the wrong side of barbed fences and ripe age,

I read the psalm of enlightenment,

took the pen to be mightier than their rough edged swords.

Till one betokened day saw me bloodied,half dead on sand dunes of time.

“Choke her last breath of resilience,

look down thy imperious comrades of God’s will,

at her trembling, wincing self”.

Wielding weapons of impotency,they sneered at me.

A cold shiver passed down my spine.

A few moments ago, my life flashed before my eyes,

Never for once did the hardships strain them.

But was it all for nothing?

I was dead till I awoke.

A new day embraced me in its bosom.

Taking me by my hands,

made me climb every stage where my voice trebled.

In the blink of an eye,I was the ambassador of faith.

Shadows of silence had crept out of my skin and stood bare,

before every crooked eye , vulgate mouth, pointing finger.

I was born to crusade.

I became the light that gives way to darkness.

I took the nobel token in my hands.

Don’t spare your rods the chance to hit me hard if I fall on your path.

But fear the light of my virtue.

Look at how my flame becomes our fireball.

See your serrated edges melt,

as I etch our names on the sand dunes of time.

(All of the above poems have originally been published as part of Prithvijeet’s poetry collection WHISTLING CHIMES on Wattpad will full copyright.)

Prithvijeet  Sinha lives in Lucknow. A student of English literature who has pursued his BA Hons, Masters and M Phil degrees from the Department of English and Modern European Languages, University of Lucknow, he has always believed in the power of words.

He has been publishing his poetry and essay collections on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and since June 2018 has been broadening his horizons further on his WordPress blog AN AWADH BOY’S PANORAMA : TRACING WORDS ON THESE FILIGREED, DISCERNING FINGERTIPS.

His works have been published on GNOSIS JOURNAL, CONFLUENCE – SOUTH ASIAN PERSPECTIVES SINCE 2002, THE MEDLEY – literary journal of OSTRACA, Hans Raj College, New Delhi, Cafe Dissensus Everyday, Cafe Dissensus Magazine, participated in the Change the World contest of FORWARD POETRY, UK, including mini movie reviews on Google movies (for MONSTER’S BALL, THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE, A CONVERSATION WITH GREGORY PECK and RUKMAVATI KI HAVELI) and a letter to the editor in Reader’s Digest.

Ananya S Guha

Ananya S Guha

Ananya S Guha works in the Indira Gandhi National Open University, Shillong (Meghalaya) as an Academic Administrator. He has over 30 years of teaching and administrative experience. He has six collections of poetry and his forms have been published world wide. Some of his poems are due to appear soon in an Anthology of Indian Poetry in English to be published by Harper Collins.