[Kiriti Sengupta’s Selected Poems published by Transcendent Zero Press, Houston (Texas)]

By Mitali Chakravarty

“What if you weren’t a poet?”
(“Intrinsic”)

Well, he wasn’t. A poet.

I am referring to Kiriti Sengupta, who began as a dentist and developed a passion for poetry. He ran away from his clinic to write, surviving on a packet of instant noodles a day for three years. His story reminds one of Moon and the Six Pence by Somerset Maugham, brings to mind the artist Paul Gaugin’s life, and more recently, the tale I heard of 26-year-old Michelangelo making David. He locked himself away in secret with the slab of marble that had been rejected by a few artists for three years to complete the statue that is now held in awe. From Michelangelo’s narrative, one can only guess at the passion and devotion that gave life to a defective piece of rock. Was it the same kind of passion and devotion that drove Kiriti Sengupta to abandon his lucrative profession to pursue one that has penury written all over it?  When Kiriti wrote “Intrinsic”, was he expressing his own enigma?

In his Selected Poems, we come across a range of poetry that could perhaps help find answers about the strange life of Kiriti Sengupta. The poems in the beginning have a spiritual fervour. He writes:

“For years, I’ve been searching
for the flavors
of birth and death.” (“The Source”)

We find passion too —

“No one knew I worshiped you
with my flaming heart.” (“The Air”) 

In some poems, there is a sense of space creating connections between the seemingly unconnected —

“I reach for the sky
as I draw a circle in the water.
Looking at the image,
I take a dip.” (“Beyond the Eyes”)

And then, there are profound observations made tersely — typically in the style he espouses.

“God and life
Moving apart.” (“Namesake,” 4)

He has a series of prose poems that are deeply philosophical. Sengupta’s poetry needs mulling. It leaves an aftertaste — you never know exactly what he says. Some of it is deeply embedded in the suffering he sees around him. He starts to question beliefs —

“How does one become a monk? Is it by renouncing the fruits of actions one
undertakes? Even the gods invite dependence, and remember, they are 
considered superior to the saints.” (“Saffron”) 

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“The Vedas did not count on malnutrition; they did not even consider the environment, let alone poverty. I wonder if the Vedic scriptures were written by a group of wise men who never lived on this earth.” (“Fire”)

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“If scriptures are made for humans, what about humanity?” (“Cow”) 

And while he questions the relevance of rituals and beliefs, we come across a practical streak as his pronounced sardonic voice starts to make itself heard —

“You work to get paid. Your family awaits money on your payday. Does wisdom urge you to neglect your loved ones?” (“Payment”)

To meet his needs and ignite his passion for words, Kiriti joined Bitan Chakraborty to create the offbeat publishing platform, Hawakal. As Chakraborty said in an interview, Hawakal takes their books to readers. Thus, book fairs become central to their existence. Sengupta writes in a poem titled “After the Book Fair” —

“Their premises won’t attract readers
anymore. Publishers, sellers, and a handful of
authors will spend hours in packing
books and goods unsold. From the shelves,
new hope will follow the merchandise.
Apprehensions too will fill spaces in
the packs. A sense of relief prevails
over bargains.”

It almost reminds one of the paintings of Degas where he paints ballerinas in the backstage and in rehearsals. And yet, Sengupta writes — with a soupçon of humour of his past as a dentist —

“I prefer patients who are edentulous. I dread
a tooth will wrangle my expertise, and I’ll fail
to make an impression.” (“Dentures”)

He has lighter poems like “From Being Late in Calcutta” which reflects the city he grew up in. A series of vignettes on rural Bengal are in a more serious vein. It is obviously not all beautiful, idealistic, and green in Sengupta’s world. One of the poets he often quotes from Bengal is Sukanta Bhattacharya (1926-1947). Bhattacharya was a brilliant poet who died of tuberculosis at the young age of 21. Bhattacharya not only took a rebellious stance against the British but also wrote about the abject state of humanity. While quoting lines from him (translated by Sengupta), Kiriti writes in a footnote: “Sukanta Bhattacharya was a Bengali poet and a key figure in modern Bengali poetry. His poetry is marked by social rebellion, patriotism and humanism. In a poem “Hey Mohajibon” (“O, Great Soul”), Sukanta wrote: ‘A world affected by hunger is too prosaic; the full moon resembles a toasted bread.’” Sengupta writes in the same poem —

“A tombstone might request flowers and tears,
while hunger can only be satisfied
with food to eat.” (“Moon — The Other Side”)

In his poem “Hibiscus”, he translates a passage and starts the poem with Bhattachraya’s lines —

“I’ve to leave.
As long as I’m alive,
I’ll clean the muck off the earth.
My pledge to the newborn:
I must make the world livable for you.” — Sukanta Bhattacharya, an excerpt from Bhattacharya’s celebrated Bengali poem “Chharpatra” (“Certificate of Exemption”), published in 1947.

And while pondering on the suffering in the world, we see the poem take an ecological twist —

“Can I become a tree?
As I rampart the sinew
with my root embedded
in her tissue, I’ll bloom
like a hibiscus:
the blush will endorse
my bloodline.”

Ecological concerns find philosophical fruition in Sengupta’s poems. In “Spectrum”, he writes —

“Water has many colors,
smudging pebbles
along its path.”

This collection offers a glimpse into Kiriti Sengupta as both a poet and a person. There are poems about actresses (Sridevi and Rekha), about Bob Dylan getting the Noble Prize, and also a reference to Dylan’s art— painting at a Manhattan exhibition, about Tagore (1861-1941)  and Santiniketan, a reference to modern poet, Subhash Mukhopadhyay (1931-1981) — even a reference to Christ —

“Did Jesus remain silent
when they nailed him
to the cross?”
(“Expressions”)

The presiding voice as he evolves, despite the mythological references scattered through his poems, is essentially one of rebellion. Even in a poem titled “Salvation”, Sengupta writes —

“We live as long as we breathe, and it is only the breathing that occurs of its
own will. No gods, but the breath that creates a home for our life and death.”

And he has the last word on death —

“Death suggests how fruitless
it is to hold a grudge.” (“Screenplay”) 

Sengupta does not write reams of words, long sentences, but in his own terse style, he says much. The poems need to be read and reread to be understood and savoured. This is not a collection that you read once and put away — but one that you read over a period of time, reflecting on what the words convey to you. For the poet publishes to share his worldview or vision, how you interpret the lines is really up to you. And Sengupta is gracious enough to leave that room for interpretation. A hundred years from now, will Sengupta’s poetry survive? Only time can tell.

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Mitali Chakravarty has three poetry collections and is published widely.