[Tilted Axis; 2024]
Tr. by Shalim Hussain
Again I Hear These Waters is an anthology of translated poems from the Miyah community of the Northeastern state of Assam, India. The book is curated by Shalim M. Hussain—a poet, translator, and rights activist from the Miyah poetry movement. Published by Tilted Axis Press, the collection contains thirty-four contemporary poems and songs by twenty-one poets translated from Assamese and various local dialects spoken by the Miyah people. The first printed poem is from the late 1930s, but most of the poems in the anthology were written within the context of a poetry movement that started in 2016. The collection includes both free verse and rhyming poems that come from a mixture of local dialects and folk songs. This anthology is the first of its kind and highlights the natural beauty and ethnopolitical complexity of the region while incorporating the aesthetics of contemporary Assamese poetry.
In the nineteenth century, the British Raj actively facilitated the migration of a large Muslim agricultural labor community from what is now Bangladesh into Assam. These migrant laborers are the ancestors of the Miyahs, who settled in low-lying areas along the banks of the Brahmaputra River, which are susceptible to annual flooding and erosion. These riverbanks, often designated as “wastelands” by the administration, are known as “chars” and “chaporis,” where the community cultivated rice and jute. The descendants of the Miyahs have embraced the culture of this dynamic riverine region, valorizing agricultural work, honoring hard labor, and fostering a sense of belonging across borders. The songs and poetry in this anthology aim to capture the essence of the “char-chapori” community and their traditions.
The term “Miyah” has evolved into a xenophobic slang word that denotes otherness for the “char-chapori” people in Assam, though the origin of this shift is unclear. But a reclamation of this word gained prominence in 2016 when Hafiz Ahmed wrote the poem “Write Down I Am Miyah,” sparking the emergence of the poetry movement. Contemporary Miyah poets tend to focus on political issues related to the National Register of Citizens. The NRC is a register aimed at identifying illegal immigrants in order to deport or detain them, leaving many individuals stateless. The register has been implemented for the state of Assam since 2013–2014. The NRC is closely related to the Citizenship Amendment Act, 2019 (CAA) passed by the Parliament of India, which provides a faster pathway to Indian citizenship for persecuted minorities from neighboring countries—Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Parsis, and Christians. Muslims are not included in this eligibility. The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights criticized the Act and called it “fundamentally discriminatory in nature.” Even before the NRC’s publication in Assam in 2013, many individuals who were unable to prove their citizenship before the Foreigners Tribunal were labeled as doubtful voters (D-voters), a term frequently used in the poems of this anthology. Although the NRC was updated in 2019 with a final draft, it has yet to be implemented throughout the country.
“Put it on record. / I am an Arab / And the number of my card is fifty thousand,” writes Mahmoud Darwish (1941–2008), Palestinian poet laureate, in the poem “Identity Card.” These lines echo Hafiz Ahmed, another poet in the collection: “Write Down / I am a Miyah / My serial number in the NRC is 200543.” Ahmed wrote the poem in April 2016. Decades apart, both poems depict the erosion of fundamental human rights, evoking the haunting feeling of existing merely as a number on paper. Throughout this anthology, themes of identity, citizenship, democratic rights, and secularism are vividly explored. These lyrics of belonging are set against the lush forests, diverse wildlife, green rice fields, golden jute crops, and vibrant harvest festivals of Northeastern India.
Shalim M. Hussain’s “Nana I Have Written” is a testament to this contrast. He tells his grandfather he has “attested countersigned” and has “been verified by a public notary that I am a Miyah.” He then asks Nana to witness his ascent from the flood waters, “march through sand and marsh and snakes / break the earth will draw trenches with spades / crawl through fields of rice and diarrhea and sugar cane / and a 10% literacy rate.” It’s a conflict between the human-made discrimination and segregation documented on paper and the challenges of nature. Look at the use of the conjunction “and” in these lines, which mimics the singsong nature of Assamese lyrics. The rhythm evokes the sensation of galloping across the riverlands, punctuated with sharp-edged words such as “snakes,” “trenches,” “spades,” “crawl,” “diarrhea,” and “literacy rate.”
The turbulent political history of Assam is reflected in “Comrade,” a short poem by Kazi Neel, where Hussain Miyah, akin to our neighborhood uncle, has a bicycle with two red flags with hammers and sickles, a common sight anywhere in regional Communist regimes of India. Yet the performative nature of political activism is crystallized in the lines: “Hussain Miyah didn’t know if you ate / Swallowed dialectic materialism or rubbed it on your scalp. / Hussain Miyah knew nothing except / That the red party was for the poor.” As a native Bengali speaker, I felt a kinship to the dark humor of these specific lines. They remind me of a popular colloquialism in Bengali “khaabe na mathae debe” which translates to “should we eat it or apply it on our head” describing a confused person. The poem takes a jibe at the ever-changing regimes full of ripe promises with new ideologies only to result in stale outcomes.
Violence has always been entwined in Indian politics. Neel’s poem “Someone Walks By” tells us that “Only a gun can give you a mouthful to eat, they say. / A swarm of new flags swoops in / every mouth is stuffed with new slogans.” Many poems in this collection mention the issue of “migrant illegality,” or widespread ethnic violence against minorities and its aftermath throughout Assam’s modern history. In Abdur Rahim’s “Don’t Insult Me As A Miyah,” he writes: “Look no more on my sun burnt back / for barbed wire scratches / but please, please don’t forget ’83, ’94, ’12, ’14.” These years memorialize specific inter-ethnic clashes and humanitarian crises that unfolded thereafter mass displacement in the Miyah community.
Miyah poetry is not restricted to ethnopolitical themes but, rather, encompasses the greater scope of the human condition. The next two poems depict the natural beauty of the river Brahmaputra and the “char” landscape. Both poems juxtapose the forces at work that have shaped Assam’s geography for decades, along with the landscape’s impact on its people. River Brahmaputra takes center stage in the song “Mad River” which is typeset in the book to resemble the deep ravines drawn over centuries by the river. The physical rift in the text separates the comforts of a life against the strangeness of a river’s sudden wrath.
You mad river in a strange illusion you have trapped me
In our happy lives you have drawn a ravine.
Ringkul Ahmed’s “A Two Hundred Year Old Spring” is a vivid tale of a two-hundred-year-old spring in a valley where it doesn’t rain. Ashes from burnt houses and black smoke point to the senseless violence that visits these lands time and again. And yet, every year, “a green rebellion” comes and covers the valley “in a green shawl” and the fields smell of oozing ripe potatoes, rice, jute, and tomatoes. The “char” landscape is dotted with blue flags which are “lungis fluttering on the stick figures” of Miyah uncles. They stand with bare chests, backs burning in the sun, staring at burning houses in the rain, while holding ashes in their fists. A heart-wrenching image where the elements of human depravity and nature come together in a snapshot worth remembering. While many of the poems center hardships stemming from natural forces as well as sociopolitical upheavals, some portray the tenderness of human existence. In “My Love’s Letters,” love is compared to both a “shield” and “silk.” Silk is at once a gentle nod to Assam’s famous silviculture practice and a metaphor for love’s gentle strength in binding people together. The poet wants his love’s letters not to get wet in the rain. Nature is deeply imbued in Miyah existence with rain and river flowing through several verses: “Let the river swell, let jute soak / Let sugarcane grow thick / Under the leaves, with my head on her heart / May I still feel the edges / Of my love’s letters.” Fluid and languid, just like love.
Again I Hear These Waters is a radical attempt to give voice to the many dialects now endangered in Northeastern India as well as Assamese. Maybe it is a start in recognizing marginalized histories and identities in mainstream consciousness. Presenting Indigenous reflections through English translations is a step forward in celebrating the diverse languages of regions like Assam, which are often overlooked in major literary circles. Languages are disappearing globally. According to the Endangered Languages Project, over 40 percent of the world’s approximately seven thousand languages are at risk of disappearing. English translations are crucial in making the existence of these Indigenous languages and dialects known among more mainstream readers.
In 2025, questions of home, margins, and identity are transforming the face of the planet resulting in the furious decimation of certain ethnic groups. This anthology of poems from the marginlands creates a space to discuss these very questions. Again I Hear These Waters attempts to create a world where songs and verses represent both erasure and belonging. In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard writes, “Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home.” The Miyah poetry movement is rooted in the memories connected to one’s home and the sense of security that comes from the spaces we identify as our own. Echoing Bachelard, these poems become spaces of comfort to relive memories and past histories. The longing for a home, comfort, and identity is as ancient as the river Brahmaputra itself. While returning home may not be geographically or politically possible for many in the Miyah community, these artistic expressions retain the architecture of a homeland.
Sayani Sarkar is a reader, reviewer, and writer from Calcutta, India with a PhD in biochemistry and structural biology. She writes interdisciplinary essays on her Substack. Her works have been published in Tamarind Literary Magazine, LARB PubLab Magazine, Littera Magazine, The Write Launch, The Coil Magazine, and The Curious Reader. She is currently working on a book, a hybrid nonfiction, combining memoir with an exploration of natural sciences.
This post may contain affiliate links.
