Nazrul’s Response to Tagore

1400 SAAL OR The YEAR 1993

A hundred years ago
O poet, you had thought of us
              With such immense affection,
A hundred years ago!

Mystical one; child of mystery,
Taking off the cloak covering your eyes,
When did you arrive from some far-off haven?
Heading from the south and opening a window of our house,
          O secret stroller into our dreams,
                 You came with the fragrance wafted by the spring breeze,
To where a hundred years later I was reading your poem
                                                At nighttime.			       
An absent-minded butterfly, you saw us with pain-brightened and moist eyes—
With silent wings,
Fluttering casually, you went languidly away.
And we, a hundred years later,
Keep reading your poem, dyed in the tenderness of youth,
                             With rapt attention, affectionately.
In a reverie, and sleepy, with eyes drooping,
My beloved listens to your prophetic song
                             With tear-moistened eyes.

Alas, to this day,
              The shut southern window
                      Opens again and again.
The restless spring breeze cries out in pent up pain.
          In minds and forests and in murmuring blossoms,
Moist flowers shed from their braided beds,
                             Again and again.

The dark eyelids of the blossoms keep fluttering softly.
The female bee snatches honey from the beak of her mate.
     
      The dark-eyed buds flutter in the gentle breeze.
Drenched in pollen, bees drink honey-sweetness fully.
      The she-dove loses herself at the warbling of her mate.
The forest bride has decked herself in crimson robes of youthfulness.
		Every now and then earth’s heart gasps
		At the breeze’s passionate outbursts. 

Immersed in the depth of your being, a hundred years later,
Oh sun-suffused one, I have been reading your poem,
	With immense adoration.
At your gesture I wake up to your music,
O artful one, I’ve grasped your artfulness!
			Stealthily you tiptoe
		To our far away youthful beings,
		In poetry, songs and in lush tones and colourful dreams.
		All flowers that have bloomed today—all birdsongs,
					All crimson hues,
		Caressed by you, O ever-youthful poet,
					Have become livelier!
			In the morning hours of this spring festival, 
		You’ve become the song in our youthful festivities.
		 	Once a darling child and now immortal in a bower
		All of us youthful men and women await your nuptial hour.
			Sing O dear one, sing again and again
The songs you would sing amidst blooming flowers,
Songs my beloved and I sing on our own or together, 
Songs at whose end I slide into sleep, only to hear
	In a dream appearing in a midnight hour,
	My beloved weep, “Dearest poet, friend and wise one—“
	Till my dream ends suddenly
	And I view my beloved’s eyes moisten
			Until tears trickle down her eyes.

	I remember now, how a hundred years ago
     You had stirred—and others too had awakened 		
In some far away cloistered state.
At your gesture a sad tune had spread its wings and flown.
	Glancing back from the window momentarily,
		It had caressed the tears lining your eyelids.
		It had bent the curling tresses of flower buds.
	And then vanished—leaving you sitting silently.
Moistened by the dewdrop of your eyes,
Your messages blossomed; some bloomed, 
	Some even resonated instantly,
And then were tucked away inside our dreams.

		All of a sudden a door opened
In the spring morning your greeting came through.
The envoy of spring you’d sent a hundred years ago
Filled us youthful ones with intense yearnings.

O Emperor of all poets, though we haven’t seen you,
			The Taj Mahal you created,
Sparkling like sandalwood on the forehead of time
		Entrances us and we behold it breathlessly.
We curse our youth— “Why did it have to be a hundred years later?”
				Alas, in this day and age,
We’ve never been able to glimpse Mumtaz and behold the Taj!  

A thousand years later—O emperor of poets,
New poets keep coming to sing your praise
		From sunrise to sunset songs celebrate your feats
			And the tune that wandered away from you
Fill groves and forest shades with your message anew. 

				And in our time
A hundred tunes keep sounding from veenas in our homes
	And yet the heart remains unfulfilled and the soul keeps yearning                 
Traversing a hundred years your song drifts into our dreams
			Then it occurs to me our poet
You have settled in our horizon to light it up forever—
			Our very own and eternal sun!

A hundred years ago,
You had greeted us -- young ones -- warmly,
			Vibrantly and affectionately.
The same greeting is being sent to you this day
		As a floral wreath to decorate your feet.   

O perfect poet, it seems you’ve appeared in imperfect guise
				Amidst us, softly, silently!
And with a trembling voice imperfect being that I am,
I sing your spring song in your spring bower
And send it to you a hundred years later! 

(First published in Kazi Nazrul Islam: Selections 1, edited by Niaz Zaman, Dhaka: writers.ink, 2020)