‘Pochishe Boisakh Cholechhe…’ Rabindranath Tagore’s Birthday Poem

             BIRTHDAY POEM

       The twenty fifth of Boisakh 
Draws my stream of birthdays 
       Closer to death. 
Sitting on that wafting mat, an artisan is making a garland
      With small statuettes of 
          Many mortal Rabindranaths. 

       Time travels on his chariot. 
The pedestrian lifts his bowl
      While walking, he gets a drink.
When he finishes, he recedes into the darkness.
     His bowl is crushed to dust under the wheels. 
         Behind him, 
Follows another with a new bowl. 
       He savours a fresh flavour. 
Eventhough he has the same name, 
      He is a different person. 

Once I was a child. 
     Within a few birthdays, 
         An entity was sculpted 
            Who no one recognised. 
The people who would have known him 
        Are not around. 
The being of that child is non-existent, 
    Nor does anyone remember him. 
He has disappeared with his little world.
    His past sorrows and joys 
Find no reverberations.  
    The pieces of his broken toys 
        Cannot be seen in the dust. 
He would sit and calf-like 
      Gaze outside, with longing. 
          His world was 
   Framed by the opening in the window. 
       His innocent glance 
            Would halt at the
                Coconut trees along the fence. 
  His evenings were steeped in fairytales.
        There was no insurmountable barrier 
              Between the real and unreal. 
His mind would skip between 
     The two effortlessly. 
In the gloaming of light and darkness, 
    The shadows wrapped around spring, 
        Drawing close with belonging. 
Those few birthdays,
    For some time, 
     Were like a brightly lit island. 
But the past has sunk into the darkness of the ocean. 
    Sometimes, during low tides, 
         We can see that mountain peak. 
             We can see a shoreline of blood-red corals. 

Over time, 
     The twenty fifth of Boishakh 
         Assumed 
            Vivid vernal hues. 
Youthfulness played a melody 
    Of yearning on the ektara, 
         Questing for intangible
  Invisible inspirations. 
Hearing that music over time, 
    The celestial Lakshmi’s throne swayed    
She sent over 
    Few of her ambassadors,
        To earth to spew colours 
            On the palash woods, 
                Enticing, alluring to forgetfulness. 
I have heard their voices speak softly. 
      I understood some. Some I didn’t. 
I have seen dark eyelashes damp with wetness.
   I have seen lips tremble with unspoken agony.
I have heard the tinkle of bracelets vacillate with eager surprise. 
      Unbeknown to me, 
  On the first conscious morning, 
       Of the twenty fifth of Boisakh,
         They left behind a 
             Garland of jasmines.
                My dream at dawn 
                    Was heady with their fragrance. 

 That birthday was youthful with
     Fairytales woven by communities and villages,
        Some we knew, some doubted. 
There, princesses with their hair undone 
       Were sometimes asleep, 
Sometimes, they awoke in surprise 
        Touched by magical golden wands. 
             Over time, 
The ramparts that walled the 
   Vernal pochishe Boishakh broke. 
The path laden with the sway of Bokul leaves
     Trembling shadows, 
          Murmuring breeze, 
    The lovelorn kokil’s pleading call
That turns the morning to afternoon,
     The bees buzzing their wings
Towards the invisible scent of nectar --
     That grassy path arrived 
   At the stone paved road of adulthood.
The ektara that played the haunting melody 
   In youth changed its old string for new. 
That twenty fifth of Boisakh, 
      Exposed me 
         To a rough road, 
Bore me like a wave to the ocean of humanity.
       Morning and night, 
   I have woven tunes and 
      Caste a net mid-river –
Some have been caught, 
Some have fled the fragile net. 

Sometimes, the day has been faint, 
   Motivation disappointed,
Sadness filled the mind. 
   Unexpectedly, in the midst 
Of such depression, I found 
    Inspiration in Amravati’s mortal idol. 
They beautify the world,
      Offering vessels of nectar 
          To the weary. 
They insult fear with billowing 
         Waves of laughter.
They fan flames of courage 
   From ash-smothered smouldering fires. 
They arouse celestial voices to ignite meditative words. 
    They have lighted the flame in my nearly suffused lamp. 
       They have given melody to the strings with their cool breeze. 
           They have garlanded me with honour 
                On the twenty fifth of Boishakh. 
    My songs, my words, 
        Still reverberate with their 
               Magical touch. 

    From then, in the battle of life,   
Conflicts raged like
    Thundering clouds. 
  I had to abandon the ektara. 
Sometimes, I had to pick up the trumpet. 
    Under the hot mid-day sun, 
         I had to take on 
              A battle. 
  My feet are injured with thorns, 
    My wounded heart bleeds. The
         Merciless harshness of waves 
Have beaten my boat, left and right, 
      Muddying with criticism, 
   Drowning with transactions. 
       Hatred and love, 
Envy and friendship, 
      Music and courage, 
My world has been 
               stirred 
By the mists of all these emotions. 

In the midst of this revolutionary-crisis, 
    As the twenty fifth of Boishakh grows older, 
       You have all come to me. 
           Do you know –
Despite my attempts, much is still left unexpressed, 
Much is in disarray, much is neglected?
 
From inside and outside, 
   Good and bad, clear and unclear, famed and unknown, 
A vain, complicated character, 
  You have created an idol 
    With your regard, your love, 
        Your forgiveness. 
Today you have brought this garland, 
     I accept this as a recognition of 
The aging twenty-fifth of Boishakh,
As an acknowledgment of my years. 
     Heartfelt blessings from me to you.
 As I prepare to take leave, my human idol 
     Remains in your heart.
As the future is unknown, I cannot be arrogant. 

Then give me your leave 
    In this lifetime from all relationships 
        Strung with black and white threads. 
Lonely, nameless, solitary –
     Let me look for a melody amidst 
        Many tunes, many instruments, 
            In the depth of all songs.


*Ektara-Bengal folk instrument