Written in 1932 by RabindranathTagore, Jatra (Journey) is a part of Rabindra Rachnabali (Writings of Ranbindranath) and Sanchayita (Compilation — in this case of poems).
The poem, Jatra (Journey) in Sanchayita
JOURNEY
The emperor journeys to battle. The earth trembles With the clash of drums and cymbals. The minister Conspires, spreads web of deceit through realms. Trading streams encircle the world with ebb and flow. Cargo ships travel to distant shores. Monuments of Heroism grow out of piles of human skeletons raising Their heads heavenward to laugh with disregard. The learned repeatedly attack impenetrable fortresses Of knowledge, walled by books. The king’s fame spreads far and wide.
Here, in the village, the river flows sluggishly In the distance. The ferry picks up the new bride Sailing to a far colony. The sun sets. The shores Are lined with silent fields. The girl’s heart shivers. In the darkness, slowly, the evening star rises on the horizon.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Shishur Jibon (The Child’s Life) is a part of Tagore’s 1922 collection of poems, Shishu Bholanath (Child Bholanath).
Art by Sohana Manzoor
THE CHILD’S LIFE
Do we have the courage to be a child? That’s why we die old. We store every little thing, Hoard over time in trunks, Stash in piles. Today is ruined with thoughts Of tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’ll stock For the burdens of the next day. We get objects of desire, And realise we have no need for them. We quest for things gone astray. Fearing for the unknown future, We lose sight of the path, And plan for the day after. The future will always Be shrouded in mystery. Then, will we have no reprieve? As we ignite the lamp of intellect, The flame flickers in the breeze — We calculate each step. Numerous people advise With subtle judgement Hair-splitting details before every quest. Let my heart again be filled With the desire to be a trustful child. Let me flow freely like the breeze, Swiftly unmask fears Hovering about the future. I will confront them as they are seen. By the pond or on the rooftop, Mingling the known and unknown, The common and uncommon, I will roll a ball of mud. This will be my toy. Happiness doesn’t need to be bought. Taking on the onus of adulthood, I come to this huge market, Where grownups push and jostle. Selling my world, when I Head home, I take With me only verbosity. I have wasted away my time looking for bargains. The hours passed swiftly. As dusk turns to twilight, I suddenly feel, I do not like The deals I made deftly. Our lives start With childhood. Let childhood prevail again. Let us find companionship Like land and water, Let us play again in the dusty glen. Breaking the boundaries of possibilities, Let us sail on waves of impossibilities, Navigating on a ferry of dreams. Again, let’s abandon logic And create our world of magic, Forgetting the practical realms. The first day when I arrived In this new world, Sunlight bathed my life. That period was filled with Childish imaginings — Where did it come from? Who secretly beads Dewdrops each night? Crickets chirp in unison. At dawn, I notice, The interplay Of glittering lights. There was a time When holidays blew in With breezy blue skies. We looked for partners While playing games As childhood flew by. Trees in play bloom flowers. Flowers in play fruit fruits. Fruits sprout new buds. Lands play with the lapping water. Waters play with the swaying breeze. The breeze plays in its own tune. With the youth, You remain young Despite your baggage. You fly paper lanterns Of many colours, Paint the skies with vibrant shades. That day I fantasied Being back by your side. We played together holding hands. We floated many dreams, Conversed on sad and happy themes, And together, we relaxed. The flowers burdened By the colours of seasons, Flow away in the stream of time. Again, they come to shore As the breeze blows, Drifting to the waterside. In the wicker basket of the world, Your flowers with my garland twirled, Decorating the ferry of seasons. I have hope in my heart, The bokul ferry’ll return to the earth, Listening to the shiuli’s reasons. When I hummed a song That day on my own, It drifted by unoccupied. That day, I saw a flicker In your eyes of laughter, You recognised me by your side. Seeing your dusty play, your light, My heart was filled with delight, Despite the sad notes on the flute. I understood that spring, You heard me sing. I too love to hear your tune. The day passed in fields and paths. Dusk settled in. If you bid me farewell, Then in your twilight Raise the sail of the boat, I will cross the river aswell. Again, O friend of the child, Let’s play on our own to abide In a youthful Universe. Gazing at your face, Your world I’ll embrace, I’ll view it in a simple light.
Colourful paper lanterns in the skyA child making a mud ballFrom Public Domain BokulShiuliFrom Public Domain
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Kalponik (Imagined) was written by Tagore in 1897 and published in his collection called Kolpona (Imagination) in 1900.
Art by Sohana
IMAGINED
I yearn only for dreams sown In the breeze’s sigh — That is why in despair I gather Wishful thoughts nigh. The ferry of hope has lost its path In the shady corners of the Earth. Fictitious images lose themselves Wafting high.
Nothing emerges from my scattered Desires' streams. No one joins me to Pursue my distant dreams. I play with flames alone I sit on my own. At the end Of the day, I see my dreams Turn to ashes. I yearn only for dreams sown In the breeze’s sigh.
The poem was set to music by his niece Sarala Devi. Click here to hear it performed as a song by contemporary artiste, Srabani Sen.
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Jatri (Passenger) was a part of Tagore’s collection, Khanika (moments), published in 1900.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
PASSENGER
There’s place on my ferry. You are alone. You have Only one bundle of paddy. It may be a bit crammed, But not that heavily jammed. My ferry could be A bit overloaded — But you don’t have to leave. There’s a place for you!
Come, come to my boat! If your feet are dusty, Let them be mud-coated. Your body is like a creeper. Your eyes are restless. Your garb’s blue-green, Flowing like water — There’ll always be place for you — Come, come to my boat!
There are many passengers. Their destinations are varied. They are all strangers. You’ll also for a while Sit on my ferry Till the end of the ride. A denial will make no difference — If you want to come, join us. There are many passengers.
Where’s your jetty? Where’s the store For your paddy? If you do not state, What will be our fate? I’ll have to ponder At the end of the ride — Where’s your shore, Where’s your home?
*The interesting thing about this poem is that it seems to be complete reversal of the poem Sonar Tori(Golden Boat), published in 1894, with the ferryman welcoming passengers aboard, whereas in the earlier poem, the ferry woman sails off with the bundle of paddy belonging to another, leaving her passenger behind.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Sheeth or Winter was first published in 1909 in Tagore’s collection called Shishu (Children). The poem looks forward to winter giving way to spring using simple but eloquent verses.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
The bird says, “I will leave.” The flower says, “I will not bloom.” The breeze merely says, “I will not flit across the woods.” Young shoots do not look up, Instead, sprouts shrivel to shed. Dusty bamboos loom To paint an untimely dusk. Why do the birds migrate? Why do flowers not bloom? Why has the agile breeze stopped romping in the woods? The heartless winter Has a bleak outlook. Wrinkled and harsh, She imparts hard lessons. The gleaming moonlit night, The fresh fragrance of flowers, The youthful sport of breeze, The cacophony of leaves — All these she looks upon as sins, She thinks in nature, The knowledgeable only sit Still like a picture. That is why the bird bids “goodbye”. The flower says, “I’ll not bloom.” The breeze merely says, “I’ll not run across the woods.” But when Hope says, “Spring’ll come,” The flower says, “I’ll bloom.” The bird says, “I’ll sing.” The moon says, “I’ll smile.” The newly-fledged spring Has just started to awake. He smiles at whatever he sees. He plays with everything. His heart is full of hope. Unaware of his own desires, His being runs hither and thither Looking for kindred spirits. Flowers bloom, so does the child. Birds sing, so does he. He hugs the caressing breeze To play vernal games. That’s why when I hear, “Spring’ll come,” The flower says, “I’ll bloom.” The bird says, “I’ll sing.” The moon says, “I’ll smile.” Winter, why did you come here? Your home is in the north — Birds do not sing there, Flowers do not bloom on trees. Your home is a snowy desert That’s dark and lifeless — Sit there alone, O knowledgeable, Spend your days contemplating.
Snowy Kanchenjunga photographed from Darjeeling, West Bengal, in winters.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Today, it’s a cloudless day. Happy skies Smile like friends. The breeze flits, flies Embracing the face, chest, eyes — Like an invisible aanchol billows high Only to descend on a sleeping deity. Peacefully on Padma’s waves, the ferry Sails swishing joy. Relaxed sandbanks Lie sunbathing at a distance. The high sloping sides are interrupted By tall shady trees, a hidden hut. A narrow, curved path from a distant village Crosses the farms and nears the water’s edge Like a thirsty tongue. Rural brides Wash their clothes, chatter awhile, Joke. Their loud sweet laughter Mingle with the sounds of water To waft to me. A fisherman, aged, Sits on a bent boat, weaves a net While sunning his back. A naked child Laughs merrily while he dives Again and again into the water. Patient, Padma gazes like an indulgent parent. From the ferry, I see two shores — The clearest lucid blue expands galore. Amidst a flood of light, exotic lines are seen In the water, land, forests. On a warm breeze, The ferry sails past shores with groves, sometimes, Scent of mango buds waft, only at times, Faint sounds of bird calls.
My mind Is filled with peace — I feel Happiness is simple. It spreads like Flowers in bowers, like the smile On the face of a child — expectant lips Holding the nectar of a kiss, Gaze silently forever laced With artless innocence. The sky is immersed and stilled with the harmony of music in sync. How will I sing in tune with those notes? How will I sound? How will I compose The lyrics in simple words to gift To my beloved so that they bring A smile to her eyes, her lips? How will I help unfold this to my love? How will I convey the joy from above? It’s tough to hold on, to clasp. I chase it but it eludes my grasp. I look for it. I walk fast— Like a blind man, I stumble afar. But it’s now lost. I gaze All around, fascinated, focussing On this still, blue water, so calm. And I had thought it was easy to clasp.
*Aanchol is the loose end of a sari
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Aaj Shoroter Aloy (Today in this Autumnal Light) was first published in Tagore’s collection called Shesh Saptak (The Last Octave, 1935).
Painting by Sohana Manzoor
Today, as I gaze in this autumnal light, I feel I am viewing life anew. I see a youth. His eyes, weary from daily strife, Have lost their sight.
I imagine — As a pilgrim from the past, I have drifted here On the strength of chants. Traveling upstream in my dreams, I have arrived at this moment, In the present century’s shore. I gaze with eager eyes. I detach myself from the self. I am a stranger from another age Awaiting introductions as of yore. Deep curiosity enthrals. I am drawn To whoever I find, Like a bee to a flower. Today, my mind is centred Amidst the chaos. Today, those stained By weak popular opinions, Have been stripped off Their garb of mediocrity. The truth of our existence Emerges in full splendour. The mute who never found voice, The large population of neglected, Have broken their silence — The first words seemed to emerge Like dawn after the deepest of dark.
As a distant wayfarer, I travel to my own world To glimpse eternal truths from between The rips torn in the present, Like a bride wed for life Gazes from within The fine curtain With new eyes on Eternity’s unfading truths.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Shaishabshandha(Childhood’s Dusk) was published as a part of Tagore’s poetry collection called Sonar Tori (Golden Boat, 1894).
Art by Sohana Manzoor
CHILDHOOD'S DUSK
Slowly, across all horizons Spreads the weary exhaustion Of darkness like a mother’s anchal*. Standing alone, I gaze steadily At the west, absolutely still. I contemplate fixedly The bottomless abyss, The lonely riverside with a Dusky sky. Dawn weeps, As deep gloom sweeps With tired eyes, compassionately, Silently over the water and land In this gloaming. Suddenly, a song bursts forth From the dark woods, the village paths, Perhaps, from a youth returning home. Uplifting, peaceful, fearless notes Resonate in tune as if sharply Slicing the twilight in two. I cannot see him. I see a village In the southern part. Amidst the lonely Bamboo woods, the sugarcane fields, The betel nut and banana trees, There rests a village. I can see that. Perhaps, it’s a cowherd’s son Singing on his way home. He does not think much Except of a full stomach. He brings back that dusk in my childhood: We talked, played — three friends — While we lay on the bed. That was in the distant past. Has the world not aged? Have we exchanged our childhood, Our games, our toys, our restful slumber for the burden of knowledge? Standing on this lonely field, When silence fills the gloaming, Hearing this song, I recall — The riverbanks, the mango groves, The brass bells ringing in temples, The mustard fields, by the pond, Smiling faces in many homes, Young hearts filled with new hopes, Impossible, beautiful imaginings, Priceless dreams, endless desires And beliefs. Standing in the dark, I see among stars, the infinite universe — Many young at home abed, Their mother’s face lit by the lamp.
*Loose end of a sari
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Probhatey (In the Morning) was published as a part of Rabindranath Tagore’s collection called Kheya (Ferry) published in 1906.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
IN THE MORNING
The heavy downpour Of one night Has filled the lake in my home To the brim. When I look, I see Deep blue waters overflow. Where is its shore? Where is its bottom? Where does it turn? With one downpour, see the lake Is filled to the brim.
Last night, who could imagine This would happen! The rain poured incessantly In the deep dark night. In the midnight of this monsoon, While I lay in a lamp less room, I heard the wind howl As if in distress — Who knew then This would happen!
Amidst this outpouring of teardrops, I found today A serene lotus Presiding the scene. O tell me, when O when did it bloom, Pristine among multitudes Shining with vibrancy, Bringing solace to me In the midst of this abyss Of despondency!
Today, sitting alone, I ponder Gazing at the site. I see the treasures torn From the chest by the tragic night. I can see the heartbreak, Hear the wailing, the awakening, I write from my heart Of the raging tempest. I gaze at the treasures torn From the chest by the stormy night.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Sonar Tori(Golden Boat) is the titular poem of Tagore’s book of the same name. This celebrated collection was first published in 1894.
Art by Rabindranath Tagore. From Public domain
Amidst dense clouds and heavy downpour, Without any hope of respite, I sit on the shore. Many sheaves of rice are piled in droves, Housed in straw-built stores. The river's edge is like a razor as the water flows, Torrential and ferocious. While the rice was being cut, it started to pour.
I have a small field, and I work alone. The water sways on all sides and overflows. On the other shore’s horizon, I see etched A village under the shadow of trees Covered in misty morning clouds. On this shore, I am alone in this small field.
Someone is singing and rowing to this side. Looks like, I might know her. Without glancing around, She rows past in full sail. The waves helplessly Part to give way— Looks like, I might know her.
Oh where do you row, to which foreign land? Come to me in your boat. Go wherever you want, Give to whoever you desire, Only, do take With a smile, My golden crop from this shore.
Take as much as you wish into your boat. Is there anymore? — There’s none left. By the river, I stashed into the boat All that I had done in my life In bundles — Now, please be merciful and take me along.
I have no place. The boat is too small. It is filled with my crop of golden paddy. Surrounded by heavy Monsoon clouds, I stayed by the Lonely shore — Whatever I had was taken away by the golden boat.
Art by Sohana
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Borderless 