Tagore wrote humorous verses too. Giraffer Baba (Giraffe’s Dad) was published by him in 1936 in a collection called Khapchara (Eccentric).
GIRAFFE'S DAD
Giraffe’s Dad said,
“Son, looking at your body
My feelings for you ebb
For with so high a head
And so small a back
How do you walk at all?”
Giraffe’s son said,
“Did you ever
Look at yourself dad?
Why mother loves you
No one can figure out at all!”
Tagore empathised with the suffering of humankind. Out of it was born Sriniketan, a project that hoped to initiate a slow merger of differences and reduce human suffering. Ebar Phirao More (Take me back) was a poem he wrote in 1894 on the plight of villagers steeped in poverty, servitude and ignorance. Tagore regarded his ‘life work’ as that of restoring the dignity and the economy of villages, deftly showcased in Professor Uma Das Gupta’s A History of Sriniketan, Rabindranath Tagore’s Pioneering work in Rural Reconstruction. Here, we present to you a transcreation/ translation of the poem.
Gateway to the Srijani Shilpagram, SriniketanSurul: A village under the Sriniketan projectCourtesy: Creative Commons
TAKE ME BACK
While the world moves busily
You play the flute, like a truant boy,
Leaning under a shady tree in a field with
The fragrance of the forest floating on
A tired breeze. O, arise — there is a fire!
Who plays the conch to awaken
The world? Whose cries resound in space?
What dark shackles imprison the orphan
Asking for support? The burden of insults
heaped on the shoulders of the helpless
sup of their blood. The self-centred
Mock unjustly. Oppressed, scared slaves
Hide in disguise. There they stand with
Heads bowed, silent — centuries of pitiful
Exploitation written on their pallid faces.
As their shoulders are plied with growing
burdens, they move slowly till their last breath—
Then, their progeny inherit generations of this load.
They are not invisible, have no memory of criticism.
They do not blame humans, nor do they have pride.
They only look for a few grains of food to survive.
When their food is snatched away, when they are
Exploited, they do not know where to go for justice.
They call out to the God of the poverty stricken, then
Die silently. These silent souls need to be given a
Voice — their suffering souls have to be roused
With hope — a clarion call has to be given —
As of now, raise your heads, unite. The person
Who you fear is more of a coward than you.
When you awake to confront him, he will flee.
When you stand up to him, he will be terrified
To retreat, like a stray dog. In God’s court,
He will have no support as swollen with
False pride, he will know only contempt
In his heart.
Poet, come forward — if you have only life,
Then get that with you, and dedicate that today.
With immense pain, sorrow, the deprived
Suffer hardships, weakness, death and darkness.
They need food to live, light to find the breeze of freedom.
They need strength, health, a bright happy future
Courage, guts. Amidst this poverty, O poet,
Inspire a vision of trust that creates a heaven.
Imagination, I bid your colours to take me back
To the edge of civilisation. Do not distract me with
The soft breeze, the waves and alluring illusions.
Do not let me stay steeped in lonely depression
In the shade of a bower. Day ends. Dusk sets in.
The direction is lost in darkness. The woods
Cry In hopeless despair. I step out
To be under the open skies, on the grey road that
Leads to the common man. Where do you go?
O traveler, I do not know you. Turn and look at me.
Tell me your name. Do not distrust me.
I have lived alone in this strange world
For many days and nights. That is why my
Garb is amazing. I am different — my eyes
Dream, my heart is hungry. When I returned to this world,
Why did you, o mother, give me this playful flute?
Over long days and long nights, mesmerised by
My own tunes, I have wandered far from the
Limitations imposed by civilisation. If the tunes that
I have learnt can inspire with exultation the
Music-less exhausted, if even for a moment, my
Music can instil life—giving hope in the lives of the
Hapless, if touched by the manna from heaven
they voice their sadness, the sleeping thirst is
Roused from deep within — then my song will be
Blessed, my dissatisfaction appeased to find nirvana.
What is sung or heard? Happiness are lies.
Sorrows are lies. A self-centred individual
has not learnt to live in a larger world.
With Truth as the guiding star, run fearlessly,
Dancing in unison with the waves of cosmic life.
There is no fear of death. The tears of poverty
Will rain on my head — in the midst of that,
I will go for a tryst with the person to whom
I dedicate my life forever. Who is that? I do not know —
I only know this— that he is the wayfarer through ages
Trudging in the darkness of the the night, amidst
Thunder and lightening, carrying a flickering lamp.
I only know he has heard the invocation and fearlessly
Come to help the needy, rejecting civilisation’s dictates,
He has embraced the cries of the tortured to his heart
Like a favourite tune. Burnt by flames,
Pierced by spears, pieced by an axe, he has
Gathered all his belongings and
Sacrificed all his desires through his life —
He has shredded his heart as an offering
With devotion for the repayment of his birth.
He has given up his life to serve the masses.
Influenced by him, the prince wears rags,
Disgusted with his wealth, akin to a beggar.
The great soul tolerates all tortures and derisions.
The intellectuals sneer in disbelief.
Loved ones mock at him. Close acquaintances are
Contemptuous while he silently forgives them all
with his merciful eyes. He is incomparable and
Beautiful. For him, the proud have forsaken
Their pride, the rich their wealth, the brave
Their lives. For his ideals, the poet has written
Poetry and spread it across the globe. I know
Praise for him is whispered by the breeze,
The seas. Paeans sung by dear ones soar
Across the land and the vibrant blue skies
To celebrate his victory, perfection, love
And kindness. I just know that he will
Sacrifice his own petty needs for the love of
Humankind. He will transcend all insults.
He will stand with his progressive head held high.
Fearlessness is inscribed across his forehead.
The dust of slavery has not contaminated him.
Internalise him. Move forward alone
On the thorny path of life, wipe away precious
Tears, face sorrows with patience,
Work relentlessly to please. When weary,
Worn with exhaustion at the end of the long
Journey of life, there will be an abode of
Peace and contentment. The celestial will
Smile and garland the devotee. At this abode,
There will be peace, relief from all grief,
All misfortune. Tears will cleanse all
Past anguishes. Embroidering hope,
Plead for mercy for life’s disabilities.
Maybe, the despondencies will dwindle and
Eternal love will quench life’s thirsts for ever.
(The poem has been translated for Borderless Journal by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial comments from Anasuya Bhar.)
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Rabindranath Tagore wrote several playlets for young people. These reveal the lighter side of the poet. Two of these have been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal
Adwaita Charan Chattopadhyay and Chintamani Kundu.
Adwaita: Who are you?
Chintamani: I’m an Aryan, a Hindu.
Adwaita: What is your name?
Chintamani: Sri Chintamani Kundu.
Adwaita: What is your intention?
Chintamani: I want to contribute to your paper.
Adwaita: What would you like to contribute?
Chintamani: I’m an Aryan. I would like to write about the Aryan religion.
Adwaita: Sir, what is this thing that you call Aryan?
Chintamani: (surprised) Sir, you don’t know who an Aryan is? I’m an Aryan, my father Sri Nakur Kundu is an Aryan, his father, Late Nafar Kundu is an Aryan, his father —
Adwaita: I see! What is your religion?
Chintamani: That is a tough question! If I can put it in a nutshell, the religion of the non-Aryans is not that of the Aryans.
Adwaita: Now, who are the non-Aryans?
Chintamani: Those who are not Aryans are non-Aryans. I’m not a non-Aryan, my father Sri Nakur Kundu isn’t a non-Aryan, his father Late Nafar Kundu wasn’t a non-Aryan, his father—
Adwaita: Say no more! So, since Sri Nakur Kundu isn’t my father and since I have no relationship with Nafar Kundu, I’m a non-Aryan.
Chintamani: I can’t say that for sure.
Adwaita: (annoyed) What kind of talk is that? What do you mean that you can’t say for certain? Can’t you say for certain that Nakur isn’t my father? What caste are you? What could I have to do with the likes of you?
Chintamani: I’m not talking about caste, I’m talking about dynasty. You too have been born in the world-famous Aryan dynasty –
Adwaita: I born in the same dynasty in which your father Nakur Kundu was born? How dare you—the son of a peasant—even imagine such a thing?
Chintamani: Yes, sir. You might not be an Aryan, but I, and my respected father are Aryans. Alas! Where could my glorious ancestors be? Where are Kashyap, Bharadwaj, Bhrigu? What kind of talk is that?
Adwaita: What rot this man speaks? Kashyap happens to be my ancestor. We are all part of the Kashyap clan —how can Kashyap, Bharadwaj, Bhrigu be your ancestors?
Chintamani: You know nothing about these issues, so there is no point in discussing these things with you. I’m afraid this is all the tragic consequence of English education.
Adwaita: Hasn’t English education affected you?
Chintamani: Sir, you can’t blame me for such a thing. Because of the Aryan blood coursing through my veins, I ran away from school at quite an early age.
Enter Harihar Babu and several other writers.
Adwaita: Please come in. Have you got it all in writing?
Harihar: Yes. Here it is.
Chintamani: Sir, what have you been writing about?
Harihar: Lots of things.
Chintamani: Have you written anything about the Aryans?
Harihar: No.
Chintamani: About the science of the Aryans?
Harihar: The Europeans are Aryans and their science –
Chintamani: The Europeans are a very inferior race and compared to the knowledge that our Aryan forefathers had, they are really illiterate. I can prove this. Even now all descendants of Aryans invoke Aswathama before massaging oil over their bodies and then pour oil thrice on the earth. Do you know why they do so?
Harihar: No.
Chintamani: Do you?
Adwaita: No.
Chintamani: Do you?
First Writer: No.
Chintamani: If you don’t, then why talk about science? Do you know why Aryans click their fingers when they yawn?
All: (in unison) No, none of us do.
Chintamani: Really? Do you know the reason why our Aryan women beat the hand-fan on the floor if the fan touches the body of the person they are fanning?
All: No, not at all.
Chintamani: See, you know nothing. Without discussing these issues at all, without any sort of enquiry into such matters you persist in saying that European science is the best. And yet you don’t even know why Aryans sneeze, yawn or massage oil.
Harihar: All right, sir. You tell us. Why must oil be poured on the ground before it is poured over the body?
Chintamani: Magnetism! Nothing else. This is what is known in English as magnetism.
Harihar: (surprised) Have you read anything about magnetism in English science?
Chintamani: Nothing. No need for that. There is no need to study English to learn science or anything else. What do our Aryans say? There are three forces in nature – life force, causality and positivism. Just before bath the slippery force of oil being added to these forces creates physical negativity within our body. This is nothing but magnetism. Just think — the practice of wiping the body with a towel prevalent among Englishmen since the nineteenth century has been practiced by our Aryans for thousands of years for they have been using the gamcha for the same purpose since then.
The Writers: (with surprise) Wow! How commendable! What scientific skill the Aryans have! What great research our Aryan Kundu Sir has undertaken!
Harihar: We have fallen into the hands of a real idiot today! But there is no point in annoying him. He writes for several newspapers. I have heard that this Aryan Kundu is quite adept at cursing gentlemen a lot. That is why he is famous.
Chintamani: Look over there. That Aryan Brahmin is plucking flowers early in the morning. Why do you think is he doing such a thing?
Adwaita: To give them to the god during prayers.
Chintamani: Shame, shame. You don’t bother to get to the bottom of things. When the sages permitted the plucking of flowers at dawn it became obvious that they were aware of the presence of oxygen in the air. Since they knew of this, there is no doubt that they also knew of the presence of other gases too. In this manner we can clearly prove by moving from point to point that they were aware of all that was subsequently discovered by modern European chemistry. Why do we click our fingers when we yawn? That is also magnetism. When the rising gases combine with positivism, then the negative force conducted by the physical force exceeds the life force, causality and the positive force by its own power. Then the three qualities of sattwa, rajah and tama (excellence, essence of activity and lowest attributes) achieve exceptional attributes. During this phase, the heat caused in the air as a result of the friction between the middle finger and the thumb combines with the heat of the nervous system and solar heat to prevent the ultimate destruction of physical heat. If this can’t be called science, what can it be called? Isn’t it curious that none of our Aryan sages ever read any book by Darwin.?
The Writers: Amazing! Blessed be the achievements of the Aryans. All this time we couldn’t understand such theories.
Harihar: (to himself) But even today I don’t understand anything.
Chintamani: If you are wondering about the hitting of the hand fan on the floor, then that too is magnetism. Expansion, expulsion, repulsion and attraction – these physical acts add up to —
Adwaita: Spare us, spare us Sir. My head is reeling. You can write about the hitting of the hand fan in my newspaper. You have said enough already. Let me get you a paan.
Chintamani: No, sir. I haven’t come here to have a paan. You aren’t following Aryan customs and actions. The spiritual force flowing in our Aryan veins for generations, that force –
Adwaita: Enough, enough! I won’t give you a paan; you need not have one. If you permit me I will get you some tobacco instead.
Chintamani: Tobacco! What destruction! What a thought! It is even worse. Do you know why high caste people don’t smoke the hookah used by lower caste people? Why doesn’t one caste consume food touched by another caste? Why did the Aryan in earlier times not even tread over the shadow of a non-Aryan? Don’t you think there is a science behind it? Of course, there is. Let me explain it all to you. That too is magnetism. The three kinds of bodily radiance – excellent, mediocre and base –
Adwaita: Stop, stop. I won’t give you tobacco. You need not smoke the hookah. No need for paan or for tobacco – do what is convenient for you, something that will retain your bodily radiance.
The Writers: Shame on you, Adwaita babu. You did not allow us to listen to the learned words of Sri Kundu, the best of the Aryans.
First Writer: (to the second writer) Sri Kundu has such exceptional reasoning skills and knowledge. But, did you understand anything?
Second Writer: No, nothing. Let us ask him properly once again. Sir, you spoke of causality, reason and many other forces, what are they?
Chintamani: They are nothing than what is known in English as force and magnetism.
The Writers: (in unison) Oh, we’ve understood.
Harihar: Sir, I am none the wiser!
The Writers: (disgusted) You still can’t understand anything? Magnetism, force — these are easy concepts. You know what magnetism is. You know what force is. This is also the same thing. We know all of this because of the exceptional scientific enquiry pursued by the Aryans.
First Writer: If you have to understand these things clearly then you need to know all sorts of scriptures. Haven’t you read the scriptures?
Chintamani: No, I haven’t. My father and I, and Nafar Kundu are Aryans – that’s why I don’t consider it necessary to study the scriptures.
Second Writer: That’s true. But you’ve certainly read science very well.
Chintamani: Not at all. I’ve acquired the theories of sneezing, coughing, breaking the knuckles of the fingers and other specific scientific theories from my imagination. It wasn’t necessary for me to study science. You will probably not believe it, but swearing on the Aryan holy books I can say that I have studied neither Aryan scriptures nor scientific discourse. Everything that I know is the product of my imagination.
Harihar: Yes, but you certainly don’t need not swear by it. No one will ever accuse you of studying!
[Translated from “Arya O Anarya” (Chaitra 1292 B.S.) by Somdatta Mandal]
Testing the Student
The student is called Sri Madhusudan and Sri Kalachand Master is his tutor.
Enter the guardian.
Guardian: Kalachand babu, how is Madhusudan faring in his studies?
Kalachand: Sir, Madhusudan is very naughty but good in his studies. I never have to repeat anything twice to him. He never forgets what I have taught him once.
Guardian: Really! So let me put him to a test today.
Kalachand: Sure, go ahead.
Madhusudan: (to himself) Yesterday Mastermoshai beat me so badly that my back is still hurting. I will have my revenge today. I am going to have him thrown out.
Guardian: So now Modho, do you remember all that you’ve been taught till now?
Madhusudan: I remember whatever Mastermoshai has taught me.
Guardian: OK. Tell me then — what is a plant?
Madhusudan: Something that comes out of the earth.
Guardian: Give me an example.
Madhusudan: An earthworm!
Kalachand: (with eyes flashing) What did you just say?
Guardian: Shhh Sir…, don’t tell him anything now.
To Madhusudan
You have studied poetry; so, tell me, what blooms in the garden?
Madhusudan: Thorns.
Kalachand takes out a cane.
Why sir, why are you caning me? Am I lying?
Guardian: All right. Who destroyed Siraj-a-Daulah? What does history teach us?
Madhusudan: Insects.
He is caned again.
Sir, I am being caned for no reason at all! Not only Siraj-a-Daulah, but my entire history book has been eaten up by insects. Have a look.
He shows the book. Kalachand Master scratches his head.
Guardian: Do you remember any of the grammar you’ve been taught?
Madhusudan: Yes.
Guardian: What is a ‘subject’? Explain it with the help of examples.
Madhusudan: Okay. The subject is Joy Munshi who lives in the other village.
Guardian: Can you tell me why?
Madhusudan: He is a doer, busy with many virtuous rituals and activities.
Kalachand: (angrily) You must be off your head!
He canes him on his back.
Madhusudan: (startled) Sir, it’s not the head I am talking about, it’s my back.
Guardian: Tell me, what is the best way of compounding words?
Madhusudan: I don’t know.
Kalachand babu canes him again.
I know the answer to this one very well. It’s the grammar of the cane.
The guardian laughs. Kalachand babu is not amused at all.
Guardian: Have you learnt your maths lesson?
Madhusudan: Yes, I have.
Guardian: All right. Suppose you are given six and a half pieces of sweets and told to eat as many as you can in five minutes. Whatever remains will have to be given to your younger brother. If you need two minutes to eat one sweet, how many will you end up giving to your brother?
Madhusudan: Not a single piece.
Kalachand: How come?
Madhusudan: I’ll eat all of them. I wouldn’t want to give the sweets to anybody!
Guardian: All right. Suppose a banyan tree grows a quarter of an inch each day. If the tree was ten inches tall on the first of the month of Baisakh, how tall will it be on the first of Baisakh the next year?
Madhusudan: If the tree grows crooked then I won’t be able to say; but if it grows straight then we’ll be able to measure it and find out its exact height; but in the meantime if it dries up then there is nothing to be done.
Kalachand: Your brain won’t function at all till you get a good beating. Rascal, it’s only when I’ll beat you black and blue, that you’ll straighten up.
Madhusudan: Sir, even very straight things will bend if you keep beating them.
Guardian: Kalachand babu, you’re mistaken. Physical abuse won’t get you far. There is a saying that you cannot flog a donkey and turn it into a horse, but sometimes a flogged horse can turn into a donkey. Most students are capable of learning, but most teachers aren’t capable of teaching. But it’s the pupil who gets the beating. Please take yourself and your cane away and leave with your cane and let Madhusudan’s back rest for a few days, and then I myself will start teaching him.
Madhusudan: (to himself) Oh, I am so relieved!
Kalachand: Sir, I am so thankful. Only a labourer will enjoy teaching this boy—all it amounts to is manual labour. After working on him for thirty days all I get is only five rupees, while the same labour in tilling the earth would fetch me at least ten rupees per day!
[Translated from “Chhatrer Pariksha” in the Hasyakoutuk ]
Hasyakoutuk(1914) by Tagore
Somdatta Mandalis a former Professor of English and ex-Chairperson, Department of English, Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India. A recipient of several prestigious fellowships like the Fulbright Research and Teaching Fellowships, British Council Charles Wallace Trust Fellowship, Rockefeller Residency at Bellagio, Italy, Salzburg Seminar and Shastri Indo-Canadian Faculty Enrichment Fellowship, she has been published widely both nationally and internationally. She has also an award from Sahitya Akademi for the All India Indian Literature Golden Jubilee (1957-2007) Literary Translation Competition in the Fiction category for translating short stories series ‘Lalu’ by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyaya.
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Veiled Woman: Painting by Rabindranath Tagore. Courtesy: Creative Commons
ENDLESS LOVE (Anonto Prem)
It is as if I’ve loved only you,
Hundreds of times, in hundreds of forms
In life after life, age after age, again and again!
Forever, and with an enchanted heart,
I wove necklaces of lyrics
Which you’d wear beautifully,
Accepting my gifts gracefully,
Life after life, age after age, again and again!
The more I hear stories from far away times
Of agonies lovers endured in ages long past,
Of tales of unions and separations
And whenever I look at events of days of yore,
Piercing the veil of darkness of times past
They appear in the form of an eternal star
In your visage.
The two of us float forward
In the current of a union
Emanating from eternity.
The two of us keep frolicking
Amidst millions of lovers,
Whose eyes moisten with tears of separation
Or light up with bashfulness as they meet—
In a love transcendental but in a guise all new
In love everlasting, but of this very day and age!
The Universe reverberates with celestial ecstasy
The Universe reverberates with celestial ecstasy.
Days and nights overflow with ambrosia in the limitless sky.
The moon revels sipping nectar from her cupped palms—
The eternal light that never fades shimmers forever—
Illuminating our daily lives with its aura.
Why do you sit in isolation,
Dwelling on self-centred issues?
Look around you and expand your heart.
Petty sorrows are insignificant.
Fill your vacant life with love for humanity.
The Universe reverberates with celestial ecstasy.
These lyrics seem to capture not just the distance between Tagore’s own ecstatic experience of the natural universe and the self-centred pettiness that afflict those who continue to remain disconnected from the poet’s euphoria but also his attempts to help humanity discover the same joyful reverberations. Such emotions seem to find an echo in his letters later as found in Uma Dasgupta’s A History of Sriniketan. In 1915, Tagore wrote to an estate worker who was part of his work at Sriniketan (a project to upgrade villages): “I have something else to urge upon you. A note of joy has to be sounded in all your work. Village life has become very dull. The dryness of the heart has to be banished. All welfare work ought to be turned as far as possible into an occasion of festive joy.” Is he doing just that in this song?
Here we present the song beautifully rendered by the legendary singer who was groomed in Tagore’s school at Santiniketan, Kanika Bandopadhyay during his times. Kanika Bandopadhyay was a contemporary of Mahasweta Devi who wrote of her as Mohor in her memoir on Santiniketan (translated by Radha Chakravarty) where she explained the ambience that existed, “But during my time in Santiniketan, how forceful was the torrent of energy that flowed from the source the river of creativity descending from the snowcapped mountain peak!”
(The song has been translated for Borderless Journal by Mitali Chakravarty, edited by Anasuya Bhar. Tagore’s words used here have been translated by Uma Dasgupta in A History of Sriniketan (2022) and Mahasweta Devi’s by Radha Chakravarty in Mahasweta Devi, Our Santiniketan (2022) )
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Written in 1910 (15 Ashwin 1317) in Santiniketan, Raatri Eshe Jethay Mesheor where the night comes to mingle was a part of his collection calledGitimalya( A garland of Songs) first published in 1914.
Gitimalya
WHERE THE NIGHT COMES TO MINGLE
You and I met at the confluence when Night came to mingle with the ocean of day. There, the shades of black and white formed dark and light — There, the waves rushed from bank to bank. A baritone rang amidst the silence of the skies, The gold line rose out of the deepest of darkness. My dreams mingled with tears as I awoke Searching for contentment in vain.
Here is a rendition of the song in Bengali by Dwijen Mukherjee (1927-2018) a renowned singer from the past. His voice seems to capture the cadence of the song and colours it with the freshness of dawn.
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(Trans-created for Borderless Journal by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial support from Sohana Manzoor and Anasuya Bhar.)
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A Bengali Rendition of the song by Debabrata Biswas
ON THIS AUSPICIOUS DAY
On this auspicious day, let us go to our
Father’s heavenly abode.
Let us go. Let us go, you and I.
The level of contentment in His blissful
Home is unfathomable to us.
The three worlds are in ecstasy with
Festivities that spill over with joy.
Let us join the celestials singing in praise of him
Let us go there. Let us go, you and I.
Tagore like his father and grandfather was a Brahmo. The Brahmo festival, Maghotsav, is celebrated at the end of January, by the Bengali calendar on the 11th of Magh. Brahmo Samaj grew out of Brahmo Sabha. These were attempts at a reform movement on Hinduism initiated in the early part of the nineteenth century Calcutta by Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Dwarakanath Tagore, the poet’s grandfather.
TWO BIRDS
In a coop of gold, lived Cage Bird,
In the forest dwelt Free Bird --
How did the twain meet on a dawn?
What had Fate ordained?
"Dear One in cage," Free Bird called out,
"Come, let's fly into the wood."
"You come inside," chirped Cage Bird,
"The enclosure can be our home!"
"No!" Free Bird cried, "the chains are not for me!"
"Alas!" Cage Bird sighed,
"How can I live in the holt!"
Free Bird sat outside and sang
All the forest songs he loved.
Cage Bird parroted all
The tricks it had been taught -
'Twas as if they spoke two tongues!
Free Bird pleaded, "Dear one!
For me sing one Forest song!""
Cage Bird said, "You better rote
Songs of the cage, loved one!"
"No!" Free Bird wailed,
"I do not parrot cliches!"
"Alas," sobbed Cage Bird,
"How do I sing what I've never heard!"
The Free Bird chimed, "Deep is the blue
Of the sky above,
There's no bar in its expanse!"
"See!" Cage Bird twittered,
"How well-netted is the aviary
on all its four sides!"
"Let go of yourself!" Free Bird whistled,
"In the clouds above, just once!"
"This cosy corner is so very tranquil!"
Cage Bird chirped, "Why not
Submit to its peace?"
"No! Where will I then fly?"
"Alas! Where in the clouds
Will I find a perch?"
Thus the two birds loved each other
But could not unite.
Through the gaps their beaks would kiss
Their eyes bespoke their longing
But neither could understand
Nor express to the other
Their biding constraints.
They flapped their wings
They stretched their arms
"Come to me dear, let me
Hold you to my heart!"
"No!" the Free Bird feared,
"The door might snap shut!"
"Alas!" lamented the Caged Bird
"I have no might to fly!"
Birds in a large cage in Saratchandra’s home. Photo Courtesy: Ratnottama Sengupta
Growing up in a Vaishnav family where kirtan was a part of daily life, I had always loved this song Rabindranath Tagore composed in the kirtan style. In my later years I thought the Universal Poet had penned the Natya Geeti — song drama — in the context of the Freedom Struggle. No, I learnt in an essay by the poet: it was penned in 1892 to put into words a more universal philosophy — the duality that is part of every human existence. Difficult to comprehend? Perhaps not, once we obliterate the sameness of the two birds and attribute gender markers to them. Tagore himself thought of the caged bird as the woman in every man, and the free bird as the man in every woman. Perhaps that is why it is structured along the lines of the traditional Shuk Shari samvad — a conversational song between between two birds (parrots perhaps?) — wherein Shuk is a follower of the masculine, Purushottam Krishna, and Shari of Radha, the essence of femininity. However, I was prompted to look up the poem recently when I saw a large birdcage in a corner of Saratchandra Chatterjee’s house in Deulti some 60 km from Kolkata. It was pretty routine, apparently, for households then to have aviaries ‘domesticating’ finches, canaries, parakeets, cockatiels, lovebirds and other feathered pets — much like today’s people with pet dogs and cats. But I was struck by a different thought: Did the two birds represent the two stalwarts of Bengali Literature who lived at the same time? Did one look inside homes and scan woes besetting the happiness of their human relationships? And did the other take off from his perch on a branch of the tree rooted in terra firma, to swim in the boundless ocean above? Even today, one draws you out into the vast expanse while the other pulls you homeward. Together? They give us a universe…
Notes:
Kirtan is devotional music.
Tagore (1861 to 1941) and Saratchandra (1876-1938) were contemporaries. While Saratchandra wrote stories based on real life to expose and reform social ills, Tagore’s work was more philosophically inclined, though he has written of such societal issues too.
In 1894, Rabindranath wrote in Aadhunik Saahitya while commenting on the works of the poet Biharilal Chakraborty –
“… There is an independently moving masculine entity within our nature, which is intolerant to bondage alongside a feminine one which preffers to be enclosed and secured within the walls of the home. Both of them remain united in an inseparable fashion. One is eager to develop significantly his undying strength in a diverse way by savouring ever-new tastes of life, exploring ever-new realms and manifestations and the other remains encircled within innumerable prejudices and traditional practices, enthralled with her habitual deliberations. One takes you out into the vast expanse and the other seems to pull towards home. One is a forest bird (or the free bird of the translation by Ratnottama Sengupta) and the other is a caged bird. This forest bird is the one that sings much. Although, its song expresses with its diverse melodies the whimper and its craving for unrestricted freedom.”
Rabindranath Tagore was a brilliant poet, writer, musician, artist, educator – a polymath. He was the first Nobel Laureate from Asia. His writing spanned across genres, across global issues and across the world. His works remains relevant to this day.
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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Rangiye Diye Jao (Colour the World) written in 1927 by Tagore is a part of Gitabitan, the maestro’s largest compendium of songs. It has been trans-created by Ratnottama Sengupta.
Colour the World
Colour the world before you bid adieu --
Before you go
Dye the world in your hues,
In your notes,
In the youthful verve
Of your smiles...
Colour the world before
Bidding adieu...
May those hues steep my soul,
May the hues stay in my heart --
To colour every action henceforth,
To light up the path when darkness falls,
To stay awake when slumber engulfs...
Dye the Earth with this melody of yours,
Bathe it in tears but
Make it recall --
The joyous ring that wrapped us all.
Dye the Earth before you go...
Colour it, before bidding adieu --
Wake me up before you leave,
Let my bloodstream
Ripple to your name --
Like the stars that
Shine through night,
Like the stream that
Breaks free of rocks,
Like the bolt that
Rips the clouds,
Like the rhythm that throbs
The axis of the world...
Rock me gently with your hands
Before bidding adieu --
Rabindranath Tagore (1861 to 1941) was a brilliant poet, writer, musician, artist, educator – a polymath. He was the first Nobel Laureate from Asia. His writing spanned across genres, across global issues and across the world. His works remains relevant to this day.
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A translation of Purano Sei Diner (1885), Tagore’s youthful adaptation of Robert’s Burn’sAuld Lang Syne(1788) to an Indian context.
Can Old Days Ever be Forgot?
Can old days ever be forgot, O my friend!
The things we saw, we shared together, can they be forgot?
Come, my friend, come once again into my heart.
We’ll talk of our joys and sorrows, and we’ll relax.
We have swung, picked flowers in the dawn,
Played the flute, sung together under the bokul*.
Oh, we parted in between, scattered here and there.
Now that we’ve met again, my friend, come into my hearth.
*Bokul is a tree with fragrant flowers, commonly known as medlar in English.
Tagore’s song sung by Bengali legendary singer, Debabrata Biswas
We present here the version created by Robert Burns based on an old Scottish song. It is popularly sung during the new year.
Auld Lang Syne
By Robert Burns
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
Chorus
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.
Chorus
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.
Chorus
And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
Chorus
Auld Lang Syne in Scottish and English
(Translated for Borderless Journal by Mitali Chakravarty, edited by Sohana Manzoor and Anasuya Bhar.)
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
