It’s carnival time today.
Serfs and plebeians pour into streets.
Behold the giggling, decked up undertaker’s wife,
That man over there, completely soused, is her spouse!
He holds his pay tight in his fists and grins grotesquely,
See the sweeper there, lips reddened by betel leaf!
There he is— the constable— sporting a shiny wristband.
And look at that rotund young eunuch—
All merry, like dusky Abyssinians or Afghan revellers in the rain.
Today it’s time to collect wages and bonuses and forget files.
Today superiors have trade place with subordinates
And mandarins have transformed themselves into mere clerks.
The roly-poly slave and Kishorimohon Das
Sleep fitfully next to each other near the town reservoir,
Stirred again and again by the mayor’s snores,
The hapless water bearer gets completely wet.
The woman over there is a streetwalker,
Visiting town for the first time with her snotty-nosed brother.
That man there trades in lead, and there is the perfume seller,
He is the accountant, and he, the treasurer,
And next to him on this day of intermittent rain
Is the petty thief’s no-good brother.
And there— leaning, bent by the weight of his imagination,
As if in a trance, is the poet, the king of poets!
This day all have spilled out into the streets and stroll there
Endlessly — intransitive
Wrapped in newly spun silk.
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
ProfessorFakrul Alam brings to us a discussion on and translations of Tagore songs on the season that follows the scorching heat of summer months
Art by Sohana Manzoor
A rough count of the songs collected in Gitabitan in the section titled “Prakriti” or “Nature” reveals that Rabindranath Tagore composed about sixteen songs of summer, more than 100 monsoonal ones, 33 songs of Sharat or early autumn, five of Hemonto or late autumn, and a dozen or so songs of winter. In addition, he has left us around 93 songs of spring. For many decades, I kept wondering how Rabindranath managed to end up with such a lopsided list as far as his songs of the six Bengali seasons are concerned. After all, late autumn and winter are enjoyable seasons when Bengal is blissfully heat-free and the weather quite mild and bearable; why, then, did he show such fondness for the wet monsoonal months and the rapidly warming and (at its end quite unbearably hot) springtime? But I am puzzled no longer by his preference for our Borsha, for it now seems clear to me that he had good reasons to prefer the monsoonal months over all else. In recent decades, now that I fancy I have something of what Wordsworth calls the “philosophic mind” (and in this age of global warming as well!), I can appreciate fully why the monsoonal months stimulated Rabindranath so continuously into songs.
Think of the summer months. From mid-April till the second week of June, the weather torments us all over Bangladesh with stifling heat and unbearable humidity. Who in these weeks of scorching sun, steadily frying dampness and seemingly immobile and incredibly muggy air does not yearned for an ever-increasing cloud cover leading to sudden bursts of showers and rainy conditions? Isn’t the monsoon a huge relief after the summer months, despite the flaming krishnachuras [flame of the forest] and the seemingly endless stream of summer fruits that arrive in our market then? Don’t we all look forward to the pitter patter of raindrops, even if accompanied by thunder and lightning, when hot and dry ourselves? And isn’t the fresh green look of nature after a burst of rain so very soothing?
As in his devotional and love poems, Rabindranath captures feelingly in his monsoonal song-lyrics a variety of moods. One such mood is the longing for relief from an oppressive presence. Registering the cruel heat and humidity of our late spring and summer, his songs often exult in the respite that the monsoons afford us. Hear him thus dramatise the excitement all life forms feel just before, during and after the coming of the monsoons, in the opening two stanzas of the song-lyric ‘Oi Ashe Oi Oti Bhairob Horoshe’[i] [The Clouds Arrive Amidst Joy]
There, there they come — monsoonal clouds—
Exhilarating, awesome, moisture-laden,
Fragrant, earth-soaked, dense, rejuvenated
Dark-hued, somber, glorious— ready to burst!
Their deep rumblings quiver dark-blue forests
Tense peacocks out on strolls cry out,
The whole world is thrilled, overwhelmed.
Intense, amazing—monsoon is on its way!
Indeed, song after song of Gitabitan record Rabindranath’s fascinated melodic outburst after a dramatic monsoonal outburst. Here is another example, ‘Prochondo Gorjone Ashile Eki Durdeen’, [Amidst Thunder comes a Dreaded Day].
Such a dreadful day, so full of rolling, thundering sounds
Disquieting cloud buildups, ominous endless outbursts!
Such a thick cloud cover; serpentine lightning, scarring night
Making the sky stream tears despite its totally blinded eyes!
But abandon all your fears; stir O scared and slothful ones.
Cheerfully, build up within yourself ample strength
To behold with resolute and wide open eyes His serene presence
Behold Him seating superbly on his throne –defying death, fearless!
Completely committed to the notion of a Supreme Being in his works, Rabindranath conveys his wonder at the monsoonal drama of clouds, thunder, and lightning and rain in many a song, inspired by scenes that he sees in the last analysis as embodying the power and inspirational presence of the deity.
A sizeable number of Rabindranath’s song-lyrics are in this religious vein, but not all. In other monsoonal song-lyrics Rabindranath presents to us not only the awe-inspiring/ sacramental signs of the deity embodied in such seasonal storms, but also the frightening and intimidating aspects of our rainy season. He is well aware of the deep unease the monsoonal storm’s power and intemperate outbursts can cause, and the way it can scare all things in nature and make them aquiver. The foreboding created by the approach of an overwhelming and apocalyptic force is thus apparent in the concluding lines of the song ‘Hridaye Mondrilo Domoru Guru Guru’ (A Drum Rumbles in the Heart):
The night is full of thunder and lightning;
The clouds are intense, startling.
Jasmine creepers tremble and rustle in melancholy notes
Woodlands fill with insects chirping in alarm!
In fact, Rabindranath is acutely aware of how the monsoon can disrupt lives, particularly those of people out in the open or men and women who have to travel in inclement weather despite the thunder, lightning, rain and flash floods that the monsoons invariably bring. His concern for such vulnerable people and concern at such intemperate weather comes out clearly in Jhoro Jhoro Boreshe Baridhara [The Rain Streams Incessantly]:
Rain streams down incessantly
Alas wayfarer; alas disabled, homeless ones!
The wind moans on and on.
Who is it calling out to in this immense, deserted, dismal landscape?
The night is pitch dark,
Jamuna restless; its waves agitated, endless; its shores have disappeared!
Dense dark rain clouds hover in the horizon, rumbling continuously.
Lightning darts restlessly, dazzlingly—no moon or stars in sight!
On the other hand, the monsoons are also seasonal visitations for Rabindranath that induce in him desire for romance or romantic cravings that need to be fulfilled. Note how intensely the yearning of a lover anxious to impart his feelings to his beloved in a rain-stirred mood is articulated in Emono Dine Tara Bola Jai [On Such a Day, They Say]:
On such a day she could be told
On such a dense, dark, wet day!
On such a day to her I could my mind unfold,
On such a cloudy, thunderous, showery day
On just such a sunless, dense, dismal day!
I’d tell her what no one else would know
Silence would us probably surround,
We’d face each other, each sobered by a deep wound.
Incessant rain would from the sky flow;
Surely, no one then would be around.
Societal and family life would feel unreal
The hullabaloo of life too would feel surreal
What would only matter are eyes feeding on each other
And two hearts savouring one another;
All else would merge with darkness.
If in a corner of the house on such a rainy day,
I had then a thing or two to tell her
Why would anyone have anything to say?
The wind blows with great force today;
Lightning keeps flashing away
What I’ve been storing in my mind till this day
Is something that I’d like to tell her today—
On just such a dense, dark, wet day!
Not a few of the song lyrics collected in the ‘Borsha’ [Monsoon] part of Gitabitan depict such brooding and passionate thoughts and the intense yearning for the beloved brought on by the turbulence of the monsoonal breeze. Here is another such song, Mor Bhabonere Ki Haowa [What wind is it lilting my thoughts so amazingly]:
What wind is it lilting my thoughts so amazingly?
Its caress swings, swings my mind unaccountably.
In my heart’s horizon moist dense new clouds swarm,
Stirring a shower of emotions.
I don’t see her—don’t see her at all
Only occasionally in my mind I recall
Almost indiscernible footsteps sounding
And ankle bells tinkling, oh so tunefully!
A secret dreamscape spreads
Across the wet wind-swept sky—
A new and ethereal azure shawl!
Shadowy unfurled tresses fly,
Filling me with such intense disquiet
On this far-off ketoki-perfumed wet night.
All in all, Rabindranath’s inspired lyrical responses to the monsoons remind one that he is in some ways a poet following in the footsteps of William Wordsworth. One remembers, in this context, the English romantic poet’s lines in Book I of The Prelude where he conveys his ardent and positive response to the coming of the English spring after the English winter’s life-shrinking barrenness. Wordsworth sees the English spring ushering in a “correspondent breeze” that gives rise to poetry. To make the point somewhat differently, just as the spring breeze is Wordsworth’s metaphor for the muse, Rabindranath finds in the monsoons endless inspiration for composing song-lyrics and poetry. Here is a translation of one of his most popular ones Mono Mor Meghero Shongi [ My Friend, the Cloud]:
My mind is the clouds’ companion,
Soaring to the limits of the horizon
And crossing wide open spaces to sravan’s music
Of rain falling pitter patter, pitter patter!
My mind soars on crane-like wings
To startling, streaking, lightning flashes,
And rumbling, terrifying,
Tumultuous, deafening sounds
Responding to apocalyptic summons!
The wind blows from some eastern sea
Surging, rippling waves crest endlessly
My mind is fascinated by their frantic motion
By palm-fringed, dark-tamal tree forests
And to branches fluttering frenziedly!
Space will not permit any more long extracts, but on the subject of inspiration I can’t resist including the concluding stanza of the much loved song lyric, ‘Hriday Amar Nachere’ (My Heart Dances):
Like a peacock dancing, my heart dances this day.
Showers stream down on newly sprouted branches,
Cricket songs stir forests,
The rampaging river roars over banks and floods villages,
Like a peacock dancing, my heart dances this day!
No wonder then this monsoon-stirred poet has articulated for all Bengalis so melodically the many-sides and wonders of the season as no other writer has; no other writer from our part of the world has been so mesmerised by our rainy season and so stirred into unforgettable songs and poems by it!
[i] All translations from the Bengali song-lyrics are that of Professor Fakrul Alam.
Magic(Leela)
Like when a piece of iron falls in love with a piece of wood
Causing the iron to float on water,
Or like when the magic of love casts a spell
Making stone float on liquid,
For ages, in nation after nation,
People contrive to float stones,
For diverse reasons and occasions,
Letting love and desire take diverse forms
In manifold texts and discourses...
A Fragrant Tale(Sugandho-kahini)
The world is full of misleading, minus signs and foul smells
At times, the world feels as heavy and unbearable
As the weight of a son’s dead body on his dad’s shoulder,
Or as stressful as playing the role of a dead soldier,
Or as formidable as a physically challenged person’s ascent up a mountain
Or as painful as caring for a precocious, traumatised child...
Nevertheless, occasionally such stress-laden memories will blur,
And suddenly, wafting on the wind’s sudden mood swing,
A fragrant moment comes one’s way!
Love(Prem)
‘After all words die away, the heart starts speaking.’
When all heartbeats and hullabaloo die down,
Little by little the heart starts fluttering in a distinct metronome
When all words ends, silence begins to reign.
Where mathematics ends, music begins.
Gradually the Role of the Third Actor Becomes Clear(Kromosho Spasto Hoye Othe Triteeyo Praneer Bhumika)
Like in magic, in a seemingly miraculous move,
Two strangers will come together
While a third will have to disappear
To remain awol forever— in reality!
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
I’ve never been to Kurigram.
In the dead of night, sleeping Kurigram steadily detaches itself
From the world that we know.
Ignores gravity completely
Taking off with its tiny kingdom
To some far-off galaxy.
We keep looking then at the deep blue of the sky
While the tiny village becomes a speck up high.
For a long while Kurigram floats from one dome of heaven to another.
Till that star in the southern sky that pursued it so single-mindedly
Settles by its side and claims it as its own.
Then from this new luminary
A mild red vaporous smell wafts across the sky.
In that realm, in Kurigram,
The Kingfisher and the Pankouri bird are stepbrothers.
When all the rivers of Kurigram become calm
The two brothers make the river their home
Squabbling with each other like families bickering!
When the river calms down again
The womenfolk, once bound by scriptural edicts,
Throng to the riverbank.
Breaking all barriers,
They sparkle like large resplendent crystals.
Suddenly, a lonely babui bird, sans weaving skills,
Perched on a battered old mast, starts swinging,
Finally settling down on the translucent steel-foiled river water.
Kurigram, ah Kurigram!
Where Kurigram used to be
Is a dark and solitary space now.
Alas, I’ve never been to Kurigram
And I don’t think I ever will!
Kurigram—An innocuous town located in the northern region of Bangladesh
Paankouri—A species of bird, black in colour, found in marshes and rivers
Babui—A species of weaving bird
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
Translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from the Bengali poem, Itihas (History)
Masud Khan
How then can an authentic history of the world be written? The one who writes— who is he and where is he writing from? When is he writing? From which vantage point is he writing and for what reason? All these factors will decide the truth of the history. And in any case the subject itself is bound by its own conventions and is inevitably subjective.
Is it then impossible to write an authentic history of the world?
No! In the light already reflected from the surface of the world till now is impressed the history of the world— chronologically! Which is to say, the history of the world is in the light dispersed from the world. And that must be authentic version of the history of the world since it’s being written naturally. Perhaps in kingdom after kingdom of the cosmos someone or the other is sighting that history through telescopes, unknown to us all.
But will such a history be absolutely authentic? What about the chapters of history that are dark and depressing? Of episodes that have been denuded of light and have become shrouded in darkness and decadence? Of episodes that have never exuded light and will never reflect any radiance anywhere? What about them?
And what about the history of people who are dark or tan-brown?
Perhaps their evolution has become blurred in the lenses of telescopes; perhaps their histories have become obscure in the telling— since they are dark and tan-brown; perhaps because they are able to transmit only a feeble light they are deemed to be totally incapable of reflecting any light at all!
Does this mean that the history of dark and tan-brown people will remain obscure forever in the history of mankind? And in nature? Bereft of light and therefore of history too?
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology, Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh (Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan (English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
Nazrul’s poem, Proloyullash, has been translated as ‘The Frenzy of Destruction’ by Professor Fakrul Alam, published in his first anthology Agnibeena (Fiery Instrument) in 1922.
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
THE FRENZY OF DESTRUCTION
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
Summer’s storm flutters the flag of the New!
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
He who was to come is coming,
Dancing as if possessed and bent on destruction!
Crossing Oceans, storming the Main Gate, smashing portals,
Into the dark hole of death
In the guise of the eternal executioner—
Through smouldering smoke
Lighting the lamp of lightning
The Violent One comes,
Bursting with glee!
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
Locks swaying in the overcast sky, He makes the sky flare,
Forcing even the fiery all-consuming comet’s tail to tremble.
In the very heart of the Creator of the universe
Like an unsheathed sword the blood sparkles
Roll and sway!
His loud laughter stuns the universe into silence—
Look how stunned the universe is!
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
A dozen suns’ rays stream fiercely from His eyes
The sorrows of the world stick in His disheveled hair.
Every teardrop falling from His eyes
Makes the seven seas roll and swell
His cheeks flush and glow!
Hugging Mother Earth in His huge arms,
He thunders, “Let destruction triumph!”
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
Take heart, take heart, cataclysms shake the universe,
The sluggish and shrunken, the dying and decrepit,
Hide and flee because of the coming catastrophe.
Cheerfully, compassionately,
The infant moon’s beams will shine in the sky’s unkempt locks.
Light will flood your home now!
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
The eternal charioteer comes, lashing his bloodied whip,
His horses neigh out; their cries resound in thunder and rain.
Their hooves spark off stars and scatter them across the blue sky
In the covered well of the dark dungeon
The gods are tied up with sacrificial stakes
And heaped in cold stony pillars.
Time for Him and His chariot to shake the earth.
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
Why fear destruction? It’s the gateway to creation!
The new will arise and rip through the unlovely.
Hair disheveled and dressed carelessly
Destruction makes its way gleefully.
Confident it can destroy and then build again!
Ring bells of victory!
Ring bells of victory!
Why fear since destruction and creation are part of the same game?
Ring bells of victory!
Wives, hold up your lamps of welcome!
The Beautiful comes in the guise of the Violent One
Ring bells of victory!
(The translation was first Published in Daily Star, 2007)
It was converted to a song called Tora Sab Jayadhani Kar or ‘Ring Bells of Victory’ in 1921 and set to tune by Nazrul himself.
Tora Sab Jayadhwani Kar sung in Bengali by contemporary singer Swagatalakshmi.
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
WHY PROVIDE THORNS
Why provide thorns as well as flowers?
Wouldn’t lotuses bloom if thorns didn’t prick?
Why must fluttering eyes become moist with tears?
Why provide hearts if hearts won’t unite?
Why do cool wet clouds allure the swallow
Only to greet it with thunder and lightning?
Why allow buds to blossom if flowers wither?
Why stain the moon’s brow with a frown?
Why must desire for beauty be mired in lust?
Won’t faces look beautiful without the dark mole?
Poet, keep imaging bliss in this bower of thorns,
While restraining yourself within your moist eyes.
(First published in the Daily Star, 2007)
Keno Dile E Kanta rendered in Bengali by Khairul Anam Shakil
Farewell, neighbours of my nightly vigil,
Standing aloft next to my window,
Companions, the night of parting elapses.
From this day ceases our secret exchanges,
From this day ends our quiet conversations....
Putting its worn forehead on the porch of the setting sky
The moon cries, “Traveler awake, night is all but over”
Night spreads across the forest deep; overcome with sleep,
It glances back, clasping in its hand its dark disheveled hair!
Startled, I wake up, wondering: whose breath brushes my forehead?
Who fans my warm forehead, who wakes up by my bedside?
I rise seeing by my window the sentinel of my dreams,
Companions of my dark nights, the row of betel nut trees!
Hadn’t we once viewed each other through fluttering eyelids?
Friends, I recall what we said to each other all night long!
When tears flowed from weary eyes beginning to burn,
Your leaves appear to me to be like the cooling palms
Of my beloved. The rustling of your leaves reminded me
Of her plaintive voice, calling out mournfully.
I saw in your leaves the kohl-dark shape of her eyes.
Your bodies in silhouette suggested her slim shape.
The gentle breeze wafting by evoked her delicate air.
Your branches seem to be draped with her sari’s borders.
And you fanned me as tenderly as she did with her hands!
These thoughts troubled me as I entered sleep’s domain.
As I slept, I felt the frill of your dark blue dresses lying
Unfurled besides my pillow. I saw in my dream you entering,
Furtively and fervently kissing my warm forehead.
Perhaps in the dream I extended my hands to touch you
Only to touch the window. Then I clasped your hands shyly.
Companions, now that window will have to be shut.
The path beckons, fellow travelers shout, “time to depart!”
This day before I take my leave
I feel like revealing myself to you as well as knowing you.
I feel close to your feelings; yet why does my insatiable mind
Yearn to hear from you the thoughts lodged in your bosom?
I know—we will never get to know each other physically,
Our hearts will only keep playing a tune of pain mournfully!
Perhaps I’ve seen a vision of you that is not like you at all.
But how can that harm you, if it does enough to swell my heart?
If my tears transform you into a thing of beauty,
If I can build a monument stirred by love of someone
As the Taj Mahal was built from the pain of losing Mumtaz,
Tell me, what harm will that do to anyone?
I won’t adorn my room with you, won’t create a paradise....
Perhaps birds never lighted on your branches,
In your bower, amidst your foliage, cuckoos never sang.
Looking up to the heavens in exaggerated appeal
You kept vigil in the dark, though none stayed up
To open the window. But I was always the first to arrive,
And look at you in rapt attention in the dark. Departing lovingly,
On your leaves I wrote my first letters of love.
Let that be my consolation, whether I meet her or not....
Companions, I’ll never wake up again to look at you
I won’t interrupt anyone’s trance after a tumultuous day.
Silently, all alone, I’ll burn the incense of my suffering.
I shouldn’t ask, but can’t help doing so before leaving today—
From behind your wooden screen, did you view me lovingly too?
Did you also take a look at me when I opened the window?
Was it the wind or my love that made your leaves sway?
When behind your green borders, the moon will go to sleep,
And I will have to repress all happy feelings—
In your joyous moments, will you recall this passerby’s brief visit?
Will your voice resound in this empty room in loud lamentations?
Will the moonlight become insipid in your vision then?
Will you open shutters and look at the formless world outside?
Or will you keep standing rapt in your thoughts all day long?
Tied to exhausted earth, you’ve become a row of helpless trees,
Your feet are soiled with dust, your heads enveloped in emptiness.
Your days scald in the sun’s heat, your night’s chill in the dew,
You lack the strength to cry, you seem to be in a deathlike stupor.
If your problems fail to arouse you, companions, and stir you,
What can I hope to gain by burdening you with my gift of pain?...
* * * *
If I come to your mind by mistake, try to forget me,
If by mistake my windows open again,
Please shut them again.... Don’t look out in the dark at all
Through your wooden screen—for the one no longer on earth
The poem recited by Nazrul’s son, Kazi Sabyasaachi, in Bengali
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Written by Kazi Nazrul Islam in 1926, translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
Nazrul’s statue in Bangladesh: Courtesy: Creative Commons
POVERTY
Poverty, you’ve empowered me,
Endowed me with Christ’s dignity
And adorned me with a thorny crown,
Ascetic one, you’ve inspired me
To speak out and eye the world boldly
Deliver messages as incisively as a knife;
Your curse has made my veena a sword!
Arrogant hermit, your scorching flame
Has shorn my golden visage of its glitter,
Shrinking its sap and drying the soul early,
When I try grasping with emaciated hands
Beauty’s bounty, O Impoverished One,
You step forward and lap it up.
A forlorn desert is all you leave
For my imagination to play with.
My eyes blaze at my own beauty!
My desires, tinged with pain-yellow buds,
Would rather bloom like the soft, white,
Fragrant shefali flower. But Cruel One,
Like an unfeeling woodcutter, you break
All branches and destroy all blossoms,
My heart glistens like an autumnal dawn,
Wet with dew shed by sympathetic earth.
You are the sun -- your heat dries up
Every dewdrop of pity. I shrink
Inside the shade that earth affords.
Dreams of Beauty and the Good shatter.
Pouring liquid poison down the throat
You ask, “What good is nectar now?
There is no parching sensation,
No intoxication, no madness.
Weakling that you are, not for you
To seek manna from heaven
In this sorrow-laden world!
You are a serpent, in birth singed
By pain! In a thorny garden you weave
Garlands. On your forehead
I leave this mark of woe!”
I sing songs, weave garlands, and feel my throat burn,
Snakebites have left their marks all over my body!
Like unforgiving Durbasha*, you wander
From door to door with a beggar’s bowl.
Even as newlywed couples embark
On their night of Happiness, you cry out:
“Dumb ones, Listen: this world
Is no bower of bliss but full of sorrow,
Of want and the pangs of parting,
Of thorns that underlie bridal beds
And are embedded even in the Beloved’s arms,
Take your fill of them now!”
Instantly, cries of anguish overwhelm,
In that bower of bliss light fades,
And dreadful night overwhelms!
Exhausted, worn out by hunger, you peer,
Surveying earth with knotted eyebrows
When, suddenly, something strikes you,
And your eyes dart out fiercely.
Whole kingdoms are devastated then
By Plagues, Famines, and Cyclones,
Pleasure Gardens burn, palaces topple—
The only verdict you know is death!
You never stoop to modest displays,
But revel in revealing yourself naked.
You know no hesitation or shame
But raise the heads of those bent low.
At your wish, people condemned to die
Tie nooses around their neck gladly.
Despite burning in the fire of penury daily
They embrace death with devilish glee.
From goddess Lakshmi’s head you snatch
Her crown and throw it to the dust.
O Champion, what tune do you strum
So deftly on your veena? All I hear is lamentation!
Yesterday morning I heard the shehnai wail
A melancholy note, as if a dear one
Hadn’t returned home yet. The shehnai
Seemed to cry out to him to come back.
Some bride’s heart wafted away with the tune
As if searching for her beloved.
Her friends wondered why she should cry,
And let her kohl dissolve with her tears....
Even this morning I woke up to hear
The shehnai call plaintively: “come, come”
Sad-faced, shefalika flowers drop off—
Like a widow whose smile keeps fading—
Their delicate fragrances overwhelm
Butterflies fluttering on restless wings,
Intoxicated with the scent of flowers
They kissed! Bees yellow their wings
With pollen and wet their bodies with honey.
My soul overflows in all directions!
Unconsciously I sing out welcoming songs
Happily! My eyes fill with tears unaccountably
Someone seems to tie the knot,
Uniting me with earth. With hands full of flowers,
Earth appears to step forward with its bounty.
It is as if she is my youngest daughter!
I wake up suddenly in wonder! Alas, my child
Has been up all night and is crying in my home,
Famished and hands full of soot. O Cruel One,
You’ve brought perpetual tears to my home!
I haven’t been able to give my dear child,
My loved one, a drop of milk!
Familial duty is no delight! Poverty is intolerable,
As it cries endlessly as one’s son or wife
Clasping one’s door! Who will play the flute?
Where will one get radiant smiles of bliss?
Where will one taste a rich bouquet of wine?
Rather swallow a glass of the poisonous dhutura
To make the tears flow....
Till this day I hear the shehnai’s overture wailing
Seemingly saying: nothing, nothing has survived!
*Durbasha: A legendary rishi who was revered but was rather hot tempered
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
These are songs of Tagore centred around autumn, a season that is split into two parts in Bengal. Early autumn is called Sarat and late autumn Hemonto. The first two songs are descriptive of Sarat and the last one of Hemonto.
Autumn: Art by Sohana Manzoor
SAY WHAT YOU WILL (Tomra Ja Bolo tai bolo, written in 1921)
Say what you all will, I don’t mind
My time flies, and hours pass, aimlessly
The wild wind stirs me to a song
And spreads its tune across this deep-blue sky.
That song has stuck in my mind.
What nectar do I seek in the humming of bees?
Whose sky-pervading gaze seeks me out
And settles on my sight thus this day?
Shiuli flower that bloom in autumns in Bengal. Courtesy: Creative Commons
THE HEART WAS AWAKE (Hridoye Chheele Jege, written in 1921)
You were wide awake in my heart
But I see you in autumnal clouds this day!
How was it you stole so quietly away at dawn,
Letting only your dress’s borders caress the dew?
What song is it that I should sing?
I simply can’t find words for it now!
They lie scattered with shiuli flowers under forest canopies
They’ve flown away with the gusting winds in sudden showers.
***
Shiuli-Jasmine
AUTUMNAL NIGHTS (Himer Raate, 1927)
On such cool autumnal nights
Hemonto hides heaven’s lamps with its cloak.
To every house it gives this call,
“Light festive lamps, make bright the night,
Shine your own lights, illuminate the world.”
Gardens are flowerless now; cuckoos sing no more;
Kash reed flowers keep falling by riverbanks,
But let go of darkness, despair and misery; light festive lamps--
Shine your own lights and proclaim the triumph of light
The gods look on — sons and daughters of earth, arise,
Illuminating the night,
Darkness may descend and day end but light festive lamps,
Shine your own light and triumph over this dark night
***
Hemonto-Late autumn
Kash-Long grass
Below is a Youtube upload of Autumnal night or Himer Raate sung by the legendary singer Debabrata Biswas (1911-1980)
Borderless 