Nazrul’s Shukno Patar Nupur Paye(with ankle bells of dried leaves) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
Bokul or MedlarChapa or Champaka flowersFrom Public Domain
With ankle bells of dried leaves The wild wind dances away. Making waves sparkle and sway, The wild wind goes on its way. At the pond’s heart, lotus flowers collect. Bokul and Chapa buds lie strewn. Restless waterfalls stream and sparkle. As she darts across the field, Taking off her wildflower ornaments And unfurling her unruly hair at the sky The crazy dust-covered woman keeps dancing. Like an Iranian child in a frontier world Treading desert spaces, she enthrals all Fair-complexioned, sand-coloured ornaments Draping her body, she comes darting!
Nazrul’s song performed in Bengali by legendary singer, Feroza Begum (1930-2014)
Fakrul Alam writes nostalgically of his visits to Feni in Noakhali, a small town which now suffers from severe flooding due to climate change. Click here to read.
Rakhi Dalal reviews Swadesh Deepak’s A Bouquet of Dead Flowers translated from Hindi by Jerry Pinto, Pratik Kanjilal, Nirupama Dutt, Sukant Deepak. Click here to read.
Fakrul Alam writes nostalgically of his visits to Feni in Noakhali, a small town which now suffers from severe flooding due to climate change.
Green Feni, Noakhali Feni flooded due to climate change From Public Domain
Every year, twice a year, during winter and summer vacations, my family would travel to Feni, Noakhali, where we would spend our holidays in our Nana Bari, the home of my Nana, or maternal grandfather.
For days before the journey, our excitement would keep mounting. For one thing, Amma[1] would make frequent trips to Nawabpur, or what was then called Jinnah Avenue, to buy fabrics or wool which she would then sew/darn/weave into clothes or woolens to gift her family members when in Feni. She would also spend more time in the kitchen than usual, cooking as many dishes as she could for my father, the only one of us who would be staying behind since he had his office to attend to; he would join us, if at all, for a few days at the end. For days before she left, Amma would repeat instructions to our household help until, by the time we left, we had memorised what they were supposed to be doing while we were away. Moreover, she would spend the last few days before the journey packing and repacking since she had to ensure that we had everything we needed, not only for the fortnight or so we would spend in Feni, but also for the journey back and forth.
And then, finally, the day of the journey to Feni would arrive! The six of us would board two or three rickshaws in the morning elatedly and head for the railway station in Phulbaria. We would have to thread our way through a platform overflowing with passengers and hangers-on, coolies and vendors, beggars and con-artists, as well as railway police and ticket checkers. Intrepid and inspired, Amma would lead us through the milling and tense crowd. It was as if the whole world was heading for the same interclass compartment; indeed, it seemed that we always managed to reach it just when the train was ready to leave the station.
Eventually, the train would leave Phulbaria and we would relax and feel exhilarated again. Because we did the trip so often, we looked forward to the highlights on the way. Bhairab Bridge, huge and unending, had views of the riverscape that were breathtaking in all seasons and for as long as the train clanged through it we were awestruck. Kasba, the station on the border where Pakistani and Indian troops skirmished frequently throughout the 1960s, was always the place where we tensed up a little. The red hills of Mainamati looked incongruous in the green world of Bangladesh. There were junctions like Brahmanbaria and Laxam, where vendors hawked their wares and cries of “cha gorom[2]” and “deem[3]” filled the air. Although the trip to Feni was supposed to be seven or eight hours long, by the time the train reached Feni station, it would be late in the evening and we would be exhausted, worn out by a journey that seemed to have gone on and on.
Feni in the 1960s was a small mofussil town, and to us Dhakaites, quaintly interesting. Rickshaws were often veiled! The traffic consisted almost entirely of rickshaws and bullock carts; the buildings seemed rickety or run-down, as if someone had forbidden them all to look good or completed or told them not to stand up straight. Although the trip to our Nana Bari from the station was not more than a few minutes by rickshaw, to us, it seemed to take forever; we just couldn’t wait for the journey to end by this time.
But all our fatigue evaporated as soon as our rickshaw took a bend and Nana Bari swung into view, revealing our uncles and aunts waiting eagerly to take us in. Nana, intensely religious at this stage of his life, would often be waiting to greet us with the warmest of smiles before hurrying off to prayer. My Nani[4] would first embrace Amma and the two of them would sniff a little, both overcome by the emotion of the oldest daughter returning home after some months. Then she would hug the five of us turn by turn and dash for the kitchen where she had been supervising the cooking. We would join her there as soon as we had washed and changed so that she could serve us delicious pithas[5] and all sorts of delicacies that Amma could cook in Dhaka only now and then. If it wasn’t too late, Amma’s relatives and friends would drop in, making us feel very important, for everyone wanted to know what we children were doing in school and the details of our Dhaka life. Eventually, we would drop off to sleep in utter exhaustion, but not before our uncles and aunts revealed the plans they had for us for the next few days.
The next few days, in fact, would go in a whirl. If it was summer and the heat was too intense or the rain too heavy, we would play carom or snakes and ladders inside for a while; if there was a cloud cover or only a drizzle outside, we would play hopscotch or football in the courtyard or retreat to the shaded grove in the backyard. Sooner or later, though, we would head for the pond, the centre of our daily rituals. Once we went into the water, we stayed in till Nani and Amma dragged us out for lunch. It was in this pond that we all learned to swim in successive trips; here we floated on banana-trunk rafts for hours and were thrilled at the way my uncles caught fish either with a net or a fishing rod. Sometimes, a tiger-skinned snake would slither past us shushing us instantly until it disappeared. Then we would resume our water games once again. If it was winter, on the other hand, we would stay in bed as long as possible, until the sun was completely up; afterwards, we would head for the courtyard where we would play hopscotch or cricket or go to the farthest reach of our Nana Bari in the plot of land adjacent to the pond, pretending to be picnicking. And then after we had psyched and warmed ourselves adequately we would go to the pond for a quick dip and rush out shivering to dry ourselves and have lunch in the sun.
Some evenings Amma would take us out to visit her relatives. Other evenings, we would go out for strolls. At least one evening we would spend promenading all around the dighi (large tank) around which colonial Feni had grown and where there were dak bungalows and the offices of this sub-divisional town. On one of these evenings, our uncle would take us to the edge of the town to show the old bridge and the massive and ancient banyan tree on the Grand Trunk Road, narrating to us, as we went, the story of how Sher Shah had built it and the bridge hundreds of years ago as part of his plan to administer efficiently the territories he had wrested from the Mughals. On another evening, our uncle would take us to see the ruins of Feni airport, for the town was once one of the key forward bases of the Royal Air Force, even though it would be abandoned at the bend of our history when India was partitioned. At least once during every visit to Feni, we would sneak out to go to see a film, for our now-puritan Nana was known to frown even at the mention of the cinema and would get mad at my uncles and aunts if he came to know where they had taken us.
At night, we would occasionally go to dawats[6]. Once every trip, Nanu would reciprocate by inviting relatives, friends, and even acquaintances she considered important to Nana Bari so that they could also meet us over dinner. On nights when we stayed home all by ourselves, Nana would join us after evening prayers, relaxing and joking with us for at least an hour, and thus remind the other elders of how he had been full of life and a Swadeshi (self-rule) campaigner once, an activist in the cause of one Bengal, but how he had become other-worldly now. Sometimes his stepbrother would visit us, tooting his odd-sounding bicycle horn entirely for our benefit as he came and went, and filling Nana Bari with his booming voice and loud laughter. Nani, too, would join us for a while, finally relaxing after another day of hard work, and would tease us as grandmothers are supposed to do, making us grandchildren feel silly and important at the same time.
Reluctantly, we would go to sleep after dinner; some on beds and some on the mats spread out on the floor. But sleep would take long to come, for we would first review the events of the day or plan for the one that was coming up, exchange secrets in the dark, or whisper stories about the ghosts and robbers that were supposed to be all around Nana Bari.
But we felt totally secure in Nana Bari, wrapped up in the love of my grandparents and uncles and aunts. Every part of the Bari[7] was full of family history. “There,” an aunt would say, “was where you were born!” “Those rooms are where all of us used to live before your Nana decided to extend the house for all you grandchildren,” my Nani would tell us proudly. In time, I began to fill parts of Nana Bari with my own memories too, although I was still a boy. Wasn’t that the room, for instance, where I was painfully initiated into the faith, though the occasion led to a feast in my honour afterwards? Occasionally, we all became part of family history in the making, as an uncle or an aunt got married, or one of us or a cousin had his akika[8] or birthday celebrated, and Nana Bari would then take on a festive air for days.
For the fortnight or so we were in Nana Bari, we were thus completely happy. Little did we know then the financial difficulties my Nana was experiencing due to the religious turn he had taken in old age; the hours he was spending in prayers and meditation meant that other people were taking advantage of him, encroaching on his land and trying to defraud him in business. Little did we know the strain Nani was going through then, running the large family on a reduced budget—Amma had three brothers and seven sisters—for she was always generous with us. Little did we realise that our uncles and aunts had to make do with much less than they had been once used to, for they seemed to be totally indulgent and giving whenever we asked them for anything.
No wonder that when the time to return to Dhaka came we were all quite unhappy. As we departed, Amma (and Nani) cried a lot, this time because mother and daughter knew that they would not be seeing each other for at least another six months, and because every leave-taking now confirmed to them that the first parting was irrevocable. We felt a little sad too. School was something to look forward to, but how could the cramped life we led in the busy city compensate for the freedom and the open spaces and the love swirling all around Nana Bari? The journey back, therefore, would seem uneventful and unending and we would go back to Dhaka a fatigued and melancholy lot.
*
Last year, two of our sisters and I visited Nana Bari for a few hours. My Nana had died in 1970, and my Nani went in 1997; all my uncles and aunts were now in Dhaka or abroad. Nana Bari had shrunk in size, for my uncles had decided to sell parts of it in a strategic move to secure the main house from the machinations of the covetous lot that controls remittance-rich and hooligan-infested Feni. The pond, the shaded groves, and all our favorite haunts were gone and we felt totally depressed at the diminished thing that the Bari had become. Better not to come any more, I told myself, better to keep Nana Bari intact in memory than confront the diminution of the place where more than anywhere else we had once been totally happy. Better to wax nostalgic than be confronted with the ever-increasing intimations of mortality.
Nazrul’s lyrics transcreated by Professor Fakrul Alam
Roomu Jhoomu Roomu Jhoomu
Roomo Jhoomo Roomo Jhoomo—anklet bells sound. Addicted to dancing, bangles jingle jangle to that beat. The dresses’ borders keep swaying in the restless wind. Who could be moving with such wantonly dancing feet? Stranger though she is and so close to the riverbank I think I know this dancer on the move. Her movements Fill this heart of mine. Her swan or peacock-like steps Cast a spell, like a mirage in a desert will. With her smile She even enchants the forest deer. Her big eyes dance, Making the sea waves lilt. Forests in the high hills sway, Sway away to the beat and music of her dancing feet.
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.
Kazi Nazrul Islam (24th May 1899-29th August 1976)
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!
-- Prolloyullash (The Frenzy of Destruction) by Nazrul; translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
As the world swerves in disarray, Kazi Nazrul Islam, who died the same month as Tagore, leaves behind a treasury of prose and poetry which, if we imbibe into our blood and bones, could perhaps heal dysfunctional constructs made by humans. Given the current situation, one cannot but help recall Nazrul’s lines from his poem, Prolloyullash (The Frenzy of Destruction), hoping for better times. Known as the rebel poet of Bengal, in his poem, Bidrohi (Rebel), he becomes the force that creates the change. His powerful writing and idealism continues to inspire over the decades.
Tagore saw brilliance in him and even wrote a poem for him that Radha Chakravarty has shared in her essay as a tribute on his 48th death anniversary. We also revisit his own inspiring words with translations of his poetry, lyrics and fiction by Professor Alam and Sohana Manzoor, along with the tribute by Chakravarty.
A Pop of Happiness by Jeanie Douglas. From Public Domain
Happiness is a many splendored word. For some it is the first ray of sunshine; for another, it could be a clean bill of health; and yet for another, it would be being with one’s loved ones… there is no clear-cut answer to what makes everyone happy. In Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (JK Rowling, 2005), a sunshine yellow elixir induces euphoria with the side effects of excessive singing and nose tweaking. This is of course fantasy but translate it to the real world and you will find that happiness does induce a lightness of being, a luminosity within us that makes it easier to tackle harder situations. Playing around with Rowling’s belief systems, even without the potion, an anticipation of happiness or just plain optimism does generate a sense of hope for better times. Harry tackles his fears and dangers with goodwill, friends and innate optimism. When times are dark with raging wars or climate events that wreck our existence, can one look for a torch to light a sense of hope with the flame of inborn resilience borne of an inner calm, peace or happiness — call it what you will…?
It is hard to gauge the extreme circumstances with which many of us are faced in our current realities, especially when the events spin out of control. In this issue, along with the darker hues that ravage our lives, we have sprinklings of laughter to try to lighten our spirits. In the same vein, externalising our emotions to the point of absurdity that brings a smile to our lips is Rhys Hughes’ The Sunset Suite, a book that survives on tall tales generated by mugs of coffee. In one of the narratives, there is a man who is thrown into a bubbling hot spring, but he survives singing happily because his attacker has also thrown in packs of tea leaves. This man loves tea so much that he does not scald, drown or die but keeps swimming merrily singing a song. While Hughes’ stories are dark, like our times, there is an innate cheer that rings through the whole book… Dare we call it happiness or resilience? Hughes reveals much as he converses about this book, squonks and stranger facts that stretch beyond realism to a fantastical world that has full bearing on our very existence.
A powerful essay by Binu Mathew on the climate disaster at Wayanad, a place that earlier had been written of as an idyllic getaway, tells us how the land in that region has become more prone to landslides. The one on July 30th this year washed away a whole village! Farouk Gulsara has given a narrative about his cycling adventure through the state of Kashmir with his Malaysian friends and finding support in the hearts of locals, people who would be the first to be hit by any disaster even if they have had no hand in creating the catastrophes that could wreck their lives, the flora and the fauna around them. In the wake of such destructions or in anticipation of such calamities, many migrate to other areas — like Ranu Bhattacharya’s ancestors did a bit before the 1947 Partition violence set in. A younger migrant, Chinmayi Goyal, muses under peaceful circumstances as she explores her own need to adapt to her surroundings. G Venkatesh from Sweden writes of his happy encounter with local children in the playground. And Snigdha Agrawal has written of partaking lunch with a bovine companion – it can be intimidating having a cow munching at the next table, I guess! Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a tongue-in-cheek musing on how he might find footing as a godman. Suzanne Kamata has given a lovely summery piece on parasols, which never went out of fashion in Japan!
Radha Chakravarty, known for her fabulous translations, has written about the writer she translated recently, Nazrul. Her essay includes a poem by Tagore for Nazrul. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated two of Nazrul’s songs of parting and Sohana Manzoor has rendered his stunning story Shapuray (Snake Charmer) into English. Fazal Baloch has brought to us poetry in English from the Sulaimani dialect of Balochi by Allah Bashk Buzdar, and a Korean poem has been self-translated by the poet, Ihlwha Choi. The translations wind up with a poem by Tagore, Olosh Shomoy Dhara Beye (Time Flows at an Indolent Pace), showcasing how the common man’s daily life is more rooted in permanence than evanescent regimes and empires.
Fiction brings us into the realm of the common man and uncommon situations, or funny ones. A tongue-in-cheek story set in the Midwest by Joseph Pfister makes us laugh. Farhanaz Rabbani has given us a beautiful narrative about a girl’s awakening. Paul Mirabile delves into the past using the epistolary technique highlighting darker vignettes from Christopher Columbus’s life. We have book excerpts from Maaria Sayed’s From Pashas to Pokemonand Nazes Afroz’s translation of Syed Mujtaba Ali’sShabnamwith both the extracts and Rabbani’s narratives reflecting the spunk of women, albeit in different timescapes…
When migrations are out of choice, with multiple options to explore, they take on happier hues. But when it is out of a compulsion created by manmade disasters — both wars and climate change are that — will the affected people remain unscarred, or like Potter, bear the scar only on their forehead and, with Adlerian calm, find happiness and carpe diem?
Do pause by our current issue which has more content than mentioned here as some of it falls outside the ambit of our discussion. This issue would not have been possible without an all-out effort by each of you… even readers. I would like to thank each and every contributor and our loyal readers. The wonderful team at Borderless deserve much appreciation and gratitude, especially Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. I invite you all to savour this August issue with a drizzle of not monsoon or April showers but laughter.
May we all find our paths towards building a resilient world with a bright future.
Rabindranath Tagore (May 7th 1861-August 7 1941). From Public Domain.
One of the greatest minds of centuries, Tagore wondered about life and death… about posterity. He lost his wife, some of his children and many more loved ones in his lifetime. He took a philosophical stance on death. On his death anniversary, we bring to you his ideas on death and life too…
As a salute to his pen, we start with his poems and stories, mostly in translation, and move on to tributes by Nazrul (translated by Professor Fakrul Alam), by Aruna Chakravarti , by the late Sunil Gangopadhyay and more…
Tagore’s Poetry
The Child, a poem by Tagore originally written in English. Click here to read.
Tagore in Translation
Tagore’sAchhe Dukhu, Achhe Mrityu, (Sorrow Exists, Death Exists): These lyrics were composed by the poet when on the death of his wife. It has been translated by Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
Mrityu or Death,a poemby Tagore has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
One Small Ancient Tale: Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Ekti Khudro Puraton Golpo (One Small Ancient Tale)’ from his collection Golpo Guchcho ( literally, a bunch of stories) has been translated by Nishat Atiya. Click here to read.
Tributes
Nazrul’sGhumaite Dao Shranto Robi Re(Let Robi Sleep in Peace) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Rabindranath Tagore: A Universal Bard :This conversation between Aruna Chakravarti and Sunil Gangopadhyay that took place at a Tagore Conference organised by the Sahitya Akademi in Kochy in 2011. Click here to read.
The description in ‘Hot Dry Summers’ is not of hell but what is perceived as happening on certain parts of Earth due to global warming or climate change. Forest fires. Nearer the equator, the storms have become harsher with lightning strikes that seem to connect the Earth to the sky. Trees get uprooted as the soil is softened from excessive rain. Sometimes, they fall on passers-by killing or injuring them. There is no rain in some places, forest fires or flooding in others… The highest temperatures touched 55 degrees Celsius this year. Instead of worrying about losing our homes lodged on land masses to the oceans that continue to rise, becoming dark heat absorbers due to loss of white ice cover, we persistently fight wars, egged on by differences highlighting divisive constructs. It feels strange that we are witness to these changes which seem to be apocalyptic to doomsday sayers. Are they right? Our flora, fauna and food will also be impacted by global climate change. How will we survive these? Will we outlive these as a species?
Poetry in our translations’ section travels to Balochistan, from where a Hafeez Rauf translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch, talks of burning tyres, again conflicts. It takes on a deeper hue as Ihlwha Choi translates his poignant poem from Korean, reflecting on the death of his mother. We have a translation of Tagore’s less popular poem, Mrityu[1], reflecting on the same theme. His reflections on his wife’s death too have been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam who has also shared a song of Nazrul, written and composed on the death of Tagore. Another lesser-known poet but brilliant nonetheless, Nirendranath Chakraborty, has been translated for us by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard. And what a tremendous poem it is when the person called Amalkanti wanted to be sunshine! We have a story too — ‘Speech Matters’ by Naramsetti Umamaheswararao translated by Johny Takkedasila.
Our stories as usual travel around the world — from Holland (by Paul Mirabile) to Hyderabad (by Mohul Bhowmick) and with a quick pause at Bangalore (by Anagha Narasimha). Travels in the real world are part of our non-fiction. Sai Abhinay Penna takes to a the second largest mangrove forest in the world and Ravi Shankar to Colombo. Madhuri Bhattachrya gives us a glimpse of an Indian summer and Snigdha Aggrawal explores the impact of climate change in her part of the world. Farouk Gulsara actually writes his reflections at a traffic junction. And it reads droll…
We have an in memoriam by Keith Lyons on Morgan Spurlock, the documentary maker who ate McDonald fare for a month and then made a film on it. We have two tributes to two legends across time. Wayne F Burke has given a brief piece on the iconic illustrator, Norman Rockwell. And Aruna Chakravarti, the queen of historic fiction who brought the Tagore family alive for us in her two very well researched novels, Jorasanko and Daughters of Jorasanko, has given us a fabulous tribute to Tagore on the not-so common aspects of him.
Suzanne Kamata, the novelist who does a column from Japan for us normally, has spoken to us about her new novel, Cinnamon Beach, which overrides multiple manmade constructs. It’s an interesting read from someone who lives her life across multiple cultures and transcends many boundaries.
This is a bumper issue, and it is difficult to convey the vibrant hues of words that colour this edition. Please do pause by our contents page for a more comprehensive look.
This issue would not have been possible without all our fabulous contributors and a wonderful, dedicated team. We are delighted that Rakhi Dalal — who has done many reviews and shares her poetry with us in this issue — has agreed to be a writer-in-residence with us. A huge thanks to all of you, and especially Sohana Manzoor for her artwork. I am truly grateful to our readers for popularising our efforts to put together an online space with free and vibrant reads.
I would like to end with a few lines that gives me hope despite climate change, wars and doomsday predictions.
There’s more to life, he says to me, than what you choose to see.
Ghumaite Dao Shranto Robi Re (Let Robi Sleep in Peace) was written by Nazrul in 1941 for Tagore, when he died. It has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam …
Tagore takes his leave on August 7, 1941. Photo from Public Domain
Let the spent Robi sleep on. Please, please don’t try to wake him up. Let not the one who spread light all his life Be awakened; don’t disturb his sleep. Let the one who gave light and delighted thousands, And has now collapsed at mother earth’s bosom, Be ritually smeared with sandal paste on his forehead; Don’t redden his face by weeping incessantly! Even at the risk of straining yourself, stretch out your palms To accept the power and the strength he has given you. The departed Sun and Supreme One will enable us to succeed Let the poet sleep on! The departed Sun’s glow will still light up our interiors. So, from within yourself pay him homage every day. Don’t make him weep by shedding continuous tears!
A recording of the first performance of Nazrul’s lyrics 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.
Borderless 