Khanika – Borderless

Jatri (Passenger) was a part of Tagore’s collection, Khanika (moments), published in 1900.

PASSENGER

 There’s place on my ferry. 
You are alone. You have 
      Only one bundle of paddy. 
It may be a bit crammed, 
But not that heavily jammed. 
My ferry could be
  A bit overloaded —
      But you don’t have to leave.
            There’s a place for you! 
            
    Come, come to my boat! 
If your feet are dusty, 
     Let them be mud-coated. 
Your body is like a creeper.
Your eyes are restless.
Your garb’s blue-green,
       Flowing like water —
          There’ll always be place for you —
                      Come, come to my boat! 

            
             There are many passengers.
      Their destinations are varied. 
         They are all strangers.
You’ll also for a while
Sit on my ferry 
Till the end of the ride.
          A denial will make no difference —
             If you want to come, join us.
                  There are many passengers. 
      
   Where’s your jetty? 
Where’s the store
    For your paddy? 
If you do not state,  
What will be our fate? 
I’ll have to ponder
         At the end of the ride —
             Where’s your shore,
                   Where’s your home?

*The interesting thing about this poem is that it seems to be complete reversal of the poem Sonar Tori(Golden Boat), published in 1894, with the ferryman welcoming passengers aboard, whereas in the earlier poem, the ferry woman sails off with the bundle of paddy belonging to another, leaving her passenger behind.

This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor

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Okale or Out of Sync by Rabindranath

OUT OF SYNC

Who is it that runs burdened with
Merchandise to the closed haat*?
Dusk has set in.
The day is past.

Carrying burdens on their heads,
Vendors return to their homestead.
A fragment of the new moon
Has risen in the vale.
Those from the other shore,
Call out loudly to the boats.
The riverside reverberates with
Their echoes evermore.

With what hope have you come
At this hour
To the closed haat, breathlessly,
With your load?

Sleep has caressed
The woods to bed,
The cawing of crows have halted
In their nests.

In the shrubs near the pond,
By the fence, crickets call.
Stunned branches of bamboo,
Sway softly in the breeze —
Within the courtyard of their homes,
The weary sleep in their abodes.
The night-lamp brightens
The flickers of shades.

When all are at rest,
As the time to work is past,
Who is it that runs burdened with
Merchandise to the closed haat?

*Rural Bazaar