Nazrul’s Musafir, Mochh re Aankhi Jol(O wayfarer, wipe your tears) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
O wayfarer! Wipe your tears, Return only with yourself. The flower blooming on its own Shed all by itself. O foolish one! So hapless is your state, Will you now build your nest in water? Thirsts are not quenched here For this is no lake to allay thirsts. Will the bokul that didn’t bloom in monsoon Blossom when it’s winter? On this path forever, errors shed Covering the grove of frustration. Oh poet! You’ve illuminated many lamps With your own light But your own revered Krishna hasn’t come To light up the darkness pervading your world.
A rendition of the lyrics by Feroza Begum (1930-2014) in original 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.
Nazrul’s Lyrics translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
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. Pictures from Public Domain
Generations after generations I’ve trod the path of hope. Yet, O desert wayfarer, there seems to be no border in sight. Year after year have come and gone for someone like me. When I tried quenching my thirst even as my eyes watered Lighting up hope’s lamp futilely, mirages crowded my vision. Hundreds of songs seemed to sing out of desert groves Which once upon a time must have been part of the ocean. Desert wayfarer that I am, I see its watery expanse in dreams And think of the ocean’s bottom, where my craft had sunk— A craft I was in with my mate whom I keep looking for now!
A Bengali rendition of the song by Feroza Begum (1930-2014)
A very wise, experienced scientist has recently decided that the day our world will be annihilated (we may call it pralay or roz-qayamat) is not really as far away as we think. Let us discuss this, keeping in mind all the discussions on the subject that have been unfolding over the last few years.
In the last half-century, it has been observed that the floating icebergs in the South Polar region are expanding continuously. Edmund Smitharth, captain of The Edmont, first sighted an iceberg 580 feet high. Subsequently, Mr Scott saw an iceberg even higher than 600 feet. But a sailor aboard The Edgenta discovered, even in the ocean, a floating iceberg higher than 1000 feet, and that left the whole world wonderstruck. It was later calculated that this iceberg was 9612 feet thick: in other words, it was more than a mile and three-quarters wide.
In the southern hemisphere, the number of gigantic iceberg-clusters has been steadily increasing. And it is for this reason that the temperatures in the South Polar regions are rising tremendously. The remote floating iceberg-clusters in the North have created extreme cold weather in South Africa and South America. Other places can’t compare with these regions when it comes to freezing temperatures. Buenos Aires has recently experienced a snowfall. The country had never witnessed a snowfall before.
What does all this mean? In the opinion of Professor Lewis and other great scientists, the second Great Flood or Great Destruction of our Earth is imminent. Even if the whole world is not destroyed, there is no doubt that at least part of it will be annihilated.
The vast, sky-high ice-cap that covers the South Pole is 1400 miles in length. There is no knowing how many hundred miles wide it might be! Now, what will be the result of this continuous, unbearable warming of the atmosphere at the South Pole? Everyone knows that ice melts when heated. Hence, on account of the extreme heating of the South Pole, those thousands and thousands of giant iceberg clusters covering immense expanses of space will break and dissolve, and a mass of waves, surging sky-high, like the Himalayas in motion, will spread in all directions, drowning everything in their wake. First of all, the low-lying parts of the world, the southern continents will be afflicted by this great deluge.
In ancient times, our ancestors were terrified of comets, for they did not know what comets are. Our forefathers of subsequent generations had acquired more knowledge on this subject, but they too were very afraid of comets and considered them inauspicious. For they believed that the head of such comets was solid, hence a chance collision when passing so close to Earth might destroy the whole world.
Now we have got to know that the comet is not a solid unit, but vaporous like the mist. Hence, if by chance the odd comet does collide with Earth, it would not smash a deep crater into any part of our planet, nor would it fling us out of Earth’s gravitational field.
But the famous French astrologer Monsieur Camilles Flammarionhas arrived at a dreadful conclusion. It is his belief that the vaporous tail of the comet is full of poisonous gases, and hence, if the comet once comes into contact with Earth, all life on our planet will be extinguished by those toxic gases, in a single instant. The beauty, flavour and fragrance of planet Earth will be wiped out forever!
The complete chemical explanation for the creation of comets is not yet within our grasp, but everyone can easily apprehend that the comet surely loads its tail with gas. This gas can easily suck the nitrogen from our Earth’s atmosphere, and if that were to happen, it would spell death for us, no matter what! It was not for nothing that our forebears disliked this thing called a comet so intensely! As the saying goes, ‘He appeared on the horizon of my destiny like a comet!’ For the fortunes of Earth, too, the comet is indeed inauspicious and harmful.
Anyway, if the comet sucks nitrogen from the air, then we will receive only oxygen. True, oxygen enhances blood circulation and physical as well as mental efficiency, but then, pure oxygen can be terribly dangerous. Hence, if we receive only volatile oxygen when we breathe, our body temperature will continue to rise, and eventually, we will burn to ashes.
In the Coal Age, the atmosphere of our Earth was heavily loaded with carbonic acid. In those times, humans could not have tolerated that air. Only fish and reptilian creatures survived in flowing waters and still air. Gradually, with the vast, extensive growth of plants, trees and vegetation, that poisonous still air began to disappear, the sky grew clear, and thus did this atmosphere become suitable for warm-blooded creatures.
At present, the human race is terribly busy mining coal and utilizing it. Do you know what age this coal belongs to? It can only be the legacy of that age many hundreds of thousands of eons ago when the atmosphere was full of carbonic acid, and of the trees and vegetation of those times, for even now, it is only the wild trees and vegetation that can absorb that carbonic acid.
Every lump of coal, every matchstick that is lit, depletes, daily, the oxygen that is vital for us. A famous English scientist has recently announced that the world’s supply of oxygen is continuously being dissipated, and therefore the air is also steadily becoming polluted. Hence the day is nigh when everything on earth will be transformed into the life forms of the age of carbonic acid.
Human beings will gradually become smaller and more fragile, until they begin to resemble Lilliputians and ultimately, they will become completely extinct! And then, it will end as it all began! In other words, just as fish and reptiles were the only life forms at the beginning, so also, in the future, the avatars of those humongous giant-fish and giant-reptiles will flourish again here, their health and vigour restored. Even the very thin, long, humble reptilian creatures of the prehistoric age, such as earthworms and snakes, will rule again over our mounds and ant-hills, in very large numbers.
If the human race gives up the harmful over-use of coal that we see today (just burning coal is wasting 1600 million tonnes of oxygen per year), and subsequently, if they manage with electricity as a substitute for coal, then we will again be forced to fall into the abyss of a new threat! In other words, whatever path you take, death is inevitable. We are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea!
The gradual transformation of the environment over time has become noticeable. Thunderbolts—especially, the incidence of thunderbolts in winter—are continually increasing. And the reason is simple: it is the clash between the electricity of the earth and that of the sky that is causing this barrage of thunderbolts! So, what is the way out? That is why, perhaps, Pannamoyi has already sung, as if to predict the future: “moribo moribo sakhi, nischoyei moribo!” (“I will die, I will die, O friend, for sure I will die!”)
Suppose, for instance, if we were to increase the current pressure on the atmospheric electricity a hundredfold or a thousandfold. Would flowers ever bloom again in basanta, the season of spring? Will new green leaves appear? Will the ardent downpour of varsha, the rainy season, ever moisten the earth’s bosom again? No, no, they wouldn’t! Instead, it is the thunderbolts that would become the regular daily occurrences on our Earth. Struck by hundreds of thunderbolts every day, the earth would be torn apart. An astute meteorological scientist says, “Yes, yes, that is what will happen, ultimately!” How horrifying! What we should do now is, to convince ourselves, collectively, that the gentleman’s words are untrue, and he has misinterpreted the situation. Look at Sujji Mama—Surya the sun, our maternal uncle—our source of life and light! He not only creates light and heat, but is also the progenitor of electric power. And he the only mama we have, who will move circumspectly, to maintain the balance of this mysterious unknown force of nature. Long live Mama!
At present, Sujji Mama’s power is so tremendously forceful, that if all his rays and brilliance were to fall solely upon this poor earth of ours, then in just a minute and a half, the giant ice-mountains I spoke of earlier would all melt down and begin to boil. And if it lasted another eleven seconds, the vast ocean stretches of this world would all dry up, the earth’s surface cracking open to reveal yawning chasms.
But even Sujji Mama is growing diffident, and shrinking day by day. We don’t know yet how much mass his giant bodyloses, little by little, each day. Professor Burns vehemently declares that this shrinking of Sujji Mama is progressing at a very rapid pace. So rapid that we can’t even hazard an approximate guess. In a very short time, observing the reduction in the sun’s heat, we will be able to understand whether it is actually shrinking or not.
Shrinking to a smaller and smaller size in this manner, when Sujji Mama gives up the ghost—in other words, when he ceases to exist— it is terrifying to even imagine what the plight of planet Earth will be. All the water will freeze and become harder than stone, but it will be a fine sight—dazzling as a diamond! This air, which we can’t see at present, will then descend in a shower of giant drops. These will again collect in the cavernous spaces, and turn into lakes clearer than glass, but waveless, indifferent, unruffled! For no breeze will blow then, after all. In the harshness of the merciless cold, the whole Earth will then become frozen, still, immobile. Only fog and a dim mistiness will remain.
The sun will gradually turn red, and remain the same hue of red all day. Just like a half-cooled, burning, molten iron mass! In the daytime itself, the whole sky will fill with even brighter stars! Let us pray to Allah the Great!
[From Selected Essays by Kazi Nazrul Islam. Translated by Radha Chakravarty. New Delhi: Penguin Random House & Nazrul Centre for Social and Cultural Studies, 2024. Published with permission from Penguin Random House India}
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.
Radha Chakravarty is a writer, critic, and translator. She has published 23 books, including poetry, translations of major Bengali writers, anthologies of South Asian literature, and critical writings on Tagore, translation and contemporary women’s writing. She was nominated for the Crossword Translation Award 2004 and the Pushcart Prize 2020.
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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)
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.
Translations from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
Nazrul teaching NazrulgeetiNazrulBorn 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. Pictures from Public Domain
Nazrul’s Bidai Shondha Ashilo has been translated as ‘The Evening of Parting’
THE EVENING OF PARTING
The evening of parting is here; darkness encases the eyes. Dearest, don’t let tears make my path of parting more slippery. Like a flower would, I drifted with the tide and came here Unintentionally. Why, dearest, did you err and pick the flower up? Why did you put the flower in your tresses, only to fling it away, Letting it drift once again with the tide? Here no one understands Each other. The one you crave only slights you; the one you desire Won’t be your own. Here there is no real love in the heart’s depths. How will you understand how my pain wilts the garland of union? The song I sing takes wings and reaches the sky, craving for you.
Nazrul’s Masjideri Pashe Amai Kabar Diyo Bhai has been translated as’Bury Me’
BURY ME
Make sure to bury me next to a mosque, dear brother of mine, So that from my grave I’ll hear the muezzin’s prayer call all the time. As those in the congregation pass me by, I’ll hear too their holy steps This sinner will thus be saved from the evil spirits close to the grave! So many pious people—God’s devotees and our prophet’s disciples— Come to this mosque and recite verses from the Holy Quran here. Those verses uplift my soul and mind. Many dervishes and fakirs Come to the mosque’s compound too. Till deep into the night They recite God’s name repeatedly, though hidden from sight. I too would like to repeat with them His Holy name, all in tears. I too would so like to keep repeating His Holy name thus!
Far away from the densely populated civilised world, the nomadic tribes of snake charmers make their temporary homes sometimes right beneath the deep blue mountains, sometimes among deserted and impassable forests, and sometimes by the foamy mountain brooks or in vast stretches of barren land.
He was the headman of one such band of snake charmers. His name was Jahar. He was a god among his people. His men were terrified of him, and yet they also worshipped him. Only one man in his tribe was jealous of Jahar’s hold over his people and scorned him in secret. Yet, he did not dare to question his authority in public. This man was called Bishun. He also had a few disciples. His ardent wish was the demise of Jahar. He plotted to destroy the man and become the leader of the clan himself.
Jahar had gone to the foot of the hill to look for poisonous snakes. On his snake charmer’s flute, he played an enchanting tune that would arouse one’s entire being. The tune attracted a dangerously poisonous black cobra which came out of the woods with a swaying hood. Jahar’s eyes burned with excitement. Suddenly, he threw away his flute and placed his palms in front of the raised hood of the snake. One snap and Jahar’s body turned blue because of the venom. His clansmen were stupefied with fear and stood surrounding him. Jahar was unperturbed. He began to chant some spells in a composed manner and soon he was cured of the venom. The astounded crowd cheered their hero. Only Bishun moved away with a darkened countenance.
This is how Jahar had taken on snakebites ninety-nine times and also cured himself. Now he was preparing himself for the hundredth time. If he succeeded in taking out the venom for this last time, he would be completing a difficult penance. Being successful in serpent-cult was the ultimate aim in Jahar’s life. To complete this, he had been practicing celibacy with utmost sincerity.
While Jahar’s disciples and followers awaited the great day ardently, one night something unprecedented happened. Did he ever pause to think that anything like that could happen?
Jahar had roamed around the world like a gypsy. Distancing himself from women he came to think that women were only hindrances to attain his target. He even started to be disdainful towards women in general.
Then one day, he saw a plantain raft carrying the corpse of a beautiful girl. According to tradition, people bitten by snake were not buried, but were placed on such rafts and set afloat in rivers. Jahar could only do what he was taught to do as a snake charmer—to revive the girl.
Now he was in deep trouble. The young woman had forgotten her past because of the strong snake poison. She could recall nothing about her family or friends. She just kept on staring at him piteously. He could not just leave her behind. His once tremendous hatred turned into pity and compassion. He provided a home for her. What could one call this except irony of fate? But his long harboured disdain for women made him dress the girl as a boy. He made her drink a strong potion that would control her womanly nature.
Jahar named her Chandan (a boy’s name) and joined a different tribe of snake charmers. The old leader of the new tribe was so charmed by Jahar that before his death he named Jahar his successor. So, Jahar became the undisputed leader of the half-civilised nomadic tribe.
None of this new tribe, however, knew that Chandan was not a boy. Jhumro, a favourite disciple of Jahar, was her only good friend. Jhumro cared a lot for Chandan.
At this time, the celibate Jahar, who had passed the test of ninety-nine snakebites successfully, suddenly realised that he was in danger of falling from his highest point of honour.
That night when he was preparing to go to sleep, Chandan’s unparalleled beauty affected him like an arrow and turned him mad for a moment. It is with utmost self-control that he was able to restrain himself. He ran to the idol of the goddess Mansa and sat at her feet repenting through the night for his momentary delusion. He prayed and cried as atonement.
But the desire that was aroused, could not be extinguished so easily. Then on that very day, it was heard that the king’s men of the country had started tormenting the snake charmers because they blamed the nomadic tribe for the increasing number of abductions of children lately.
Jahar immediately gathered his band and traveled a long way and camped in a wild forest frequented by ferocious animals. They ignited fire to keep the wild beasts away and started to make merry. Jahar, Jhumro, Chandan, Bishun, Bishun’s son, Tetule, the magician with blue glasses, the fortune-teller, the old bell-keeper—all were enjoying the amusements played in the moonlight-drenched night.
A fight between Jhumro and Tetule started over a trivial matter. In the beginning, they just yelled at each other, but gradually it developed into fist-fighting. Chandan stood apart, however, at one point, unable to bear Jhumro’s predicament, she jumped between the two men. In the ensuing scuffle, she lost her breastplate, and the people suddenly realized that Chandan was a beautiful woman in disguise.
At this point, another beauty rushed into the scene. Her name was Mowtushi. She took off the scarf she was wearing and covered Chandan with it. All this while, she was secretly in love with Chandan with the abandonment of a youthful love. Realising that Chandan was a woman just like her, all her pent-up love turned into a sisterly affection. Meanwhile, Jahar appeared and dragged the embarrassed Chandan to his tent. The members of his tribe were astonished to say the least. Nobody thought in their wildest dream that an austere celibate like Jahar could keep such a disguised beauty with him.
The only person who did not seem surprised was the old bell-keeper. He was a strange man who drank heavily and told fortunes through clay marks on the ground. Yet he never revealed the complete truth. He shook his head and broke into a shrill laughter.
In the meantime, Jahar had cornered Chandan in his tent and was trying to draw her in his embrace saying, “Chandan, Chandan, you are only mine.” His self- restraint of all these years was taken over by an overwhelming desire that made him blind.
Chandan tried in vain to move away from him. Finally, she reminded him of his vow and the goal of his life—to be successful in his serpent-cult. The words hit their mark and Jahar came to his senses. What was he doing? His gaze fell upon the effigy of the goddess Mansa, and he rushed out of the tent in pain. He would have to do it that very night. He would have to take the hundredth bite from a venomous snake and complete his vow.
Finally, he found such a snake and was about to start the ritual when Bishun came with the news that Jhumro had run off with Chandan. Mowtushi had helped them in this venture.
Jahar could not complete his vow. All the preparations he had taken for so many years were absolved by this one piece of news. His rage made him mad, and he rushed off to find the guilty pair. Nobody, however, could tell him about their whereabouts; he felt his entire body was set on fire.
Returning to his tent, Jahar opened the basket of the venomous black cobra and went to the temple of Shiva. He used sacred texts as enchantment and set the snake after Jhumro.
By that time, the deliriously happy Chandan and Jhumro had journeyed out towards the unknown. They dreamt of a nest of happiness in some far-off land where they would live happily ever after.
The venomous black cobra appeared right at that moment, bit Jhumro, and disappeared. Immediately, the deadly poison caused Jhumro to fall on the ground.
Chandan stood there thunderstruck. She felt helpless and hopeless. The only way to save Jhumro was to approach Jahar. But how could she possibly do that? Blinded by tears Chandan traced back her steps to the tent she had deserted earlier.
Jahar sat like a lifeless statue. A tearful Chandan approached him and said in a trembling voice that she loved Jhumro more than her life. If Jahar could save him, she was even willing to sell her soul to him. Jahar did not utter one word, but followed Chandan in a trance till they came to Jhumro’s body that had turned blue.
Jhumro was saved. Chandan happiness knew no bound. But she did not have time. She had sold herself to Jahar to save Jhumro. She belonged to Jahar now and hence she said to Jhumro in a shaky voice, “Go away, Jhumro. Go far away. I am not yours anymore.”
How could she chase away the man she loved most? Tears fell from eyes ceaselessly, her heart hurt too.
Jahar was watching the heartbreaking scene standing not far away. He held the black cobra that had returned to retrieve poison from Jhumro’’s body. He looked at Chandan once and then again at Jhumro. He seemed immersed in deep thought.
Then he took the snakebite on his own chest willingly. Jhumro cried, “What did the Master do?” Both Jhumro and Chandan ran toward Jahar who replied angrily, “Take her away from here, Jhumro. I will consume the poison now. This is my last snake, and I must cast the spell, but it won’t work before womenfolk. Take her away from this forest, country even. Go far away to some other land.”
Chandan and Jhumro left accordingly. The master saw that his disciples were gone, but he did not chant his spell. He smiled to himself and muttered, “Those spells are not mine to utter. I will call on Shiva, Shiva, Shambhu, Shambhu…”
The poison of the black cobra was turning his body blue and the light of his eyes were dimmed. Yet, his face caught on the ray of some other world that illuminated his visage with joy. It seemed that his suffering soul had finally found peace.
He had been successful in this final battle of the serpent-cult.
From the Public Domian
[1] Naga-panchami is a day that might fall either in the Bengali month of Aashar or Shravan when serpents are worshipped.
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Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was born in united Bengal, long before the Partition. 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.
Sohana Manzoor is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB, a short story writer, a translator, an essayist and an artist.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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.
Nur Jahan, Nur Jahan, Floating down a river you came To a land full of clouds A land of gardens—Iran! You had your plate filled With Nargis flowers, poppies and roses And had brought them all along. You brought as well legends Of Shirin and Farhad and Shiraz. With your graceful and slim self came Bulbuli, Dilruba and Rabab’s songs. Your love healed even Emperor Salim’s lunacy! You daubed sandalwood paste on yourself And bore the stigma in front of everyone -- A stigma the moon bears in the blue sky Smilingly. It’s what is written in lovers’ tales. I’ll ensure that it ambles along pathways Forever, questing for love’s pleasures, Despite any infamy linked to the affair.
Jahangir(Prince Salim) and his beloved empress, Nur Jahan
Nazrul’s Nur Jahan sun by the legendary Feroza Begum
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.
Projapoti or Butterfly by Nazrul, translated by Professor Fakrul Alam
Projapoti! Projapoti!
Butterfly, dear butterfly, From where did you get such colourful wings? Wings flaming red and blue, Such sparkling, wavy wings! I see you getting drunk sipping the honey of wildflowers. Be my friend; share some of the liquor with me. Lend me your pollen-tinted golden-silvery wings as well. My mind doesn’t like the idea of going to school anymore. Butterfly, dear butterfly—please, please take me along As your companion. You dance in the wind as you go… This day, why not share your delight with me too? I don’t want to wear the dress I have on anymore. Let me wear your flaming, sparkling dress from now on!
A rendition of the song in Bengali by a legendary singer, Feroza Begum (1930-2014)
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 