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
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.
Ratnottama Sengupta muses on acts of terror and translates a Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat which had come as a reaction to an act of terror. Click here to read.
Renee Melchert Thorpe recounts her mother’s migration story, hopping multiple countries, starting with colonial Calcutta and Darjeeling. Click here to read.
Paul Mirabile wanders into the realm of the supernatural dating back to the Potato Famine of Ireland in the 1800s. Clickhere to read.
Conversations
In conversation with eminent Singaporean poet and academic, Kirpal Singh, about how his family migrated to Malaya and subsequently Singapore more than 120 years ago. Click hereto read.
There was a time when humans walked the Earth crossing unnamed landmasses to find homes in newer terrains. They migrated without restrictions. Over a period of time, kingdoms evolved, and travellers like Marco Polo talked of needing permissions to cross borders in certain parts of the world. The need for a permit to travel was first mentioned in the Bible, around 450BCE. A safe conduct permit appeared in England in 1414CE. Around the twentieth century, passports and visas came into full force. And yet, humanity had existed hundreds of thousand years ago… Some put the date at 300,000!
While climate contingencies, wars and violence are geared to add to migrants called ‘refugees’, there is always that bit of humanity which regards them as a burden. They forget that at some point, their ancestors too would have migrated from where they evolved. In South Africa, close to Johannesburg is Maropeng with its ‘Cradle of Humanity’, an intense network of caves where our ancestors paved the way to our evolution. The guide welcomes visitors by saying — “Welcome home!” It fills one’s heart to see the acceptance that drips through the whole experience. Does this mean our ancestors all stepped out of Africa many eons ago and that we all belonged originally to the same land?
And yet there are many restrictions that have come upon us creating boxes which do not allow intermingling easily, even if we travel. Overriding these barriers is a discussion with Jessica Mudditt about Once Around the Sun: From Cambodia to Tibet, her book about her backpacking through Asia. Documenting a migration more than a hundred years ago from Jullundur to Malaya, when borders were different and more mobile, we have a conversation with eminent scholar and writer from Singapore, Kirpal Singh. Telling the story of another eminent migrant, a Persian who became a queen in the Mughal Court is a lyric by Nazrul, Nur Jahan, translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bangla. Ihlwha Choi has self-translated his own poem from Korean, a poem bridging divides with love. Fazal Baloch has brought to us some exquisite Balochi poems by Munir Momin. Tagore’s poem, Okale or Out of Sync, has been translated from Bengali to reflect the strange uniqueness of each human action which despite departing from the norm, continue to be part of the flow.
We have a tongue in cheek piece from Devraj Singh Kalsi on traveling in a train with a politician. Uday Deshwal writes with a soupçon of humour as he talks of applying for jobs. Snigdha Agrawal brings to us flavours of Bengal from her past while Ratnottama Sengupta muses on the ongoing wars and violence as acts of terror in the same region and looks back at such an incident in the past which resulted in a powerful Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat. Kiriti Sengupta has written of a well-known artist, Jatin Das, a strange encounter where the artist asks them to empty fully even a glass of water! Ravi Shankar weaves in his love for books into our non-fiction section. Recounting her mother’s migration story which leads us to perceive the whole world as home is a narrative by Renee Melchert Thorpe. Urmi Chakravorty takes us to the last Indian village on the borders of Tibet. Taking us to a Dinosaur Museum in Japan is our migrant columnist, Suzanne Kamata. Her latest multicultural novel, Cinnamon Beach, has found its way to our book excerpts as has Flanagan’s poetry collection, These Many Cold Winters of the Heart.
In reviews, Somdatta Mandal has written about an anthology, Maya Nagari: Bombay-Mumbai A City in Storiesedited by Shanta Gokhale and Jerry Pinto. Rakhi Dalal has discussed a translation from Konkani by Jerry Pinto of award-winning writer Damodar Mauzo’sBoy, Unloved. Basudhara Roy has reviewed Trailokyanath Mukhopadhyay’s Tales of Early Magic Realism in Bengali, translated by Sucheta Dasgupta. Bhaskar Parichha has introduced us toThe Dilemma of an Indian Liberal by Gurcharan Das, a book that is truly relevant in the current times in context of the whole world for what he states is a truth: “In the current polarised climate, the liberal perspective is often marginalised or dismissed as being indecisive or weak.” And it is the truth for the whole world now.
Our short stories reflect the colours of the world. A fantasy set in America but crossing borders of time and place byRonald V. Micci, a story critiquing social norms that hurt by Swatee Miittal and Paul Mirabile’s ghost story shuttling from the Irish potato famine (1845-52) to the present day – all address different themes across borders, reflecting the vibrancy of thoughts and cultures. That we all exist in the same place and have the commonality of ideas and felt emotions is reflected in each of these narratives.
We have more which adds to the lustre of the content. So, do pause by our content’s page and enjoy the reads!
I would like to thank all our team without who this journal would be incomplete, especially, Sohana Manzoor, for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors who bring vibrancy to our pages and our wonderful readers, without who the journal would remain just part of an electronic cloud… We welcome you all to enjoy our June issue.
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.
In Dylan on Worm’s Head, Rhys Hughes describes a misadventure that the Welsh poet had while hiking as a tribute to him on Dylan Thomas Day. Clickhereto read.
Munaj Gul gives an in memoriam for a photographer from Balochistan. Clickhere to read.
Musings of a Copywriter
In ‘Is this a Dagger I See…?‘, Devraj Singh Kalsi gives a tongue-in-cheek account of a writer’s dilemma. Click here to read.
Notes from Japan
In A Golden Memory of Green Day in Japan, Suzanne Kamata tells us of a festival where she planted a tree in the presence of the Japanese royalty. Click here to read.
