Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) in the role of the blind singer in his play, Falguni (published in 1917). Art by Abanindranath Tagore. From Public Domain
On May 7th 1861, or Pochishe Boisakh of the Bengali year 1268, Rabindranth Tagore was born in Jorsanko, Calcutta. That time, there was one subcontinent. Borders were fluid though the concept of countries had already started making inroads with the onset of colonials more than a couple of centuries ago. Rabindranath Tagore — a man who rejected the academia and earned no degrees — set the world aflame with his words and ideals. Many of his works hope to inspire people out of miseries by getting them in touch with their own strength. He created Santiniketan and Sriniketan to train young minds, to close social and economic gaps, to override the stigma of walls that continue to box and divide humanity to this date. Subsequently, his works, especially his writings, have become subjects of much academic discourse as well as part of popular cultural lore.
Tagore celebrated his own birthdays with poetry on Pochishe Boishakh. Pochishe Boisakh falls between 7-9 May on the Gregorian calendar. We start our celebrations with translations of his birthday songs and poems. The song translated by Aruna Chakravarti was the last he wrote, and based on a long poem he had written in 1922, also featured here. We also have the first birthday song he composed in 1899. In prose, we bring to you works that showcase his call for change and reform. Fakrul Alam has translated a powerful play by him, Red Oleanders, which strongly seems to reflect the machinations of the current world and ends on a note of hope. We can only carry an excerpt from this long play but it will be a powerful read when published in full. Somdatta Mandal shares a translations of an essay in which Tagore airs his views on the need for change in social norms — the strange thing is it would still seem relevant today. And Himadri Lahiri rendered an essay from Bengali to English on his views about the British Raj. We also have a story about a woman who changed social norms and her religion, translated by Chakravarti.
Birthday Poems & Lyrics
Hey Nutan or Oh ever new has been translated by Aruna Chakravarti inDaughters of Jorasanko. This was the last birthday song he wrote in 1941, a few months before he died. It was based on the long birthday poem he had written in 1922. Click here to read.
Pochishe Boisakh Cholechhe(The twenty fifth of Boisakh draws close…), a birthday poem written in 1935, seems to be a sad reminder of mortality and dreams left unfinished. Click hereto read.
Pochishe Boisakh(25th of Baisakh) is a birthday poem Tagore wrote in 1922 and the poem from which he derived the lyrics of his last birthday song written in 1941. Click here to read.
Jonmodiner Gaan or Birthday Song by Tagore was written in 1899 and later sung as Bhoye Hote Tobo Abhayemajhe ( Amidst Fears, May Fearlessness). Click hereto read the translation.
Prose
An excerpt from Tagore’s long play, Roktokorobi or Red Oleanders, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
The twenty fifth of Boisakh Draws my stream of birthdays Closer to death. Sitting on that wafting mat, an artisan is making a garland With small statuettes of Many mortal Rabindranaths.
Time travels on his chariot. The pedestrian lifts his bowl While walking, he gets a drink. When he finishes, he recedes into the darkness. His bowl is crushed to dust under the wheels. Behind him, Follows another with a new bowl. He savours a fresh flavour. Eventhough he has the same name, He is a different person.
Once I was a child. Within a few birthdays, An entity was sculpted Who no one recognised. The people who would have known him Are not around. The being of that child is non-existent, Nor does anyone remember him. He has disappeared with his little world. His past sorrows and joys Find no reverberations. The pieces of his broken toys Cannot be seen in the dust. He would sit and calf-like Gaze outside, with longing. His world was Framed by the opening in the window. His innocent glance Would halt at the Coconut trees along the fence. His evenings were steeped in fairytales. There was no insurmountable barrier Between the real and unreal. His mind would skip between The two effortlessly. In the gloaming of light and darkness, The shadows wrapped around spring, Drawing close with belonging. Those few birthdays, For some time, Were like a brightly lit island. But the past has sunk into the darkness of the ocean. Sometimes, during low tides, We can see that mountain peak. We can see a shoreline of blood-red corals.
Over time, The twenty fifth of Boishakh Assumed Vivid vernal hues. Youthfulness played a melody Of yearning on the ektara, Questing for intangible Invisible inspirations. Hearing that music over time, The celestial Lakshmi’s throne swayed She sent over Few of her ambassadors, To earth to spew colours On the palash woods, Enticing, alluring to forgetfulness. I have heard their voices speak softly. I understood some. Some I didn’t. I have seen dark eyelashes damp with wetness. I have seen lips tremble with unspoken agony. I have heard the tinkle of bracelets vacillate with eager surprise. Unbeknown to me, On the first conscious morning, Of the twenty fifth of Boisakh, They left behind a Garland of jasmines. My dream at dawn Was heady with their fragrance.
That birthday was youthful with Fairytales woven by communities and villages, Some we knew, some doubted. There, princesses with their hair undone Were sometimes asleep, Sometimes, they awoke in surprise Touched by magical golden wands. Over time, The ramparts that walled the Vernal pochisheBoishakh broke. The path laden with the sway of Bokul leaves Trembling shadows, Murmuring breeze, The lovelorn kokil’s pleading call That turns the morning to afternoon, The bees buzzing their wings Towards the invisible scent of nectar -- That grassy path arrived At the stone paved road of adulthood. The ektara that played the haunting melody In youth changed its old string for new. That twenty fifth of Boisakh, Exposed me To a rough road, Bore me like a wave to the ocean of humanity. Morning and night, I have woven tunes and Caste a net mid-river – Some have been caught, Some have fled the fragile net.
Sometimes, the day has been faint, Motivation disappointed, Sadness filled the mind. Unexpectedly, in the midst Of such depression, I found Inspiration in Amravati’s mortal idol. They beautify the world, Offering vessels of nectar To the weary. They insult fear with billowing Waves of laughter. They fan flames of courage From ash-smothered smouldering fires. They arouse celestial voices to ignite meditative words. They have lighted the flame in my nearly suffused lamp. They have given melody to the strings with their cool breeze. They have garlanded me with honour On the twenty fifth of Boishakh. My songs, my words, Still reverberate with their Magical touch.
From then, in the battle of life, Conflicts raged like Thundering clouds. I had to abandon the ektara. Sometimes, I had to pick up the trumpet. Under the hot mid-day sun, I had to take on A battle. My feet are injured with thorns, My wounded heart bleeds. The Merciless harshness of waves Have beaten my boat, left and right, Muddying with criticism, Drowning with transactions. Hatred and love, Envy and friendship, Music and courage, My world has been stirred By the mists of all these emotions.
In the midst of this revolutionary-crisis, As the twenty fifth of Boishakh grows older, You have all come to me. Do you know – Despite my attempts, much is still left unexpressed, Much is in disarray, much is neglected?
From inside and outside, Good and bad, clear and unclear, famed and unknown, A vain, complicated character, You have created an idol With your regard, your love, Your forgiveness. Today you have brought this garland, I accept this as a recognition of The aging twenty-fifth of Boishakh, As an acknowledgment of my years. Heartfelt blessings from me to you. As I prepare to take leave, my human idol Remains in your heart. As the future is unknown, I cannot be arrogant.
Then give me your leave In this lifetime from all relationships Strung with black and white threads. Lonely, nameless, solitary – Let me look for a melody amidst Many tunes, many instruments, In the depth of all songs.
*Ektara-Bengal folk instrument
Palash flowersKokils or Asian KoelsFrom Public Domain
Tagore celebrated his birthdays by the Bengali Calendar on Pochishe Boisakh with poetry. This poem was dedicated to Amiya Chandra Chakravarty (1901-1986), a critic, academic and poet. He was a close associate of Tagore. The Pochishe Boisakh arrived in late spring as he mentions in this poem.
From Public Domain: The long stringed instrument is an ektara and the other another folk instrument called dugdugi
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Art by Sohana ManzoorCourtesy: Suzanne Kamata Some of our visuals in 2024
As we wait for the new year to unfold, we glance back at the year that just swept past us. Here, gathered together are glimpses of the writings we found on our pages in 2024 that herald a world of compassion and kindness…writings filled with hope and, dare I say, even goodwill…and sometimes filled with the tears of poetic souls who hope for a world in peace and harmony. Disasters caused by humans starting with the January 2024 in Japan, nature and climate change, essays that invite you to recall the past with a hope to learn from it, non-fiction that is just fun or a tribute to ideas, both past and present — it’s all there. Innovative genres started by writers to meet the needs of the times — be it solar punk or weird western — give a sense of movement towards the new. What we do see in these writings is resilience which healed us out of multiple issues and will continue to help us move towards a better future.
A hundred years ago, we did not have the technology to share our views and writings, to connect and make friends with the like-minded across continents. I wonder what surprises hundred years later will hold for us…Maybe, war will have been outlawed by then, as have been malpractices and violences against individuals in the current world. The laws that rule a single man will hopefully apply to larger groups too…
Courtesy: Ratnottama Sengupta Courtesy: Farouk GulsaraSome of our visuals in 2024
Amalkantiby Nirendranath Chakraborty has been translated from Bengali by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard. Click hereto read.
The Mirror by Mubarak Qazi has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
Homecoming, a poem by Ihlwha Choi on his return from Santiniketan, has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.
Pochishe Boisakh(25th of Baisakh) by Tagore (1922), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Nazrul’sGhumaite Dao Shranto Robi Re(Let Robi Sleep in Peace) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
Jibananada Das’sAndhar Dekhecche, Tobu Ache (I have seen the dark and yet there is another) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Tagore’sShotabdir Surjo Aji( The Century’s Sun today) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhereto read.
A narrative by Rabindranath Tagore thatgives a glimpse of his first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Clickhere to read.
Suzanne Kamata discusses the peace initiatives following the terrors of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide while traveling within the country with her university colleague and students. Click here to read.
A story by Sharaf Shad, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Conversations
Ratnottama Sengupta talks to Ruchira Gupta, activist for global fight against human trafficking, about her work and introduces her novel, I Kick and I Fly. Click here to read.
A 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.
Musical instruments were dusted and tuned, particularly the most used harmonium and tablas. The living room was rearranged. Chairs were pushed against the walls. Centre and side tables were removed, creating space for floor seating. Durries were laid over the carpet. All the pash balish — bolsters — in the house with freshly laundered covers, placed haphazardly for those wanting to recline. A space earmarked for the performers, usually against the room’s longest wall. On this wall hung a fairly large black and white framed photo of Tagore, garlanded with freshly picked jasmine flowers. Not the fully bloomed one. White buds with short green stems. We girls were given the responsibility of making smaller wristbands from the jasmine buds, presented to the visitors. Stalks of rajanigandha (tuberoses) stood erect in tall vases placed on either side of the photo.
The overpowering smell of jasmine and tuberoses drowned other smells floating in from the kitchen. A hands-full kitchen as no jalsa[2] is complete without serving the guests chai and piping hot assortment of pakoras — onions, potatoes, brinjal, pumpkin flowers, battered fried crispy brown. Poppy seed-sprinkled vegetable chops, cylindrically shaped, were polished off as fast as they were made and served. The service continued till the guests left, mouths sweetened with the dessert — usually rossogollas, delivered by the sweet-meat dhoti-clad guy, arriving on foot, carrying gigantic-sized aluminium dekchis[3]balanced on two ends of a pole, hoisted on his shoulder.
It was an open house event for those interested and wanting to join. There were the regulars and walk-ins as well. Performers and audience. A manageable crowd most years. Rarely spilling out into the adjacent veranda. Cane chairs were lined up to accommodate the latecomers. Ma, a gifted and trained singer had the honour of opening the ceremony with the song “Hey Nutan, Dekha dik aar-baar janmero prothamo shubhokhan…”[4]. On popular demand, she went on to sing a couple of Tagore’s songs not omitting the song dedicated to Boishakh“esho hey boishak, esho…esho. Taposniswasbaye mumushure dao uraye, botsorer aborjona dur hoye jak…”.[5]A song that has been on our minds, with the current heat wave raging throughout the country.
As the evening progressed there were recitations from Tagore’s poetry collection. A young couple, Soumenda and Rinadi, our neighbours, had the gathering spellbound with their singing and poetry recitation. Close neighbourhood friends of ‘Puluda’, the affectionate nickname of the famed actor, the Late Soumitra Chatterjee, the talented couple were in demand at many such musical soirees held on Vijaya Doushami[6] in community clubs. And through them, we met the greatest Bengali screen actor of all time, on many occasions, when he visited after the day’s outdoor shooting in the picturesque surrounding in Maithon and Panchayat, way back in the 1960s.
With our leaving the gated community complex in 1968, ended the annual Rabindra Jayanti home celebrations. A not-forgotten era. Rabindranath Tagore lives on. These days, I listen to Rabindrasangeet on YouTube, remembering the days of youth, Ma’s full-throated voice, and Somenda, and Rinadi regaling us with their practised/professional voices. Pakoras are replaced now with sushi. God rest their souls.
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[1] The 25th day of the Bengali month of Boishakh, recorded as the official date of birth of the Rabindranath Tagore in 1861. As per the Gregorian calendar, the date falls between the 7th or 8th of May.
[5] Hail O boisakh! Welcome./ Blow away deadly diseases with your ascetic breath./May the debris from the old year disappear. – Translation from Borderless Journal
Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) has published four books and is a regular contributor to anthologies. A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) by Rabindranath Tagore,gives a glimpse of his first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Clickhere to read.
Himalaya Jatra( A trip to Himalayas) by Tagore, has been translated from his Jibon Smriti (1911, Reminiscenses) by Somdatta Mandal from Bengali. Click here to read.
Bhumika (Introduction) by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.
The Fire-grinding Quern by Manzur Bismil has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Clickhere to read.
The Tobacco Lover by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Clickhere to read.
Pochishe Boisakh(25th of Baisakh) by Tagore(1922), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Dear Me… is an autobiographical narrative by Ilma Khan, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and pandies’. Click here to read.
Paul Mirabile gives a gripping tale about a young pyromaniac. Click hereto read.
Conversation
Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation about Kitareba, a contemporary dance performance on immigrants, with Sudarshan Chakravorty, a choreographer, and founder of the Sapphire Dance Company. Click here to read.
Centuries ago, April was associated with spring induced travel… just as pilgrims set out on a journey in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Some of the journeys, like to Mecca, become a part of religious lore. And some just add to the joie de vivre of festivities during different festivals that punctuate much of Asia during this time — Pohela Boisakh (Bengali), Songkran (Thai), Navavarsha (Nepali), Ugadi (Indian), Vaisakhi (Indian), Aluth Avurudda (Sri Lankan) and many more.
A hundred years ago, in April 1924, Tagore had also set out to journey across the oceans to China — a trip which, perhaps, led to the setting up of Cheena Bhavan in Vishwa Bharati. Recently, Professor Uma Dasgupta in a presentation stated that Tagore’s Nobel prize winning Gitanjali, and also a collection called The Crescent Moon (1913), had been translated to Chinese in 1923 itself… He was renowned within China even before he ventured there. His work had been critically acclaimed in literary journals within the country. That arts connect in an attempt to override divides drawn by politics is well embodied in Tagore’s work as an NGO and as a writer. He drew from all cultures, Western and Eastern, to try and get the best together to serve humankind, closing gaps borne of human constructs. This spirit throbbed in his work and his words. Both towered beyond politics or any divisive constructs and wept with the pain of human suffering.
This issue features translations of Tagore’s writings from his childhood — both done by professor Somdatta Mandal — his first trip with his father to the Himalayas and his first experience of snow in Brighton. We have a transcreation of some of his lyrics by Ratnottama Sengupta. The translation of his birthday poem to himself — Pochishe Boisakh(his date of birth in the Bengali calendar) along with more renditions in English of Korean poetry by Ihlwha Choi and Manzur Bismil’s powerful poetry from Balochi by Fazal Baloch, add richness to our oeuvre. Bismil’s poetry is an ode to the people — a paean to their struggle. It would seem from all the translations that if poets and writers had their way, the world would be filled with love and kindness.
Yet, the world still thunders with wars, with divides — perhaps, there will come a time when soldiers will down their weapons and embrace with love for, they do not fight for themselves but for causes borne of artificial human divides. It is difficult to greet people on any festival or new year, knowing there are parts of the world where people cannot celebrate for they have no food, no water, no electricity, no homes and no lives… for many have died for a cause that has been created not by them as individuals but by those who are guided solely by their hankering for power and money, which are again human constructs. Beyond these constructs there is a reality that grows out of acceptance and love, the power that creates humanity, the Earth and the skies…
Humour is brought into non-fiction by Devraj Singh Kalsi’s narrative about being haunted by an ancient British ghost in Kolkata! Suzanne Kamata adds to the lightness while dwelling on modelling for photographs in the Japanese way. Ravi Shankar plunges into the history of photography while musing on black and white photographs from the past.
Tagore again seeps into non-fiction with Professor Fakrul Alam and Asad Latif telling us what the visionary means to the Bengali psyche. Starting with precursors of Tagore, like Michael Madhusudan Dutt, and post-him, Sarojini Naidu, Mandal has shared an essay on Bengaliness in contemporary poetry written by those born to the culture. Jared Carter has given discussed ‘the lyric temper’ in poetry — a wonderful empathetic recap of what it takes to write poetry. Exploring perspectives of multiple greats, like Yeats, Keats, George Santyana, Fitzgerald, Carter states, “Genuine lyricism comes only after the self has been quieted.”
Sengupta has conversed with a dance choreographer, Sudershan Chakravorty, who has been composing to create an awareness about the dilemmas faced by migrants. An autobiographical narrative in Hindustani from Ilma Khan, translated by Janees, shows the resilience of the human spirit against oppressive social norms. Our fiction has stories from Lakshmi Kannan and Shevlin Sebastian urging us to take a relook at social norms that install biases and hatred, while Paul Mirabile journeys into the realm of fantasy with his strange story about a boy obsessed with pyromania.
“It is an ironical reflection on our times that a prolific and much awarded Indian writer– perhaps deserving of the Nobel prize — should be excised from the university syllabus of a central university. This move has, perhaps paradoxically, elicited even more interest in Mahasweta Devi’s work and has also consolidated her reputation as a mascot, a symbol of resistance to state violence. A timely intervention, this volume proves yet again that a great writer, in responding to local, regional, environmental ethical concerns sensitively, transcends his/her immediate context to acquire global and universal significance.”
There is more content than I mention here. Do pause by our current issue to take a look.
I would hugely like to thank the Borderless team for their unceasing support, and especially Sohana Manzoor, also for her fantastic art. Heartfelt thanks to all our wonderful writers and our readers. We exist because you all are — ubuntu.
Hope you have a wonderful month. Here’s wishing you all wonderful new years and festivals in March-April — Easter, Eid and the new years that stretch across Asian cultures.
Looking forward and hoping for peace and goodwill.
Pochishe Boisakh[1]was written by Tagore on 8th May 1922, and published in a collection called, Purabi [name of a raga] by the poet himself under the aegis of Vishwa Bharati.
Purabi by Rabindranath TagoreRabindranath Tagore(1861-1941)
Night gives way to dawn. I bring to you By hand, The full saga of My birth written By the rays of The morning sun.
A blood smeared sun rises out of the horizon. Faint shadows of the woods play lonely notes of the Bhairavi. Saal, palm and sisir trees murmur to Break the silence of the outskirts. On the dry fields, a blood-red path resembles The forehead of a sanyasi* smeared with holy paste.
This day returns every year In different guises on this earth — Sometimes, filled with copper-coloured mangoes, Or rustling with young palms, Or, crackling with dry leaves in the mid-day sun, Sometimes rushing to free itself Like the clouds of the Unshackled kalbaisakhi*. And it comes to me When I am alone, Drunk with the northern breeze, Hands me a gift — A plate made of the blue sky And then a zephyr filled cup of nectar.
This day has dawned today. My heart beats rapidly As if someone is blowing a conch resonating With the susurration of infinite oceans. Birth and death like The skyline meet in the circle of life. Today they come together. A white radiance seems To overflow with music from The flute of Time, filling the emptiness. Endless music irradiates My soul singing from within.
Morning descends with a Calm smile and Whispers into my ears: “I have come anew amidst many. One day, you arrived In this universe Redolent with the perfume of fresh mallika blooms, Amidst the breezy caresses of the chattim tree, In the heart of darkness, Under a steadfast, azure gaze. I kiss the forehead Of the new you. I have come to awaken you On this exciting day.
“Oh, newly fledged, Let’s revisit the start of your life. Today your existence is overwhelmed With transient dusty correspondence. Remember, O youth, Your first birthday… Unblemished — Pure, like the first moments of your life; Like the waves of the ocean, revive Every second of Your first day.
“Oh, newly fledged, Arise, illumined Out of the ashes of past. Anew, May you shine out of the mists like a rising sun. Holding the vernal flag, Fill youthful moments with lush foliage — In this way, newly fledged, Pierce the emptiness, reveal yourself. Revel in the exuberance of life, Reveal the eternal wonders of the universe within your being. The horizon reverberates with notes from the auspicious conch.”
In my heart, Eternal new notes peal On pochishe boisakh!
In 1941, Tagore adapted the last part of the poem, changed a few words and made it into a song for his last birthday, acceding to the request of a birthday song to his family and friends. The song, ‘Hey Nutan’[2], has been translated by Aruna Chakravarti in her historical novel, Daughters of Jorasanko, as the last birthday song by Tagore. You can access the translation of the song and his last birthday celebrations depicted by Aruna Chakravarti by clicking here.
ScreenshotScreenshotThe poem written in 1922 from Purabi, Vishwa Bharati The last part of the poem from PurabiThe last birthday song (1941)The last part of the longer poem written in 1922 was adapted into a song by Tagore, his last paean to his own birthday, few months before his death in 1941. The changes made to the words and phrases can be seen in the screenshots pasted above.
[1] Pochishe Boisakh is the 25th of Boisakh. Boisakh is the first month of the Bengali calendar coinciding with mid-April to mid-May. Tagore was born on 25th Boisakh, which is a date that shuttles between 7th to 9th May every year on the Gregorian calendar.
[2] Aruna Chakravarti translates this as ‘Oh ever new’. In the poem, it has been translated as ‘Oh newly fledged’. It is from that point that Tagore made the changes and converted the poem into a song. He changed a few words, a few lines, giving it a new life as a song.
(This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor)
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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