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)
In Conversation with Malashri Lal, about her debut poetry collection, Mandalas of Time, Hawakal Publishers
Professor Malashree Lal
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable.
‘Mandalas’ means circle in Sanskrit, the root, or at last the influencer, of most of the Indian languages in the subcontinent. Sanskrit belongs to the Indo-Germanic family, which homes Latin and Greek among other languages. Malashri Lal, a former professor in Delhi University, has called her poetry collection Mandalas of Time.
Her poetry reiterates the cyclical nature of the title, loaning from the past to blend the ideas with the present and stretching to assimilate the varied colours of cultures around the world.
Embracing an array of subjects from her heritage to her family — with beautiful touching poems for her grandchild — to migrants and subtle ones on climate change too, the words journey through a plethora of ideas. Nature plays an important role in concretising and conveying her thoughts. In one of the poems there is a fleeting reference to wars — entwined with the Pilkhan (fig) tree:
The Pilkhan tree thinks of its many years Of shedding leaves, bearing inedible fruit, of losing limbs But smiles at his troubles being far less Than of unfortunate humans Who kill each other in word and deed But gather around the tree each Christmas With fulsome gifts and vacant smiles To bring in another New Year.
--Another New Year
Amaltas (Indian Laburnum) or Bougainvillea bind her love for nature to real world issues:
Only the Amaltas roots, meshed underground Thrust their tendrils into the earth’s sinews below. Sucking moisture from the granular sand, desperately. The golden flowers pendent in the sun, mock the traveller Plump, succulent, beacon-like, they tease with The promise of water Where there is none.
--Amaltas in Summer
And…
The Bougainvillea is a migrant tree, blossom and thorn That took root in our land And spread its deception Of beauty.
--Bougainvillea
Her most impactful poems are women centric.
Words crushed into silence Lips sealed against utterance Eyes hooded guardedly Body cringing into wrinkled tightness Is this what elders called ‘Maidenly virtue?’
--Crushed
There is one about a homeless woman giving birth at Ratlam station during the pandemic chaos, based on a real-life incident:
Leave the slum or pay the rent Who cares if she is pregnant, Get out — go anywhere. … Ratlam station; steady hands lead her to the platform. Screened by women surrounding her A kind lady doctor takes control. Pooja sees a puckered face squinting into the first light. "This is home," she mutters wanly, "Among strangers who cut the cord and feed my newborn,”
-- Ladies Special
In another, she writes of Shakuntala — a real-world migrant who gave birth during the covid exodus. She birthed a child and within the hour was on her way to her home again — walking. It reminds one of Pearl S Buck’s description of the peasant woman in Good Earth (1931) who pauses to give birth and then continues to labour in the field.
Most interesting is her use of mythology — especially Radha and Sita — two iconic characters out of Indian lore. In one poem, she finds a parallel to “Sita’s exile” in Italy, at Belisama’s shrine. In another, she finds the divine beloved Radha, who was older to Krishna and married to another, pining after the divinity when he leaves to pursue his life as an adult. And yet, she questions modern stances through poems on more historical women who self-immolated themselves when their husbands lost in battle!
Malashri Lal has turned her faculties post-retirement to literary pursuits. One of her co- authored books around the life of the poet Michael Madhusudan Dutt, received the Kalinga award for fiction. She currently serves on the English advisory board of Sahitya Akademi. In this conversation, Lal discusses her poetry, her journey and unique perceptions of two iconic mythological women who figure in her poetry.
When did you start writing poetry?
Possibly my earliest poetry was written when I was about twelve, struggling with the confusing emotions of an adolescent. I would send off my writing to The Illustrated Weekly which used to have pages for young people, and occasionally I got published. After that, I didn’t write poetry till I was almost in my middle age when the personal crisis of losing my parents together in a road accident brought me to the outpourings and healing that poetry allows.
What gets your muse going?
Emotional turmoil, either my own or what I observe within the paradigms of social change. With my interest in women’s issues, my attention is arrested immediately when I hear or read about injustice, violence, exploitation or negligence of women or girl children. It doesn’t have to be a dramatic or extreme event but even the simple occurrences of decision making by a husband without consulting his wife has me concerned about the dignity and agency of a woman. Some poems like “Escape”, hint at such inequality that society takes for granted. On the other hand, my poems about migrant women giving birth on the long march to a hypothetical village “home” during the pandemic, are vivid transferences from newspaper stories. “Ladies Special” is about Pooja Devi giving birth at Ratlam station; “The Woman Migrant Worker” is based on a report about Shakuntala who stopped by the roadside to give birth to a baby and a few hours later, joined the walking crowd again.
Why did you name your poetry book Mandalas of Time?
To me ‘Mandalas’ denote centres of energy. Each node, though distinct in itself, coheres with the others that are contiguous, thus resulting in a corporeal body of interrelatedness. My poems are short bursts of such energy, concentrated on a subject. They are indicative of a situation but not prescriptive in offering solutions. Hence the spiritual energy of ‘Mandalas’, a term used in many traditions, seemed best suited to my offering of poems written during periods of heightened consciousness and introspection. The poems are also multilayered, hence in constant flux, to be interpreted through the reader’s response. Many of them end in questions, as I do not have answers. The reader is implicitly invited to peruse the subject some more . It’s not about closure but openness. See for instance: “Crushed”, or “Shyamoli”.
Today, I rebel and tug at a Divided loyalty — The feudal heritage of my childhood Fights off the reformist Bengali lineage, My troubled feminism struggling Between Poshak and Purdah White Thaan and patriotism Can one push these ghosts aside?
--Shyamoli *Poshak: Rajasthani dress *Thaan: White saree worn by the Bengali widow
You have written briefly of your mixed heritage, also reflected in your poem dedicated to Tagore, in whose verses it seems you find resolution. Can you tell us of this internal clash of cultures? What exactly evolved out of it?
My bloodline is purely Bengali but my parents nor I ever lived in Bengal. My father was in the IAS in the Rajasthan cadre and my mother, raised in Dehradun, did a lot of social work. In the 1950s and 1960s, Rajasthan was economically and socially confined to a feudal heritage and a strictly hierarchical structure. Rama Mehta’s novel Inside the Haveli (1979), describes this social construction with great sensitivity. Elite homes had separate areas for men and women, and, within that, a layout of rooms and courtyards that were defined for specific use by specified individuals according to their seniority or significance. Such hierarchies existed in Bengal too — the ‘antarmahal[1]’ references bear this out — but the multiple layers in Rajasthan seemed more restrictive.
In my “mixed heritage” of being born of Bengali parents but raised in Rajasthan, I started noting the contrasts as well as the similarities. I recall that when my father went on tours by jeep into the interior villages along rutted roads, I would simply clamber on. At one time I lived in a tent, with my parents, during the entire camel fair at Pushkar. I would listen to the Bhopa singers of the Phad painting tradition late into the evening. So my understanding and experience of Rajasthan is deep into its roots.
Phad paintingBhopa singersFrom Public Domain
Bengal– that is only Calcutta and Santiniketan–I know through my visits to grandparents, aunts and uncles. My cousins and I continue to be very close. I saw a fairly elite side of Calcutta—the Clubs, the Race Course, the restaurants on Park Street, the shopping at New Market, and sarees displays at Rashbehari Avenue. Santiniketan though was different. I was drawn to the stories of the Santhal communities, visited their villages, attended the Poush Mela[2] regularly and knew several people in the university. After Delhi, the wide-open spaces, the ranga maati (red soil), the Mayurakhi River, and the tribal stories were fascinating. I am fluent in Bengali and because of my relatives in Calcutta as well as Santiniketan, I never felt an outsider. My father’s side of the family has been at Viswa Bharati since the time of Rabindranath Tagore. So, I felt comfortable in that environment. And through an NGO called Women’s Interlink Foundation, established by Mrs Aloka Mitra, I had easy access to Santhal villages such as Bonerpukur Danga.
Poush Mela, started by the Tagore Family in 1894Santhali Performance at Poush Mela
However, in summary, though I lived with both the strains of Bengal and Rajasthan, the daily interaction in Jaipur where I received all my education till PhD, was more deeply my world. The fragmented identity that some poems convey is a genuine expression of figuring out a cultural belonging. Poems such as “To Rabindranath Tagore” helped me to understand that one can have multiple exposures and affiliations and be enriched by it.
Do you feel — as I felt in your poetry — that there is a difference in the cultural heritage of Bengal and Rajasthan that leads you to be more perceptive of the treatment of women in the latter state? Please elaborate.
Indeed, you are right. Bengal has a reformist history, and my family are Brahmo Samaj followers. Education for women, choice in marriage partner, ability to take up a career were thought to be possible. My paternal grandmother, Jyotirmoyi Mukerji, was one of the early graduates from Calcutta University; she worked as an Inspectress of Schools, often travelling by bullock carts, and she married a school teacher who was a little younger than her. They together chose to live in Rangoon in undivided India, heading a school there. These were radical steps for women in the late 19th century. My father grew up in Rangoon and came to Rajasthan as a refugee during the Second World War. My grandmother, who lived with us, was a tremendous influence denoting women’s empowerment. But what we saw around us in Jaipur was the feudal system and purdah for women in Rajasthan.
Fortunately, Maharani Gayatri Devi had set up a school in 1943 in Jaipur to bring modern thinking in the women, and I was fortunate to study there till I went to university. Let’s recall that Maharani Gayatri Devi was from Coochbehar (Bengal) and had studied at Santiniketan. She brought Bengal’s progressive ideas to the privileged classes of Rajasthan. My classmates were mostly princesses. I visited their homes and families and delved deeply into their history of feudalism. Without being judgmental, I must say that Rajasthan’s heritage is very complex and one must understand the reasons behind many practices and not condemn them.
You have brought in very popular mythological characters in your poems — Sita and Radha — both seen from a perspective that is unusual. Can you explain the similarity between Sita’s exile and Belisama’s shrine (in Italy)? Also why did you choose to deal with Radha in a post-Krishna world?
Namita Gokhale and I have completed what is popularly known as the “Goddess Trilogy”. After In Search of Sita and Finding Radha, the latest book, Treasures of Lakshmi: The Goddess Who Gives, was launched in February 2024 at the Jaipur Literature Festival, and the Delhi launch was on 8th October 2024 to invoke the festive season.
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In answering your question let me say that myth is storytelling, an indirect way of contending with issues that are beyond ordinary logic or understanding. Sita and Belisama coming together is an illustration of what I mean. The backstory is that Namita Gokhale and I had a joint residency at Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio (Italy) and we were revising the final manuscript of our book In Search of Sita. The thrust of that book is to recall the strength of Sita in decision making, in being supportive of other women, in emerging as an independent minded person. Our research had unearthed a lot of new material including oral history and folklore. In Bellagio, we started enquiring about local mythical stories and chanced upon Belisama,[3] a Celtic goddess known for her radiant fire and light, and in the village we chanced upon an old grotto like structure. Unlike in India, where we have a living mythology of commonly told and retold tales, in Italy the ancient legends were not remembered. The poem “Bellagio, Italy” took shape in my imagination bringing Sita and Belisama, two extraordinary women, together.
As to my poems on Radha, I cannot think of a “post-Krishna” world since Vrindavan and Mathura keep alive the practices that are ancient and continuous. Radha is the symbol of a seeker and Krishna is the elusive but ever watchful divine. They are body and soul, inseparable. The stories about “Radha’s Flute” or “Radha’s Dilemma” in poems by those names have an oral quality about them. The craft of writing is important, and for me, the theme decides the form.
Interesting, as both the poems you mention made me think of Radha after Krishna left her for Rukmini, for his role in an adult world. You have a poem on Padmini. Again, your stance is unusual. Can you explain what exactly you mean — can self-immolation be justified in any way?
This is a poem embedded in the larger query about comparative cultural studies. Rani Padmini’s story was written by Jayasi[4] in 1540, and it described a ‘heroic’ decision by Padmini that she and her handmaidens should commit Jauhar (mass self-immolation) rather than be taken prisoners and face humiliation and violent abuse by the men captors. You will note that my poem ends on a question mark: “I ask you if you can rewrite /values the past held strong?” Self-immolation has to be seen in the context of social practices at the time of Padmini (13-14th queen in Mewar, Rajasthan). The jauhar performed by Rani Padmini of Chittor is narrated even now through ballads and tales extolling the act if one goes into oral culture. But there is counter thinking too, as was evident in the controversy over Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s film Padmavat (2018) which stirred discussions on historicity, customary practice and oral traditions. Sati and Jauhar are now punishable offences under Indian law, but in recording oral history can one change the storyline? It’s not just self-immolation that comes under such a category of questioning the past — polygamy, polyandry, child marriage, prohibitions on widows and many other practices are to be critiqued in modern discourse, but one cannot rewrite what has already been inscribed in an old literary text.
This is a question that draws from what I felt your poems led to, especially, the one on Padmini. Do you think by changing text in books, history can be changed?
“History” is a matter of perspective combined with the factual record of events and episodes. Who writes the “history” and in what circumstances is necessary to ask. The narration or interpretation of history can be changed, and sometimes ought to be. To take an obvious case why is the “Sepoy Mutiny” of 1857 now referred to as the “First War of Independence”? In current discussions on Rana Pratap[5] in Rajasthan’s history, there are documents in local languages that reinterpret the Haldighati battle of 1576 not as the Rana’s defeat but his retreat into the forests and setting up his new kingdom in Chavand where he died in 1597. The colonial writers of history—at least in Rajasthan– were dependent on local informers and had little understanding of the vast oral repertoire of the state. Even Col. James Tod’s Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan (1829) about the history, culture, and geography of some areas in Rajasthan, is often reproducing what he has heard from the bards and balladeers which are colourful and hyperbolic renderings as was the custom then. In Bengal, the impact of Tod is seen in Abanindranath Tagore’s[6]Rajkahini (1946), which is storytelling rather than verified facts. I feel history cannot be objective, it is author dependent.
Nature, especially certain trees and plants seem to evoke poetry in you. It was interesting to see you pick a fig tree for commenting on conflicts. Why a Pilkhan tree?
The Pilkhan is an enormous, bearded old fig tree that lives in our garden and is a witness to our periodic poetic gatherings. Mandalas of Time is dedicated to “The Poets under the Pilkhan Tree” because my book emerged from the camaraderie and the encouragement of this group. I see the tree as an observer and thinker about social change—it notes intergenerational conflict in “Another New Year”, it offers consolation against the terrors of the pandemic in the poem “Krishna’s Flute”. It’s my green oasis in an urban, concrete-dominated Delhi. In the evening the birds chirp so loudly that we cannot hear ourselves speak. Squirrels have built nests into the Pilkhan’s wide girth. It’s not a glamorous tree but ordinary and ample—just as life is. By now, my poet friends recognise the joy of sharing their work sitting in the shadow of this ancient giant. There are no hierarchies of age or reputation here. We are the chirping birds—equal and loquacious!
You have successfully dabbled in both poetry and fiction, what genre do you prefer and why?
Mandalas of Time is my first book of poems and it comprises of material written unselfconsciously over decades. During the pandemic years, I decided to put the manuscript together, urged by friends. Meanwhile my poems started appearing in several journals.
As to fiction, I’ve published a few short stories and I tend to write ghostly tales set in the mountains of Shimla. Its possibly the old and the new that collides there that holds my attention. I’ve been urged to write a few more and publish a book—but that may take a while.
Should we be expecting something new from your pen?
Mandalas of Time has met with an amazing response in terms of reviews, interviews, speaking assignments, and online presentations. The translation in Hindi by 13 well known poets is going into print very soon. Permission has been sought for a Punjabi translation. I’m overwhelmed by this wide empathy and it is making me consider putting together another book of poems.
Title: Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati
Editor: Monica Das
Publisher: Sahitya Akademi
Fakir Mohan Senapati (1843-1918) is a prominent figure in Indian literature and a key advocate for Odia nationalism. Born in Mallikashapur, Odisha, he faced significant hardships, losing both parents by age two and being raised by his grandmother with limited education.
Senapati is celebrated for his pioneering works, including the first modern Odia short story, “Rebati,” and novels like Chha Mana Atha Guntha (Six Acres and a Third) , Mamu (Uncle), and Prayaschita (Atomement), which address social issues and the lives of ordinary people, emphasizing social justice and peasant struggles.
His impact transcends the realm of literature; he was instrumental in promoting the unique identity of the Odia language during times of external challenges. His literary contributions facilitated the de-Sanskritisation of Odia, thereby rendering literature more accessible to the general public. He continues to embody the pride and cultural identity of the Odia people.
Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati by Monica Das is characterised by its relevance and authenticity. The compilation and editing, originating from Sahitya Akademi, reflect a high level of quality, with the editor having meticulously attended to every detail.
Monica Das is an Associate Professor of Economics at Gargi College, University of Delhi, and a fellow at the Developing Countries Research Centre. Her research focuses on feminist economics, and she is involved with the International Association for Feminist Economics (IAFFE). Her own works include Tales of the Girl Child in India and The Other Woman, which examine the socio-economic impacts of underage marriage and polygamy on gender development. She also produced the film Anwesan, highlighting the life of her great-grandfather, Fakir Mohan Senapati. She oversees the Fakir Mohan Foundation, which promotes Odisha’s cultural heritage and addresses social challenges, particularly those affecting women.
Putting together a collection can be quite a challenge. It has to open up different viewpoints and styles for readers, deepening their grasp of literature and culture. Curators have to also add introductions that give context to the works, making it easier for readers to see the importance of each piece in the larger literary scene. Monica Das has successfully met these expectations. This Selection highlights Senapati’s creations that established a framework in which the ordinary individual became the focal point.
Says Monica in the introduction: “Fakir Mohan Senapati is a giant in the field of Indian literature, who belonged to Odisha. He brought about a revolution in novel writing by departing from romance and writing on social realism. His portrayal of the common man and his concerns predated those of Premchand and Rabindranath Tagore, the other giants of Indian literature.
“His writing had elements which, apart from promoting secular attitudes, helped bring about social changes, to which he also contributed directly as the Dewan of some of the princely states of Odisha in British India. Odisha is the first state in India to have been established on the basis of language, for which he laid the foundation.”
Fakir Mohan distinguishes himself from his predecessors in the field of Odia prose through his unique use of language: “His liberal use of terse proverbs and the folksy style of his writings is what catches the reader’s immediate attention. Besides this, it adds to the rustic wisdom of his characters. In his stories, one cannot miss the underlying concern with social reform. He always took care to depict an honest view of life. Though he takes a didactic stance in his writings, he took care to see that this did not militate against realism and the smooth flow of the narrative. Fakir Mohan’s characters were drawn from ordinary life from among peasants, weavers, barbers, milkmen, revenue clerks and teachers. Very few belong to the higher ranks of the society. He set the tone of the common man. For the first time, ordinary readers were touched by the fact that stories were written about them, about their concerns, their agonies, exploitations and bitter-sweet experiences. Fakir Mohan was indeed a consummate artist with a keen eye for minute details.”
The Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati spans approximately four hundred pages and presents the intriguing perspective of a remarkable individual. He was more than merely a writer; he was a social reformer, a patriot, and a cunning strategist, serving as the dewan of the princely states of Odisha during the period of colonial rule.
Concludes Monica in the book: “It’s a strife-torn world that we live in today. Fakir Mohan’s works, considered unparalleled internationally, hold even greater significance now because of the centrality of humane modes that form the essence of his writings. The compilation in the Selection presents all this and more.”
The volume serves as a comprehensive and curated resource on Fakir Mohan’s literary works, significantly enhancing the current body of literature dedicated to the father of Odia literature.
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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Translations are like bridges. Three years ago, we decided to start a bridge between Tagore’s ideas and the world that was unfamiliar with his language, Bengali. He has of course written a few pieces in Brajbuli too. We started our journey into the territory of Tagore translations with Aruna Chakravarti’s Songs of Tagore. Now we have expanded hugely this section of our translations with many prose pieces and more translations of his lyrics and poetry by writers like Aruna Chakravarti, Fakrul Alam, Radha Chakravarty, Somdatta Mandal, Himadri Lahiri, Ratnottama Sengupta, Chaitali Sengupta and Nishat Atiya other than our team’s efforts. To all these translators our heartfelt thanks. We share with you their work celebrating one of the greatest ideators of the world.
Prose
Stories
.Aparichitaby Tagore :This short story has been translated as The Stranger by Aruna Chakravarti. Click hereto read.
Musalmanir Galpa(A Muslim Woman’s Story): This short story has been translated by Aruna Chakravarti. Clickhere 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 hereto read.
Bolai: Story of nature and a child translated by Chaitali Sengupta. Click hereto read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) : This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
Himalaya Jatra( A trip to Himalayas) :This narrative about Tagore’s first trip to Himalayas and beyond with his father, has been translated from his Jibon Smriti (1911, Reminiscenses) by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Library: A part of Bichitro Probondho(Strange Essays) by Rabindranath Tagore, this essay was written in 1885, translated by Chaitali Sengupta. Click hereto read.
Book Excerpts
The Parrot’s Tale: Excerpted from Rabindranth Tagore. The Land of Cards: Stories, Poems and Plays for Children, translated by Radha Chakravarty, with a foreword from Mahasweta Devi. Clickhere to read
Rabindranath Tagore Four Chapters: An excerpt from a brilliant new translation by Radha Chakravarty of Tagore’s controversial last novel Char Adhyay. Click here to read.
Farewell Song :An excerpt from Radha Chakravarty’s translation of Tagore’s novel. Click hereto read.
Oikotan(Harmonising) has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam and published specially to commemorate Tagore’s Birth Anniversary. Click hereto read.
Monomor Megher O Shongi (or The Cloud, My friend) has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Professor Fakrul Alam has translated Tomra Ja Bolo Tai Bolo, Hridoy Chheele Jege and Himer Raate — three songs around autumn from Clickhere to read.
Tagore’sAchhe Dukhu, Achhe Mrityu, (Sorrow Exists, Death Exists) has been translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
Tagore’s long poem, Dushomoy (translated as Journey of Hope though literally the poem means bad times). Click here to read the poem in English and listen to Tagore’s voice recite his poem in Bengali. We also have a sample of the page of his diary where he first wrote the poem as ‘Swarga Pathhe'(On the Path to Heaven).
Deliverance by Tagore: ‘Tran’by Tagore, a prayer for awakening of the subjugated. Click here to read the translation.
Abhisar byTagore: A story poem about a Buddhist monk by Rabindranath Tagore in Bengali. Click here to read the translation.
Amaar Nayano Bhulano Eledescribes early autumn when the festival of Durga Puja is celebrated. Click here to read the translation from Bengali.
Morichika or Mirage by Tagoreis an early poem of the maestro that asks the elites to infringe class divides and mingle. Click here to read the translation from Bengali.
Pochishe Boisakh(25th of Baisakh) is a birthday poem Tagore wrote in 1922 and from he derived the lyrics of his last birthday song written in 1941. Click here to read.
Chhora or Rhymes, a poem describing the creative process, it was written in 1941. Click here to read.
Okale or Out of Syncgives a glimpse of how out of sync situations are also part of our flow. Click here to read.
Mrityu or Death dwells on Tagore’s ability to accept death as a reality. Clickhere to read.
Songs of Tagore: Seven songs translated by Aruna Chakravarti from a collection that started her on her litrary journey and also our Tagore translation section. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem Suprobhat or Good morning was originally published in in Purabi (Name of a Raga) in 1925 by Vishwa Bharati.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
Sunshine, your radiance Bursts through the doorway. Like lightning, it has stunned Penetrating the dreamworld. I was wondering if I should arise, If the blinding darkness has passed, If I should open my closed eyes Redolent with sleep. Meanwhile, the northeast Heralds your arrival. Amidst the bright sky Clouds waft, As if set aflame. The Eastern breeze Stunned awake, blushes red.
Bhairav*, in what guise have you come? Snakes twine around your fron, The Rudra bina* plays a melody To welcome the ragini of the morn. Does the enchanted koel coo? Do the flowers in the woods bloom? After eons, suddenly, The dark night has split. Your sword has sliced The darkness into two. In pain, the universe Shivers, bleeding light, And spills it across the skies. Some have woken up with the tremor, Some continue to dream with fright.
Though hungry after the night At the cremation ground, your followers, Moisten and wet their lips To scream, to holler. They are our guests. They dance in our yards. Open, O householder, open Your door, do not hide —- Bring everything you have. You will have to give your all. Do not sleep any more. Rend your heart, Pour your being. O devout, why are you Attached to false affections?
As the sun rises, I hear an unknown voice: “There is no fear. O, there is no fear — In the final reckoning, he who gives up His life is immortalised in eternity.” Oh Rudra, I sing for you. Tell me how to invoke you. I will drum the tabor in rhythm With the dance of death. I will decorate your offering With a basket of pain. The morning has come. The destroyer of darkness, Shiva, roars with laughter. The hearts of the awakened Flow with joyous contentment.
A new entity will emerge by dedicating life to the life force. Invoking your glory, All fears can be overcome. It is good that the storm Has destroyed the decadent. It is good that the morning arrived Riding the lion-cloud— The union will be set aflame By a fiery bolt of lightning. For you, I will give up All my wealth. Life can be eternalised by ambrosia, Partaken with your grace.
*Bhairav is another name for Shiva. It is also the name of a morning raga. *Rudra bina is a type of vina. Rudra is another name for Shiva.
(Translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor)
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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.
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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.
Raja O Praja, an essay by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali as The King and His Subjects by Professor Himadri Lahiri. It formed the lead essay in his book of the same name published in 1908.
Translator’s Introduction: Rabindranath Tagore’s essay “Raja O Proja” was first published in the well-known Bengali periodical Sadhana (Sravana, 1301/1894). It is anthologised in Rabindra Rachanabali (Sulabh Sanskaran) 5th volume (Visva-Bharati, Pous 1394): pp. 727-31. Tagore unravels the nature of the relationship between the colonial masters and the subjugated subject people. Much before Edward Said, Tagore examined how the colonial masters resorted to the practice of stereotyping, a strategy that denies human qualities to the colonised and renders them inferior and uncivilised. Set against the contemporary political background, the essay provides an incisive analysis of the behaviour patterns of both the British colonial government and the subjugated Indian population. It should be considered a significant contribution to the study of colonialism.
The King and his Subjects
When the British civilian, Radice Sahib1, insulted and persecuted a certain zamindar in Orissa by violating laws, Lieutenant-Governor MacDonnell2subjected the offender to a one-year-punishment.
If we reflect on this incident, it should not have surprised us. In reality, however, this act of justice was incredibly startling to the general public. This explains why some naive individuals expressed their unusual delight.
Shortly afterwards, when MacDonnell Sahib was duly replaced by Elliott Sahib3, the latter freed Radice from the punishment by illegally reversing his predecessor’s order and even promoted him to a higher post. Now the same naive people have started expressing their profound sorrows.
The task is accomplished by the will of the master. Only the master knows why he [i.e. Elliott] violated the rule; we are left desperately groping in the dark. It may be that one civilian protected the prestige of another. But the decision was surely inappropriate – this incident dented MacDonnell Sahib’s prestige, and even that of the government.
In course of their conjectures, people are providing different theories; all of these may turn out to be incorrect. On the whole, it may be said that only the government knows the ins and outs of its own policies; we are merely blind puppets being controlled by these policies.
Hence, it is my opinion that driven by our delusions, we instinctively express our happiness and sadness at the moral and immoral decisions of the people at the helm of affairs. Where everything is done at the master’s will, where our good fortune or bad depends greatly on the character and whim of a particular person, there we should consider both the auspicious and the inauspicious, the moral and the immoral as merely momentary, accidental episodes. What MacDonnell Sahib did was the result of his own will, and what Elliott Sahib did was also produced by his own caprice; we are merely ruses.
Even then, we cannot help feeling distressed or shocked by the appalling events or delight at their praise. But we should always remember the specific instances that will make us happy and contribute to our people’s glory.
This can be achieved only when all the common people develop so intense a sense of conscience and alertness that we can feel the pain together in the face of insult and injustice, and also when the government absorbs into its own system an obligation to respect the conscience of the people; only then can we genuinely rejoice.
Usually, our moral conscience, our understanding of our work culture, and our apprehension of vilification all combine to guide us to the path of duties. The principles of responsibilities of our governments are largely determined by moral conscience and work culture. Their connection with the subject people’s ideology of good and evil is very weak.
It is universally known that when conscience comes into conflict with work culture, the latter sometimes prevails. During this conflict, the moral compass of those individuals not involved in the conflict can help reinforce one’s own conscience. When we will find the subject people’s criticism being appropriately reflected in the government’s activities, we will express our happiness.
In the absence of the subject people’s criticism, the sense of moral duty of the British in India imperceptibly slackens and degenerates to such a level that their moral ideals begin to radically differ in nature from those of the native British. For this reason, we find on the one hand, the Englishmen in India hate us, and on the other, they express their utmost intolerance towards their own countrymen’s opinions, as if both were alien to them.
There might be several reasons for this. One reason is that due to the remote location of their country, the British in India forget how social criticism typically motivates or impacts actions of their own countrymen. In addition to this, the Englishman’s relationship with us is primarily based on selfish interest as they do not share any emotional bond that stems from nation-based kinship. Hence, for various reasons, it becomes challenging for the British in India to maintain the same purity of selfless duties towards their subjects. Consequently, a distinct and specific code of duty begins to develop for the colonials in India – this arises from various factors such as their self-interest and pride of power, the moral conscience of the weak, subjugated nation, and the complexities involved in administering a foreign country. The English of England sometimes fail to recognise this distinct code of duty.
Certain talented Englishmen with exposure to colonial India have taken upon themselves the responsibility of effectively introducing this unique object [i.e., this new ideology of difference] in England. By virtue of their talent, they are demonstrating that this new object has its own unique appeal.
Rudyard Kipling’s name may be cited as an instance. He has exemplary power. By invoking that power, he has created in the English imagination an image of the Orient as a cattle pen. He is trying to convince the native Englishmen that the Indian government is, indeed, a circus company. He is skillfully orchestrating our actions as a performance of strange and spectacular animals of various species before the civilised world, implying once the spectators take off their steady gaze, all the animals could immediately spring upon them. The animals are to be observed with intense curiosity, they will have to be kept under control with the proper combination of fear of the whip and temptation of pieces of bone. Of course, certain doses of compassion for animals are also required. But if you raise here issues of principles, love, and civilisation, it will be difficult to keep the circus going, and it will also be dangerous for the proprietors.
The image of strong human animals being controlled solely by willpower and compelled to dance at the mere gesture of the master’s finger is likely to fascinate the English as a curious spectacle of entertainment. This generates in them an interest in the uniqueness of the human animal and also a racial pride. There is also a profound satisfaction in being able to control someone who embodies an imminent threat, and this seems delightful to the inherent nature of the English people.
On another front, the number of Anglo-Indian team members is also increasing day by day. Anglo-Indian literature too is gaining popularity. The influence of Anglo-Indians is gradually finding roots in the English soil, spreading its branches all around. In this context, it should be mentioned for the sake of justice that many Anglo-Indians, after retiring from their assignments in India, have displayed extreme benevolence towards the helpless Indians.
For all these reasons, many native English people are sceptical about whether it would be a quixotic stupidity for them to discharge to the oriental animals those duties usually reserved for themselves, whether this act of showing equality will reveal the civilised islanders’ intellectual narrowness and inexperience, and whether this would also harm animals of various species. English philosophers such as Herbert Spencer believe that it is not only inevitable that moral ideals vary according to the standard of civilisation but also necessary according to the norms of evolution.
The truth of these opinions will be judged on some other occasion. For the time being, I can only say that its (i.e., the practice of treating Indians unequally) consequences are very painful for us. Apprehending an uprising after noticing some posters on trees in the state of Bihar, opinions have been expressed in several English newspapers that a genuine union of love is never possible between Oriental and Occidental races. The former has to be subjugated forcibly by means of fear of threats. All these, it seems, are being expressed more openly these days than ever before.
Our opinion is that even if we admit that the principles of duty in freedom-loving Europe may not be suitable for application in every corner of the ever-subjugated Orient, it is indeed an unrealistic dream for them to maintain the usual rhythm of the Oriental life here for the simple reason that our king is a European. If our country were free, the monarchy that would have evolved in the natural process in this Oriental space would surely have been different in multiple aspects. It may be that, from one perspective, the king’s excessive power would have appeared greater than it is now. Similarly, from another perspective, the subjects, by limiting the king’s authority, would have channelised their own desires in various forms and through multiple avenues. Natural compatibility can be best expressed through natural means. Howsoever they may want, the English cannot achieve that (artificially) just through policy making.
Hence, the Englishmen can behave with us just in the way they do; if they willingly distort it, that will amount to misbehaviour, it will never become an Indian behaviour. They can break their own ideal, but in its stead what will they build and how? However, the English, fallen from their ever-familiar native ideal, may turn out to be big, ferocious animals. From the hints of cruelty, laced with aggression of power, that we can trace in the works of authors like Rudyard Kipling, it seems that man often wishes to jump into the primitive barbarity of wild nature of the forest by ripping through the fine, hundred-threaded strong net of civilisation. On their arrival in India, the Anglo-Indians taste the exquisite wine of power that may create this overwhelming intoxication. The natural, spontaneous embodiment of masculinity in the writings of these loveless, difficult, power-boasting talented men has a kind of extreme fascination. That is literature for the English but for us, it is indeed a recipe for death.
Secondly, the way authors in their contemporary novels represent the Orient as appearing mysterious to the Occident is largely fictitious. There are numerous intersections between us. The similarities of the heart are often overshadowed by external differences. Modern writers tend to apply colour to, and even exaggerate, the unfamiliarity of these external features to please the readers; they do not try to unearth the similarities lying deep within, neither are they capable of doing that.
The significance of making all these statements is simply this: the idea that European values are exclusively meant for Europe is gradually spreading not only in India but also in England. Indians are supposedly so different a race that the civilised values are not completely applicable to them.
Under such circumstances, if our ethical values become strong, the policy of governance cannot go off the right track. When the English are conscious of the fact that their actions are being closely watched by the entire Indian population, they will not be able to do anything by completely disregarding India.
Recently, some evidence of this is being noticed. When India witnesses some misdeeds committed by the English, she begins to call for justice in her own feeble voice, invoking civilisational and moral values. This naturally angers the colonials, but at the same time, they are forced to remain somewhat vigilant.
Even then, full results are yet to be seen. The British consider it an admission of their weakness to adhere to codes of values that exhibit respect towards us all the time and under all circumstances. They find it insulting and harmful if one of them commits a crime against us and is punished by the law. They fear that Indians will perceive it as curtailment of power.
It is impossible for us to identify the nature of thoughts of government officials. However, I feel the untimely promotion of Radice Sahib can be linked to the above policy. This suspicion is reinforced specially when such an event is found to have occurred repeatedly. The government is, as if, silently declaring, it is your audacity to expect an English official to be humiliated for harassing and insulting one of you. Even if we have to violate conventions and neglect the rules of governance to crush that audacity, it will be desirable. The English race is greater than the norms of ethics, they are beyond the jurisdiction of justice!
For the sake of truth, it has to be admitted that the government tends to keep not only the English but also its own employees a notch above the rule of justice. This has been observed in one or two contemporary incidents. In the Baladhan4 murder case, all those involved, right from the English judge to the Bengali police personnel who were openly blamed in the judgement of the High Court, have been rewarded and encouraged by the colonial Bengal government.
We are individuals outside the realm of politics, we are not familiar with its internal complexities. There might be a hidden motive behind it [the government’s decision]. The authorities may believe that the local judge in the Baladhan case did not issue an incorrect ruling – around five to seven individuals should have been hanged in some manner. They might have nurtured a biased opinion that the incident in reality happened despite the lack of concrete judicial evidence, and that only the local judge could have determined the truth which was inaccessible to the High Court judge.
We want to say that openly rewarding, instead of punishing, individuals who have been publicly condemned by the highest court of the country, who have been proven guilty in the eyes of the public, amounts to the disregard of the moral judgment of the public. Everyone’s told we do not feel the need to offer any explanation to you about our duties. The government is not bothered about whether you praise or criticise it – our government is strong enough to withstand such scrutiny!
The governor who demolishes the anguish and moral judgement of the subjects under his shoes, and drowns their feeble, insecure voices beneath the marching sounds of their feet, is indeed a strong ruler in Anglo-India!
It is unnecessary to disclose whether this highlights their power or reveals our utmost weakness. This insolent disregard of the government suggests that, in its view, the moral judgement of the Indians is not strong enough to evoke a feeling of embarrassment in them. Instead, this unapologetic recklessness seems to them as the manifestation of a genuine power over an ever-oppressed nation.
If we can really convince the agents of the government that we do not consider the violation of ethics as bravado, that injustice, however powerful it may appear, is held as equally despicable and reprehensible in our Oriental system of judgement, and that the lack of courage to dispense justice everywhere firmly and impartially is also considered by us as a sign of weakness, only then the English would be forced to respect our norms of duties. The reason is that they will be able to discover the correspondence between our ideal and their own.
When we forget the bitter lessons of our prolonged subjugation, when we decide not to consider the injustice of the powerful as the manifestation of divine will — something that must be endured in silence — when we consider attempts at the redressal of injustice, even if it fails, as our duty, and when for these reasons, we stop being averse to sacrifice ourselves and bear pains, only then the days of true happiness will bloom. At that point, the sense of justice of the British government will never be derailed by any selfish policy and eccentricity of any individual; it will stand like a resolute mountain firmly based on the foundation of the subjects’ hearts. At that time, good gestures of the government will not accidentally be showered on our bowed heads like momentary favours; we will, on the contrary, accrue them as respect. What we are getting as alms today will be received as our rights.
Questions can be raised – offering advice is easy, but what about the solution? To that, we may retort that no proper bliss can be achieved by clever strategies alone; for that we have to pay the entire price due to it. All of us must strive to our utmost potential, proper lessons should be imparted to siblings and children in every household, a strong ideal of justice needs to be established in both the family and society, and careful attention must be paid to one’s own behaviour. Like all good advice, this too is easier to hear, difficult to implement, and is indeed age-old. However, there is no new, short-cut or hidden path other than this long, open, and ancient highway.
Translator’s Notes:
1. Mr. C.A. Radice belonged to the Indian Civil Service cadre during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. He was posted as an Assistant Magistrate and Collector in Murshidabad in 1890 and was “vested with third class powers” (Appt. File 5C—4. Proceedings B. 1—3, Ja. 1890). He was ‘degraded’ for “prosecuting Babu Radha Shyam Nissanta Mahapatra, zaminder of pargana Balinkandi in the district of Balasore” [Judl. File J-1P—113(1-21), Proceedings 134-55, Aug. 1893]. Radice’s ‘reversion’ to 2nd grade became effective in February 1895. [(Appt., File 6C—8(3.8). Proceedings B. 716-21, Feb. 1895)]. The translator of this essay traced these pieces of information in the entry on “Radice, C.A. Mr., I.C.S.—” pp. 1126-1128. Kindly see: https://sadte.wb.gov.in/uploads/pdf/D12/D1224.pdf
2. Antony Patrick MacDonnell (1844–1925) joined the Indian Civil Service in 1865. He was the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal during the period 1893-1895. MacDonnell was respected as an expert on the Indian land reformation and famine relief. “His sharp temper and unwillingness to tolerate inefficient subordinates earned him the nickname ‘the Bengal Tiger.’” Kindly see the entry on “MacDonnell, Antony Patrick” contributed by Patrick Maume, in Dictionary of Irish Biography. https://www.dib.ie/biography/macdonnell-antony-patrick-a5180.
3. Sir Charles Alfred Elliott (1835-1911) was the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal during the period 1890-1893. Tagore’s reference to MacDonnell being replaced by Eliott is confusing because Eliott indeed preceded MacDonnell, and did not succeed him.
4. Tagore refers to an incident which is popularly known as “Baladhan Murder Case.” It took place in Baladhan Tea Garden in the Cachar district of Assam on 11 April, 1893. Several persons barged into the manager’s bungalow in the tea garden at night and killed the manager (Mr. Cockburn) and the chowkidar and seriously wounded Mr. Cockburn’s Indian paramour named Sadi. Money and other valuables were looted. Later six Manipuris and a Gurkha were arrested. They were tried by the sessions judge John Clark (and a panel of three Indian assessors) at Sylhet who sentenced four of the accused to death. Babu Kamini Kumar Chanda took up the case to Calcutta High Court which acquitted all the accused (Sanajoba 234). “On December 11, 1893, Calcutta High Court Judges Ameer Ali and H.T. Prinsep acquitted all of the prisoners on account of the many ‘irregularities’ and ‘illegalities’ committed during the police investigation and trial, as well as the lack of corroborating evidence” (Kolsky 145).
See pp.142-48 [in Chapter 4 titled “One scale of justice for the planter and another for the coolie”: law and violence on the Assam tea plantations” (pp. 142-184)] in the book Colonial Justice in British India edited by Elizabeth Kolsky (Cambridge University Press, 2010) and p. 234 of Th. Babachandra Singh’s chapter “The Manipuris in the Politics of Assam” (pp. 213-36) included in the book Manipur, Past and Present: The Heritage and Ordeals of a Civilization, Volume 4 (Pan-Manipuris in Asia and Autochthones), edited by Naorem Sanajaoba, Mittal Publications, 2005. (Google book link: https://books.google.co.in/books?id=CzSQKVmveUC&printsec=copyright&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q&f=false)
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Himadri Lahiri retired as Professor of English, the University of Burdwan, West Bengal, India. He is currently teaching English at Netaji Subhas Open University, Kolkata.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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.
Time flows at an indolent pace. The mind floats in an empty space. Into that vast void, images drift. Over many eons, many have flit To the distant past. Arrogant conquerors sped fast. Pathans rode to satiate their greed. Then, Mughals wheeled Victories, whipping dust-storms, Flying flags for their throngs. These empires have left no trace On the vast void at which I gaze. Through ages, the serene sky Is with sunset and sunrise dyed. Now the might of Britons holds sway Penetrating new pathways With the power of steam And vehicles of fiery steel. With vigour, they spread Their dominions across the land’s breadth. I know their regime will also pass. Their empire will crumble at last. On the astral plane, despite their strength, Their army will not leave a single indent.
When I look around the Earth, An ocean ripples along its girth Heaving huge waves of humanity Through myriad paths, in myriad coveys, Over centuries as their daily needs are met In life and in death. Forever, they row, With their rudders tow, Work in fields, plant seeds, Their harvests reap. They work all the time, In towns or in wilds. Empires decline silencing bugles of war. People forget histories of battles fought. Stories of glory, angst and gore, Stay concealed in children’s lore. They struggle to work hard, In Punjab, Bombay and Gujarat, In Bengal, in Kalinga, all over the land, By the coastline and the riverbank. These stories of daily life hum Reverberating like drums; Joys, sorrows, day and night Resonate as hymns to our lives. Empires are ruined to ashes. Over eons, they toil as masses.
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
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.
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