Phul Photano (Making Flowers Bloom) by Tagore was first published in 1906 in Kheya (Ferrying), a collection of 55 poems. The book was dedicated to the Indian scientist, Jagadish Chandra Bose (1858-1937), who discovered plants can feel pleasure, pain, understand affection and make sounds of distress.
From Public Domain
MAKING FLOWERS BLOOM
You cannot force, Force flowers to bloom. Whatever you say or do, However hard you try, Day and night, excitedly Striking the stem — None of you can force, Force flowers to bloom.
You can repeatedly Fatigue with your glances. You can tear the bunches, And throw them in the dust — In such extreme chaos, If they break their silence, Their colours could spill, Their perfumes could overwhelm. None of you can force, Force flowers to bloom.
He who can make flowers bloom, Does so on his own. He radiates With his eyes rays Of the lifeforce To enchant the stem. He who can make flowers bloom, Does so on his own.
Just his breath, seems To make the flowers yearn to fly. With wings made of leaves, They waft in the breeze. Vibrant varied hues bloom Like the heart in a swoon. Many are drawn to them, Allured by the scents. He who can make a flower bloom, Does so on his own.
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
From the fount of darkness emerges light. That is your luminescence. A beacon shines amidst all rebellions, conflicts. That is your radiance. The hut that lies along a dusty path, That is your abode. Being immortalised by war is cruel affection. That is your love. When all is lost, what remains, That is your invisible gift. Death contains life like a vessel. That is the life you give us. The dust that lies under our feet laces the land. That is your heavenly land. Amidst all of us, you conceal yourself. That is You for me.
Imagine the world envisioned by John Lennon. Imagine the world envisioned and partly materialised by Tagore in his pet twin projects of Santiniketan and Sriniketan, training institutes made with the intent of moving towards creating a work force that would dedicate their lives to human weal, to closing social gaps borne of human constructs and to uplifting the less privileged by educating them and giving them the means to earn a livelihood. You might well call these people visionaries and utopian dreamers, but were they? Tagore had hoped to inspire with his model institutions. In 1939, he wrote in a letter: “My path, as you know, lies in the domain of quiet integral action and thought, my units must be few and small, and I can but face human problems in relation to some basic village or cultural area. So, in the midst of worldwide anguish, and with the problems of over three hundred millions staring us in the face, I stick to my work in Santiniketan and Sriniketan hoping that my efforts will touch the heart of our village neighbours and help them in reasserting themselves in a new social order. If we can give a start to a few villages, they would perhaps be an inspiration to some others—and my life work will have been done.” But did we really have a new social order or try to emulate him?
If we had acted out of compassion and kindness towards redefining with a new social order, as Miriam Bassuk points out in her poem based on Lennon’s lyrics of Imagine, there would be no strangers. We’d all be friends living in harmony and creating a world with compassion, kindness, love and tolerance. We would not have wars or regional geopolitical tensions which act against human weal. Perhaps, we would not have had the issues of war of climate change take on the proportions that are wrecking our own constructs.
Natural disasters, floods, fires, landslides have affected many of our lives. Bringing us close to such a disaster is an essay by Salma A Shafi at ground level in Noakhali. More than 4.5 million were affected and 71 died in this disaster. Another 23 died in the same spate of floods in Tripura with 65,000 affected. We are looking at a single region here, but such disasters seem to be becoming more frequent. And yet. there had been a time when Noakhali was an idyllic vacation spot as reflected in Professor Fakrul Alam’s nostalgic essay, filled with memories of love, green outdoors and kindnesses. Such emotions reverberate in Ravi Shankar’s account of his medical adventures in the highlands of Kerala, a state that suffered a stupendous landslide last month. While Shafi shows how extreme rainfall can cause disasters, Keith Lyons writes of water, whose waves in oceanic form lap landmasses like bridges. He finds a microcosm of the whole world in a swimming pool as migrants find their way to New Zealand too. Farouk Gulsara muses on kindness and caregiving while Priyanka Panwar ponders about ordinary days. Saeed Ibrahim gives a literary twist to our musings. Tongue in cheek humour is woven into our nonfiction section by Suzanne Kamata’s notes from Japan, Devraj Singh Kalsi’s piece on premature greying and Uday Deshwal’s paean to his sunglasses!
In translations, we have Nazrul lyrics transcreated from Bengali by Professor Alam and poetry from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. We pay our respects to an eminent Balochi poet who passed on exactly a year ago, Mubarak Qazi, by carrying a translation by Fazal Baloch. Tagore’s Suprobhat (Good morning) has been rendered in English from Bengali. His descriptions of the morning are layered and amazing — with a hint of the need to reconstruct our world, very relevant even today. A powerful essay by Tagore called Raja O Praja(The King and His Subjects), has been translated by Himadri Lahiri.
Our fiction hosts two narratives that centre around childhood, one by Naramsetti Umamaheswararao and another by G Venkatesh, though with very different approaches. Mahila Iqbal relates a poignant tale about aging, mental health and neglect, the very antithesis of Gulsara’s musing. Paul Mirabile has given a strange story about a ‘useless idler’.
A short story collection has been reviewed by Rakhi Dalal, Swadesh Deepak’s A Bouquet of Dead Flowers, translated from Hindi by Jerry Pinto, Pratik Kanjilal, Nirupama Dutt, Sukant Deepak. Somdatta Mandal has written about a book by a Kashmiri immigrant which is part based on lived experiences and part fictive, Karan Mujoo’s This Our Paradise: A Novel. Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Ayurveda, Nation and Society: United Provinces, c. 1890–1950by Saurav Kumar Rai, a book which shows how healthcare was even a hundred years ago, politicised. Meenakshi Malhotra has reviewed Anuradha Marwah’s novel, Aunties of Vasant Kunj, of which we also have an excerpt. The other excerpt is from Mineke Schipper’s Widows: A Global History. Ratnottama Sengupta converses with Reba Som, author of Hop, Skip and Jump; Peregrinations of a Diplomat’s Wife.
We have more content that adds to the vibrancy of the issue. Do pause by this issue and take a look. This issue would not have been possible without all your writings. Thank you for that. Huge thanks to our readers and our team, without whose support we could not have come this far. I would especially like to thank Sohana Manzoor for her continued supply of her fabulous and distinctive artwork and Gulsara for his fabulous photographs.
Let us look forward to a festive season which awakens each autumn and stretches to winter. May we in this season find love, compassion and kindness in our hearts towards our whole human family.
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Kazi Nazrul Islam (24th May 1899-29th August 1976)
Why fear destruction? It’s the gateway to creation! The new will arise and rip through the unlovely. Hair disheveled and dressed carelessly Destruction makes its way gleefully. Confident it can destroy and then build again! Ring bells of victory! Ring bells of victory!
-- Prolloyullash (The Frenzy of Destruction) by Nazrul; translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
As the world swerves in disarray, Kazi Nazrul Islam, who died the same month as Tagore, leaves behind a treasury of prose and poetry which, if we imbibe into our blood and bones, could perhaps heal dysfunctional constructs made by humans. Given the current situation, one cannot but help recall Nazrul’s lines from his poem, Prolloyullash (The Frenzy of Destruction), hoping for better times. Known as the rebel poet of Bengal, in his poem, Bidrohi (Rebel), he becomes the force that creates the change. His powerful writing and idealism continues to inspire over the decades.
Tagore saw brilliance in him and even wrote a poem for him that Radha Chakravarty has shared in her essay as a tribute on his 48th death anniversary. We also revisit his own inspiring words with translations of his poetry, lyrics and fiction by Professor Alam and Sohana Manzoor, along with the tribute by Chakravarty.
Ranu Bhattacharyya takes us back to Dhaka of the 1930s… and a world where the two Bengals interacted as one with her migration story. Click here to read.
A Pop of Happiness by Jeanie Douglas. From Public Domain
Happiness is a many splendored word. For some it is the first ray of sunshine; for another, it could be a clean bill of health; and yet for another, it would be being with one’s loved ones… there is no clear-cut answer to what makes everyone happy. In Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (JK Rowling, 2005), a sunshine yellow elixir induces euphoria with the side effects of excessive singing and nose tweaking. This is of course fantasy but translate it to the real world and you will find that happiness does induce a lightness of being, a luminosity within us that makes it easier to tackle harder situations. Playing around with Rowling’s belief systems, even without the potion, an anticipation of happiness or just plain optimism does generate a sense of hope for better times. Harry tackles his fears and dangers with goodwill, friends and innate optimism. When times are dark with raging wars or climate events that wreck our existence, can one look for a torch to light a sense of hope with the flame of inborn resilience borne of an inner calm, peace or happiness — call it what you will…?
It is hard to gauge the extreme circumstances with which many of us are faced in our current realities, especially when the events spin out of control. In this issue, along with the darker hues that ravage our lives, we have sprinklings of laughter to try to lighten our spirits. In the same vein, externalising our emotions to the point of absurdity that brings a smile to our lips is Rhys Hughes’ The Sunset Suite, a book that survives on tall tales generated by mugs of coffee. In one of the narratives, there is a man who is thrown into a bubbling hot spring, but he survives singing happily because his attacker has also thrown in packs of tea leaves. This man loves tea so much that he does not scald, drown or die but keeps swimming merrily singing a song. While Hughes’ stories are dark, like our times, there is an innate cheer that rings through the whole book… Dare we call it happiness or resilience? Hughes reveals much as he converses about this book, squonks and stranger facts that stretch beyond realism to a fantastical world that has full bearing on our very existence.
A powerful essay by Binu Mathew on the climate disaster at Wayanad, a place that earlier had been written of as an idyllic getaway, tells us how the land in that region has become more prone to landslides. The one on July 30th this year washed away a whole village! Farouk Gulsara has given a narrative about his cycling adventure through the state of Kashmir with his Malaysian friends and finding support in the hearts of locals, people who would be the first to be hit by any disaster even if they have had no hand in creating the catastrophes that could wreck their lives, the flora and the fauna around them. In the wake of such destructions or in anticipation of such calamities, many migrate to other areas — like Ranu Bhattacharya’s ancestors did a bit before the 1947 Partition violence set in. A younger migrant, Chinmayi Goyal, muses under peaceful circumstances as she explores her own need to adapt to her surroundings. G Venkatesh from Sweden writes of his happy encounter with local children in the playground. And Snigdha Agrawal has written of partaking lunch with a bovine companion – it can be intimidating having a cow munching at the next table, I guess! Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a tongue-in-cheek musing on how he might find footing as a godman. Suzanne Kamata has given a lovely summery piece on parasols, which never went out of fashion in Japan!
Radha Chakravarty, known for her fabulous translations, has written about the writer she translated recently, Nazrul. Her essay includes a poem by Tagore for Nazrul. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated two of Nazrul’s songs of parting and Sohana Manzoor has rendered his stunning story Shapuray (Snake Charmer) into English. Fazal Baloch has brought to us poetry in English from the Sulaimani dialect of Balochi by Allah Bashk Buzdar, and a Korean poem has been self-translated by the poet, Ihlwha Choi. The translations wind up with a poem by Tagore, Olosh Shomoy Dhara Beye (Time Flows at an Indolent Pace), showcasing how the common man’s daily life is more rooted in permanence than evanescent regimes and empires.
Fiction brings us into the realm of the common man and uncommon situations, or funny ones. A tongue-in-cheek story set in the Midwest by Joseph Pfister makes us laugh. Farhanaz Rabbani has given us a beautiful narrative about a girl’s awakening. Paul Mirabile delves into the past using the epistolary technique highlighting darker vignettes from Christopher Columbus’s life. We have book excerpts from Maaria Sayed’s From Pashas to Pokemonand Nazes Afroz’s translation of Syed Mujtaba Ali’sShabnamwith both the extracts and Rabbani’s narratives reflecting the spunk of women, albeit in different timescapes…
When migrations are out of choice, with multiple options to explore, they take on happier hues. But when it is out of a compulsion created by manmade disasters — both wars and climate change are that — will the affected people remain unscarred, or like Potter, bear the scar only on their forehead and, with Adlerian calm, find happiness and carpe diem?
Do pause by our current issue which has more content than mentioned here as some of it falls outside the ambit of our discussion. This issue would not have been possible without an all-out effort by each of you… even readers. I would like to thank each and every contributor and our loyal readers. The wonderful team at Borderless deserve much appreciation and gratitude, especially Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. I invite you all to savour this August issue with a drizzle of not monsoon or April showers but laughter.
May we all find our paths towards building a resilient world with a bright future.
Far away from the densely populated civilised world, the nomadic tribes of snake charmers make their temporary homes sometimes right beneath the deep blue mountains, sometimes among deserted and impassable forests, and sometimes by the foamy mountain brooks or in vast stretches of barren land.
He was the headman of one such band of snake charmers. His name was Jahar. He was a god among his people. His men were terrified of him, and yet they also worshipped him. Only one man in his tribe was jealous of Jahar’s hold over his people and scorned him in secret. Yet, he did not dare to question his authority in public. This man was called Bishun. He also had a few disciples. His ardent wish was the demise of Jahar. He plotted to destroy the man and become the leader of the clan himself.
Jahar had gone to the foot of the hill to look for poisonous snakes. On his snake charmer’s flute, he played an enchanting tune that would arouse one’s entire being. The tune attracted a dangerously poisonous black cobra which came out of the woods with a swaying hood. Jahar’s eyes burned with excitement. Suddenly, he threw away his flute and placed his palms in front of the raised hood of the snake. One snap and Jahar’s body turned blue because of the venom. His clansmen were stupefied with fear and stood surrounding him. Jahar was unperturbed. He began to chant some spells in a composed manner and soon he was cured of the venom. The astounded crowd cheered their hero. Only Bishun moved away with a darkened countenance.
This is how Jahar had taken on snakebites ninety-nine times and also cured himself. Now he was preparing himself for the hundredth time. If he succeeded in taking out the venom for this last time, he would be completing a difficult penance. Being successful in serpent-cult was the ultimate aim in Jahar’s life. To complete this, he had been practicing celibacy with utmost sincerity.
While Jahar’s disciples and followers awaited the great day ardently, one night something unprecedented happened. Did he ever pause to think that anything like that could happen?
Jahar had roamed around the world like a gypsy. Distancing himself from women he came to think that women were only hindrances to attain his target. He even started to be disdainful towards women in general.
Then one day, he saw a plantain raft carrying the corpse of a beautiful girl. According to tradition, people bitten by snake were not buried, but were placed on such rafts and set afloat in rivers. Jahar could only do what he was taught to do as a snake charmer—to revive the girl.
Now he was in deep trouble. The young woman had forgotten her past because of the strong snake poison. She could recall nothing about her family or friends. She just kept on staring at him piteously. He could not just leave her behind. His once tremendous hatred turned into pity and compassion. He provided a home for her. What could one call this except irony of fate? But his long harboured disdain for women made him dress the girl as a boy. He made her drink a strong potion that would control her womanly nature.
Jahar named her Chandan (a boy’s name) and joined a different tribe of snake charmers. The old leader of the new tribe was so charmed by Jahar that before his death he named Jahar his successor. So, Jahar became the undisputed leader of the half-civilised nomadic tribe.
None of this new tribe, however, knew that Chandan was not a boy. Jhumro, a favourite disciple of Jahar, was her only good friend. Jhumro cared a lot for Chandan.
At this time, the celibate Jahar, who had passed the test of ninety-nine snakebites successfully, suddenly realised that he was in danger of falling from his highest point of honour.
That night when he was preparing to go to sleep, Chandan’s unparalleled beauty affected him like an arrow and turned him mad for a moment. It is with utmost self-control that he was able to restrain himself. He ran to the idol of the goddess Mansa and sat at her feet repenting through the night for his momentary delusion. He prayed and cried as atonement.
But the desire that was aroused, could not be extinguished so easily. Then on that very day, it was heard that the king’s men of the country had started tormenting the snake charmers because they blamed the nomadic tribe for the increasing number of abductions of children lately.
Jahar immediately gathered his band and traveled a long way and camped in a wild forest frequented by ferocious animals. They ignited fire to keep the wild beasts away and started to make merry. Jahar, Jhumro, Chandan, Bishun, Bishun’s son, Tetule, the magician with blue glasses, the fortune-teller, the old bell-keeper—all were enjoying the amusements played in the moonlight-drenched night.
A fight between Jhumro and Tetule started over a trivial matter. In the beginning, they just yelled at each other, but gradually it developed into fist-fighting. Chandan stood apart, however, at one point, unable to bear Jhumro’s predicament, she jumped between the two men. In the ensuing scuffle, she lost her breastplate, and the people suddenly realized that Chandan was a beautiful woman in disguise.
At this point, another beauty rushed into the scene. Her name was Mowtushi. She took off the scarf she was wearing and covered Chandan with it. All this while, she was secretly in love with Chandan with the abandonment of a youthful love. Realising that Chandan was a woman just like her, all her pent-up love turned into a sisterly affection. Meanwhile, Jahar appeared and dragged the embarrassed Chandan to his tent. The members of his tribe were astonished to say the least. Nobody thought in their wildest dream that an austere celibate like Jahar could keep such a disguised beauty with him.
The only person who did not seem surprised was the old bell-keeper. He was a strange man who drank heavily and told fortunes through clay marks on the ground. Yet he never revealed the complete truth. He shook his head and broke into a shrill laughter.
In the meantime, Jahar had cornered Chandan in his tent and was trying to draw her in his embrace saying, “Chandan, Chandan, you are only mine.” His self- restraint of all these years was taken over by an overwhelming desire that made him blind.
Chandan tried in vain to move away from him. Finally, she reminded him of his vow and the goal of his life—to be successful in his serpent-cult. The words hit their mark and Jahar came to his senses. What was he doing? His gaze fell upon the effigy of the goddess Mansa, and he rushed out of the tent in pain. He would have to do it that very night. He would have to take the hundredth bite from a venomous snake and complete his vow.
Finally, he found such a snake and was about to start the ritual when Bishun came with the news that Jhumro had run off with Chandan. Mowtushi had helped them in this venture.
Jahar could not complete his vow. All the preparations he had taken for so many years were absolved by this one piece of news. His rage made him mad, and he rushed off to find the guilty pair. Nobody, however, could tell him about their whereabouts; he felt his entire body was set on fire.
Returning to his tent, Jahar opened the basket of the venomous black cobra and went to the temple of Shiva. He used sacred texts as enchantment and set the snake after Jhumro.
By that time, the deliriously happy Chandan and Jhumro had journeyed out towards the unknown. They dreamt of a nest of happiness in some far-off land where they would live happily ever after.
The venomous black cobra appeared right at that moment, bit Jhumro, and disappeared. Immediately, the deadly poison caused Jhumro to fall on the ground.
Chandan stood there thunderstruck. She felt helpless and hopeless. The only way to save Jhumro was to approach Jahar. But how could she possibly do that? Blinded by tears Chandan traced back her steps to the tent she had deserted earlier.
Jahar sat like a lifeless statue. A tearful Chandan approached him and said in a trembling voice that she loved Jhumro more than her life. If Jahar could save him, she was even willing to sell her soul to him. Jahar did not utter one word, but followed Chandan in a trance till they came to Jhumro’s body that had turned blue.
Jhumro was saved. Chandan happiness knew no bound. But she did not have time. She had sold herself to Jahar to save Jhumro. She belonged to Jahar now and hence she said to Jhumro in a shaky voice, “Go away, Jhumro. Go far away. I am not yours anymore.”
How could she chase away the man she loved most? Tears fell from eyes ceaselessly, her heart hurt too.
Jahar was watching the heartbreaking scene standing not far away. He held the black cobra that had returned to retrieve poison from Jhumro’’s body. He looked at Chandan once and then again at Jhumro. He seemed immersed in deep thought.
Then he took the snakebite on his own chest willingly. Jhumro cried, “What did the Master do?” Both Jhumro and Chandan ran toward Jahar who replied angrily, “Take her away from here, Jhumro. I will consume the poison now. This is my last snake, and I must cast the spell, but it won’t work before womenfolk. Take her away from this forest, country even. Go far away to some other land.”
Chandan and Jhumro left accordingly. The master saw that his disciples were gone, but he did not chant his spell. He smiled to himself and muttered, “Those spells are not mine to utter. I will call on Shiva, Shiva, Shambhu, Shambhu…”
The poison of the black cobra was turning his body blue and the light of his eyes were dimmed. Yet, his face caught on the ray of some other world that illuminated his visage with joy. It seemed that his suffering soul had finally found peace.
He had been successful in this final battle of the serpent-cult.
From the Public Domian
[1] Naga-panchami is a day that might fall either in the Bengali month of Aashar or Shravan when serpents are worshipped.
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Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was born in united Bengal, long before the Partition. Known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Sohana Manzoor is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB, a short story writer, a translator, an essayist and an artist.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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
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