Despite all odds, I will not sell Myself. I want to stand with everyone As a part of a queue. In the morning light, Shame should not sully me. May I be enlightened by the Permeating radiance. I will not sell, not sell Myself.
I will have a clear accord With the world. I will breathe in the breeze That flits in the open skies. My body will be purified by the Affectionate touch of the Earth. The trees will sway with the Delight I experience. I will be content with this Accord with the world.
I will care for others and feel happy In my heart. Let no discordant notes sound from the tunes of my bina*. Whatever I experience, give me the Strength to accept, let my Heart be filled with the joyousness Of the skies. May the wellbeing of others fill my heart With contentment.
Just as George Orwell (1903-1950) envisioned a bleak future in his novel, 1984, Tagore left his optimistic vision filled with hope for posterity – a vision which has also been borne true. Written in the Phalgun or spring of the Bengali year 1302 (1895), ‘1400Saal‘ or ‘The Year 1993’, was first published in Tagore’s collection called Chitra (Picture) in 1895.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
1400 SAAL or The YEAR 1993
A hundred years from today… Who are you reading my poetry With eager curiosity? A hundred years from today. I won’t be able to give you Even a small fragment of the Exuberance of this spring morning — A blossom or a birdsong, The passions that Drench us. A hundred years from today…
Still, once, open your Southern door, Sit by the window, Gaze at the distant horizon, And imagine — One day, a hundred years before, A lively, euphoric cluster wafted from Heaven into the heart of the universe, Like a new-born Phalgun day — Free of ties, ecstatic and restless, Adrift with the scent of flowers. The Southern breeze Rushed to colour the Earth With a youthful glow, One hundred years before you. On that day, the soul of a poet soared With a song-soaked heart — To find words which bloom With an abundance of love, One hundred years ago.
A hundred years from today Which new poet will strum Lyrics in your hearths? I felicitate the poet with delight In your joyous spring — But let my vernal songs, Find echoes in your hearts for a while, Like the buzz of bees, Like the murmur of leaves... One hundred years from today...
About 32 years down the line, Nazrul responded to this poem of Tagore’s with a rejoinder, which is from the standpoint of a young poet and depicts his adulation for the older one and his poetry. Nazrul’s poem in Bengali is also called 1400 Saal and has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. The translation can be read by clicking here.
This poem was also discussed and translations read in 1993, the Gregorian calendar year for 1400 in the Bengali calendar, in a function jointly organised by the Nehru Centre of the High Commission of India in London and the Tagore Centre of London and held in the premises of the Nehru Centre. The translations included a rendition of Tagore’s own rather brief and ‘loosely translated’ version, according to the keynote speaker and scholar, Brian A. Hatcher, published in the poet’s collection called, The Gardener and reprinted in The Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore (New York, 1966).
Tagore’s own vision of his songs being remembered after one hundred years has been not only borne true but also his hope that poets and poetry will continue to impact our lives, stirring hope and love in our hearts. The role of a poet as seen by Tagore, perhaps, is what Uma Dasgupta’s research on Sriniketan reinforces — as that of a visionary and not merely a recorder of events.
Tagore reciting his ‘1400 Saal‘ in Bangla
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor and research by Sohana and Mitali on behalf of Borderless Journal
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Tomar Kachhe Shanti Chabo Na(I Will Not Pray to You for Peace) by Tagore is a part Gitimalaya (A Garland of Songs) published in 1914.
I Will Not Pray to You for Peace
I will not pray to you for peace.
Let me stay with my feeling of grief.
Amidst this wave of conflict,
In the haze of the games you script,
I will swing towards my own dream.
Let the breeze blow off the lamplight,
Let storms thunder in the sky —
Every moment in my heart,
I can sense your footfall.
In darkness, I strive to find my stream.
You can listen to the song performed in Bengali by well-known artiste Swagatalakshmi here.
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor on behalf of Borderless Journal
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We have Tied Bunches of Kaash
We have tied bunches of kaash* and strung garlands of shefali.
We have decorated the wicker tray with new-sprung paddy.
Welcome autumnal goddess on your chariot of white clouds!
Ride on angelic azure paths,
Travel through clean bright glittering forested mountains.
Come wearing a crown of white lotus, sparkling with dewdrops.
On the banks of Ganges, in a solitary bower
Carpeted with the flowers of fallen malati,
Swans flap their wings as your entourage.
When you pluck the strings of your golden bina*,
Soft sweet notes,
Usher laughter amidst transient tears.
Like the magical parasmani* emanating light,
Stroke the flames of compassion in our hearts—
Brighten our thoughts and replace darkness with light.
*kaash: Wild grass flowers
*Bina: Musical instrument
*Parasmani: A magical touchstone
A Bengali rendition of the song performed by a contemporary artiste, Rezwana Choudhury BannyaShefali flowersMalati blooms(Rangoon creeper)Courtesy: Creative Commons
In 1913, Tagore received a Nobel Prize for his own translation, Gitanjali: Song Offerings, published in England. Only 69 of the original 157 of the Bengali Gitanjali made it into the English translation.
An essay, ‘Publication of Tagore’s song offerings, the Gitanjali : A Study’ by Partha Pratim Ray, a librarian in Vishwa Bharati, contends: “Rabindranath Tagore himself took the task of the translation of Gitanjali (Song Offerings) when he sailed for England on 27 May 1912. There he handed over the poems to William Rothenstein whom he met earlier in Calcutta in the year 1911. Moved by the poems, Rothenstein in turn gave the poems to W.B. Yeats to read. The literary and artistic circle of Yeats decided to publish the poems after Yeats made a selection of them and wished to write an introduction to it. That is how Gitanjali was first published by India Society of London on November 1912.”
The article further elucidates: “The next edition of Gitanjali was published in the next year (March 1913) by Macmillan and Company, London. The number of poems in Bengali and English Gitanjali are not the same. In Bengali there were 157 poems, but in English it was 103. The poems were first published in different Kavyagrantha. At the end of the Indian edition of India Society or Macmillan there was a statement: ‘These translations are of poems contained in three books- Naivedya, Kheya and Gitanjali…’”
Yeats wrote the introduction for Song Offerings. He wrote, “these prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for years” and “Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity.”
Gitanjali, 1910 editionGitanjali: Song Offerings by Tagore in English with a forward by W.B. Yeats
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input from Sohana Manzoor on behalf of Borderless Journal
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Autumn expresses itself in Bengal as Sharat (early autumn) and Hemonto (late autumn). The Tagore pantheon of literature has much of seasons in it. This poem, Sharat, was part of his poetry collection Kalpana, published in 1900.
Sharat by Sohana Manzoor.
Autumn
I see your beauteous form
In this autumnal dawn,
Oh! Mother Bengal, your green figure
Is resplendent with radiance.
The river cannot be contained in its bed.
The fields are overflowing with paddy.
Robins chant and koels sing
In your graceful gardens.
Amidst this dawn of sharat,
O Mother, you stand poised.
Mother, the breeze chimes
An auspicious onset —
Grains of new rice crops
Fill homes with festivities.
You have no respite anymore.
Sheafs of paddy move in bulk
Along rural paths wafting
Their perfume in the draft.
Mother, the zephyr sends you
An intimation of the seasonal onset.
The skies paint clouds
to welcome the season.
Dewdrops have sprinkled
Coolness on the green earth.
The flute seems to play a melody that
Wafts through the land, water and air.
Boats come crowding to your doorway
From all directions.
The sky is clear and blue.
The earth, soft and cool.
The breeze starts to chill
Refreshing tired bodies.
Every hut is filled with new hope,
With the advent of new life.
All over, Mother, abound events
Organised by joyous faces.
People grab fistfuls of happiness
From your overflowing granaries.
The breeze rushes with anchals*
Full of new life.
Come, come, wherever you are,
Come running all of you —
Our Mother has opened her granary.
Our grains are overflowing.
Come by boat from the other bank,
Mothers and daughters come.
Who cries in hunger under maternal care?
Come running all of you.
Our mother has opened her granary.
Our grains are overflowing.
Our Mother wears a garland of shefali.
Floral perfumes scent the earth.
White, creamy cirrus clouds
Seem to stud her veil.
Crowned with a golden halo,
Sweet, glorious, green and resplendent,
With feet dressed in blooms,
My mother stands poised.
The whole world smiles at her illuminated
With dewdrops, flowers and crops.
*Anchal is the loose end of a sari
Proshno or Question was written by Tagore somewhere between December 1931 and January 1932 and later published in 1932 in a collection called Parishesh[1]. The poem with its poignant overtones continues relevant to this date.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
Almighty, over eons, you sent emissaries
To this ruthless world,
They say: “Forgive everyone”, say, “Love only Love —
From deep within, toxicity purge.”
In these cataclysmic times, I turn them away with a shamed bow
For they now remain only as ideals to be revered, remembered.
I have seen the helpless persecuted by
Violence in the shadows of deceitful night.
I have seen unprotesting truth victimised,
Justice weep secretly in plight.
I have seen passionate young men driven wild,
Beat their heads on rocks and tortured, die.
Today, I am voiceless. My flute is stilled.
In the moonless night, who have filled
My universe with nightmares?
That is why cleanse with tears —
Those that poison the air, extinguish the light. O God,
Have you forgiven them? Have you given them your love?
One of the interesting things to note here is the reference to the flute player. Is he the same one who was evoked in his poem Ebar Phirao More (Take me back) written in 1894? That poem[2] starts with:
While the world moves busily
You play the flute, like a truant boy,
Leaning under a shady tree in a field with
The fragrance of the forest floating on
A tired breeze. O, arise — there is a fire!
Is it the same flute player whose flute has been stilled?
Translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti, who adds: ‘The story, Musulmani’r Galpa[1], was published posthumously in July 1995 in the journal Ritupatra. In all probability, it was dictated from the writer’s sick bed just before his death in 1941.’
Veiled Woman, Ink on paper, by Tagore, National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi. Courtesy: Creative Commons
This is a story of long ago. Of a period in our history when the seeds of evil governance had sprouted thorns all over the land. When fear and anxiety had trapped the soul of the common man in the skeins of such a stifling web that all other emotions had dwindled and died. When imagined assault from demonic forces gripped all minds. When the simple act of living turned into a nightmare and trust could be reposed in neither God nor Man. When the line between good and evil had blurred and tears were the only reality…
In an age such as this, the presence of a girl was deemed a curse in a middle-class family. More so if she was beautiful. Porarmukhi![2]May your fair face burn to ashes! Curses such as these, bitter and stinging, were heaped on the poor girl. “If we could only rid ourselves of this accursed creature,” the women of the family wailed, “we might sleep peacefully in our beds.”
Such a situation, exactly, had arisen in the household of Bangshibadan, the talukdar[3] of Teen Mahala. His niece Kamala was beautiful. Worse, she was an orphan. Had she died along with her parents the family could have breathed easy. But she had lived on as a burden in her uncle’s household and was made aware of it every passing minute. “Just look at my luck sister,” her aunt was often heard complaining to the neighbouring women, “The parents dumped this monumental responsibility on my shoulders and left for the other world. Evil glances are cast at her from all sides. Anything may happen at any time. I have young children of my own and can’t sleep from fear of what will become of them. I live in constant dread…”
Bangshibadan didn’t share his wife’s annoyance at Kamala’s presence in his house. He loved her dearly and had brought her up with great solicitude. He kept her hidden from prying eyes, personally supervising her welfare and taking care of her needs. Life went on somehow but when a marriage proposal came for her, she couldn’t be kept hidden anymore. “I will wed her only into a family which has the means to protect her,” Bangshibadan was in the habit of saying, and now it seemed as though he had found what he was looking for.
The boy was the second son of Paramananda Seth, the zamindar of Mochakhali. People feared Paramananda for his money power but even more for the posse of hefty Bhojpuri lathiyals[4] he kept to guard his house and possessions. “There isn’t one son of a gun in the whole district,” the prospective bridegroom boasted to Bangshibadan, “who’ll have the gall to lay a hand on her.” He was very proud of his father’s wealth and had devised many ways of spending it. Falcon flying, gambling, bird fights…he was a master of all these pursuits. He was, as well, extremely susceptible to feminine charm. Though he had a wife already he was looking for another, younger, one and when reports of Kamala’s beauty reached his ears, he decided that she was the bride for him.
Kamala was appalled when she heard what her uncle had in mind for her. “Where are you sending me Kakamoni?” She burst into tears, “You may as well set me adrift in the river.”
“If I had the power to, protect you,” Bangshibadan replied sadly, “I would have kept you clasped to my breast for all time to come. You know that Ma…”
The arrival of the wedding party at the bride’s house was accompanied by a lot of fanfare. The sound of drums and pipes rent the air. Bangshibadan was alarmed. “Babaji,” he folded his hands before the groom, “It would be better if the noise was toned down a bit. It is unwise to attract too much attention.” But the groom was unfazed. “Let’s see which son of a gun…” he repeated his old line, his chest puffed out with importance.
“I am a poor man with little clout,” Bangshibadan sighed and said, “I can’t vouch for the safety of everyone under my roof for long. I take responsibility only until the completion of the rituals. After that I will leave it to you to conduct your bride safely to your father’s house.”
“No need to worry. No need to worry,” The bridegroom twirled his moustache arrogantly and, watching him, the lathiyals were emboldened to twirl theirs as well.
It was nearing midnight when the wedding party set off with the bride for Mochakhali. A couple of hours later, while crossing the dreaded tract of land called Taaltarhir Maath, they were waylaid by the notorious dacoit Madhu Mallar and his gang. Bearing down on them with flaring torches and weapons far deadlier than lathis, the dacoits soon made short shrift of the lathiyals. The wedding guests fled in all directions abandoning the palanquin in which Kamala sat trembling with fear. Then, just as she was about to step out and try to hide in the bushes, she heard a man’s voice booming out of the dark. “Halt! Go back from where you came my sons. I am Habir Khan.”
Madhu Mallar and his gang stepped back instantly. They had great reverence for Habir Khan. In their eyes he was no less than a paigambar …a messenger from God.
“We can’t disobey you Khan Saheb,” Madhu Mallar said glumly, “but you’ve certainly ruined my business for the night.”
Habir Khan did not oblige him with a reply. Helping Kamala out of the palanquin he told her, “You are in great danger, child. You must leave this place at once. Come with me. I will take you to my house. It is only a short distance from here.” Seeing her shrink at his suggestion, he added, “I understand your reluctance. You are a Hindu, a brahmin’s daughter. It is natural for you to hesitate before entering a Muslim household. But let me tell you something. A truly devout Muslim respects a truly devout Hindu and won’t dream of harming him in any way. Trust me my child. You and your religion will be totally safe in my house.”
Habir Khan and Kamala walked through the woods till they came to a huge mansion. Leading her into one of its eight wings, he said, “This will be your home from now on. You will live here exactly as you did in your uncle’s house.” Kamala looked around. There was a yard with a temple at one end and a tulsi manch[5]at the other. The place looked no different from an upper-class Hindu abode. Everything she would need for her day-to-day living could be found here.
An elderly Brahmin came forward to greet her. “Come Ma,” he said in a kind voice. “Have no fear. This place is sacred. Your religion will be fully protected.”
Kamala burst into tears. “Please inform my uncle about what has happened. Tell him to come and take me home.”
“You are making a mistake child,” Habir Khan’s voice came to her ears, “After tonight’s incident you won’t find acceptance in any Hindu household. You’ll be thrown out into the streets.” He saw the expression on Kamala’s face and sighed. “Very well. I will take you there and let you see for yourself.”
Habir Khan led her to the door of Bangshibadan’s house and bade her go in. “I’ll be waiting here in case you need me,” he said.
Kamala flung herself on her uncle’s chest and wound her arms around his neck. “I have come back to you Kakamoni. Don’t send me away,” she begged. Bangshibadan’s eyes filled with tears. But before he could utter a word his wife burst into the room. “Throw her out,” she shrieked, “Throw the blighted creature out at once. She’s lived in a Muslim’s house. She’ll pollute us all.” Then turning to the weeping, shivering girl, she cursed and upbraided her in shrill penetrating tones. “Accursed one! How dare you show your face here after what you’ve done? Don’t you have any shame?”
Bangshibadan disengaged Kamala’s arms gently from his neck. “Forgive me Ma,” he said sadly. “I cannot take you back. I’m a Hindu. I’ll lose caste if I accept you. I’ll be ostracised by everyone in the village.” Kamala stood for a while, head bowed, then slowly made her way out of the house to where Habir Khan was waiting. She went away with him. The door of her old world was now shut against her for all time to come.
Kamala settled down in the rooms allotted to her. “All this is yours,” Habir Khan said to her waving his hands across the yard. “Not a single member of my family will set foot in this wing. Feel free to live in it the way you wish.”
This part of the mansion had a history. It even had a name. It was called Rajputani’r Mahal[6]. Many years ago, a nawab of Bengal had brought a Rajputani princess and installed her here. He had kept her with great dignity and made sure that she had no difficulty in practicing her religion. She was a very devout woman and an ardent worshipper of Shiva, so a temple was built for her in her own premises. She loved going on pilgrimages and arrangements for them were made with meticulous care. Over the years she became a role model for other Hindu begums and many of them found sanctuary under her sheltering wings.
Habir Khan was the Rajputani’s son. Though he followed his father’s religion he worshipped his mother like a goddess. He sought her guidance in every matter and it was from her that he had learned to respect the opposite sex. She had been dead these many years, but Habir Khan never forgot the vow he had made to her. To provide shelter to widowed and abandoned Hindu women. Scorned, persecuted, hated and stigmatised for no fault of theirs, many were forced to sell their bodies for a roof above their heads and a handful of rice in their stomachs.
As the days passed a realisation started dawning on Kamala. The freedom and comfort she enjoyed in this Muslim household was of a quality she hadn’t even dreamed of while living with her uncle. He cared for her but was powerless to protect her from ceaseless taunts, curses and abuses. She had grown so used to them… she had begun to think of herself as a blighted creature, a disgrace on the family, fit only to be thrown out on the streets. Here, in her new home, she was showered with luxuries. Every need of hers was taken care of by Hindu serving women. She was overwhelmed with kindness and love.
A few years went by. Slowly a change came over her. The winds of youth started to blow and her mind and body quivered with an unknown emotion. She fell in love with one of Habir Khan’s sons.
One day she opened her heart to her protector. Habir Khan’s face paled at her confession, but she went on calmly, “My love is my religion Baap jaan[7]. I have no other. I have worshipped many gods and goddesses in the past. I have poured out my heart and soul to them in prayer. I have begged for deliverance. Yet not one deity deigned to cast a glance at me or even send a sign that my prayer had been heard. What hope is left to me from a religion that leaves a poor, trusting, suffering girl rotting in a pit of abuse and persecution? I have known what it is to live, truly live, only after I stepped across your threshold. From you I’ve learned that even the lowest of human beings deserve love and protection.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away and continued, “From all the hardships I faced in life I have learned one lesson. The Lover and Protector is the true deity. He is neither Hindu nor Muslim. Baap jaan, I have given my heart to your second son, Karim, and my worship is now tied with his. In embracing Islam, I need not give up the faith I was born to. I can follow both.”
The marriage took place. Kamala’s name was changed to Meherjaan and she became a valued and integral part of Habir Khan’s family.
Now the time came for Bangshibadan to wed his own daughter. And history repeated itself as it is wont to do. While crossing Taaltarhir Maath the groom’s party was waylaid by Madhu Mallar’s men. They had been thwarted once. They were out for revenge. But as soon as they launched their attack a voice came out of the dark. “Khabardar[8]! Step back at once.”
“Ore baba re[9]!” the dacoits ran helter skelter, “It’s Habir Khan!” Abandoning the bride to her fate the wedding guests did the same. Suddenly, a figure appeared on the scene holding a banner aloft on a spear. It was Habir Khan’s banner with his emblem, a half- moon, painted on it. But the bearer was a woman. Approaching the palanquin, she helped the trembling girl out of it. “Don’t be afraid Sarala,” she said, “Your elder sister is here to save you. From today you’ll be under the protection of the One who loves and provides sanctuary to all human beings irrespective of caste, creed or religion.”
Turning to her uncle she said, “Pronam kaka[10]. Don’t be alarmed. I shall not pollute you by touching your feet. Take Sarala home. No one has dared to lay a finger on her. She’s as pure today as on the day she was born. And tell kaki[11]that I never thought I could pay back the debt I owe her. The debt of food and shelter so ungraciously doled out while I was her dependent. I am doing so now.” Putting a red silk sari and an asan[12] covered with rich brocade into her uncle’s hands, she added, “I brought these gifts for Sarala. Take them. And remember, if she’s ever in trouble her Muslim sister will be there for her. To give her all the care and protection she requires.”
Aruna Chakravartihas been the principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator with fourteen published books on record. Her novels Jorasanko, Daughters of Jorasanko, The Inheritors, Suralakshmi Villa have sold widely and received rave reviews. The Mendicant Prince and her short story collection, Through a Looking Glass, are her most recent books. She has also received awards such as the Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar for her translations.
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Published in 1906,Megh (cloud)can be found in Tagore’s collection called Kheya (boat).
Adrift, without a beginning and an end,
With an awning of black and white blend,
The sky is dressed whimsically.
We are all merely mounds,
Stacks of wafting clouds.
I think only of him and his whimsicality.
We have no boundaries nor home,
We come and we are gone.
Suns, planets, stars shine bright.
Though they are garlands of lights,
They remain tied to eternal tasks.
With permanence, they grace
Words illuminating a dark page.
We are merely like drafts—
With myriad of colours filled,
Re-written and erased at will.
Sometimes, when we are free,
We call out in a spree,
Smiling without a reason.
Does our caprice create an illusion?
The rain still falls without evasion.
The lightning is not a diversion.
Only, my friend, we do not stay.
With the breeze, we drift in or float away.
(This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial support from Sohana Manzoor)
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Pran or Life by Tagore was published in 1886 as part of his collection called, Kori O Komal (Sharp and Flat). The book featured 83 poems by him.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
LIFE
I do not desire death in this resplendent universe.
I want to live amidst the ocean of humanity.
In this radiant sunny garden of floral swirls,
I yearn for acceptance from hearts filled with vitality.
Life on Earth ebbs and flows in transient waves.
Partings and meetings are filled with tears and joys.
I want to bead these emotions into melodic strains,
To create songs that will be eternal and spirits buoy.
If I cannot achieve that, then as long as I live,
Let me find shelter in your midst.
Let me, every morning and evening, give
Lyrics that bloom like flowers waiting for a tryst.
Pluck the blossoms happily, and then, without a sigh,
Throw them away, alas, if they wilt or dry.
A recitation of the original poem in Bengali by Swati
(This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial support from Sohana Manzoor)
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ProfessorFakrul Alam brings to us a discussion on and translations of Tagore songs on the season that follows the scorching heat of summer months
Art by Sohana Manzoor
A rough count of the songs collected in Gitabitan in the section titled “Prakriti” or “Nature” reveals that Rabindranath Tagore composed about sixteen songs of summer, more than 100 monsoonal ones, 33 songs of Sharat or early autumn, five of Hemonto or late autumn, and a dozen or so songs of winter. In addition, he has left us around 93 songs of spring. For many decades, I kept wondering how Rabindranath managed to end up with such a lopsided list as far as his songs of the six Bengali seasons are concerned. After all, late autumn and winter are enjoyable seasons when Bengal is blissfully heat-free and the weather quite mild and bearable; why, then, did he show such fondness for the wet monsoonal months and the rapidly warming and (at its end quite unbearably hot) springtime? But I am puzzled no longer by his preference for our Borsha, for it now seems clear to me that he had good reasons to prefer the monsoonal months over all else. In recent decades, now that I fancy I have something of what Wordsworth calls the “philosophic mind” (and in this age of global warming as well!), I can appreciate fully why the monsoonal months stimulated Rabindranath so continuously into songs.
Think of the summer months. From mid-April till the second week of June, the weather torments us all over Bangladesh with stifling heat and unbearable humidity. Who in these weeks of scorching sun, steadily frying dampness and seemingly immobile and incredibly muggy air does not yearned for an ever-increasing cloud cover leading to sudden bursts of showers and rainy conditions? Isn’t the monsoon a huge relief after the summer months, despite the flaming krishnachuras [flame of the forest] and the seemingly endless stream of summer fruits that arrive in our market then? Don’t we all look forward to the pitter patter of raindrops, even if accompanied by thunder and lightning, when hot and dry ourselves? And isn’t the fresh green look of nature after a burst of rain so very soothing?
As in his devotional and love poems, Rabindranath captures feelingly in his monsoonal song-lyrics a variety of moods. One such mood is the longing for relief from an oppressive presence. Registering the cruel heat and humidity of our late spring and summer, his songs often exult in the respite that the monsoons afford us. Hear him thus dramatise the excitement all life forms feel just before, during and after the coming of the monsoons, in the opening two stanzas of the song-lyric ‘Oi Ashe Oi Oti Bhairob Horoshe’[i] [The Clouds Arrive Amidst Joy]
There, there they come — monsoonal clouds—
Exhilarating, awesome, moisture-laden,
Fragrant, earth-soaked, dense, rejuvenated
Dark-hued, somber, glorious— ready to burst!
Their deep rumblings quiver dark-blue forests
Tense peacocks out on strolls cry out,
The whole world is thrilled, overwhelmed.
Intense, amazing—monsoon is on its way!
Indeed, song after song of Gitabitan record Rabindranath’s fascinated melodic outburst after a dramatic monsoonal outburst. Here is another example, ‘Prochondo Gorjone Ashile Eki Durdeen’, [Amidst Thunder comes a Dreaded Day].
Such a dreadful day, so full of rolling, thundering sounds
Disquieting cloud buildups, ominous endless outbursts!
Such a thick cloud cover; serpentine lightning, scarring night
Making the sky stream tears despite its totally blinded eyes!
But abandon all your fears; stir O scared and slothful ones.
Cheerfully, build up within yourself ample strength
To behold with resolute and wide open eyes His serene presence
Behold Him seating superbly on his throne –defying death, fearless!
Completely committed to the notion of a Supreme Being in his works, Rabindranath conveys his wonder at the monsoonal drama of clouds, thunder, and lightning and rain in many a song, inspired by scenes that he sees in the last analysis as embodying the power and inspirational presence of the deity.
A sizeable number of Rabindranath’s song-lyrics are in this religious vein, but not all. In other monsoonal song-lyrics Rabindranath presents to us not only the awe-inspiring/ sacramental signs of the deity embodied in such seasonal storms, but also the frightening and intimidating aspects of our rainy season. He is well aware of the deep unease the monsoonal storm’s power and intemperate outbursts can cause, and the way it can scare all things in nature and make them aquiver. The foreboding created by the approach of an overwhelming and apocalyptic force is thus apparent in the concluding lines of the song ‘Hridaye Mondrilo Domoru Guru Guru’ (A Drum Rumbles in the Heart):
The night is full of thunder and lightning;
The clouds are intense, startling.
Jasmine creepers tremble and rustle in melancholy notes
Woodlands fill with insects chirping in alarm!
In fact, Rabindranath is acutely aware of how the monsoon can disrupt lives, particularly those of people out in the open or men and women who have to travel in inclement weather despite the thunder, lightning, rain and flash floods that the monsoons invariably bring. His concern for such vulnerable people and concern at such intemperate weather comes out clearly in Jhoro Jhoro Boreshe Baridhara [The Rain Streams Incessantly]:
Rain streams down incessantly
Alas wayfarer; alas disabled, homeless ones!
The wind moans on and on.
Who is it calling out to in this immense, deserted, dismal landscape?
The night is pitch dark,
Jamuna restless; its waves agitated, endless; its shores have disappeared!
Dense dark rain clouds hover in the horizon, rumbling continuously.
Lightning darts restlessly, dazzlingly—no moon or stars in sight!
On the other hand, the monsoons are also seasonal visitations for Rabindranath that induce in him desire for romance or romantic cravings that need to be fulfilled. Note how intensely the yearning of a lover anxious to impart his feelings to his beloved in a rain-stirred mood is articulated in Emono Dine Tara Bola Jai [On Such a Day, They Say]:
On such a day she could be told
On such a dense, dark, wet day!
On such a day to her I could my mind unfold,
On such a cloudy, thunderous, showery day
On just such a sunless, dense, dismal day!
I’d tell her what no one else would know
Silence would us probably surround,
We’d face each other, each sobered by a deep wound.
Incessant rain would from the sky flow;
Surely, no one then would be around.
Societal and family life would feel unreal
The hullabaloo of life too would feel surreal
What would only matter are eyes feeding on each other
And two hearts savouring one another;
All else would merge with darkness.
If in a corner of the house on such a rainy day,
I had then a thing or two to tell her
Why would anyone have anything to say?
The wind blows with great force today;
Lightning keeps flashing away
What I’ve been storing in my mind till this day
Is something that I’d like to tell her today—
On just such a dense, dark, wet day!
Not a few of the song lyrics collected in the ‘Borsha’ [Monsoon] part of Gitabitan depict such brooding and passionate thoughts and the intense yearning for the beloved brought on by the turbulence of the monsoonal breeze. Here is another such song, Mor Bhabonere Ki Haowa [What wind is it lilting my thoughts so amazingly]:
What wind is it lilting my thoughts so amazingly?
Its caress swings, swings my mind unaccountably.
In my heart’s horizon moist dense new clouds swarm,
Stirring a shower of emotions.
I don’t see her—don’t see her at all
Only occasionally in my mind I recall
Almost indiscernible footsteps sounding
And ankle bells tinkling, oh so tunefully!
A secret dreamscape spreads
Across the wet wind-swept sky—
A new and ethereal azure shawl!
Shadowy unfurled tresses fly,
Filling me with such intense disquiet
On this far-off ketoki-perfumed wet night.
All in all, Rabindranath’s inspired lyrical responses to the monsoons remind one that he is in some ways a poet following in the footsteps of William Wordsworth. One remembers, in this context, the English romantic poet’s lines in Book I of The Prelude where he conveys his ardent and positive response to the coming of the English spring after the English winter’s life-shrinking barrenness. Wordsworth sees the English spring ushering in a “correspondent breeze” that gives rise to poetry. To make the point somewhat differently, just as the spring breeze is Wordsworth’s metaphor for the muse, Rabindranath finds in the monsoons endless inspiration for composing song-lyrics and poetry. Here is a translation of one of his most popular ones Mono Mor Meghero Shongi [ My Friend, the Cloud]:
My mind is the clouds’ companion,
Soaring to the limits of the horizon
And crossing wide open spaces to sravan’s music
Of rain falling pitter patter, pitter patter!
My mind soars on crane-like wings
To startling, streaking, lightning flashes,
And rumbling, terrifying,
Tumultuous, deafening sounds
Responding to apocalyptic summons!
The wind blows from some eastern sea
Surging, rippling waves crest endlessly
My mind is fascinated by their frantic motion
By palm-fringed, dark-tamal tree forests
And to branches fluttering frenziedly!
Space will not permit any more long extracts, but on the subject of inspiration I can’t resist including the concluding stanza of the much loved song lyric, ‘Hriday Amar Nachere’ (My Heart Dances):
Like a peacock dancing, my heart dances this day.
Showers stream down on newly sprouted branches,
Cricket songs stir forests,
The rampaging river roars over banks and floods villages,
Like a peacock dancing, my heart dances this day!
No wonder then this monsoon-stirred poet has articulated for all Bengalis so melodically the many-sides and wonders of the season as no other writer has; no other writer from our part of the world has been so mesmerised by our rainy season and so stirred into unforgettable songs and poems by it!
[i] All translations from the Bengali song-lyrics are that of Professor Fakrul Alam.
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