Tagore’s Pochishe Boishak Cholechhe (The twenty fifth of Boisakh draws to a close…), was published in a collection called Shesh Shaptak (Final Week) in 1935. Pochishe Boisakh ( coinciding with 7-9 May on the Gregorian calendar) was his birthday.
BIRTHDAY POEM
The twenty fifth of Boisakh
Draws my stream of birthdays
Closer to death.
Sitting on that wafting mat, an artisan is making a garland
With small statuettes of
Many mortal Rabindranaths.
Time travels on his chariot.
The pedestrian lifts his bowl
While walking, he gets a drink.
When he finishes, he recedes into the darkness.
His bowl is crushed to dust under the wheels.
Behind him,
Follows another with a new bowl.
He savours a fresh flavour.
Eventhough he has the same name,
He is a different person.
Once I was a child.
Within a few birthdays,
An entity was sculpted
Who no one recognised.
The people who would have known him
Are not around.
The being of that child is non-existent,
Nor does anyone remember him.
He has disappeared with his little world.
His past sorrows and joys
Find no reverberations.
The pieces of his broken toys
Cannot be seen in the dust.
He would sit and calf-like
Gaze outside, with longing.
His world was
Framed by the opening in the window.
His innocent glance
Would halt at the
Coconut trees along the fence.
His evenings were steeped in fairytales.
There was no insurmountable barrier
Between the real and unreal.
His mind would skip between
The two effortlessly.
In the gloaming of light and darkness,
The shadows wrapped around spring,
Drawing close with belonging.
Those few birthdays,
For some time,
Were like a brightly lit island.
But the past has sunk into the darkness of the ocean.
Sometimes, during low tides,
We can see that mountain peak.
We can see a shoreline of blood-red corals.
Over time,
The twenty fifth of Boishakh
Assumed
Vivid vernal hues.
Youthfulness played a melody
Of yearning on the ektara,
Questing for intangible
Invisible inspirations.
Hearing that music over time,
The celestial Lakshmi’s throne swayed
She sent over
Few of her ambassadors,
To earth to spew colours
On the palash woods,
Enticing, alluring to forgetfulness.
I have heard their voices speak softly.
I understood some. Some I didn’t.
I have seen dark eyelashes damp with wetness.
I have seen lips tremble with unspoken agony.
I have heard the tinkle of bracelets vacillate with eager surprise.
Unbeknown to me,
On the first conscious morning,
Of the twenty fifth of Boisakh,
They left behind a
Garland of jasmines.
My dream at dawn
Was heady with their fragrance.
That birthday was youthful with
Fairytales woven by communities and villages,
Some we knew, some doubted.
There, princesses with their hair undone
Were sometimes asleep,
Sometimes, they awoke in surprise
Touched by magical golden wands.
Over time,
The ramparts that walled the
Vernal pochishe Boishakh broke.
The path laden with the sway of Bokul leaves
Trembling shadows,
Murmuring breeze,
The lovelorn kokil’s pleading call
That turns the morning to afternoon,
The bees buzzing their wings
Towards the invisible scent of nectar --
That grassy path arrived
At the stone paved road of adulthood.
The ektara that played the haunting melody
In youth changed its old string for new.
That twenty fifth of Boisakh,
Exposed me
To a rough road,
Bore me like a wave to the ocean of humanity.
Morning and night,
I have woven tunes and
Caste a net mid-river –
Some have been caught,
Some have fled the fragile net.
Sometimes, the day has been faint,
Motivation disappointed,
Sadness filled the mind.
Unexpectedly, in the midst
Of such depression, I found
Inspiration in Amravati’s mortal idol.
They beautify the world,
Offering vessels of nectar
To the weary.
They insult fear with billowing
Waves of laughter.
They fan flames of courage
From ash-smothered smouldering fires.
They arouse celestial voices to ignite meditative words.
They have lighted the flame in my nearly suffused lamp.
They have given melody to the strings with their cool breeze.
They have garlanded me with honour
On the twenty fifth of Boishakh.
My songs, my words,
Still reverberate with their
Magical touch.
From then, in the battle of life,
Conflicts raged like
Thundering clouds.
I had to abandon the ektara.
Sometimes, I had to pick up the trumpet.
Under the hot mid-day sun,
I had to take on
A battle.
My feet are injured with thorns,
My wounded heart bleeds. The
Merciless harshness of waves
Have beaten my boat, left and right,
Muddying with criticism,
Drowning with transactions.
Hatred and love,
Envy and friendship,
Music and courage,
My world has been
stirred
By the mists of all these emotions.
In the midst of this revolutionary-crisis,
As the twenty fifth of Boishakh grows older,
You have all come to me.
Do you know –
Despite my attempts, much is still left unexpressed,
Much is in disarray, much is neglected?
From inside and outside,
Good and bad, clear and unclear, famed and unknown,
A vain, complicated character,
You have created an idol
With your regard, your love,
Your forgiveness.
Today you have brought this garland,
I accept this as a recognition of
The aging twenty-fifth of Boishakh,
As an acknowledgment of my years.
Heartfelt blessings from me to you.
As I prepare to take leave, my human idol
Remains in your heart.
As the future is unknown, I cannot be arrogant.
Then give me your leave
In this lifetime from all relationships
Strung with black and white threads.
Lonely, nameless, solitary –
Let me look for a melody amidst
Many tunes, many instruments,
In the depth of all songs.
*Ektara-Bengal folk instrument
Tagore celebrated his birthdays by the Bengali Calendar on Pochishe Boisakh with poetry. This poem was dedicated to Amiya Chandra Chakravarty (1901-1986), a critic, academic and poet. He was a close associate of Tagore. The Pochishe Boisakh arrived in late spring as he mentions in this poem.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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