The song of distant meadows !!

In my sparkling youth, on a delightful day of the college picnic, an ever-smiling teacher said to me "In your stubborn state, you don't seem to allow your eyes to get wet; aren’t you, really?" I don't remember what I said that day. However, when I think back to that old time today, I feel like I would have tears in my eyes if I heard the song on those early days; and, mto ne very candid, even today, my eyes get wet often when I listen to that song.

A decade before I was born, a song was written by Shri Salil Chowdhury, and, with the immaculate rendition of the song by Shrimati Utpala Sen, it had been immortalized in hearts of music lovers. When I heard the song as a child, my heart would feel a pain. Although, it was not age to understand its contents and spirit, but it qould leave a deep imprint of agony in my heart. When I grew up, with countless loss and defeat in life, the melody of the wailing soul and the words signifying such, lead to let open the mind as a strange confluence of a pure urge emerging out from within the pain. It does not speak about the worldly desires and hardships of life, not the stale balance sheet of victory and defeat; it is the source of great human truth. This pain is blended with the decayed vibration of a fainting humanity. Even today, when I listen to the song, I feel the same. I am involuntarily torn into pieces by the rhythmic world of childhood dreams. What a spotless stream of pain in the heart, what a wonderful image of peace in the all-lost sky; This infinite expanse is the inexhaustible dream of life in the core and the selfless sacrifice of memories that weave panels around it. 

Such simple expression is possible only in the mother tongue. Yet, I dream about many more to read it, feel the flow of his poetry, the beauty of the other world of his thoughts. So I attempt its transliteration to the best of my ability.

Oh! The songs of those distant meadows!

The ballads of wild pastures!

When in a pensive corner of the day 

Do they fade into a smudged horizon?

How do they set the sky aflame?

How do dreams of those moist days

Let my unharvested soul weep in silence?     

In wantonly flow of southern breeze

What leafless words do I listen to?

In calm presence of mind 

I feel loosing these tunes

In unspoken tale of someone’s pain

As if rustling leaves swirl and cry

In sweeping wind of an autumn dusk

Closing my tired wings

I seek for a nest to rest

I crave for the bank 

In endless expanse of a fierce stream

Hours go in futile dreams

Sailing thoughts to drift and far

And, my soul finds solace in 

Trifling means of an endless journey 

I haven’t aspired anything more

But to string sweet melodies for

To pour in the urn of this world

In lonely corner of my room.

Yet, delusions of such dreams

Lay waste to the feeble nest

And, are swept away 

By a dark tempest; forever. 

The original song in Bengali is also given below :--

প্রান্তরের ও গান আমার

মেঠো সুরের গান আমার

হারিয়ে গেল কোন বেলায়

আকাশে আগুন জ্বালায়

মেঘলা দিনের স্বপন আমার

ফসলবিহীন মন কাঁদায় 

মাঝে মাঝে উদাস হাওয়ায় 

এলোমেলো কী যে শুনি

বুঝি কাহার ব্যথার ছোঁয়ায় 

হারায় আমার সুরের ধ্বনি

ঝড়ের হাওয়ায় পাতার মতন 

ঝরিয়া যায় যায় যায় যায়

ক্লান্ত ডানায় নীড় খুঁজি

অথৈ নদীর তীর খুঁজি

শুধুই আমার যায় বেলা

ভাসায়ে আশার ভেলা

অন্তবিহীন পথের পুঁজি 

অন্তরেরই সান্ত্বনায়

আমি তো চাহি নি কিছুই 

শুধু আপন নীড়ের ছায়ায়

আপন বীণার সুরে ভুবন 

ভরে দিতে প্রেমের মায়ায়

প্রেমের মায়ায় ভাঙিল সে ঘর 

ঝড়ের বায় হায় হায় হায়

Emon dine taare bola jay (এমন দিনে তারে বলা যায়)

 Incessant rain has been there today since the dawn. This brings a lot delight.

The passage of the seasons has a close connection with the human mind. I did not notice if it follow any particular trend or not. Like many others, monsoon is my favorite season. But, the second season on my list of favorites is summer. In this tropical country, people with such eccentric preferences are not to be found very often. Still, that's truly my preference. Passing through autumn and spring, my last favorite season is winter. Look, how strange is my choice. Leave aside these futile discussions. Let me share uou, which I so earnestly wish to tell. want to say.

Monsoon is truly my favorite season. To be honest, rain is always delightful to me. I love eben raining in other seasons also. However, my obsession with monsoon, the way it binds my mind, my heart, is a refined feeling.

The abundance of sky, quiet flowing of gentle breeze, each piece of nature today is welcoming those dense husky clouds. Sometimes its voice is a sharp cry, sometimes its tune carries a the swings of dirge. Raindrops set musical tone upon the leaves.   No rush is here, none has any haste; it has inspired me to pause and quietly gaze on. Those clouds have not brought any letter today. Today let them sing only. From a corner to another, let them cut through the breast of the sky, and in their procession, let them make the surroundings cry with their music of pain.   What do they talk about, what is their pain; how have they accumulated so much of tears? Whom they sacrifice all these pains before?

So many secrets inside me are seeking release today. They want to sit in front of the door of the soul even once. As if I shall not have no more secrets in me today. I will no longer be away from my inner self. Everything that exists today is ours only.   Emotions drench those newly born branches and embrace them firmly. Only you and I are alone in this darkness; holding hand in hand, sitting face to face, we float through the endless time in utter silence. Only to glrify the confluence of our muted pain.

Gurudev's song “Emon dine taare bola jay” hums on in my empty head…long time back, I translated it in English. Will you like to read?

Veiled in a yasmak of tempestuous streak of raining, 

Such is the day,

When I feel ease to confide her;

Such is the moment,

Saturated in thunderous roar of foaming nimbus,

That spreads a blanket of darkness over the sky, 

When I can let my soul lay bare before her.

Amidst gentle silence pervading all over

None can eavesdrop on our whispering exchanges;

Only two of us, facing each other,

Engrossed in deep agony,

Shall witness endless raining alone,

As if the world is left with none else around

Futile are the embraces of those worldly bonds

Futile are the dins of the day

It is only for eyes to feel the bliss

In sipping nectar of beholding eyes 

And, souls to caress and feel each other,

While the rest evaporates into utter darkness.

Whom would it harm,

If I can shed bits of my pain?

Confined to a corner of the room amidst deep shower,

If I can convey me to her,; 

How does it concern anyone else?

In presence of overflowing stream of rain

And, occasional sparkles of lightening

It seems that those emotions,

Which have so long been lying

Secreted within the soul

Can be shared just in these moments,

Along such tempestuous streak of raining.

The original song of Tagore in Bengali:--

  

এমন দিনে তারে বলা যায়,

এমন ঘনঘোর বরিষায়।

এমন দিনে মন খোলা যায়

এমন মেঘস্বরে  বাদল-ঝরঝরে

তপনহীন ঘন তমসায়॥

সে কথা শুনিবে না কেহ আর,

নিভৃত নির্জন চারি ধার।

দুজনে মুখোমুখি  গভীর দুখে দুখি,

আকাশে জল ঝরে অনিবার

জগতে কেহ যেন নাহি আর॥

সমাজ সংসার মিছে সব,

মিছে এ জীবনের কলরব।

কেবল আঁখি দিয়ে   আঁখির সুধা পিয়ে

হৃদয় দিয়ে হৃদি অনুভব–

আঁধারে মিশে গেছে আর সব॥

তাহাতে এ জগতে ক্ষতি কার

নামাতে পারি যদি মনোভার।

শ্রাবণবরিষনে একদা গৃহকোণে

দু কথা বলি যদি কাছে তার

তাহাতে আসে যাবে কিবা কার॥

ব্যাকুল বেগে আজি বহে বায়,

বিজুলি থেকে থেকে চমকায়।

যে কথা এ জীবনে    

রহিয়া গেল মনে

সে কথা আজি যেন বলা যায়–

এমন ঘনঘোর বরিষায়॥

Awakening....

 This is an attempt to translate a beautiful poem written in Bengali by my childhood friend and life partner, Lopamudra...

Candles walk in…arrayed in the darkness

Dumb, deadened, yet aflame in dull habit;

Defeat is not the fire, a social identity,

Yet, the faith is not a piece for all.

The nature is all set to be bankrupt,

Why still is such intense search for lies?

The debt has outgrown repaying strength of life.

In this yellow wilted ancient age,

Sins appear, one by one…candles in hand

Alike baby snakes; venom trickles down the wretched spine,

The mighty curled snake of revelation

Wakes up from a deep slumber in faint light of candles.

Maybe

Some faces never fade,
Some moments never die;
For a war-torn life,
Those remain a symbol of peace.

They sat—the man and the woman, side by side;
Silently glow twenty five candles
To burn a few pages of memories
Of a little girl whom the angels brought for them
On one such day to shine on their eyes.

She would lie on his lap
Gently holding her mom’s hand,
With eyes broadened would endlessly tell
What amazing things she had discovered.
Every day, he would dream of a new tale
To tell her, else how would she sleep?

The candles burn
The pages burn
Burns the last glimpse of those innocuous eyes
Burn colourful wings of the butterfly
Burns a new school tunic.

The man dreamt of a new tale,
But the evening dug the grave for it.
The tiny bird was snatched away
From a tiny nest that her parents built,
Not even knowing, why...why?

None could see her again;
Maybe, she was killed
Maybe, she was sold
Maybe, she was rescued
Maybe, she grew up
Somewhere, in another distant moon.

The father still dreams of her,
The mother still sobs alone,
Maybe, she still too weeps
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Maybe, she needs to dance
Amidst smoke and stench
For to carry her father’s dream
Of feeling how precious is life;
Maybe, sleep evades her eyes
For a tale to be told by her papa,
Maybe, she is too tired of tales of life,
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Her papa roams in and searches for
Within faces of every girl of her age,
Ceaselessly guessing, “Isn’t she my doll?”
Maybe, if she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

The dream story lies hidden
Within moaning soul of an old father,
Maybe, to remain forever untold;
Maybe, destiny does not permit
Some promises to be kept...maybe!

(A repost )

Me

Don’t dig me up

Roots are still wet

Fresh leaves of Spring

Had enough sunshine

Rain I love, the weeping tales

Of dove beneath grey eyebrows.

Don’t dig me up

The pearl is yet to shine

Moments to walk long

Rustles of brown leaves

Strewn on pavement of life

Undusted for so many years

Don’t dig me up

Down to the stairs still

Childhood gestures

An inseparable illusion

Of me, my tree, my seed

Of memories neatly painted.

Untimely...

Racers see only the racers

Count who is ahead or at heels

Crowd cheers, money flies

Floats the craze, rises the rage

But, racers count only racers

Life and death race together

Collars and shoulders up

Who knows which is ahead of whom

Races go on racing

O sweet black bee !!

Poet Jasimuddin, born in British India in 1903, was one of the most renowned poets of Bengal. He is more often referred as the Pastoral Poet. He was a profoundly learned man and devoted his life to research on rural ballads and songs of Bengal apart from his marvellous work of literature. His contributions towards identifying the origins of rural songs of Bengal and collecting and archiving those in a very systematic manner have truly presented us a wonderful treasure of country songs in current era. 

He himself directed music to many of his country songs, which have not been only popular to Bengali audience but also its different versions were also very popular in Indian subcontinent.

I am always amazed by the sweetness of the song, "Nisithe Jaio phulobone". The poet himself was the music director of the song, which was subsequently used in other languages in India by legendary S D Burman, the poet's friend. Here I have tried to translate the song.

O cute black bee! Come to my garden in night;

Lighting the moonlight

I shall stay awake, and  

Converse with dews through night

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.



If I fall asleep

If I run into dreams

Then you walk quietly, dear,

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.



Keep my branches unbroken

Keep my flowers unhurt

Keep the slumbering flowers in peace

Keep the footsteps silent in your walk

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.

Now I am

Poet, Shamsur Rahaman, is one of my dearest poets of post-Tagore era. He is one of the most revered poets, not only in his own country, Bangladesh, but in every corner of the world, for his rich poetic creations saturated with righteousness, boldness and passion. His contributions to Bengali literature have brought a new dimension to the style and structure of Bengali poems and touched almost every aspect of human emotions.
Here is one of my favourite poem of Shamsur Rahaman, "Ekhon Ami", that I have attempted to transliterate.


I get startled, now and then,

Hearing someone’s going to somewhere,

In transience of a moment

The pool of my soul splashes,

“Going to where and why?”

Leaving numerous questions,

Like this or that, tremble upon

The lines over my lips and iris.



Hands sheath into the veil of

Those clouds, sodden in sorrows,

If ever I offer it to anyone;

The deepest core of my heart

Fervidly quivers, now and then;

I am easily startled now

Hearing someone’s going to somewhere.



My heart breaks, very often,

Seeing something is broken somewhere,

Am scared to see the little sapling

Of rose losing the sparkle;

The boyhood scene of a free kite,

Falling and floating, in a noontide sky,

Often reappears in my eyes now;

Quite a few dead horses,

In the realms of my childhood

Are lying dispersed over the grassland;

These thoughts infuse me

With a terrible fright, nowadays.

Fine I remain, sometimes,

In a dimly lighted corner of my room,

Absorbed between the leaves of the book;

Amidst the rustles of fallen leaves

It brings a solemn news of growing age,

When some elders disappears

Just like the setting of the sun,

I spend the draining time playing hopscotch

With my mind in sheer darkness.



Sadness just keeps on shedding

Long shadows of sorrows—

Upon the lines of the face;

It pours loneliness into my soul,

Forlorn I am, so often, nowadays,

Feel so lonely, so often, nowadays.

Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hain....

         Sahir Ludhianvi was a different kind of Urdu poet, who contributed majorly in enriching the film world of our country with new wave of thoughts. His poetry infused words with a sense of rebellion, a rare appreciation of human values. I would always carry a different message, even when understanding his poetry, particularly being rich in Urdu, for its intrinsic values ingrained within.

   I have long thought of attempting his work for transliteration, but always avoided as I am very weak getting correct expression of words written in Urdu, one of finest and purest languages in the world; yet I shamelessly did it and bear the courage even to share it...

The world of these mansions, thrones and the crowns,

The world of those societies, hostile to the mankind,

The world, infected with an endless greed for wealth;

What matters if such a world is bequeathed to us?

Each one is wounded, every soul is thirsty,

Eyes bear only confused glances, and souls are dampened;

Is it a world or a formless expanse of an unconscious whole?

So, what if such a world is bestowed upon us?

Where human attainment is just a piece of plaything,

It is nothing but the land of the worshippers of death,

Death still comes cheaper here than life;

What if such a world is bequeathed to the mankind?

The prime of youth gets distracted by misperceived growth,

The blooming beauties are saleable pieces on the floor,

Where love is a nothing but a trading deal;

Does it matter even if such a world is conferred upon?

It is such a world, where mankind is never valued,

Neither commitment is respected nor a friendship,

Where love doesn’t get the honour of love even;

If such a world is gifted, does it matter even?

Ignite the flame, burn down this world, blow it up!

Remove this world from the frame of my sight,

It is all yours and you take care of it, if you like;

So, what if such a world is even given away to me?

Dots....

Dots….dots…dots
Lying here and there
The space is benevolent
Giving home unwantedly
Playing with them
A child would be doing alike
Arrange, one following the other
In a line, or sometimes, scattered
But, as wishes flow, more orderly
Giving a shape, sketching a face
Upon the wide canvas of space
A few dots…dots that were words,
Spoken, yet never heard
A few more that had bubbled
Yet never burst
A few dots….dots that were thoughts
Conceived, yet never shared
A few more that had grown enough
Yet, never saw the life sheltering
Gathering once again; picking up
One by one, laying one after the other
In a last attempt to sketch a face
Longed for so long
But, never emerged out of a life
Full of dots…dots…and dots.

Is mod se jaate hain....

"Is mod se jaate hain" is another Gulzar poem, which carries intense feelings saturated with rich philosophy and I attempted its transliteration some two decades back and am uploading without any further editing to keep the emotions of my youth uninterrupted by an intrusion of my old mind now.....

This is the bend, where it leaves from;

The path tracing a few leisurely steps

The traveller pacing a few agile strides,

To a marble palace

To a glass house

To a nest of straw;

It reaches there from just this bend.

Gliding like a gale, the path sweeps past

Coyly slides down from some footstep;

Of those myriad flowing walkways

There must be one such path,

Which takes to your doorstep;

It is this bend where it leaves from.

From afar one comes

And flips once nearer,

And a solitary forlorn path

That neither treads nor pauses,

Amidst all random thoughts

I await, with a feeble trust,

There must be one such path,

Which takes to your doorstep;

It is just this bend, where it leaves from.

The day I was born

Long nights and days sped by

To yearn and earn and count and die,
In loving spree and dreams and cry,
In heaps of petals fallen and dry.

Swirling serpents—smoky dread

Invading sky to paint and spread,
Erasing signs of innocent myths—

Cradled so long in cerebral piths.

Promises faded, one by one,

Nothing was lost and none has won;

Reaped not harvest, seeds not sown,

The last wish awaits the last ribbon.

Moments flee, pages burn,

And ashes fill the memories’ urn;

Yet the sojourn shines in glee

When life recounts its first turn.

(A repost)

Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai

"Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai ..." is one of my favourite poems written by Gulzar....I tried  my best to let it carry the deep emotions and wonderfully woven words while translating it into English....never mind my shortcomings in getting near to the original....


A part of me is still lying around you,
A few moist days of a long-parted monsoon,
And a night wrapped in a sodden veil of fuzzy scribbles;
Let all images of that night fade into vacuity,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Heard the rustles of leaves….aren’t there?
And those gentle tunes of falling leaves that
Slipped off my ears casting a fleeting kiss once and reappeared.
Somewhere the forsaken twig in the Fall is still trembling;
Let the wailing branch be wished adieu too,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Sharing beneath a sole dripping umbrella, you and I—
Half-drenched and a bit dry—
And the warmth in me that we shared too;
Those a few wet thoughts, perhaps, still be lying around the bed.
Let it all be set free; let all be just mine,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

The sweet memories of a string of moonlit nights,
And of the beauty spot prettifying your shoulder;
The intoxicating fragrance of soggy paste of henna
And a few freaks of silly play of blame and regret;
And a few weird promises never kept.
Let it all fill me to the deepest down in me,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Just grant me the parting acquiescence of the self,
For my lone walk to the grave,
For me to sleep forever….beside you.

(A repost)

Such is the path of your creations...

"Tomar Srishtir Path" was the last poem of Rabindranath Tagore....he dictated his last two poems lying in the hospital bed...he could find time to edit the earlier one, but this last one remained unedited....he died a week later.
I transliterated the earlier one, "Dukher Andhar Ratri" a few years back, but found it extremely difficult to get right words to convey right feelings of the original one, yet have just attempted it finally...


O the Supreme Charmer! Such is the path of your creations,

Tangled In a bizarre web of deceptions,

You have laid traps of your illusory faith

Slyly in a simple life;

Such treachery has only crowned you with

The glory of your avowed greatness.

Denying even a secluded night for an innocent soul,

The path that your constellations lead to

It is his insight—the conscience—forever unblemished;

His unfaltering faith has gleamed it eternally radiant.

May he seem outwardly devious

Yet resolute he is in the core,

It is his precious piece of pride.

May he seem distressed,

May he appear harried,

But he seeks for the truth

In innermost cells of a self-illuminated soul.

Nothing lures him away,

He leaves only in treasuring the final reward.

He who bears through ceaseless assault of your deceit,

Blessed he is with the bliss of peace forever.

Amidst trammels in life there still floats a promise of renaissance !

Death—premature or likely, accidental or natural—always leaves an impervious void in souls of those near ones where gentle tunes of life resonate in strings of togetherness. Even memories of sweeter moments fail to replenish such vacuity. It remains secreted somewhere deeper forever in only a few weeping souls. Yet, such death does not offer ripples beyond a limited pool of human relationship. At times, it may infuse a greater collection in society with inspiration, or courage; but it does not leave deeper impact of sense of losing within. The martyr remains honoured as a social hero—a dedicated soul sacrificed at social cause—but not as a soul whose absence is felt deeply only for being no more.
But, when a death transcends beyond a thin horizon of kinsfolk to create an indiscernible hollow in broader ocean of people that gets instantaneously filled in with a dread of losing confidence, a fear of subjunctive sense of calamity, a fright of apprehension and a panicky state of insecurity; then it a terror. It cripples the society as a whole with a collective sense of vulnerability. With such psychosis prevailing, the society often rebuilds itself on more compatriotic sense, reconnects itself with more reasons and human values; but it may also fall prey to imprudent comprehension of reality that eventually leads to impregnate social mindset with a sense of retribution, hatred and ruses of crafty enemy of humanism. It often leads to war. It only travels from one form of war to another form. And, in every war, the victims are innocent people and the values of human civilisation that again take years to revitalise and bloom.
If there descends an eerie darkness, only flicker of hope still shines in peace. Camaraderie of conscious people can only prevent the peace from being at ransom. Let us not leave another page of history of bargaining peace at the cost of vengeance. Let us rekindle deep spiritual consciousness embedded in our culture, heritage, art, philosophy and all other creative forms of human civilisation through solidarity of respecting souls.
In concluding I would only wish to share those beautiful lines of great Bengali poet, Jibananda Das, written some forty years back, but are still relevant (Never mind my poor transliteration) to this present world.

The earth is now sheathed in an eerie darkness;
Those who are blind now see the most,
Whose hearts bear no love or affection,
Where ripples of compassion do never surface,
The world now sways not without their counsel.
Those who still have deep reliance in humanity,
Who still find intrinsic values in great truth,
Or in culture, or art or its fondly pursuit,
Their souls now lay offered at vultures’ feast! 

(A repost)

Last moments...

It stretches the day a little longer

Memories of the Heaven’s blue

Still not died, still not dried up;

The sky is dust of gold

Still alluring

Floating in those vacant eyes

For a few moments left;

The life is a gem,

Spoilt by a failed palmist,

The band of clouds

Over the wings of horizon

Crimson—a stream of blood—

Through the darkness of Hell

Whispering tale of death-eaters;

A dream yet survives

To be there, to be there,

Carrying wounds,

Scars on the path

On those weary feet;

Still a dream survives,

To be there, to be there,

Miles away the home is peace.

Illumine...

O cute little Blue bird!

Sing me life

Take me to the caves

To an untold era

Under a stormy night

I shall learn to light a fire

A lamp is awaiting me  

Destiny

Dreams breaking into memories

Passions destining …keeping some,

Some not….why?…perhaps,

Only seashells know

O rain, sweet rain

O rain, sweet rain !

Keep falling like laughter

Weep alone through my pen.

Walk on...

Walk on

Walk on the silver boy

Walk on thousand miles more

Walk on to the moon

Chase the bread in the sky

Who cares?…you live or die

Walk on through the sins

Walk on through the dreams

Walk on through the screams

Infect the world with life

Once more…tearing the deadened world,

In cities of cheering faceless ghosts