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॥

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.

Remembrances....

Silently they sat in the rooftop terrace. Slender leaves of tall coconut trees were sweeping the silicon sky in gentle southern breeze while bathing naked in silvery moonshine. Their sunk faces were half-lit in faint glow of nearly-burnt candles—broken souls of twenty five soldiers arrayed in stupefying defeat of their fallen martyr—and half-silken in gleaming touches of the pretty princess of the Night . Upon a tiny stool stood an image of their little angel—their Angelica, their Anjali—lovingly puffing nine colourful candles elegantly placed upon a boat-shaped cake in dazzling splendour in blushes on her angelic face. It was another Full Moon evening....of the last ride together. Drawing sweet tales from hidden chest of remembrances tears went on whispering into Deepsikha’s ears—creeping into cells of her soul.

“Papa, don’t worry—I’ll sail it—we will cross all seven seas and reach the Dreamland. Mom, don’t be afraid of those monsters. See, I’m with you.”

An innocent child could not even know why was she kidnapped...and sold...or perhaps, killed. The seed that was just turning to bloom upon a solitary plant at the confluence of two streams of spiritual consciousness was nipped before one could even define it as a bud. All around remained dispassionate...proud society remained satiated in its progressive deeds while semblance of religiosity faded into faces of curses eroding essence of itself.  

Inertly sat Robert and Deepsikha—alike figurines exposed to hidden giggles of destiny—counting days and nights and months and years—long twenty five years of holding the seed closeted only to wailing souls. Remembrances hum on dirge....

 Along wafts of intoxicated breeze of the spring

All have gone to the woods in this moonlit night;

Nay, I won’t go out but confine myself to

Own silent corner of my room;

Oh No ! I shan’t go out tonight

Amidst revelling breezes of the spring.

I am to cleanse my home, wipe it with all care;

I will need to stay awake for I know not

When would she recall me and arrive

Amidst waft of intoxicated breeze of the spring.

(Poetic part is transliteration of Tagore’s “Aaj Yotsna Rate Sabai Gechhe Bone”)

Last words

Done is the play in this hall,
Time ripens for curtains to fall;
O the inmost of the silent wanderers of my life!
Turn back at close of an imperishable day.
In transient hex, moments dazzle;
Grant my eyes—filled in broken dreams—to explore;
Let me discern what you leave aside
And what is treasured in last savings
At the end impression of this pleasure
The vision has not satiated in sight of proximity,
I wonder if in introduction of distant horizon of severance
It will show up through spectra of a setting sun
In appealing shines and darkness
Upon the brim of catastrophe,
I know not if I would ever perceive
Why is this coming—and going,
Why is there so much of gain to lose only;
I know not if you will paint again
Today’s wiped up image
In new colours, O the creative poet.


(A small effort to transliterate Tagore's "Sesh Katha")

Just an endless flow...

Just an endless flow--
To come and part with,
To be drifted by tide;
To smile and weep
In shines and darkness.
Just to have a few glimpses,
Just to leave a tender touch,
Just to look back in wet eyes;
Just to move afar with newer trepidation
Leaving illusory hopes behind.
Overflowing in infinite desire
Sustains the shattered verve,
In pursuit with utmost zeal
To be left only with a ruinous finality;
Clinging to flotsam of wrecked boat
Drifts aimlessly in boundless ocean
Just to leave wailing emotions
And a few devastated expressions.
Just to leave souls insatiate in
A few curtailed encounters,
Just to leave half-spoken words
In awaiting completeness;
Amidst thorns of shame,
Angst, horror and half-belief
Just to keep alive a famished love.

(Finding little time to write anything new, I prefer uploading an old transliteration of one of the finest poems of Tagore--"Sudhu Jaoa Asa")

O my love, wake, wake, wake up

In the deepest desolate corner of my heart

Silently you’re lying alone on the bed;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

Facing the bolted door, I wait on;

How long would moments stretch, dear?

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

Stars have invaded the night sky—

Laying eyes upon my windowpane;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

Pour music onto my life;

Restrain not tunes of your lute;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

I will let free my eyes to meet yours;

I will let my hand rest on your right palm;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

My soul will be brimming with divine nectar;

The darkness will resonate in radiant presence of holy rays;

O my love, wake, wake, wake up.

[This is a song written in Bengali by Tagore. It has been extremely difficult for me to transliterate it into English. I have miserably failed to fill the intensity, awesome blending of love for his beloved and love for the almighty in twists of stanzas.]

Yet, I went on. I must tell why to a very few readers I have on my page. I went attempting on Tagore’s work with inspiration of someone from whom I learnt Tagore…learnt to feel Tagore…that ultimately drenched my poor soul with peace, purity, and somewhat goodness. Yes, the girl—whom I was to teach—has lent her life to turn me a better than what I had been.

It was the song that she taught me to sing. It was the song that I sang while seeking her hand…she held mine, and we walked long together, hand in hand…and, walking together onto the end where there will just be a single impression left on the deep horizon.

Yet, remember me

For years they remained inseparable company in life as neighbours whom I’d neither loved nor envied. In white radiance of pride shone the youth of life ruthlessly blinding faint glimmers they left upon an azure sky of soul. I dreamt not if they could so invincibly reign in the future in me.

I wonder if it is a battle between the past and the present or a bridge between. Awestruck I look at the army of valiant warriors ! Whom I took no care even to notice now descend with its impervious presence and I dare not but gaze on.

They leave me in a quandary if it is a battle or a bridge while I cede in. Memories ! I looked at them as some fallen leaves…once green that held soft rays of morn upon its wide face, sipped dews of those chilling night, and then turned yellow, then red, then brown…and…went away erasing all history of moments it lived through. And, I thought, they strolled along my side in walks of life; but I left them when I wished…the one, then another, and more while eloping with my envious future. They stood alike mannequins so fondly adorn with masks of my deeds and misdeeds for showing up on the ramp when I would need them—the good, bad and ugly—as I would like to introduce before the world. And, buried under its veiled existence roam wails of innocence as intense yet powerless as wishes of a trafficked girl. Yes, I did so. Will now they declare the sentence? I await.

I deserve whatever they do to me. I enjoy being vanquished. Only I keep on tuning harp to sing my last song.

Yet, remember me if I go far away.

If old love gets tangled in meshes of new love,

If I stay close yet you cannot discern

If I exist or not, still remember me.

If tears dangle between eyelids,

If the play ends once in sweetness of night,

Yet, remember me.

If chores are stuck in an autumn morn,

Remember me.

Even in remembrances if eyes do not glisten

Yet, remember me.

(Never mind my utter inadequacy in expressions while transliterating such a powerful poem of Rabindranath Tagore “Tabu mone rekho”)

Love

"Kandale tumi more bhalobasar ghaye..."

This is one of my most favourite songs of Tagore....
I have attempted to present its translieration before my friends for whom language in original stands as a barrier....I know it hasn't touched the depth of the poet's spiritual consciousness, yet a fraction would be enough to value its wholeness, I feel.....

Thou hast made me cry in lashes of thy love--
In an intense pain infusing euphoric stream of bliss within.
For the tryst I shall venture thy place unreachable, and
Let it play tunes of twinges onto my weary feet.

The flute blows within my heart,
The stream of tears meanders on,
And in all sweetness of sorrow are lost the paths of pursuit.
Thou rob me of all, bit by bit, yet desert me not;
Thoughts cannot budge, what a quandary thou hast led me in ?

Far, so afar !

Where, so far and afar, does my soul wander in pursuit of
Those tunes of thy flute that lets the breeze moan?
Where does to an alien place my bankrupt soul seek to tread on
Along the path that loses trail beyond
All margins of land in its pensive quest?

(Another vain attempt to transliterate Tagore’s poem, “Dure kothay dure dure...”...yet, I wish to share it with those who could not listen to the harmony in its original masterpiece)

Woeful darkness of night

It is my vain attempt to present transliteration of another Tagore’s masterpiece, “Dukkher Andhar Ratri”. This one followed by his last poem, “Tomar Shristir Path”, was dictated by bed-ridden Rabindranath during the last fortnight of his life. He could, however, edit the first one only. In that way, it was his last edited poetic composition. I have no dream even to expect that my words would either hold literary brilliance of the Great Poet or would it ever touch those fine threads of philosophy contained in the original, yet I would love to share it here with friends who are unable to access it in Bengali.

So often has woeful darkness of night
Had its sojourns to my door;
I stole a few glimpses of its sole rapier
Shining in buried beams of ruses;
Those perverted pretences of anguish,
And bizarre gestures of terror were only
The prelude to its feints in utter darkness.

Ever so I relied upon its wily mask of fright,
It only offered some hollow defeats;
This weird game of loss or win—
Sheer delusions of life, and
Of each steps entangled in horror
Ever since the days of infancy and beyond—
Remained satiated in quirks of grief;
And, betrayed animated streaks of dread—
A complete art by the Death deftly diffused upon the darkness.

My offering !

I never thought of attempting translating Rabindranath Tagore's songs !

He has been my source of inspiration, ever-enriching my thoughts, philosophy and ever more in realising my own existence in this beautiful world.

The following poem (song) belonged to the original "Gitanjali" written in January, 1908 ( the Bengali chosen collection of Tagore himself, not that won him the Nobel ) and for years together it has been the morning hymn that I (we) hear to welcome the day and the Sun !

My reader friends, be sure that it is a futile attempt to convey deep philosophy and devotion that the great poet expressed in his original contribution; still I felt to do so only to share even a fraction of it with my Non-bengali readers. In doing so, I tried to be as honest to convey the spirit, not the limited meaning of the words.......

It is my tribute to my eternal guardian, my conscience-keeper, the great poet and a greater human being, Rabindranath Tagore; I have nothing to lay before as my offering but to pick up only from amongst those in the tray that he once had offered before the ultimate self....

The Bengali version is :---

...............Nivrita praner debata

Jekhane jagen eka

Bhakta, sethay kholo dwar--

Aaj labo tar dekha ................

The transliteration follows :--

Where the Lord stays alone and awake
In a recluse corner of my soul;
O Devotee ! Unbolt the gate;
Let my eyes satiate in splendour of His presence !

I know not whom do I seek
Wandering all the day out and afar;
Only I overlooked to learn
How the evening sacrament is performed !

With the beams of thy radiant life
I let the candle of my life be lit;
O Priest ! Let me alone arrange
The tray of my offerings !

Where the meditative self pursues
An all-embracing piety of completeness;
O Lord ! Let me also touch and hold
A thin ray of thee lustrous spectrum !