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Poems of Bengal
1. Rabinranath Tagore
 WHEN RABINDRANATH TAGORE
(1861-1941) was awarded the Nobel
Prize for Literature in 1913 for a
volume of poems called Gitanjali
(Song Offerings), he was the first
Asian to win the coveted prize
Tagore credits several illuminating
experiences from his youth with
shaping his life and establishing its
creative direction.
When he was
learning to read at about the age of six, disconnected words suddenly came together as he encountered the rhyming phrase "jal parey/pata narey"
(the water falls/the leaf trembles)
in his spelling book.
The rhythm of the words connected him for the first time with a harmonious creative
dimension. "I was no longer a mere student with his mind muffled by spelling lessons," he writes. "The
rhythmic picture of the tremulous leaves beaten by the rain opened before my mind the world which
does not merely carry information, but a harmony with my being.
The unmeaning fragments lost their individual isolation and my mind revelled in the unity of a vision."
Tagore left an enduring legacy that is still celebrated today, in Bangladesh-India and
throughout the world. Through his life and work, his voice continues to speak to the future.
When does the essence get lost in translation? When does a translation fail to whip up the same enthusiasm as does an original? These key questions may jostle the mind of every disenchanted reader. The answers lie only in the fact that like an original, any translation too, either simply works or does not.
There is no easy solution to the problem of rewriting a novel, a poem or an epic, or even scientific work in another language.
Rabindranath Tagore's poetry is notoriously difficult to transport intact from Bengali to English. Even when the poet himself was doing the translating, the problem remained.
Poetry is perhaps the most effective language to reach the soul. Stray thoughts that may be strung together to form a story or carefully crafted phrases loaded with double meanings - verses convey an individual's most inner thoughts and visions, much like the canvas of an artist. The poems, read like prayers and are instructions regarding what it means to be a believer, what faith is, and how to recognise truth amidst the adulteration of the material world.
We are all trapped in history. The Europeans came to trade, hung on to fight, intrigue and conquer, and stayed on to instruct. Their colonies became vast markets for their textiles and their language. Conversions followed, to another way of life and on occasions to Christianity. When they went back they left their language behind -- and half-castes. In an alien land, language itself turns brown and half-caste.
English was introduced in India with commercial objectives in view. What was achieved was something much greater in dimensions. Colonial history shows that language can be as domineering as any occupational army. It supplants myths, whole iconographies, world-view, ideologies. It ushers in its own symbols, and its own values.
 Rabindranath Tagore, who died in 1941 at the age of eighty, is a towering figure in the millennium-old literature of Bengal. Anyone who becomes familiar with this large and flourishing tradition will be impressed by the power of Tagore's presence in Bangladesh and in India. His poetry as well as his novels, short stories, and essays are very widely read, and the songs he composed reverberate around the eastern part of India and throughout Bangladesh.
In contrast, in the rest of the world, especially in Europe and America, the excitement that Tagore's writings created in the early years of the twentieth century has largely vanished. The enthusiasm with which his work was once greeted was quite remarkable. Gitanjali, a selection of his poetry for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913, was published in English translation in London in March of that year, and had been reprinted ten times by November, when the award was announced. But he is not much read now in the West, and already by 1937, Graham Greene was able to say: "As for Rabindranath Tagore, I cannot believe that anyone but Mr. Yeats can still take his poems very seriously."
The contrast between Tagore's commanding presence in Bengali literature and culture, and his near-total eclipse in the rest of the world, is perhaps less interesting than the distinction between the view of Tagore as a deeply relevant and many-sided contemporary thinker in Bangladesh and India, and his image in the West as a repetitive and remote spiritualist. Graham Greene had, in fact, gone on to explain that he associated Tagore "with what Chesterton calls 'the bright pebbly eyes' of the Theosophists." Certainly, an air of mysticism played some part in the "selling" of Rabindranath Tagore to the West by Yeats, Ezra Pound, and his other early champions.
 Rabindranath Tagore is India's first modern painter. In his songs, drama, fiction and other creative work, he has always upheld the heritage of the subcontinent. Yet in painting he did not follow traditions. As a creative artist, Tagore visualised pictures in colours and lines. In his songs and poetry we find pictures of nature in the different seasons. These were much more exciting than his pictorial work in lines and paints.
 The number of plays by Rabindranath Tagore is more than that of many world-renowned playwrights such as Shakespeare. Due to language barrier, his plays have not been staged the world over. However, the quality of these plays is unique. He has emerged as a social reformer through his works. Each of his plays delivers a strong messages in an artistic way through wonderful dialogue and diction. The beauty of these plays is that they never appear message-oriented, rather, feature philosophical content analysising human psyche. Moreover, Tagore provided a modern presentation of indigenous culture and emotions of Bengalis in his plays. However, in contemporary theatre many troupes face obstacles when staging these plays.
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Dariye Acho Tumi Amar ganer pare
Ami Path Vola Ek Pothik : Uttam Supriya
Sankha Bela - Mukhoro Bador din-e Uttam Kumar, Madhabi Mukherjee
Akash jure suninu Rabindrasangeet by SANGEETA THAKUR
Bonpolasher Podaboli - Amarai Path Uttam Kumar, Supriya
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1.1 My Golden Bengal
Forever your skies, your air set my heart in tune as if it were a flute.
In spring, Oh mother of mine, the fragrance from your mango groves makes me wild with joy.
Oh, what a thrill!
In autumn, oh mother mine, in the full blossomed paddy fields
I have seen sweet smiles spread all over.
Oh, what beauty, what shades, what affection and what tenderness!
What a quilt you have spread at the feet of the banyan trees and along the banks of the rivers!
Oh mother mine, words from your lips are like honey to my ears.
Oh, what a thrill!
If sadness, dear mother mine, casts a gloom on your face, my eyes are filled with tears!
Rabinranath Tagore
- National Anthem of Bangladesh: Amar Sonar Bangla (My Golden Bengal)
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1.2 Lamp of Love
Light, oh where is the light?
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame---is such thy fate, my heart?
Ah, death were better by far for thee!
Misery knocks at thy door,
and her message is that thy lord is wakeful,
and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night.
The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless.
I know not what this is that stirs in me---I know not its meaning.
A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight,
and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me.
Light, oh where is the light!
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void.
The night is black as a black stone.
Let not the hours pass by in the dark.
Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.
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2. Jasim Uddin
Jasimuddin- Poet of the people of Bangladesh - A film by Khan Ata 1978
 Jasimuddin's deep involvement in non-communal socio-political movements championing the cause of Bengali language and literature gives his lyric and folksy poetry a keen edge of commitment and protest. His poems are popular as part of school curricula in West Bengal, India as much as in Bangladesh.
Bangla musical genres like Aul, Baul, Marfati and Murshidi are heavily influenced by the mystic philosophy found in the Charyapadas. Besides, Vaishnava Padabalis--songs and verses praising Lord Vishnu--have also influenced Bangla music.
Michael Madhusudan Dutta, Rabindranath Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam and Jasimuddin were immensely influenced by mysticism, Sufism and Baul doctrines (A touch of the mystic
, 2004).
When one reads his lyrics, like Gourigirir meye (a sensitive yet heart felt invocation to Goddess Durga) and Anurodh (a chiselled love poem woven in folk rhythm) and then goes on to respond to his two evergreen dramatic poems Naksi-kanthar Math and Sojonbadiar Ghat, one concludes that the label ‘village-bard’ is an example of inadequate salutation. Both these ballads cross the prescribed limits of folk poetry. In fact, they articulate a secular and humanist vision in a diction that is earth-sprung and elegant. No wonder, both these ‘modern’ ballads, replete with social conflicts, have been dramatised,
His poetry appears like the breeze from the countryside that cools the sighs and sweats of urban living. He is congratulated for creating a new school of poetry ;
Dr. Dinesh chandra Sen
Jasim Uddin's poetry has a new trend, a new taste and a new language.
- Rabinranath Tagore
Verrier Elwin
Jasim Uddin knows every fact of village life in Bengal and is partial to rural people. The heroes of his poems and stories are farmers, fishermen, boatmen, weavers, cowherds, even roadside barbers, wandering gypsies, palmists and astrologers
B. Painter and Y. Lovelock
 Jasim Uddin is proud of belonging to the folk tradition of Bengali literature. He was pleased by arecent comment of one critic who, praising his autobiography, said: 'Reading Jasim Uddin's Jiban Katha (autobiography) is like eating country cakes from mother's own hand.'
In a foreword to the translation of Nakshi Kathar Math, Mr Verrier Elwin writes, 'I do not know whether The Field of the Embroidered Quilt can be classed as folk-poetry, but it is obviöusly poetry about the folk. After nearly ten years of village life I find every detail of the picture, every turn of the story, waking a response in my mind.' What Mr Elwin says of The Field can also be said of Gipsy Wharf. The two poems were written within four years of each other, while Jasim Uddin was still at Calcutta University, doing research under the famous Bengali scholar, Dr Dinesh Chandra Sen. Gipsy Wharf benefited from Dr Sen's comments as well,as those of the famous writer and painter Abanindra Nath Tagore.
There were influences on Jasim Uddin's writing other than folk songs and ballads. Perhaps that is why some hesitate to call hirn a folk poet. He is also a scholar and for many years was a lecturer in Bengali literature at Dacca University. Then during thc war he was summomed by the British Government to serve as a civil servant (Jasim Uddin, Prathom Alo, January 3, 2003).
The earliest influence on his poetry, however, was a group of minor folk poets of Bengal. He mentions them as his first teachers: 'From Rabindranath [Tagore] on down many critics have said the flow of my verse is very easy. If that is a virtue then I have learned this from our country's uneducated and half-educated poets. They are the first teachers of my poetic life, the poets Jadab, Parikshit, Ismail, Hari Patani and Hari Acharya. Into every rural househöld of Bengal they have poured an immortal flow of nectar. Deprived of that the Bengali heart would be a dry wasteland.'(Jasim Uddin, 1964).
Hindu and
If Jasim Uddin's writing has benefited from influences other than these rustic poets of Bengal, that has in no way made hirn less an expert on Bengali village life.
The poet asserts he gathered material for his plot from actual happenings in his own Faridpur district. 'IrIn our Faridpur district there live many poor farmers, Moslem and Namasudra (Hindus).
"But from my boyhood to the present day for the love aud affection which I received from the sannyasi there remains a love and respect in my heart which has not in the least bit been destroyed.For the friendship of the sannyasi and the insight he gave " him into Hindu culture,J asim Uddin is still grateful. It seems to me his broadmineledness and sympathy for Hindu as well as Moslem tradition are among his best qualities as a writer. Gipsy Wharf is almost a plea for bettel' Hindu-Moslem relations. Certainly he believes that the bonds which unite Bengali people are very strong, and the culture they have , made is both Moslem and Hindu.
 Gipsy Wharf and The Field, I think, are among Jasim Uddin's major work, but he is a versatile and prolific writer. Like another famous Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore, Jasim Uddin has tried his pen in almost every field. Boba Kahini (Tale of an illiterate man) 1964 . He has written many short dance dramas: Beder Meye 1951 (The Gipsy Girl), Madhumala 1956 (from the fairy tale of Princess Madhumala), Palli Badhu (Village Bride) 1956, the plot of which, he writes, is borrowed from Tagore. Jasim Uddin has also collected and rewritten numerous folk tales and folk music (Jari Gan, Murshida Gan He has published two volumes Bangalar Hashir Galpa (Laughing Tales of Bengal), vol. I, 1961, vol. 2, 1964.
Among Jasim Uddin's song books, perhaps the best are Rangila Nayer Majhi (Boatman of the Gay Boat) 1933 anel Padma Par (The Banks of the Padma River) 1949. Foremost of his lyrics are the books Rakhali (Pastoral Poems) 1929, Balu Char (The Sandbank) 1930, Dhan Khet (The Paddy Field) 1932. Other important lyrics written recently are in the books Rupavati 1946 and Sakhina 1960 (both girl's names). Thc first book of lyries published after the partition of India-Pakistan, when the poet moved permanently to Dacca, was the book.Matir Kanna (Sorrows of the Earth) 1955. This book has been translated into Russian.
Barbara Painter, Washington, USA 1969
On Translation, and on translating Jasim Uddin
 To embark upon translation is immediately to come face to face with a crisis of conscience. Either one intends to take the scholarly approach of being absolutely faithful to the text, 0r else one means to be faithful to the spirit of the work.
This latter is the one I have favoured for this work, and I am guiltily conscious of how wide a field of potential error lies therein. Faced with an Eastern text to be interpreted for "Western eyes, the problem is increased, especially sinee my job has been to impose literary form at seeond hand.
I have been greatly indebted to Mrs Painter for the very thorough job she has made of redueing the Bengali to English with a wealth of annotation, and am loath to have her blamed for what some may take as cavalier attitudes on my part.
For my objcetive has been to please the general reader, to make a living work of a verse-novel whose themes are vital to the understanding of the peoples of the Indian subeontinent and, especially at these times, to the cause of peace. Sueh themes should take us beyond the littlc questions of grammatieal equivalent and exaet synonym.
Yann Lovelock, Sheffield, June 1967
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2.1 The Snakecharmer's Song
The villagers of Bangladesh
sing:
Snake Charmer / Babu Selam Lyric and Music Jasim Uddin dance by Shibli & Nipa
O babu, many salams to you
my name is Goya the Snakecharmer,
My home is the Padma river.
We catch birds
we live on birds
There is no end to our happiness, For we trade,
With the jewel on the Cobra's head.
"We cook on one bank,
We eat at another
We have no homes,
The whole world is our home,
All men are our brothers
We look for them
In every door….."
(Jasim Uddin)
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2.2 Selected Poems
Asmani
 Field after field run along
Green winds sway tender paddy shoots
That spreads like open hair
In it butterflies ornamented with wings…
Mother earth smiles at her fertile pride.
In this harvest Asmanis (landless people) have no claim.
As worn out ribs hold together their stomachs
They burn with hunger.
Forest after forest run along
This fairyland of flowers and fruits….
In this forest Asmanis
(landless people) have no claim.
They are hungry.
River after river run along
They flow through nameless wharfs…
In this river the Asmanis (landless people) have no claim.
Worn out ribs hold together their stomachs
They are empty.
'Black Cloud, come down, come down
 Flower-bearing Cloud, come down, come;
Cloud like cotton, Cloud like dust,
O let your sweat pour down!
Blind Cloud, Blind Cloud, come,
Let your twelve Brother Cloudlets come,
Drop a little water that we
May eat good rice.
Straight Cloud, Strong Cloud, come,
Lazy Cloud, Little Cloud, come,
I will sell the jewel in my nose and buy
An umbrella for your head!
Soft Rain, gently fall,
In the house the plough neglected lies,
In the burning sun the farmer dies,
O Rain with laughing-face, come!'
(Source: Selected Poems of Jasim
Uddin)
Bhatiyali songs
One of the most famous and extremely popular bhatiyali songs is from the collection of the renowned poet and the folk music exponent Jasim Uddin (1904-76). Few Bengali poets have loved the villages of Bengal more and few have expressed in poems and songs the simple joys and sorrows of the villagers more poignantly and feelingly
amay bhasaili rey
amay dubaili rey
akul dariyar bujhi kul nairey
kul nai kinar nai naiko nadir padi
tumi sabdhanetey chalaiyo majhi
amar bhang tari rey
(You've set me adrift
You've sunk me
The endless waters have no shore
Limitless, with no shores, the waters have no banks
O row with care boatman, my riven boat.)
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One of the most popular songs of Jasim Uddin "Come to Garden by Night" sung by famous Shachin Dev Barman (To immortalise the name of Shachin Dev Barman West Bengal govt did a lot of things and named some memorials after his name. Recently, a centenary was celebrated on him with great pomp and grandeur)in different indian languages and sung by millions in the sky and air of indian sub-continent:
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"Come to Garden by Night"
Nishte Jaio Phul bane, O Bhomora
Come to the garden by night.
My bee.
I shal stay up the night
Lighting the lamp of moon
And talking to the dew drops
My bee.
Come to the garden by night
should I fall asleep
Tread softly my bee,
Do not break the branch
Or crush my flowers.
Or awaken the flower that is asleep
Come to the garden by night.
My bee.
Translated by: Hasna Jasim Uddin Moudud
(Word and music by Jasim Uddin, Sung by Shachin Dev Barmon , record available at Calcutta (Kolkata)
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In Bangladesh in 1972, about 5 crore people were used to live under poverty line. But the figure rose to 7 crore in the year 2005.
"Yes, India is progressing well with agriculture but, growingly, farmers have been committing suicide in large numbers", Chenglala Reddy, Chairman, Federation of Farmers' Association, Andhra Pradesh. India (2005)
 Rabindranath Tagore suggested to end poverty and privation as a matter of right of the poor. He emphasises on man to capacitate himself from within. Kindness and charity can not much change human condition. "Man will never accept any real benefit as a dole or as a debt. He accepts it only if he merits it." ("Lokehit" in Tagore's Collected Works, Joy Books International, Dhaka Vol. XII p. 148). To deserve what is due to them, they must be united. They should attain universal literacy. The change should be in the mind. Instead of petti fogging, they should have the inner capacity to quest for something big. That makes a nation great.
He continues, "The sign of a prospering nation is that every department, every individual turns away from the pettiness. Every one is earning the right to human dignity. Man in that nation thinks on how everyone as individual can live a decent life, earn a quality education, have adequate food, clothing, medicare, and leisure" . The poor should be organised to realise equity oriented society and economy. The job of igniting their potentials should begin from within our tradition, our success should be our investment
 Publications on Bangladesh by the World Bank and other agencies and organizations always say: "Bangladesh is one of the poorest countries in the world." But it is not true.
PPP adjusted GDP for Bangladesh is $299.9 billion (estimated). World Factbook ranked 232 countries on PPP adjusted GDP where Bangladesh ranks 34th. Again, Bangladesh GDP in official exchange rate is $64.8 billion and it ranks 57th out of 232 countries. Either by PPP adjusted GDP or by official exchange rate GDP it is not justifiable to classify Bangladesh as one of the poorest countries in the world.
It is an efficient economic engine though it is beset with 1) corruption, 2) political mismanagement, and 3) misaligned economic emphases.
In spite of the rosy pictures , 82 percent of the people live on less than $2 a day.
It cannot be denied that more than 80 percent of the people live in poverty. Ten percent of the population enjoys the quality of life of countries having per capita income of more than $40,000.
80 percent live with income less than $600 a year.
The failure of the economy to bring the benefit to the poor is due to inefficient and ineffective government and incongruent external influence
PROJECTS OF MASS DESTRUCTION
O Father Come Let Us Plough
"O Bajan Chal Jai Chal mathe Langol baite
O father come let us go
To the field to plough
Place the ploughs on oxen shoulders and
Push, push, push.
We who bring out food
From the depth of the earth
We who provide food for the whole world
Why can't we eat can any one tell us?
My wife has hanged herself
She could no longer bear hunger,
Now I plough deep into soil
In the hope of seeing her again.
We plough the fields
Our bosom is always flayed
But from the fields we get harvest
None from the sacrred bosom.
We shall plough no more for rice
But to see how far it is to graves.
Translated by: Hasna Jasimuddin Moudud
(Word and music by Jasim Uddin, Sung by Abbasuddin, record available at Calcutta (Kolkata)
Melancholy highlighted in rhythms -Tonatuni stages Jasim Uddin's dance drama Kabor
 On the third day of the Tonatuni Festival, Tonatuni staged a dance drama Kabor adapted from the popular poem Kabor by Pallikobi Jasim Uddin.
The dance drama starts with the effect of the dawn when the last lines of the Fazr Azan is heard. A very old grandfather comes on stage in feeble steps and starts telling his story to his grandson. The unhappy grandfather tells him about the five deaths in his family. He also recollects the memories of his getting married, the little bride's doll playing, the fair they attended, the bride's bathing with her friends and other insignificant yet happy moments of his life.
Directed by dancer Dipa Khondokar with light directions by famous light director of Kolkata Tapash Sen, the total performance was excellent.
Earlier in the programme Tapash Sen, who is known as 'The Magician of Lights', was awarded a medal by the chief guest Minister for Cultural Affairs Selima Rahman. A CD of Jasim Uddin's Nimantran, sung by Kiron Chandra Roy, was also launched by the wife of Pallikobi, Begum Mamataz Jasim Uddin. To the delight of the audience, Kiron Chandra Roy sang the title song of the CD Nimantran.
In a discussion session, Selima Rahman, Shamsuzzaman Khan, Kamal Lohani and the Managing Director of Tonatuni, Mahbubur Rahman Jaynal spoke about Jasim Uddin and the Tonatuni Festival.
 The Tonatuni Awards 2003 were handed over to Momtaj Jasim Uddin, Soumitra Chatterjee, Sandeep Ray, Mamota Shankar, Babita, Haradhan Banerjee, Shova Sen, Madhuri Mukherjee, Tapan Chatterjee, Baishakhi Ghosh, Kaderi Kibria, Ishita, Orin Haque, Shanta, Maria Promi and Tushar.
Tonatuni Festival 2003 exhibits valuables of two legends of the subcontinent--Satyajit Ray and poet Jasim Uddin.With the ongoing cultural festival organised by Tonatuni, the National Museum has become an eventful rendezvous for visitors interested in Stayajit Ray and Jasim Uddin. An unprecedented exhibit of valuables, photographs and other interesting items of the two personalities has attracted hundreds of visitors. Simultaneously, films of Satyajit Ray are being screened at the museum's auditorium.
The exhibition is being held at the Lalitakanta Bhattashali hall of the museum. The most attractive part of the exhibition is surely the collection of costumes used in Satyajit Ray's films. The collection displays mainly panjabis from films like Ashani Sanket, Pather Panchali, Apur Sansar, Tinkanya, Satranj ki Khilari, and Sonar Kella and Joy Baba Felunath of the most famous amateur detective in Bangla literature--Felu'da. Besides, there are the panjabis worn by the King of Halla and renowned actor Victor Banerjee in the Goopy-Bagha films and Piku. What makes one wonder about the costumes is their artistic embellishment and grandeur.
The exhibition also consists panjabis displaying several of Satyajit Ray's illustrations from his famous Kheror Khata (the Scrap Book) being embroidered on them. A panjabi shows the illustrious advancement of the genius of Satyajit Ray from Pather Panchali to his win of the Oscar award.
Poet Jasim Uddin's photographs show some eventful moments in the poet's life, his family members, and other acquaintances.
With the ongoing cultural festival organised by Tonatuni, the National Museum has become an eventful rendezvous for visitors interested in Stayajit Ray and Jasim Uddin.
(Daily Star Sept. 13, 2003).
Exquisite -From stage to celluloid
 The ongoing Tonatuni Festival is holding an exhibition of photographs taken by Shakoor Majid that project a brief scenario of theatrical activities on stages in Dhaka. Entitled Rhythm on the Stage, the exhibit presents still pictures from selected 50 stage plays. On the occasion, an album was also launched in the evening of September 13 at the National Museum auditorium. Bijoya Ray, wife of Satyajit Ray, and Begum Mamtaz Jasim Uddin, wife of Pollikobi Jasim Uddin, inaugurated the exhibition.
Shakoor Majid's photos generally depict some stories associated with his subjects--moments, people and objects. Shakoor selects 'mute, intensive things and drab moments that in his treatment become evocative,' says Dhaka University's Professor Syed Manzoorul Islam. 'These objects and moments, in their ordinariness, have a story to tell.' And this time Shakoor comes up with stories of the stages in Dhaka.
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Graves*
. Original tide 'Kabar', first published in 1929 in Rakhali (Pastoral Poems),was as a text for the Matriculation Examination of Calcutta University while Jasim Uddin was still a student of I. A. class.
 Here, under the pomegranate tree, is your grandmother's grave;
For thirty years my tears have kept it green.
She was a little doll-faced girl when she came to my horne,
And she wept to be done with the play ofher childhood days.
Returned from my travelling onee,
I suddenly knew She had been in my thoughts all the time.
Like the dawn her golden face would blind my eyes,
And from that day I lost myselfamong smallj oys of hers.
There along that path I'd take the plough to the fields
And, leaving, would turn
For a last look at her to take with me.
How she'd smile, my long-wed sister-in-Iaw, because of this!
When she went to her father's house she said, touching my feet,
'Do not forget to visit me soon at the village of 'Ujan-toli.'
So when I sold melons at market I saved a few coins
And bought her a neeklace ofbeads, tobaceo and toothpowder.
(And what's sofunny in that, my lad?)
How happy your grandmother was when she got these small gifts;
If only you could have seen her fingering her nose-ring.
She said, 'Y ou have come after so many days;
I have beeil waiting in tears,
Watehing the path for you,' smiling now.
When we parted for a mere few days you couldll't console her;
I wo nd er how she sleeps in her grave in this lonely place?
Fold your hands, grandson, and pray:
'Corne, oh merciful God,
Let Paradise descertd for my grandmother.'
Empty the life I endured when she left me;
Yet it seems each one I embraced here has gone,
Following her to that distant land.
A hundred graves are carved on the stone ofmy heart;
I get con~used counting the number, computing it over and over
again.
These wrinkled hands that hold the spade
Have buried so many beloved faces under hard earth
That I have come to love it, press it to my heart.
Come, kneel and pray, grandson;
Perhaps tears will relieve this pain.
Here sleeps your father, and here your mother sleeps:
Still your tears, while I tell you their story.
One April morning my boy called out,
'Father, I cannot go to the fields today.'
I spread out a mat on the floor for hirn, said 'Sleep, my Son.'
How could I know that this would be his last slumber?
A clean coffin I made hirn, and as I carried him here
'Where are you taking my father?' you followed crying.
I could not answer, my little son,
All the words in the world turned away grieving.
Night and day your mother's tears were unceasing,
Clasping your father's yoke and plough in both hands.
For sorrow the leaves fell from the forest trees,
The winds of April wailed in the empty rice-fields;
And villagers passing along that path wiped their cyes.
Even the leaves they trod underfoot crumpled and died.
From their stall the two bullocks regarded the unploughed fields
While your mother clung to their necks with heart-broken sobs
Till it seemed the whole village would drown
In oceans ofher weeping.
Perhaps the tears of that lovely girl
Found a path to the land of the dead.
In the morning ofher life she longed for evening;
Ah, poor girl, she wove her own shroud with her hands.
Before her death she summoned you to her:
My child, she said, my greatest pain is
Leaving you motherless in this world,
My darling, my jewel, my son.
What blessings she gave you!
Then to me, 'Over my grave hang my husband's wide wicker
sun-hat;
It will swing in the wind.'
Long ago that hat fell and mixed with the dust.
But the pain in my heart still cries out
For these two that sleep in the shade.
How lovingly the tree-boughs bend above;
The firc-fly maidens of evening light lamps
And the crickcts make music with small beIls tinkling.
Fold your hands, grandson and pray: '0 come, eternal God,
Let Paradise des ce nd now for father and mother.'
Here is that fair little maiden, your sistcr's grave.
We gavc her in marriage to a high-caste merchant's family;
They clid not love such a darling girl, thcy punished her,
Not with blows, but more cruelly, with words.
Message on message she sent me:
Grandfather, come tomorrow,
Take me to the land ofmy people For one or two days.
The heartless father-in-law let her come one winter at last;
Her face was pale, a smile no longer bloomed there
.
Some days she passed by her parents' grave
Till cleath's flute called her away, and here I made her grave.
See how softly the grass and forest flowers caress her;
The wild doves sing her litany.
Fold your hands, grandson, and pray:
'Let Paradise descend for my unloved sister.'
Here lies my youngest child of seven years,
A brilliant rainbow bursting the gates ofParadise open.
Who knows what her thoughts were
Losing her mother so young?
When I looked in her face
Your grandmother came to my mind,
And I clasped her to me
"While tears washed the colour from the sky.
Returning from market one day
I found her stretched out in the dust
As if she had fallen asleep,
Hugging her doll, tired of play.
The black cobra that bit her
Had slithered away in the bush.
How bitter my tears were, laying my darling to bed in the grave.
Go soft, do not speak, little grandson, lest we wake her.
Slowly, dig slowly, slowly, let me see
How my heaven on earth lies sleeping
Under the black-baked bitter soil.
The warm-coloured sunset has kissed the fields
And great is my desire to hug the earth around me elose today.
The call to prayer floats from the mosque;
Let us fold our hands, little grandson, and pray:
'0 come, eternal God, let Paradise descend for our loved ones.'
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3. Fakir Lalon
3.1 Selected Songs
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Lalon
Where lies this
mystery of human soul?
Where from I came and where shall I go?
Lalon's answer:
How does the strange bird
flit in and out of the cage,
If I could catch the bird
I would put it under the fetters of my heart.
The cage has eight cells and nine doors.
With laten opening here and there,
Above is the main Hall with a mirror chamber
O my mind, you are enamoured of the cage.. |
ou can make the floating sink and the sinking you can bring ashore
You touch me with your hand and I call out your name.
You made the Prophet Noah cool the fury of the flood;
And then in compassion you made the flood to recede.
Have pity on me, the mighty Lord, of the Universe."
Where is the key of the devotional knowledge? Lalon replied:
The key to my door is held by others
I cannot open the door and see the treasure.
Gold lies piled up in my room, But the transaction is made by another;
I am gravel-blind and cannot see him.
If one day I can reach the watch-man,
He will give me charge of the door.
I cannot say I know him not,
And I follow the path of depravity.
Oh, mind, this key-holder,
is the jewel of a man
Says Lalon, I got the treasure
but was unaware of its value.
Where lies this mystery of human soul?
Where from I came and where shall I go? Lalon's answer:
How does the strange bird
flit in and out of the cage,
If I could catch the bird
I would put it under the fetters of my heart.
The cage has eight cells and nine doors.
With laten
opening here and there,
Above is the main Hall with a mirror chamber
O my mind, you are enamoured of the cage;
little knowing that the cage is made of raw bamboo,
and may any day fall apart
Say Lalon, forcing the cage open
the bird flitted away, no one knows where.
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4. Jibanando Das
 Jibanananda Das(1899-1954) a major Bangla poet and educationist, was born on 17 February 1899 in Barisal. In 1935 he joined BM College in Barisal and continued to teach there till shortly before partition in 1947 when he left for Kolkata.
Jibanananda belonged to the group of poets who tried to shake off Rabindranath Tagore's poetic influence. Inspired by western modernism and the intellectual outlook of the Bengali middle class, this group wrote about the realities of the urban present and of the lonely self even while they drew upon the rural traditions of Bengal. Jibanananda shared Rabindranath's deep feeling for nature, eloquently describing the beauty of rural Bengal in Rupasi Bangla and earning the appellation of Rupasi Banglar Kavi (Poet of Beautiful Bengal). Unlike Rabindranath, however, he also portrayed distressed humanity as well as the depression, frustration, and loneliness of modern urban life in his poems. Introspection is also an important characteristic of his poetic genius. His poems merge a concern for the present and a sense of history. Many of his poems sound like prose, and greatly influenced subsequent poets.
Jibanananda's poems of rural Bengal played an important role in the political and cultural perspective of Bangladesh. His poems inspired a pride in Bengali nationhood, especially in the 1960s and during the war of liberation in 1971.
It is common knowledge that autumn is Jibanananda's most favourite season and his poetry is eminently suffused by autumnal shadows. In the climatology of Bengal the spring season is very inconspicuous and passes unnoticed while early winter is a cheerful time. The shorn trees, harvested stubble, receding sunlight and shadowed fields and farms posses a quiet beauty which does not fail to reveal itself to a truly discerning mind. But Jibanananda sees far more in them. Tagore is a poet ofr monsoon rain and itsa fullness and profusion. Jibanananda is a poet of autumn, its greyness, its sombreness and desolation. The Bengali month kartik (mid-October to mid-November) is a recurring element in Jibanananda.
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4.1 Rupasi Bangla (Beautuful Bengal)
Rupasi Bangla
Bangla Kobita: Banalata Sen by Jibanananda Das
bonolota sen
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Beutiful Bengal (Rupasi Bangla)
 Jibanananda Das
There is a place in this world-the most beautiful, compassionate.
There the green delta is awash with honey-sweet grass.
Trees have names like jackfruit, aswattha, banyan, jamarul, cashew.
There in clouds at dawn awakes the nata fruitlike red round sun.
There Varuni resides at the mouth of the Ganges-and there Varuna
Yields abundant river waters to the Karnafuli, Dhaleswari, Padma,
Jalangi .
There a white hawk is as full of movement as betel leaves in the wind.
There a spotted owl is as subtly young as the smell of paddy fields.
There the citrus branches droop in darkness upon the grass
,
And the buzzard flies away home upon dark evening breezes.
There a yellow sari clings fast to some beautiful woman's body-
Sankhamala is her name. In no other river, on no other grass of
This vast world will you find her-Bisalaksi had granted her a boon
And so she was born amidst the paddy and grass of blue Bengal.
Who would leave this delta to seek beauty on the paths of the world?
The dry banyan leaves seem to call forth a tale of the end of an age:
They are strewn along the many paths through fields in lonely
November.
Who would reject them and set out for a foreign land? I shall not
Give up basamati paddy fields for Malabar or the hills of Ootecamund.
I shall not watch the palm trees nod heads to an ocean's song in some
other land-which brings to heart that dream of cardamom flowers
somewhere, and
Cinnamon as Varuni sits unbraiding her hair. I shall not set out upon
 The path of the world. Falling aswattha leaves in pale white dust,
When in this midday no one is around-not even a bird-
Only lush grass spread out upon the ground, over gravel,
Or one or two doleful sparrows turning over some pieces of straw,
And those aswattha leaves Iying there in pale white dust:
That is why this life left not this path to wander elsewhere.
When I return to the banks of the Dhansiri, to this Bengal,
Not as a man, perhaps, but as a salik bird or white hawk,
Perhaps as a dawn crow in this land of autumn's new rice harvest,
I'll float upon the breast of fog one day in the shade of a jackfruit tree.
or I'll be some young girl's pet duck-ankle bells upon her reddened
feet-
And I'll spend the day floating on duckweed-scented waters,
When again I come, smitten by Bengal's rivers and fields, to this
Green and kindly land, Bengal, moistened by the Jalangi river's waves.
Perhaps I'll watch the buzzards soar on sunset's breeze.
Perhaps I'll listen to a spotted owl screeching from a simul tree branch.
Perhaps a child scatters puffed rice upon the grass of some home's
courtyard .
on the Rupsa river's murky waters a youth perhaps steers his dinghy
with
Its torn white sail. Reddish clouds scud by, and in the darkness, coming
To their nest, I shall see white herons. Among them all is where you'll
find me.
Ah birds, were you not there at Kalidaha once? Through whirlpool
winds
Did you not squawk your high-pitched calls that midday in July,
In this Bengal? All day today amongst this rumbling rain storm and
Cloudy overcast, Chand Sadagar and Honeybee, his dinghy, come to
mind .
When was it that they sank at Kalidaha, under just such stormy skies?
Did not then too countless birds glide and dive across such blackened
winds?
Today all day a flock of river gulls, out in these monsoon rains and
Gathered on a sand bar in the Dhaleswari, appear as if afloat at
Klidh.
This flock of birds appears to be not of this day and age at all.
And this river, the Dhaleswari-this sky, as though not of today at all.
Does Manasa reside within the cobra-hooded cactus grove? She does
indeed.
Is not this river Kalidaha? Ah, there at that ghat did I not glimpse
The face of Sanaka, bun undone hair flowing loose? How sad and pale
and
Worn-ont is all truth. This dream of yours is true, said Manasa
herself.
Your child will one day quit your bosom, turning from
Bengal's breast to go away. At which time the stars will fall,
Slipping from the sky's soft blue bosom, sinking into
Cold. Everywhere gorgeous paddy one day will have fallen in the
Fog. Perhaps the night owl will sing its song in darkness,
Will snatch me up like a field mouse into death's house,
The smell of chaff sticking to my desiring heart, yet in my eyes
Blue death, sleepless, a bent moon, an empty field, the scent of dew.
Who after all knows when death is coming-when that storm in Kalidaha
Will snap the lotus stalk, pluck the life out of the gull, a hornbill?
I do not know. Yet may I die within these fields and ghats,
Not by the black Yamuna. May the fragrance of these river waves
Cling to my eyes, mouth. May my Bengal the beautiful stay awake upon
My breast. And may I remain Iying beneath her like Ardhanariswara.
As long as I might live I yearn to see the sky, gone elsewhere
Into skies as blue as aparajita vines-bluer still.
I want to watch the dawn's own herons, kingfishers swooping high
Wringing with their wings the sky, going somewhere during
The month of September. I wish to sit upon the grass of Bengal,
For I've roamed the world and borne in heart the age's sorrows.
I'll drift with the Dhansiri's flow toward Bengal's burning ground
Where Ramprasad's wild-haired Syama still comes today.
Where some lovely lady's body, embroidery-bordered sari clad,
Rides a funeral pyre of sandalwood-a parrot on a mango branch
Forgets to speak; where resides the greatest beauty-melancholy;
Where the lotus withers. where for long Bisalaksi has not spoken;
Where one day Sankhamala's, Chandramala's, Manikmala's
Bangles used to jingle-ah, will they ever jingle once again!
Ami banglar gaan gai I am singing
Ami Jamini sasi hoay
Champa chameli
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4.1 Rupasi Bangla (Beautuful Bengal)
 I shall fall fast asleep one day within your starlit night.
Perhaps even then youth will linger in my heart-my young days
Still will not have ended. Good. Sleep comes-grass of Bengal
Underneath my breast, eyes closed. on the mango leaves of Bengal
The green beetles asleep, and I too lie sleeping with them:
I'll sleep on content in this field-this grass-speechless,
The tales of my heart slowly wiped away. There'll be many fresh
New celebrations of life's sweet wounds, against the current
In all your busy minds. Yet, young man, when with your fingernails
You'll rip this grass up and go along, when Manikmala at dawn
Comes by this path to pick red banyan flowers and sour kamranga
frult,
When the yellow leaflets of the sephali blossoms fall upon the grass
In some soft autumn, just how far the salik, the wagtails fly today,
How strong the sunshine, clouds-I'll sense all as I lie in death's
darkness.
One day I grew upon the paths of the world: my body
Walked the soft grassy paths; I sat upon the grass
And saw stars play like fireflies in curiosity's infinite
Sky; glossy wet river banks fill with water's scent
In darkness; I hear the swish of whose soft saris,
See unoiled hair; who come with words to console-
Gray cowrie-shell hands-naked hands in an evening breeze
Visible; near yellow grass lie the gorgeous sad wings
Of a cold dead butterfly. I look; I stop and stand quietly:
Orange color spreads over the evening sky-crows appear blue.
I sink into a crowd of people-I talk-hold hand in hand.
Some profound wonderment of somewhere seems hidden within that
Compassionate, doleful hair-I sleep alone beneath the stars.
An owl's gray wings speak with fireflies the whole night long.
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4.2 BANALATA SEN
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BANALATA SEN
Jibanananda Das
Long I have been a wanderer of this world,
Many a night,
My route lay across the sea of Ceylon somewhat winding to
The seas of Malaya.
I was in the dim world of Bimbisar and Asok, and further off
In the mistiness of Vidarbha.
At moments when life was too much a sea of sounds,
I had Banalata Sen of Natore (now Bangladesh) and her wisdom.
I remember her hair dark as night at Vidisha,
Her face an image of Sravasti as the pilot,
Undone in the blue milieu of the sea,
Never twice saw the earth of grass before him,
I have seen her, Banalata Sen of Natore.
When day is done, no fall somewhere but of dews
Dips into the dusk; the smell of the sun is gone
off the Kestrel's wings. Light is your wit now,
Fanning fireflies that pitch the wide things around.
For Banalata Sen of Natore.
For thousands of years I roamed the paths of this earth,
From waters round Ceylon in dead of night to Malayan seas.
Much have I wandered. I was there in the gray world of Asoka
And Bimbisara, pressed on through darkness to the city of Vidarbha.
I am a weary heart surrounded by life's frothy ocean.
To me she gave a moment's peace-Banalata Sen from Natore.
Her hair was like an ancient darkling night in Vidisa,
Her face, the craftsmanship of Sravasti. As the helmsman,
His rudder broken, far out upon the sea adrift,
Sees the grass-green land of a cinnamon isle, just so
Through darkness I saw her. Said she, "Where have you been so long?"
And raised her bird's-nest-like eyes-Banalata Sen from Natore.
At day's end, like hush of dew
Comes evening. A hawk wipes the scent of sunlight from its wings.
When earth's colors fade and some pale design is sketched,
Then glimmering fireflies paint in the story.
All birds come home, all rivers, all of this life's tasks finished.
only darkness remains, as I sit there face to face with Banalata Sen.
(Trans. by the poet)
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5. Kazi Nazrul Islam
 Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976) national poet of Bangladesh, called the 'rebel poet' for his fierce resistance to all forms of repression. Nazrul, who died in 1976 in Dhaka, is best known for his works expressing rebellion against society, tradition, politics, injustice, intolerance and oppression. He earned equal prominence and popularity as a composer and lyricist.
He protested against repression in various forms such as slavery, communalism, feudalism and colonialism. He is popularly known as Bidrohi Kabi or the Rebel Poet.
His protest forced the British rules to ban on many of his books and compilations; he was also jailed for his works. Kazi Nazrull is renowned as the National Poet of Bangladesh.
I’m the Rebel Eternal,
I’ll stamp my footprint on the bosom of Almighty!
I’ll tear apart the ribcage of the whimsical Providence.
That’s precisely how Kazi Nazrul Islam elected to describe himself in his arguably the best-known poem The Rebel – Bidrohi in original Bengali. And, not for nothing, he came to be known ever after as the Bidrohi Kabi, the Rebel Poet, of Bengal.
While he is best known for his romantic lyrics, his fiery and militant anti-colonial patriotic poems and songs also inspired millions of Bengalis in their fight for Indian independence.
His composition of devotional songs – again highly popular, both in Islamic and local Hindu traditions – went hand in hand with his intense engagement with radical nationalist and Marxist currents. As a political activist he suffered imprisonment by the colonial ruler. Some of his works were proscribed. Kazi Nazrul also provided a Bengali translation of The Internationale.
He was born on May 24, 1899 at Churulia in Burdwan of West Bengal. He appeared in the Bangla literature at the age of 21.
He was famous for his pieces advocating the triumph of youth. His poems have remained a source of inspiration at a time of despair. He also composed more than 2,000 songs.
 All his life Nazrul fought against fundamentalism, superstition and ritualistic social behaviour, especially among Muslims. The socialist revolution in Russia in 1917 also influenced Nazrul in many ways. This was borne out by the publication in langal and Ganavani of 'samyabadi' and 'sarbahara' poems and his translation of the 'Communist International' under the title 'Jago Anashana Bandi Utha Re Yata' (Wake up and rise all the prisoners of hunger).
"To those who complain why I'm not like them: Does the nightingale's songs belong to anyone? Can you call wild flowers your own? Just because I was born into a certain community or society doesn't mean it owns me. I belong to the world and all its corners. I'm a devotee of eternal radiance and because I can rise above petty communalism, I'm a poet."
-- Kazi Nazrul Islam, speaking at a reception (Albert Hall, Calcutta December 15, 1929).
Much has been said and speculated about Nazrul's religious convictions, his spirituality and his ideology. In his time, Nazrul was sneered at and protested by hardliner Muslims and Hindus but the truth is, his Hamd and Naat were as avid as his Kirtan and Shyama Sangeet. Nazrul brought about a revolution in the genre of devotional songs and poetry. What set Nazrul's work apart from his contemporaries was his flair for unusual, yet worldly metaphors and razor sharp wit that incorporated ideas and philosophies from diverse cultures and religions.
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Today is the UN's official World Poverty Day. But every day is poverty day for the two billion people worldwide who have less than two dollars a day to live on. Of those, just under one billion live on just one dollar a day.
In September 2000, 189 countries pledged to halve the number of those in poverty by 2015. When we look at the results so far, hope mixes with despair. Over 100 million children are still unable to go to school. Each year, 10 million children die before their fifth birthday. 40 million are living with HIV and AIDS, and 5 million die of it each year.
5. 1.Poverty
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  O poverty, thou hast made me great.
Thou hast made me honoured like Christ
With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me
Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe
My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue.
Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword.
O proud saint, thy terrible fire
Has rendered my heaven barren.
It has prematurely dried beauty.
My feelings and my life.
Time and again I stretched my lean, cupped
hands
To accept the gift of the beautiful.
But those hungry ones always came before
me.
And did snatch it away ruthlessly,
Now my word of imagination is
Dry as a vast desert.
And my own beautiful!
..........................
I grow listless in the shadowy skirt of
the earth
And my dreams of beauty and goodness
vanish!
With a bitter tongue thou ask,
"What's the use of nectar?
It has no sting, no intoxication, no
madness in it.
The search for heaven's sacred drink
Is not for thee in this sorrow-filled
earth.
...........................
 Someone seems to have entwined my soul
With that of Mother Earth. She comes
forward
And with her dust-adorned hands
Offers me her presents.
It seems to me that she is the youngest
daughter of mine,
My darling child! But suddenly I wake up
with a start.
O cruel saint, being my child,
Thou weepest in my home, hungry and reviled!
O my child, my darling one
I could not give thee even a drop of milk
No right have I to rejoice.
Poverty weeps within my doors forever
As my spouse and my child.
Who will play the flute?
Where shall I get the happy smile I have drunk deep the hemlock
Of bitter tears!
And still even today
I hear the mournful tune of the Sanai (violin).
Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Nazrul explores a synthesis of different forces in a rebel, destroyer and preserver, spreading terror and expressing rage as well as beauty and sensitivity. Nazrul followed up by writing Pralayollas (Destructive Euphoria), and his first anthology of poems, the Agniveena (Lyre of Fire) in 1922, which enjoyed astounding and far-reaching successs. He also published his first volume of short stores, the Byather Dan (Gift of Sorrow) and Yugbani, an anthology of essays.
Nazrul rose to fame with the publication of Bidrohi in 1922, which has become his most famous work. Set in a heroic meter, this long poem invokes images from Hindu, Muslim and Greek mythology.[1] Nazrul won admiration of India's literary classes by his description of the rebel whose impact is hard, fierce and ruthless even as its spirit is deep and philosophical: |
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5. 2. "Bidrohi"
 Proclaim Hero-
Proclaim: My head is held towering
Bows down the Himalayan peak, that at looking.
Say Hero-
Say: Tearing the firmament of the universe
Outstripping the Moon, the Sun and the Stars
Piercing the Earth and the celestial spheres
Penetrating through the Almighty's sacred throne
Risen have I, the wonder eternal of the God's universe.
With the mark of majestic might
The angry God on my forehead blazing bright!
Say Hero-
Say: My head is held ever towering!
I am irrepressible, imperious and brutal
I am the dancing lord of the great upheaval.
I am the cyclone, the devastation tremendous
I am terrible fear and the curse of the universe
I am turbulent, I crash everything
Wild I am, I trample under my feet all rules and binding.
I obey no law, but mine
I cause the loaded boats to capsize
I am torpedo, I am the dreadful floating mine.
I am the God Dhurjati-
The ill timed hair disheveled typhoon of disaster,
I am The Rebel the rebellious son of the global mother.
Say Hero-
Ever towering is my head!"
Bidrohi Remake of Kazi Nazrul Islam's poem Bidrohi.
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Sambyabadi (Song of Equality)
I sing the song of equality, in unison
Where all the differences and barriers are gone.
United where, the Hindus-Buddhist, Muslim-Christian
I sing the song of equality, in unison.
Are you parsic? Jain? Jews? Santal, Veel, Garo?
Confucian? Charvakist? Go ahead say more!
In your brain, on your back and shoulder
You carry, whatever you like, the book or scripture
Quran-Puran-Vedas-Vedants-Bible-Tripitak
Zendavesta-Granth Sahib, read you like whatever
Why this futile labour, taking pain in brain?
For what reason, is this bargain?
Watch, the road side flowers, time and again.
Within you, all the scriptures and knowledge, of all time are there
Friend, you will find all of them, just open your heart with care.
All the religions are within you and the preceptor
Your heart is the world temple, of the God all over.
Why do you search, for the God and Goddess, among the dead-book-skeleton
Smiling he is, just behind the screen of your nectar-heart alone
Friends, I did not tell a lie.
Here, all the crowns, drop and die.
In this heart, that Mountain, Kashi, Brindabon, Mathura
Jerusalem, Kaba, Madina, Buddha-Gaya.
Mosque is this, temple is this, church is this heart
Just here! Jesus and Moses knew the truth, not in desert.
The Flute-kid, sang the holy Geeta, at this war field
The sheepheard Prophets, became the God's friends, in this green field.
Sitting in meditation, at this heart-cave, Buddha gave up the throne
Hearing the call, of mankind's wail and groan.
The Arab-Darling, received the message, from this cavern
Just sitting here, he sang the song of equality, of the holy Quran.
Didn't listen a lie dear!
There is no temple or mosque greater-
Than this heart in compare.
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6. Rabinranath Tagore
6.1 Selected Poems of Rabinranath Tagoret
 Rabindranath Tagore (Bengali: Rabindranath Thakur) (May 7, 1861 – August 7, 1941), also known by the sobriquet Gurudev, was a Bengali poet from Undivided India, Brahmo Samaj (syncretic Hindu monotheist) philosopher, visual artist, playwright, composer, and novelist whose avant-garde works reshaped Bengali literature and music in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. A celebrated cultural icon of Bengal, he became Asia's first Nobel laureate when he won the 1913 Nobel Prize in Literature.
Tagore began writing poems at the age of eight; he published his first substantial poetry — using the pseudonym Bhanushingho ("Sun Lion") — in 1877 and wrote his first short stories and dramas at age sixteen. His home schooling, life in Shelidah (Bangladesh, Kustia), and extensive travels made Tagore an iconoclast and pragmatist; however, growing disillusionment with the British Raj caused Tagore to back the Indian Independence Movement and befriend Mahatma Gandhi. Despite the loss of virtually his entire family and his regrets regarding Bengal's decline, his life's work — Visva-Bharati University — endured.
Tagore's major works included Gitanjali (Song Offerings), Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World), while his verse, short stories, and novels — many defined by rhythmic lyricism, colloquial language, meditative naturalism, and philosophical contemplation — received worldwide acclaim. Tagore was also a cultural reformer and polymath who modernised Bangla art by rejecting strictures binding it to classical Indian forms. Two songs from his rabindrasangit canon are now the national anthems of Bangladesh and India: the Amar Shonar Bangla and the Jana Gana Mana.
 In 1890, Tagore went to Shilaidaha (now in Bangladesh) to look after the family estate. Here, he was influenced by the natural beauty and simple but elegant life of rural Bengal. Attended session of Indian National Congress and sang the song Vandemataram on the opening day. Wrote famous dance/musical drama - Chitrangada. His youngest daughter Mira was born in 1892. In 1894 , wrote famous collection poems - Sonar Tari (The Golden Boat). Son Samindra was born in 1894.
Ezra Pound's Poetry Magazine published from Chicago had the honor of publishing first English poem of Tagore. His six Gitanjali poems appeared in Poetry in December, 1912 issue. Th epoet returned back to Calcutta. In 13th November of 1913, Indians came to know that the Nobel prize for literature has been awarded to Tagore for Gitanjali.
But the Times , Los Angeles, complained that young modern writers in Europe and America had been discouraged by the award of the Prize "to a Hindu poet whose name few people can pronounce, with whose work fewer in America are familiar, and whose claim for that high distinction still fewer will recognize"."
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Where the Mind is Without Fear
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection:
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Rabindranath Tagore, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913.
On a rainy day when the wind gets wild
My untamed mind wakes up.
Outside the realm of the known, where no path can be found
There goes my mind on its own.
Will it ever go home-ward now.
No, no it will not go there-
All the impediments are gone.
The evening is rain-intoxicated, which god's disciple I am,
They dance around my mind enmeshes the votaries
all the votaries.
I ask what I shouldn't ask for
Once cannot get what cannot be got
Won't get, won't get,
I vainly lay myself at the feel of the impossible
--from Selected Songs of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Abu Rushd
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My days got restive of the golden cage
Those multi-coloured days of mine.
They got our of the fetters of joy and crying
Those multi-coloured days of mine.
The words of my soul's song
I had hopes they might learn-
They flew away, without saying much
Those multi-coloured days of mine.
I dream, they circle round my broken cage
In expectation of meeting someone
Those multi-coloured days of mine.
So much pain can't be all deception.
Are they all shadowy birds.
Is nothing left at the horizon
Those multi-coloured days of mine.
--from Selected Songs of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Abu Rushd
There is no one to stop me from getting lost,
Anywhere at all, as long as I make a wish in my mind.
I spread my wings to the rhythm of my song, in my imagination.
I go beyond the stony wilderness of all fairy tales,
I get lost and reach a far away place, where silence rules.
I go through the "parul" forests and get to know the "champa" flowers,
All in my imagination.
There is no one to stop me from getting lost,
Anywhere at all, as long as I make a wish in my mind.
I spread my wings to the rhythm of my song, in my imagination.
As the setting sun reaches the horizon,
And the clouds are all like cotton flowers in the sky,
On the surf of the seven seas,
I float faraway to foreign lands.
I throw open the locked doors of fairy worlds, in my imagination.
--written by Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Anonymous
The rain has stopped and sun-light
Smiles on the cloud.
It is holiday for us today, brother, today is a holiday for us
I can't think of how to spend the day, which woods
to seek after getting lost.
Which field to choose for all the assembled boys.
With 'keya' leaves we shall build a boat
and cover it with flowers.
And float it on the palm-lake and watch it moving rockingly.
With the peasant boy we'll drive the cattle and play the flute
Press the flower-seed to our skin ransacking the champak wood.
--from Selected Songs of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Abu Rushd
Unending Love
I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,
In life after life, in age after age forever.
My spell-bound heart has made and re-made the necklace of songs
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms
In life after life, in age after age forever.
Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,
Its ancient tale of being apart or together,
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever.
You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount
At the heart of time love of one for another.
We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-
Old love, but in shapes that renew and renew forever.
Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you,
The love of all man's days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life,
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours-
And the songs of every poet past and forever.
The moon's smile has forsaken all restraint, the light overflows.
O 'rajanigandha' pour out all your smell.
The agitated wind doesn't know in which direction to move-
Everyone looks lovely when it encompasses
the blossoming bower.
Today the blue sky's forehead is washed in sandal,
The coupled-swan of the eloquent wood have spread their wings.
With a plant from paradise, what does the moon spread
around the world.
What honeymoon- light from heaven is lit up here.
--from Selected Songs of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Abu Rushd
The time that my journey takes is long
and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first
gleam of light, and pursued my voyage
through the wilderness of worlds leaving
my track on many a star and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes
nearest to thyself, and that training is the
most intricate which leads to the utter
simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock at every alien
door to come to his own, and one has to
wander through all the outer worlds to
reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I
shut them and said, "Here art thou!"
The question and the cry, "Oh, where?"
melt into tears of a thousand streams and
deluge the world with the flood of the
assurance, "I am!"
The earth of Bengal, Bengal's waters, the air of Bengal, Bengal's fruit
Consecrate, consecrate, consecrate, oh Lord
The homestead of Bengal, Bengal's market,
the woods of Bengal, Bengal's field
Be bounteous, be bounteous, be bounteous, oh Lord.
The resolve of a Bengalee, his hope,
the toil of a Bengalee, his language
Be truthful, be truthful, be truthful of Lord.
The heart of a Bengalee, his mind,
All the brothers and sisters in a Bengalee household
Be one, be one, be one, oh Lord.
--from Selected Songs of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Abu Rushd
It is your beginning, this is my end-
You and I together make this current.
Your lamp burns, you've a companion at home
For me it is night, for me it is the star.
Yours is the shore, mine the water-
You remain sitting, I go on wandering.
Your hand can hold, mine knows decay-
Your mind knows fear, mine is above it.
--from Selected Songs of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Abu Rushd
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
I drive down into the depth of the ocean of
forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of
the formless.
No more sailing from harbour to harbour
with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport
was to be tossed on waves.
And now I am eager to die into the
deathless.
Into the audience hall by the fathomless
abyss where swells up the music of toneless
strings I shall take this harp of my life.
I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and, when it has sobbed out its last
utterance, lay down my silent harp at
the feet of the silent.
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Ever in my life have I sought thee with my
songs. It was they who led me from door
to door, and with them have I felt about
me, searching and touching my world.
It way my songs that taught me all the
lessons I ever learned; they showed me
secret paths, they brought before my sight
many a star on the horizon of my heart.
They guided me all the day long to the
mysteries of the country of pleasure and
pain, and at last, to what palace gate have
they brought me in the evening at the end
of my journey?
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
The song that I came to sing remains
unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in
unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words
have not been rightly set; only there is the
agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the
wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I
listened to his voice; only I have heard his
gentle footsteps from the road before my
house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading
his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not
been lit and I cannot ask him into my
house.
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but the meeting is not yet.
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
In the deep shadows of the rainy July,
with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as
night, eluding all watchers.
Today the morning has closed its eyes
heedless of the insistent calls of the loud
east wind, and the thick veil has been drawn
over the ever-wakeful blue sky.
The woodlands have hushed their songs,
and doors are all shut at every house. Thou
art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street.
Oh my only friend, my be best beloved,
the gates are open in my house-
do not pass by like a dream.
-- from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
On many an idle day have I grieved over
lost time. But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life
in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things though art
nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into
blossoms, and ripening flowers into
fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased. In the
morning I woke up and found my garden
full with wonders of flowers.
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens.
Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside
at the door all alone?
In the busy moments of the noontide
work I am with the crowd, but on this dark
lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.
If thou showest me not thy face, if thou
leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I
am to pass these long, rainy hours.
I keep gazing on the far away gloom of
the sky, and my hear wanders wailing
with the restless wind.
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Excerpts From The Gardener
by Rabindranath Tagore
I try to wreath all the morning, but the flowers slip and they drop out.
You sit there watching me in secret through the corner of your prying eyes.
Ask those eyes, darkly planning mischief, whose fault it was.
I try to sing a song, but in vain.
A hidden smile trembles on your lips; ask of it the reason of my failure.
Let your smiling lips say on oath
how my voice lost itself in silence like a drunken bee in the lotus
It is evening, and the time for the flowers to close their petals.
Give me leave to sit by your side,
and bid my lips to do the work that can be done in silence
and in the dim light of stars.
Do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend!
Say it to me, only to me in secret.
You who smile so gently, softly whisper, my heart will hear it, not my ears.
The night is deep, the house is silent, the birds' nests are shrouded with sleep.
Speak to me through hesitating tears, through faltering smiles,
through sweet shame and pain, the secret of your heart!
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in words what you sang.
The night is dark. The stars are lost in clouds. The
wind is sighing through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue cloak will cling round me like night. I
will clasp your head to my bosom; and there in the sweet loneliness murmur
on your heart. I will shut my eyes and listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will sit still and silent. Only the trees will whisper
in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will dawn. We shall look at each other's eyes and go
on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in words what you sang
Love, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you
-for the meeting that is all-devouring death.
Sweep me away like a storm; take everything I have;
break open my sleep and plunder my dreams. Rob me of my world.
In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let us become one in beauty.
Alas for my vain desire! Where is this hope for union except in thee, my God?
Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
Then finish the last song and let us leave.
Forget this night when the night is no more.
Whom do I try to clasp in my arms? Dreams can never be made captive.
My eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises my heart.
Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus
begins the record of our hearts.
It is the moonlight night of March; the sweet smell of henna
is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers
is unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some
smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible;
no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our
hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
Your questioning eyes are sad. They seek to know my meaning
as the moon would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your eyes from end to end, with
nothing hidden or held back. That is why you know me not.
If it were only a gem, I could break it into a hundred pieces
and string them into a chain to put on your neck.
If it were only a flower, round and small and sweet, I could pluck it
from its stem and set it in your hair.
But it is a heart, my beloved. Where are its shores and its bottom?
You know not the limits of this kingdom, still you are its queen.
If it were only a moment of pleasure it would flower in an easy smile,
and you could see it and read it in a moment.
If it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears, reflecting its
inmost secret without a word.
But it is love, my beloved.
Its pleasure and pain are boundless, and endless its wants and wealth.
It is as near to you as your life, but you can never wholly know it
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep
I fear lest I lose you when Iam sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I start up and stretch my hands to touch you.
I ask myself, "Is it a dream?"
Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them
fast my breast!
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have plucked your flower, O world!
I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.
When the day waned and it darkened, I found that
the flower had faded, but the pain remained.
More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!
But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night
I have not my rose, only the pain remains.
Twelve O'Clock
by Rabindranath Tagore
Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons now.
I have been at my book all the morning.
You say it is only twelve o'clock.
Suppose it isn't very late;can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve o'clock?
I can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of that rice-field, and the old fish-woman is gathering herbs for her supper by the side of the pond.
I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing darker under the MADAR tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny black.
If twelve o'clodk can come in the night, why can't the night come when it is twelve o'clock?
This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore
Gitanjali (part Two)
by Rabindranath Tagore
"When thou commandest me to sing, it seems that my heart would break
with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet
harmony- and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight
across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer
I come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which
I could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art
my Lord".
Gitanjali
I drive down into the depth of the ocean of
forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of
the formless.
No more sailing from harbour to harbour
with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport
was to be tossed on waves.
And now I am eager to die into the
deathless.
Into the audience hall by the fathomless
abyss where swells up the music of toneless
strings I shall take this harp of my life.
I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and, when it has sobbed out its last
utterance, lay down my silent harp at
the feet of the silent
-from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
The time that my journey takes is long
and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first
gleam of light, and pursued my voyage
through the wilderness of worlds leaving
my track on many a star and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes
nearest to thyself, and that training is the
most intricate which leads to the utter
simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock at every alien
door to come to his own, and one has to
wander through all the outer worlds to
reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I
shut them and said, "Here art thou!"
The question and the cry, "Oh, where?"
melt into tears of a thousand streams and
deluge the world with the flood of the
assurance, "I am!"
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
The song that I came to sing remains
unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in
unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words
have not been rightly set; only there is the
agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the
wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I
listened to his voice; only I have heard his
gentle footsteps from the road before my
house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading
his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not
been lit and I cannot ask him into my
house.
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but the meeting is not yet.
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens.
Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside
at the door all alone?
In the busy moments of the noontide
work I am with the crowd, but on this dark
lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.
If thou showest me not thy face, if thou
leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I
am to pass these long, rainy hours.
I keep gazing on the far away gloom of
the sky, and my hear wanders wailing
with the restless wind. -
-From Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
In the deep shadows of the rainy July,
with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as
night, eluding all watchers.
Today the morning has closed its eyes,
heedless of the insistent calls of the loud
east wind, and the thick veil has been drawn
over the ever-wakeful blue sky.
The woodlands have hushed their songs,
and doors are all shut at every house. Thou
art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street.
Oh my only friend, my be best beloved,
the gates are open in my house-
do not pass by like a dream.
-- from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
On many an idle day have I grieved over
lost time. But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life
in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things though art
nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into
blossoms, and ripening flowers into
fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased. In the
morning I woke up and found my garden
full with wonders of flowers.
--from Gitanjali, translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Love's Question
And is this all true,
My ever-loving friend?
That the lightning-flash of the light in my eyes
Makes the clouds in your heart explode and blaze,
Is this true?
That my sweet lips are red as a blushing new bride,
My ever-loving friend,
Is this true?
That a tree of paradise flowers withing me,
That my foosteps ring like vinas beneath me,
Is this true?
That the night sheds drops of dew at the sight of me,
That the dawn surrounds me with light from delight in me,
Is this true?
That the touch of my hot cheek intoxicates the breeze,
My ever-loving friend,
Is this true?
That daylight hides in the dark of my hair,
That my arms hold life and death in their power,
Is this true?
That the earth can be wrapped in the end of my sari,
That my voice makes the world fall silent to hear me,
Is this true?
That the univrse is nothing but me and what loves me,
My ever-loving friend,
Is this true?
That for me alone your love has been waiting
Through worlds and ages awake and wandering,
Is this true?
That my voice, eyes, lips have brought you relief,
In a trice, from the cycle of life after life,
Is this true?
That you read on my soft forehead inginite Truth,
My ever-loving friend,
Is this true?
I Won’t Let You Go!
Jete nahi dibo
by Rabindranath Tagore
Back to Content
The carriage is ready; it’s afternoon;
The late autumnal sun blazes;
A midday breeze swirls dust
Off the deserted rural road;
In a peepal tree shade
A worn out beggar woman dozes
On a tattered cloth. As in a night
Still soaked with sunlight
Everything is still, silent, somnolent—
Only my house is astir,
And its inmates incapable of sleep!
Ashwin has come and gone; holiday over,
I leave for my far off workplace today.
Our servants run around the house
Packing bags and baggage with ropes and strings,
Although her eyes are full of tears,
And her heart heavy as a stone, my wife
Has not a moment to sit down and cry.
She is making sure that everything is ready
For my trip. My bags are full,
But she thinks I don’t have enough!
I exclaim, “Must I take all?
Boxes, jugs, pots, pans and plates,
Bowls, bottles, and bedclothes too!
What will I do with so many things?
Let me only take some of them
And leave the rest behind.”
But nobody heeds me.
“What if you need this or that?
Where will you get them then?
Here I’ve fine rice, superb lentils
Beetle leaves and areca nuts; in those bowls
Are date-palm molasses and ripe coconuts;
Over there two jugs of the best mustard oil,
Mango cakes, dried mango sticks and some milk,
Here in these bottles are medicines
And in those bowls delicious sweets—
Promise, dear, you will eat them!”
I realize it’s pointless to protest
And let bags and baggage pile up.
I look at my watch and then at my dear wife,
And say softly, “Goodbye.”
Sad, she turns away,
Hiding her face in her sari’s borders,
Fighting tears lest they bring bad luck.
Outside the door my four-year old girl
Waits pensively. Any other day,
She would have had a bath by now
And before she had taken a bite or two,
Her eyelids would have wrapped her in sleep.
This day her mom has had no time for her
And hasn’t notice that she hadn’t bathed
Or had lunch. All this time she had been
Sticking close to me like my shadow,
Watching my going-away rituals in rapt silence.
Tired now, thinking who knows what,
She stands outside the door silently.
When I say, “good bye darling”,
She declares sad-eyed and solemnly,
“I won’t let you go,” staying where she is,
Making no attempt to take me by the arm
Or block my way; as if proclaiming thus
The dictate of her heart. As if only saying
“I won’t let you go” was enough.
And yet the time has come, alas!
She has to let me go!
Silly daughter of mine, was it you speaking?
What gave you the strength
To say so intensely, “I won’t let you go!”
What made you feel you could stop me
From leaving with your two bare hands?
How could you think of holding me back
And blocking the door with your tired tiny body
Propelled only by a heart full of love?
Timid and shy that we are, the most we say
Even when our heart bursts with pain is
“I don’t feel like letting you go!”
And to hear your little mouth declare firmly
“I won’t let you go”, to hear you establish
Love’s claim with such terrific intensity!
And yet I feel the world smiling wryly
As it forces me away from my family.
I take my leave, but as in a framed picture,
I register your image—defeated,
In tears, sitting in the doorway,
And all I can do wipe my tears and leave.
As I depart I see on both sides of the road
Ripening paddy fields basking in the sun.
Towering trees border the highway
Contemplating intently their own shades.
The autumnal Ganges is in full flow.
White cloudlets recline on the blue sky
Like new-born calves who’ve had their fill
Of their mother’s milk and sleep peacefully.
I sigh as I look at the bright sunlight
Spreading across exhausted old earth.
What immense sadness has engulfed
The entire sky and the whole world!
The farther I go the more clearly I hear
Those poignant words, “I won’t let you go!”
From the world’s edges to the skies blue dome
The eternal cry echoes, “I won’t let you go!”
Everything is saying, “I won’t let you go!”
Even mother earth cries out to the tiny grass
It hugs on its bosom, “I won’t let you go!”
Someone trying to snatch away from darkness
A flame flickering in the dying lamp exclaims
A hundred times, “I won’t let you go!”
It’s the oldest cry stretching from earth to heaven
The profoundest lamentation, “I won’t let you go!”
And yet, alas, we have to let go; and yet,
Of course, we must go. And this is how it has been,
From time immemorial. Since creation’s currents
Began streaming relentlessly towards extinction’s sea
With burning eyes and outstretched arms
We’ve all been crying out in vain endlessly,
“Won’t let go, won’t let you go!”
Filling earth’s shores with our laments
As everything ebbs inexorably away.
The waves upfront cries out to the ones in the rear,
“Won’t let go, won’t let you go!”—
But no one listens.
Everywhere around me this day I hear
My daughter’s plaintive voice; it keeps ringing
In my ears and piercing the heart of the universe.
Earth resounds with a child’s unreasonable cry.
Forever it loses what it gets and yet it won’t
Slacken its grip; forever it calls to us
With undiminished love like my four year daughter:
“I won’t let you go!” Though sad-faced and in tears,
Though its pride is shattered at every step,
Love refuses to accept defeat and cries out
In desperation, “”I won’t let you go!”
Defeated each time it blurts out,
“Can the one I love stay away from me?
Can anything in the universe compare
In strength or be as boundless as my desire?”
And even as it proclaims proudly,
“I won’t let you go” the one it treasures
Is blown away in an instant, like dust
Wafted by the arid wayward breeze. And then
Tears stream down its eyes. Like a tree
Uprooted, it collapses headfirst, humiliated.
And yet Love insists, “God keeps his Word
I have proof in the pledge He made of a right
Given eternally.” And thus emboldened,
Delicately built Love stands up to Death
And declares proudly, “Death, you don’t exist!”
Death laughs at such folly. And so Love,
Undying, though weighed down by Death,
Pervades the universe, solemn-faced,
Full of fears, forever in a flutter and tears.
And so a weary hopefulness covers the world
Like a gray fog. I see two inconsolable arms
Vainly trying to bind saddened, silent earth.
Under swift currents a quiet shade
—The allure of a cloud that will soon shed tears.
And thus it is that this day the rustling trees
Induce in me such yearnings. In the midday heat
The lazy indifferent wind plays listlessly
With dry leaves. The slow day wanes,
Lengthening the shades under the banyan tree.
Eternity’s flute plays a pastoral lament
That can be heard over the universe. In response,
Listless earth sits down in a paddy field
By the river’s side, loosening its tresses,
And flinging a golden scarf across its bosom
That gleams in the golden sun. She is silent
Her eyes are still as she looks at the blue and distant sky.
I take a look at her sad, sorrowful face,
As if in a doorway, quiet, absorbed, sad.
Just like my four-year-old daughter!
Translated by Fakrul Alam
Back to Content
Farewell my Friend
It was beautiful as long as it lasted
The journey to my life.
I have no regrets whatsoever
save the pain I'll leave behind.
Those dear hearts who love and care...
And the strings pulling at the heart and soul...
The strong arms that held me up
When my own strength let me down.
At every turning of my life
I came across good friends,
Friends who stood me by,
Even when time raced me by.
Farewell, farewell my friends
I smile and bid you goodbye.
No, shed no tears for I need them not.
All I need is your smile.
If you feel sad do think of me
for that's what I'll like.
When you live in the hearts of those you love,
remember, then you never die.
Back to Content
7. Sukanto Bhottacharjo
Sukanto Bhottacharjo: The Voice of Resistance
 In contrast to the brevity of his life, Sukanto Bhottacharyo has had a remarkably lasting effect upon the political and cultural sensibilities of the people of West Bengal and Bangladesh. Born in 1926, at age 15 he began experimenting in verse and prose. His poetry caught fire at the age of 17, and the bulk of his work -- only about 155 poems in all -- were written during the four years from 1943 to 1947. During this period India was in turmoil, lifting its head to throw off the yoke of British rule. Bengal, in particular, was torn by man-made famine, war and religious riots. Sukanta dedicated his poetry to the worldwide struggle for liberation and social justice. Known as a revolutionary communist poet, he organized youth in a culture movement and led student demonstrations. Pushing himself without concern for his failing health, he succumbed to tuberculosis and died at the age of 21.
Sukanto's poetry was an integral part of the Language Movement of Bangladesh, as well as the independence struggle culminating in 1971, and the movement against martial law of 1983-1990. Whenever the people struggle for justice in Bangladesh -- and they must do so very often -- it is a certainty that the poetry of Sukanto will be recited at the rallies and painted on walls along the march routes.
Here is one of his most famous works: |
7.1 The passport
The Passport
by Sukanto Bhottacharjo
The breath of the child that's born tonight
Bore me these tidings:
A passport it has received,
So at the portals of its new world it declaims its rights
With a shrill cry as soon as it is born.
So tiny and helpless! yet how its clenched fist
Is raised, glowing
With the ardor of an incomprehensible resolve.
No one can make out what it says.
Some laugh, some only mildly remonstrate.
But I have grasped that language,
Received the new message of the coming age -
In the eyes of the new-born, dim with mist,
I read its credentials.
The new-born is here, we'll have to make room for it;
Unsuccessful in this worn-out world, we'll have to leave
With a heap of corpses and ruin on our back.
I'll depart, yet today, while there is life in me
I will with all my might cleanse this world's dung-heap,
I'll leave this world habitable for the child -
To the new-born that is my resolute pledge.
At last, when all my work is done,
With my own blood the new child
Will I anoint -
Then become history.
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