I Can, But Why Should I Go 9788172015770, 8172015771

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Sahltya Akademi Award-winning Bengali Poems

I Can, But Why Should I Go

by Sakti Chattopadhyay Translated by Jayanta Mahapatra

._(A_. Sahitya Akademi

/ Can, But Why Should I Go : English translation by Jayanta Mahapatra of Akademi award-winning collection of Bengali poems Jete Pari Kintu Keno Jabo by Sakti Chattopadhyay, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi (1994).

Sahitya Akademi Rabindra Bhavan, 35. Ferozeshah Road, New Delhi 110 001 Sales: ‘Swati’, Mandir Marg. New Delhi 110 001 Jeevan Tara Building, 4th floor, 23A/44X, Diamond Harbour Road, Calcutta 700 053 172, Mumbai Marathi Grantha Sangrahalaya Marg, Dadar, Bombay 400 014 Guna Building, Nos. 304-305, Anna Salai, Teynampet, Madras 600 018 ADA Rangamandira, 109, J.C. Road, Bangalore 560 002

© Sahitya Akademi First Published, 1994

ISBN : 81-7201-577-1

Rs. 30/-

Printed at Computer Comer, H-15, Uttam Nagar. New Delhi 110 059.

fo r Meenakshee Chattopadhyaya who Jlrst instilled in me the idea o f translating Shaktl's poetry

Contents

Translator's Note

xt

I can, but why should I go

1

Lying down, this broken sleep, tom dreams

2

Painful for me to walk the road

3

Death

4

Is this the time?

5

Cat

6

Intolerable

7

I stand with hands outstretched

8

This splendour from here below

9

You stay alone

10

I Just want to live

11

In these last days

12

Tell me, you love me

13

The tree’s roots stand erect

14

Old and new grief

15

Coming back

16

The darkness of many centuries

17

For the two of us

18

In the colorful arena of north bengal

19

Now I have no hurt at all

20

Evening at the Dongarpur dakbungalow

21

Never found

23

Something is there

24

Destroy this body

25

For a couple of days only

26

As though something might happen

27

Beetle

28

Looking out of the window

29

You have no fear of grief

30

On fire

31

The roots of love

32

Why it’s there

33

The sharp blades of fire

34

It had come near like love

36

Let me look at them

37

Otherwise why should you be human

38

Once again

40

This ascetic in the world

41

Sakya

42

If they take me along

43

Let’s find out

44

The poet and the Deity-Prophet

45

Be well

46

Love had spread out its funereal offering

48

Give me pain if you wish

49

(viii)

Evening in Nischintapur

50

Ten years before, and after

51

A special discount

52

Breaking down has more value than building

53

It's better to leave

54

Hilly Calcutta

55

Digariya. the mountain Dervish

56

Epitaph

57

(ix)

Translator’s Note

Translation o f poetry—good translation certainly—is es­ sential to world literature, and it is true that we need it more than ever before. However, to produce a “good" translation of a poem needs much more than a proper knowledge of the languages concerned, and it is not neces­ sary now to go into the skills necessary to produce a sort o f revelatory copy of the original. In translating Shakti Chattopadhyaya’s poetry. I must admit, that a typical “Bengali” rootedness in his poems makes the task of trans­ lation extremely difficult. Combined to this is his own idiom, and his poetic language full o f dialect and collo­ quialisms, which halted me fairly often in the act of trans­ lation. As I went on rendering Shakti’s poems into English in this award-winning collection, I found myself asking this question: Should I continue? Knowing that only my affection and friendship for the poet and admiration for his poetry were the only forces that would push me towards the completion of this work. In these two years that I have lived and experienced the poems in Jete Part Kintu Keno Jabo, I realize with a strong measure o f satisfaction that translation is an art to be learned. And, learn, I have. In these poems I have tried my best not to invent, but to keep faithfully to the original, and to maintain a certain balance in the English versions. There must be errors. I am sure; and it is certain that I might have missed the subtle nuances in the Ben­ gali o f Shakti’s best which I tried my utmost to translate but could not possibly give rebirth in another language. I wish to acknowledge gratefully the help I have received at various times from Ms Krishna Bose. Mr Dipasyu Kundu and Ms Runu Mahapatra in the making of this book. J a y an t a M a h a p a t r a

I can, but why should. I go I think I should turn around and stand. So much black I have smeared with these two hands, all these years! I have never thought of you, as you really are. Now when I stand beside the pit at night The moon calls out: Come! Now, when I stand, drowsy on the Ganga’s bank The wood of the pyre calls: Come! I can go I can go any way I want to But why should I? I shall plant a kiss on my child’s face Go, I will But not now I shall take you all along 1 will not go alone before my time.

(1)

Lying down, this broken sleep, tom dreams You appeared to me as I lay asleep in dawn’s early hour By the window’s railings, the sky of your face severed. Salt-sprayed hair, your hand inert, sand in the bed. On either side mounds o f cotton, casuarinas in the room. And water being mixed with milk in the half-lit hotel veranda... Lying down, this disturbed sleep, tom dreams, holding on To your tender face with these hands of mine Like a dishevelled lotus, and nearby, the waves Breaking upon the shore, fate unbroken in dream — The other day as I lay asleep and the girl pushed open the door A little and said: Go away, don’t ever come back Never come to me, not any day, don’t ever come here. So I have not come, falling flat on my face As I passed through grief on the path of grief itself. Never have I sprung back with a cobra’s upraised hood Poised on its tail in venomous hate to swallow the moon. Ravenous as 1 am, (ny thirst intense, never waited to devour The moon, never staying awake to partake o f half of fate — Lying down, this disturbed sleep, tom dreams, holding on To your tender face with these hands like a dishevelled lotus I lie down, and close by, the waves break upon the shore.

(2)

Painful fo r me to walk the road Painful for me to walk the road, I sit down by the wayside Like a dry leaf I lie beneath the tree’s depths Like a mere leaf, enduring pain, at the hands of the wind Without a fear that I might fly off, or be burnt. Painful for me to walk the road, so I sit down by the wayside Lying like a mound or a long-unstirred stone Neither foolish nor an adornment, simply a rock without care Not a useful stone, forsaking work, it lies on the road But not right in the middle, a little to a side Beneath the tree’s deeps it lies like an abandoned stone. Painful for me to walk the road, so I sit down by the wayside

(3)

Death A wood pyre bums, pervading the burning ground And I love to bum myself out love to be burnt. How 1 wish I could bum on the bank o f some river. Because a time comes, and come it might. When the names become unbearable on the riverbank And the corpse may reach out for a drop of water! Death has no fulfilment then, no fulfilment at all!

(4)

Is this the time Why do Incensed finger naHs wound the shoulder? The dunes lie flat, the tree sends its roots into the shoulder Neither harsh nor hostile, these nails just there for loving They may hurt, or squabble, but cause pleasure on the glade. Why do incensed finger nails wound the shoulder? Is this the time for both to give in To love and to stone? Around is the verdant air of the woodland. Even the villagers desire something from the bubbling spring! Is this the time for both to give in To love and to stone?

(5)

Cat Very close to happiness sits an ill cat Well inside his velvety fur is the ill cat So close by sits this ill and kindly cat Close by he sits expecting just a little, wanting immortality. Hard to hold him close, hard to cover with a sheet or quilt Hard to hide in the house or outside, with illness or numbness So very close to happiness sits the unhappy cat.

(6)

Intolerable When you make your child’s eyes smart with kohl, 1 cannot bear it. I have never been able to savour The grace of this dark act. Normality goes well with a child. Better to tone up an unhealthy man And make him complete with some charm or talisman. Children know no decay. They haven’t been able as yet to smear the world With the kindliness of wind and light.

(7)

I stand with hands outstretched A man stands alone with hands outstretched in fields of golden com, his hands outstretched, standing all day in fields of golden corn. Mother Earth, fulfil our needs, he says among these fields stretching end to end, standing all alone. And his empty hands are slowly filled.

(8)

This splendors from here below Curtains suffer defeat in this struggle with the wind. Outside, the breeze blows hard, grows biting in the salt-heat. Grains of sand stick to the muggy, moist skin — How hard it is to stay fresh and clean by the sea! Alive is the sea, clouds float above this muteness. Like the clouds, the flustered waves break upon the shore. Then collect themselves like a centipede, at the slightest touch. Enraged, they turn back again, a wounded beast. upon the shore. A number o f days spent this way by the sea Makes me long to move away into the forest. There, in groves of sai, sharpens the wind’s concern. The calm breeze sways, clasping the sal tops alone While the sky gazes on, childhood, at the wind. From here, I watch the splendoured chaos up above.

(9)

You stay alone Only you the avenue of deodars lure In its deep roots, you are breast-fed! The colour of milk is there, full-bodied is your taste This you’ve written on a poster and hung out — Some day. at midnight, in the depths of moonlight? Tell me the truth. I’d like to see for myself. For I am a beggar for love, thirsty too. The pyre of sandalwood only summons: Come near, do not act otherwise. My home is empty, the sands have been shifted. Come near, do not act otherwise. Before I go my way. let me rest my face at the deodar roots At least this once, let me go then, let me go as I wish— And you. you stay alone.

(10)

I ju st want to live The riverbanks slip into the water the river grows wider, on either side its swollen savage flow gnaws at man’s dwellings, upsetting households — The water swirls past, tearing down the banks, flooding fields, felling trees flat, from the islands in the river innumerable birds plunge into the skies — I want salvation, I want to live, to go on living, only to live, among the constant ups and downs o f death, I want to live Just to go on living.

(11)

In these last days Hunger gnaws at the heart, sifter so long — Wasn’t the house habitable all this while? Hunger gnaws at the heart, after so long a time. Here begins the day, the darkness ends — And you were here, inside and out. always. Here begins the day the darkness ends! This last day too, floats the ash o f love — Lost and scattered once, how is it here beside? This last day too floats the ash o f love!

(12)

Tell me, you love me Here, in the hospital, I find I am the only one ill. All the others are in good health, full of life, those who walk up and down the corridors, loiter around, stand at the window, watch the birds, talking with the birds for a while — the newspapers don't come here at all. How does the daily news matter, the price of cooking oil? Here, costlier than gold, are the few who are healthy! I am ill, 1 am the only one diseased, so here I lie in bed, sit up, standing sometimes in front of the mirror, and you, to my heart, speak, ghost or spirit whoever you are. speak to my inner being, speak to me of love, even if it be as cruel as a needle, speak with words meaningless, speak to my soul, speak with words o f rain, with words electric, and with words of roots — Tell me. that you are well and your illness has gone Tell me, that you love me and so your illness has gone.

(13)

The tree’s roots stand erect The tree’s roots grip the earth with sharp hunger To set themselves up they’ve been standing for ever Like men, the need to get established, they appear Standing by themselves, alone, deep in the Jungle. A mingling of trees is the Jungle, a kinship o f leaves Crowded together, but never solitary as a tree Never lonely, but In the midst o f a crowd as the sea Blue-throated waves, water, and sand lie, close to the water. The tree’s roots grip the earth with sharp hunger To establish themselves they’ve been standing for ever.

(14)

Old and new grief To grief grown old, I say. come and sit by me today Where I sit is cool shade; if grief comes and sits beside I feel rested, it seems so, and to new sadness, I say : Go away, wander around in some other garden o f happiness Destroy a few flowers, bum tender leaves, lay things waste Loiter around for some days and exhaust yourself, sadness. And then come, sit beside me. Make room now for this old grief It has roamed many a garden, many homes, causing much devastation And now wants to sit by my side. So may it be for some time. Gaining peace, companionship. And come afterwards. And you. my new sadness, come afterwards.

(15)

Coming back The river waters are held by the sluggish banks In the noon heat the tree’s shade drowns in the tree There is no rain, leaves bum and turn to stone Gulmohar flowers and dry leaves pile up at the tree’s root Root-held, the once-Joyful leaves wish for water To fill their outstretched palms, give us water, tired. Chandalika Pour water over these roots o f mine Enough water to float the heart Set me afloat in the August rains This, my root-held body To the Return Return Return

river waters the birds of rain return to this green o f mine to the water’s shores to grass and leaf

To the river waters come back the birds o f rain.

(16)

The darkness of many centuries Today the darkness of many centuries emerges from the temple Onto the path, as a part of it makes its way into the forest And keeps hanging from the branches like bats Some darkness too has entered these tender leaves. The leafpicker woman has gathered a little darkness In her basket, along with withered leaves, where twigs too Live together in peace, to be burnt in some false fire. Peacefully living together to cook the rice she gets as alms. Man is not civlized enough to live together with others Though animals have it in them to live together Today the darkness of many centuries emerges from the temple Like rats and mice scurrying across the path.

(17)

For the two o f us This self-imposed exile is for the two of us The Gorumara bungalow on the dense slopes of the jungle, sits as though with covered head— And we, climb up from the plains and stand at the door, to have a glimpse of its face. Lift up the planks, ready the moat so that elephants and other wild beasts simply walk around and do not let afloat cruelty and savageness in the wind. The wind grows heavy, in the faint whine of crickets, it seems as if it is only the world’s loss Deeper, more painful to man’s ears alone The tree sees all. seeing more than what man ever sees, with its thousand-eyed leaves. This self-imposed exile is for the two of us...

(18)

In the colourful arena o f north Bengal In the grip o f webs of leaf and vine stands the two-storeyed bungalow, and inside it, who can tell who is the watcher, who is being watched? In the vast expanse of the distant jungle, man comes to sit in silence in the veranda’s lap — to witness something, the movements of an animal at liberty, sits on patiently to. observe, the moon above his head, the snare o f salt laid across the grazing grounds, in case some wild animal appears, sees the salt man has spread out, comes to nibble at the grain, molasses and chick-pea branches man owns — Eagerly the watcher waits, but no one comes his way Only some birds appear, calling out to one another, leaving at dusk, and all night long lies the Jungle swathed in a sheet of dew, nothing else, only the wide-awake moon; simply a tame snare is this dak bungalow of Gorumara Where man is prisoner, keen as man is to come here Where malevolent eyes watch man from the dense Jungle depths What a game of opposites goes on in the arena of North Bengal!

(19)

Now I have no hurt at all So much water is there inside, then too, this hurt! Why does the earthen pitcher wear its hurt look? Droplets of water snake down from the all-wet body. As though it were meeting a river, finding a beloved face. And today the heart’s pool will surely flood in salt water. But why? Because the time is right? Not all, but some trees are hurt easily. Strip the bark off with a kiss, blood shall ooze out. And blood means gum. sap, the sharp hurt You don’t need the axe’s cruelty When the shy mimosa shuts at a casual touch! Even the rain has hurt inside it. Snorting when it touches water, playing hide-and-seek. Bursting with the scent o f bumt-earth when it fails On field and bam. But why is its hurt? Because of its downfall, its persecution? I feel no hurt these days. Long back there was. this hurt O f unfathomable water. Today, there is no water.

(20)

Evening at the Dongarpur dak bungalow I have never come this side. The dark path has brought one here Piercing the wintry morning, tying up woods of bramble And thorn. On either side, dust-smeared fields stretch on. In the far distance the village Where men seem eternal, resolute. As they lever up water from the bowels of the earth; And the Bhutia’s palms fill slowly with grain From his daily grind. Where living is painful Yet life goes on. The path slopes up, cutting across mountains. It goes down the navel's valleys There the camel grazes with its mantle of peace of the plains. The Rajput woman’s mysterious eyes blaze with streaks of colour. There is no hint of illness in the Aravalli ranges. The place comes to view from the Dongarpur bungalow A ruined fort, the lake’s infinite grace And birds, skeins of geese. Skimming the waters to rest. We, too, have flown here To this strange place on the border To spend a night in this chilly room of the bungalow.

(21)

Then, we shall fly back. But not like geese, we realise; We will never return here in our lifetime. Just this once has the capital city of the Bhils Accepted us. that is all. And that we will remember — Like the faraway, forlorn smile of the Rajput woman Is the plain, comely Dongarpur of the Bhils. That had cradled us One day. and one night in the bungalow. One winter evening.

(22)

Never found In just two days, this has happened. Midnight, clear moonlight above. The rhythm of its flood hugging the blind lane. The breeze softly caressing. The street-lights a little downcast. Looks of listlessness on the doors of buildings. But this house o f ours, so familiar — That we kept on searching. But could never And Any day. or ever, later.

(23)

Something is there Grief has everything, but no Jewellery of its own Jewellery adorns a woman’s dishevelled body And whatever there is, has been taken by needlessness Dense is the sal forest, there’s magic in it, and malice too Grief has everything, but no jewellery of its own Jewellery takes to the poets — like houseflies Like a sound in the clay hut of the sharp Santal The poet possesses everything, but no diligence of his own

(24)

Destroy this body I wetted my feathers In a day’s thrill to find out how it feels to be In the rain, but the excitement isn’t much. Rather, from the verandah when I watch you drenched to the skin, my whole body tingles, the buoy floats in primal form, the path narrow, the billhook caught, as rain falls in intermittent bursts from full skies, lightning flashes at times, the veins split in two and ruin the insides of blood ... Destroy this body in the rain, in this thunderstorm.

(25) i

For a couple o j days only To be away from the house only for a couple of days Just for a couple of days to leave the house and take to the road A bungalow inside the forest, from where one can see down below A crystal-clear spring floating away into the river basin Where two streams rush towards the forested hills— Two streams that run down like the thighs o f a woman Onto the open glade: the enchanting scene embracing the lake Attracts, but only for a couple o f days, not for all time! Always to be in the house. Then to stay in the heart’s inner depths...

(26)

As though something might happen Like a scent taking shelter, driven out in the wind Onto the narrow Jungle path. The Oraon youth with an axe on his shoulder. The owl hoots in the dense night Everything is quiet, deathly still The moon alone looking deformed And like the wind, the stars Moist, splintered, tom to bits The jungle too. somewhat abused One feels as if something might happen As if something might really happen! Why does this youth walk alone, is he really friendless ? Is he actually out for some work on this dark night? The moment was not propitious, was it right then to be away From the embrace of two devoted arms and the fervor of dreams? Then why did the eyes of the dark youth startle. Why were merciless pieces o f rock strung between his clamped teeth? Walking on, he looks back. Spitting in sheer disgust — Never an exploiter. He knows that the savage denizens Of this Jungle are many and free.

(27)

Beetle Cut the same whorls in the dust, circle around. Beetle Bring that distant letter to me. Beetle Bring home good tidings, build a swing in the move you make In your anxiety, build up your greed. Beetle! I trace a circle with the finger. Beetle My digging hand has built a fort. Beetle Break down the house of dust, shrewd Beetle Come out in vicious guise. Beetle! The few copper vessels there were, have gone to the pawnbroker Even the juice of the four date palms has gone to the mullah’s house The loincloth I wear just meets my need, where is the wood for the pyre? This is not the chest of a child, but the rounded roof of a boat! Whether the man is there or has disappeared, do not outwit me If you didn’t today, never tomorrow. Beetle!

(28)

Looking out o f the window This river, my little river, when 1 look out of the window Rushing down from the Ganga to be near my house The sky suddenly tore apart onto the grassy Maidan This river, my little river, when I look out of the window. The city of lanes is lost, buses and trams are sunk The city of Calcutta appears as a village afloat in the floods Hard, hard to recognise — the alley’s rivers’ boats go past Here and there in the heart, the ghats only the end of these steps. Airplanes of clouds fly past; we hear the deep roar The sound greatly mysterious — just as the waters of Barisal’s gorge Resound, like a cannon firing under water As fire strikes the clouds, and water falls into this basin o f clay.

(29)

You have no fear o f grief You have no fear of grief, none at all, it loves you too Do you ever fear the thought o f love? Do you fear happiness too? If noteworthiness takes one to the seashore Do you have cause for fear? Is there joy there? Rows of trees line the shore; there, under the prostrate shadows If you just sit down once, aping the stillness of stone. Then, too, are you in fear? Is fear everywhere! I find other meanings from your ignorant fear.

(30)

On fire One side o f the blanket is on fire. One side is burning, the wind blows dust and leaves away And here, the familiar lane; to come close to the heart after wandering around— To bum, blow off all the blanket’s ash. And I see Inside and out Two faces, bumt-out like the blanket The river and the sea and whatever merges with the earth’s depths... I like this bumt-out visage Where heart and stone are touched by unbearable spasms of pain. Burnt is the blanket, that has no boundaries, only ash flies...

(31)

The roots o j love Its house has just one door, but a number of windows In the house cupboards and beds, wardrobes full of clothes For it is human, only human, and therefore such embellishment In the windowless mind are a number of doors The door is open, and rushing through it, come in Sky and wind, the river’s waters, for they love m e For they love me alone, only me they love Coming near, then moving away, just for the sake of love The roots of love holding me tight, this tree To stand upright on earth, approaching only the shade For they love me deeply, so intensely they love me ...

(32)

Why it’s there Face down it lies hudled in the banyan shade. Still lies the wooden frame with twenty-two scars of death Its instruments have gone into the water's depths Lost are the absentminded colours Today, the abandoned boat lies asleep alone by the riverside — In reality no boat now. the launch is no more afloat What interests of its own did it search for in the watery depths? With twenty-two lives its play was deadlier than ever Today, by the river side, it lies asleep alone in the banyan shade Unconcerned, it lies there on the grass Still lies the wooden frame with twenty-two scars of death embracing its entire body — But why it lies there, it itself does not know.

(33)

The shai-p blades o f fire Striped, silk-leaved deodars, sensible scholars And behind, stretching away a vast doormat of meadow In this old mansion a door flanked by lions, guardian doorkeeper With Madhubani moustache built into the terrace Through an open matchbox the eye extends into an empty corridor. Where light, lacking the red of broken ice, lies in this odd triangle With none to trod upon, the shapes of men who force themselves in Being absent here, in this decaying afternoon, the deserted corridor Touches the door-frame of evening, where lie the sloping stairs O f marble; from the guards’s tiny cubicle smoke rises in whorls. The banyan fruit fall ... And the throne, where an understanding couple sits in the morning And hears the ringing of bells, the classroom filling With the drowsy chant of honeybees... Into the veranda’s enclosure wheels drag in filth and mud Flinging sticky wet grass everywhere And dirt stains like differences; cars shake off enraged petrol One wants so much to bring back normalcy here To bring one's family and children into this old house And sit down on some bench, this is all one desires. Just to sit and while away the hours.

(34)

Perhaps etch one’s name with a knife on a high bench, on the walls, and on stone. Yes, to rest in the shade of the deodars, on the throne. Sit and talk o f the mind surrounded by rain that day That is what one desires — The tom canopy o f clouds, rain on the umbrella of green And behind, the deodar fruit fallen in the comers Of the road’s red gravel puts out the sharp blades of fire Of its seed to become trees one day. And trees they do become ...

(35)

It had come near like love I am In fear of gold, silver and copper, don’t find fear In dust Feel fear when I see the moat around the palace, not when I am near I merely go round and round the path because it is not anyone’s But yours and mine both, waiting in the beggar’s sling Head covered in a blanket, lying there without high ambitions. Night is always a friend, and so it is. day appearing once in a while — Like memory childhood comes near to be kind Like memory it comes near with the amalaki's shade It comes in faraway grief with footprints o f red alta Like love it had come near - say the evil!

Amalakka tree bearing grape-like fruits, used often for medicinal purposes. Alta: a red dye used to embellish the feet on auspicious occasions/festivals.

(36)

Let me look at them Bring those trees here, plant them In the garden I simply want to look at the trees To observe them And have a little o f the trees* green in my body The great need of this green that I have, for good health It’s ages since I last went to the Jungle Days and days That I haven’t been inside Here I have been stuck in the city The city’s illness only swallows up the green Such a sad lack o f green ... And so. I’d say. bring those trees Plant them in the garden I want so much to look at them For the eye sorely needs the green! The body needs a green garden Bring the trees Plant them in the garden I so want to look at them.

(37)

Otherwise why should, you be human A group of mud-smeared dark boys Their loin-cloths raised above their knees Excitedly catching fish, as they plunge into the water Beside the ankle-high ridge in the middle of the pool. Over on the other side Their loin-cloth pouches fill with little Jlycd Their hollow hampers full already Draining away water from one side o f the pool Into the other half So they can grab the fish with bare hands. Before the rains The earth dry and parched The naked backs of the boys burning in the sun Like the outside of earthen pots darkened In the smoke of burning sawdust While they desperately pat themselves on the back With wet mud to bring down the summer heat Trying hard— And later Would come the inevitable rolling in the soil slime For this was not the time to use the usual Net-baskets of bamboo. It’s time now Simply to run over the lowly varieties o f fish And seize them Then gulp the fish down, fried. Even if no cooking oil is there. And if one is lucky to catch any shol Then, to roast this fish and take these with a bowl of watered rice— Enough if there’s a little salt to go with it. In the first rains As mudskippers wriggle up with whirring noises

(38)

And streams rush down from high hillocks To fill the pools, now clear and pellucid — Delighted, the small fish rise Erect with their barbed bodies Becoming difficult to get a hold on them. And bristles? Yes. there are. As there are ways and ways Or else life can’t go on. It is the same everywhere in the world It has to be caught the right way. Otherwise it slips through your hands And isn’t there your loss or gain in this? But, let things be as they are. In the eyes o f that man behind One has to reach out for some such example Of success, struggle or fear — Otherwise why should you be human? You could have been a shy mimosa creeper!

Jiyal shot types of fish usually found in the muddy bottoms of canals and shallow pools.

Once again Once again the blade advances, fearless, head erect Wars will hurt But then, are one-sided. Why this way then? Why? Why then is this wallowing in the mire o f pell-mell insult. why this reading of poetry? What use is there in the garland round the neck, in living on as one keeps drowning in the light of a rose bouquet in the hand? Think o f Gurudeb He did not have the cabal’s sharp edge or the hell o f a lock-up So? And so what! All, all is pure deceit For does everyone walk the same way? Talk the same way?

Gurudeb:

Rabindranath Tagore

(40)

This ascetic in the world Never been to a war, still, by the body’s wounds The man must be a medieval warrior it appears so Where hasn’t the sharp edge o f the sword struck? One eye darkly scarlet, and immovable too Had the man been made, one could have dismissed him Not made though, not even a goat, but resentful He is not guilty of any wrong, rather helpful to others Free-willed, doing what he wishes, a drunkard, timid! Illness is a sort o f apathy, and yet it is social The man is somewhat mysterious, the man is a little dark Never does good to himself, going out to help others This ascetic in the world is somewhat bold and fearless.

(41)

Sakya Immersed In thought, I watched a pigeon fledgling Fall head down on my lap as I sat— Stretching out both hands, even four hands to hold it But both hands groped through air, came back from the empty lap Could not save it, Sakya, this fledgling This king’s son of today did not give up Kapilavastu Staying back as Sakya still While the cat with the fledgling in its Jaws slipped o ff into the darkness...

Kapilvastu: Birthplace of Lord Buddha (623 B.C. - 543 B.C.) Sakya: Another name of the Buddha

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IJ they take me along I have shortened time in my youth It’s unclear whether it is late afternoon, evening Or night now Yet it is certain that too much o f it is not left That much is true So if I have to go. I will I shall not protest, if I have to go. I will. Those who come to invite me for a reading of poetry Leave without me at times - i t ’s as simple as that ! If they take me along. I will I shall not protest Provided they take me!

(43)

Let’s find oat Returning from Gowalpara All alone It was already evening Shards were scattering a fishy odour in the rain And the rain, suddenly starting to pour a little while back — Hard to know whether the snake’s head had tom o ff or not Whether it had shed its poison in the thick clumps of the tall white grass A grove of goldenrods bereft o f its golden blooms The canal thundering northwards And on that very side, the Damodar On the canal’s brink, through the noise Is heard someone's voice: Why do you go back? So? Anything to gain by going? Come along. I will show you beauty. Let’s see. Come, let’s see.

The poet and the deity-prophet As temple and dargah the two hands. Joined to the body The few bricks on the roof of the shrine, pieces o f stone For one to make his own vow here: and what wishes do people make ! This wish made silently in the mind, never spoken aloud! The prayer-chant that gives rise to slips and blunders, Man never learns even when he is cheated, so he suffers a fool’s pain! Again and again the stretched-out hands return emptyBut no. not because he throws or scatters things away. Only in desire and thought, getting nothing at all! Look, at Ola Bibi’s, how full they swing from the banyan, These bricks from the shrine’s top, innumerable, in thousands. Fallen, tom in the winds, waiting to be served offerings o f rice — And no harsh words said because the deity did not comply. It is only man who finds fault with man and criticizes him. The deity is stone, eternally stoical, choosy and partial— One loses dignity if one listens to all the things everyone says. Just as stark cruelty entices the poet at times! Old BtbU

A well-known shrine, where bricks are hung by wor­ shippers from the roof in fulfillment for vows made.

(45)

Be well

-t

After ages. In these days o f cloud and rain. To be back in Santiniketaji, the hidden grains of rock Bursting with love, and now To feel this pull from some deep recess of the heart — Perhaps to bleed would be easier, than to bear this. Instead Both eyes misty with pain, and the spider spinning Its web from leaf to leaf, to be tom in a gust o f wind. Such is habit, to think and suffer, is not pure happiness. Certain it is to be swept away in private sorrow. Floating, floating, oblivious toward Gowalpara... You remember, Urmila? Is the mind sparkling clean like an ash-scoured plate? You know, the blue stain of rust on a brass vessel Will not clear without the touch of tamarind. All this is old and common knowledge-still, things That I do repeat at times, for fear you might forget. For the intellect also errs, and we alone are to blame for our ignorance! But enough of this clever talk and remembering ! In the wanderings o f the past is the luxury Of a soot-smeared house. I wonder now. If I could, from this chaos gift you A few words, a little experience, the well-liked water Of a canal; would that be right ? For some days this dry earth hasn’t let me go free Flashes of lightning in the Jungle

(46)

Issue their clear invitation, clean and fresh. As though after an afternoon bath— And what a bloody battle it was ! Over that. One could choke to death in the sun’s vermilion Watching the tumultuous goings-on. The lanes and courtyards of faith Take possession of dreams with both hands The strong fishy smell of disbelief is scattered in the wind, It pains. Even today the true lessons o f suffering haven’t been learnt Uninvited, it comes, leaving only when time gives its sign. Whatever it may be, are you well? Have you put on weight after your marriage? Like the rippled surface of the lake at the hands of the wind. The cascade of your wavy hair, aflame— Have you made the greenery o f life hard and arid ? I wish I could see you Just once, for Just a moment. And then it appears, it would rain, and all would be washed away The scene of ruin would break down to usher a time of peace — A contented world, happiness, small family Joys, visits to the circus and cinema ! For some days this dry earth doesn’t let me go free. The picnic lunch will consist O f small bits like those o f a burnt bird. On some days it seems so. Whatever might happen, let it happen But you, do be well Be well.

(47)

Love had spread out its funereal offering Love had spread out its funereal offering in a comer o f the countryard. There was shade, and illusion, and thick grass too And underneath the eaves, were the wounds o f falling rain ... Love had spread out its funereal offering in a comer o f the courtyard Still no one had come near the offering. Come silently, on tiptoe, apprehensive, all alone Still no one had come near the offerings. Deep, and deeper still, the night became Still no one had come near the offerings Deep, and deeper still the night, coming to an end No one had come still to partake o f the offerings.

(48)

Give me pain if you wish Give me pain if you wish, I love to be given pain Give me pain, this pain — I love to be given pain. But you. live on with your joys, be happy, the doors are open. In the house, under the sky, overwhelmed by the simul's caress I watch the tree’s rise from where I stand. Thus the traveller stands under the tree, thus All alone I watch the embracing banner of this beauty Be it good or bad, the clouds float on, dispersing in the sky As the wind holds me close in the clasp of its arms. Give me pain if you wish, I love to be given pain Give me pain, this pain — I love to be given pain. I love the flower’s thorns, love the remorse in my wrongs — And love to be seated on the bank like a weary piece of rock In the river is so much water, love, gentle blue water — Thai, I fear.

(49)

Evening in Ntschintapur A narrow path slips away from the main street to the river. Going straight, not twisting to left or right, not far from the village market — Darkness everywhere, and no rain too: the buttery, slushy path Leads to the river and the lake, the river falling into the sea. One has to go on thus, from the small through the large Calcutta’s temerity dissolves in its fields and river waters. Little shacks extend around the vast Maidan Small these are, but keep growing in dignity. Date palms are delighted to stretch their shadowy heads. Wading lines of buffalo in the water On either side o f two ferry boats tied together Cross the Haldi River for distant grazing grounds To chew on grass — Man never takes grass, what does man eat? He doesn’t know himself, stretching out both his hands; Give me rice!

Ten years before, and after The ghat o f Bailavpur I saw ten years ago was glowing with memories. Torrential rain ruined It all, 1 arrived there wet and cold: Difficult to reach by the path along the canal bank So I took the main road there. It was torrid that day. Burning sun, unbearable heat Drenched in sweat I arrived in time for the handia ceremony. Tasting dried-up rice, pig cooked in earthenware Here and there Ramklnkar’s hand-made sculptures lay around We stayed on for a day or two believing it was an artists’ work-place The air reverberated to the sound of evening drums While two hundred dancing feet swayed back and forth ... How very much we loved the t ♦ifllng heat of Bailavpur that day! Now all is gone, all has changed Gone are the transactions on credit Today, snares are laid in many shops but the tribal drums are silent Ramkinkar’s figures sell at a loss, the objects are fakes In Just ten years how man’s appearance has changed!

Handia:

a local hooch, brewed from fermented rice by trlbals In central and eastern India.

(51)

A special discount If you thought you’d get a discount at some festival time. Then you’ll surely be wrong, for this isn’t a sale of handloom or khadi ! This game of terrible words flourishes for ever. Any talk of discounts isn’t applicable here! But maybe, later on, when all things fall under The shadow of a sale, it would be given a special discount. Nothing exclusive, only some procedures would be changed, A meeting between publishers and poets or a summit meeting in a hill resort Would have to be called then! Certainly, this noose of getting discounts is habit-forming.

(52)

Breaking down has more value than building Who knows how the veranda o f desires should be broken? The masons are ready, nearby are axes and crowbars Manpower too. and definite orders for demolition. The right also to break it down, and the need too is there. The veranda is keenly aware, that everyone is not skilled to break things down! Demolition has its own meaning, its own rules and ways. Thoughtlessly tearing down will only make The science of demolition spit at the one who does so. And people will say, it is sheer waste. Some would call it illiteracy, perhaps stupidity. Demolition must be learnt — At times Competently breaking down has more value than building!

(53)

r »no^o.m p

MirMfHAN

O F

Iy

i t ’s

better to leave

Do you know Why you like to leave your own palace to live in a hut? Is it merely for the sake o f experience ? Luxurious poverty ! Or because one day. Leaving this palace and its lawns and gardens, You would certainly have to stand on the Ganga’s bank, in the chaotic wind ? To stand, is mere ta lk - rather, you’d have to sleep You would have to sleep forsaking your friends and enemies All alone, without any appearance or desire And a golden glow would be there to welcome you. You do not know yourself Why you want to leave your own palace to live in a hut! It’s better to leave, always much better to leave!

(54)

Hilly Calcutta Dug-out earth for the underground railway has caused hills to appear. T h e Maldan’s face has changed, to become Santal Pargana ! Trees grow on those hilltops, and tall grasses, and in the shacks below Tribal festivals take place every year, the handia ceremony Builds up every evening, and in the haunting beat of drums Calcutta reverberates from night till noon with hill side rhythms. Close by. Park Street is amazed, wiped clean by the sounds of drumming Man is excited at the sight o f this ethereal glow. Travel by underground is delightful, what novelty, what strange newness When the mesh fence o f dally living is tom down — Calcutta builds these heavenly delights for all on earth itself!

(55)

Digariya, the mountain dewish Your picture suspended on the western horizon Like one in a barber’s saloon, Digariya— An immensity surrounding these windows and doors As if in a frame, this exotic quiltwork with cranes Spearing the skies, and the light, illusive. Creating shapes in the distance, will o’ the wisp! Here 1 stand against the parapet of dream To take in your magnificence, to feel it in limb and body. Like saurus cranes pecking your colours Onto a many-splendoured spread, as I stand on the roof O f this seventy-year-old mansion, alone — no, not alone but with many others ... Visible, and beyond vision are phantoms, spectres and stones — When the sun goes down, Digariya. You become a mountain dervish! All alone!

(56)

Epitaph He died like a human being, having enjoyed Life’s joys for a time, he was a poet The man was very much a beggar. Publishers had arranged a celebration on his death. Relieved, because he was gone. And the man would not bother them any more. He wouldn’t come any more in the evenings, well-dressed. And say : Give me my money or else Everything here would be turned upside down. The safe would be looted- so. pass the money at once! Otherwise I will set your house on fire. But the man himself was burnt to death, poet and beggar both!

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