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 Back to Content 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.

Back to Content

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) Bratati on Banalata Sen Bodh - Jibanananda Das tumi boruna hole ami Harano Sur - Tumi Je amar Indrani - Nir Choto Hemento- Shuchitra and Uttam Ai path Jodi Shes Na Hoi Uttom and Suchitra Ai Raat Tumar Amar Suchitra Sen, Vasant Indrani - Surjo Dober Indira and Suchitra Ami Path Vola Ek Pothik (Rabindra sangeet) Uttam Kumar, Supriya Rabindra Sangeet Amar Din Kathe Na Surjo Dober Uttam Kumar, Suchitra Nir Choto Uttam Suchitra Indrani Hemanta

Back to Content

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.

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

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

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:

Back to Content

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.

Back to Content

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.

Back to Content

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

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

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:

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.

Back to Content

8. Purbabanga-Gitika

Chandraboti’s love for Joychandra Purbabanga-Gitika Purbabanga-Gitika a collection of folk ballads of East Bengal. These ballads, composed orally and performed among the rural communities, are important resources of bangla literature. The ballads were collected from Mymensingh, Netrakona, Chittagong, Noakhali, Faridpur, Sylhet and Tripura. The main collectors of these ballads include chandra kumar de, dinesh chandra sen, ashutosh chaudhuri, jasimuddin, Nagendrachandra Dey, Rajanikanta Bhadra, Bihari Lal Roy and Bijay Narayan Acharya. Over 50 ballads are included in the collection, among them Dhopar Pat, Maisal Bandhu, Kanchan Mala, Kamala Ranir Gan, Madankumar O Madhumala, Nejam Dakater Pala, Dewan Isha Khan, Manjur Ma, Kaphenchora, Bheluya, Hatikheda, Aynabibi, Kamal Sadagar, Chawdhurir Ladai, Gopini-Kirtan, Suja-Tanayar Bilap, Baratirther Gan, Nurunnechha O Kabarer Katha and Paribanur Hanhala. Most of these ballads were composed in the 14th century, with some being composed in the 16th and 17th centuries. The composers of these ballads were uneducated or half-educated farmers or boatmen. Their themes included love affairs, rivalry between different zamindars, and significant events effecting the life of the people. These were composed in the form of rhymes or panchali. Later, groups of singers used to set them to music and perform them in villages. Chandrakumar De started publishing some of these folk ballads from 1913. These attracted the attention of Dineshchandra Sen who met Chandrakumar. With his help Dineshchandra collected quite a few of these ballads from the villagers. Calcutta University provided financial support for the collection which was published as Purbabanga-Gitika in 1926. Dineshchandra translated these ballads into English. The collection, titled Eastern Bengal Ballads, was published in four volumes by Calcutta University in 1923. Volume 1: Eastern Bengal Ballads : Mymensigh ((1923), contains ten ballads: Mahua (1-30pp), Malua (31-80), Chandravati (81-102), Kamala (103-138), Dewan Bhavna (139-162), Kenaram the Robber Chief (163-180), Rupavati (181-204), Knaka and lila (205-242), Kajal Rekha (243-282), and Dewan Madina (283-312=. Sen in the first volume presented baromashi songs or the songs of twelve months. In these songs each of the twelve months of the year presents, as it were, a bioscopic scene of the landscape of Bengal. The earliest poetic tradition of the country was that bengali poem could not be complete withoutbaromasi or an account of the twelve month. We have found baromasi even from the days of aphorisms of Dak and Khana in the ninth century (Dinesh Chandra Sen). Kamalar Baromasi Kamalar Baromasi collected by Poet Jasim Uddin in Faridpur, Bangladesh about thirty years ago. The song represents songs of separation with the happy end (Dr. Dusan Zbavitel, The Development of baromasi, Folklore of Bangladesh, Bangla Academy,1987): In this month of Agrahayan, all four ridges are solid. Paddy of different colours ripened in my fields I shall prepare rice from paddy of various colours The merchant of my heart is not at home, to whom shall I give it? In this month of Paush, there is the darkness of Paush. nights being dark, thieves go from one house to another. let the thieves come, I am not afraid of them. Father and brother are the ring round my body and my father-in-law, the merchent. In this month of Magh, coldness is like poison Kamal lays the bed with cotton mat in the inner house. Laying in the bed with the cotton mat she looks at the room- Why does the room of the poor woman look empty? The cotten robe, the cotton mat, the cotton pillow on her breast. You sinful cotton pillow, there is no answer in thy mouth! In this month of Phalgun, householders sow the seed. The girl a cup full of poison. I shall eat poison, i shall eat venom, I shall die, But shall never (again) marry a boatman. The boatman is the great scoundrel, a servent of the business. Having married me, he went away and never cared about me. In this month of chaitra, the wind chaitali is at its height. The wife whose merchant at home is very proud What a wife is she whose merchant is not at home? I am unhappy wife, I am dying in pains. In this month of Baisakh, there is spinach and jute leaves. All people eat spinach, the limbs of the wife are bitter. She cooked and prepared spinach and poured it on a plate. My dear merchant is not at home, whom shall I give it? In this month of Jaysto hot is the sun Hundred of mangoes are ripe and huge jack-fruits I would eat mangoes, I would eat jack-fruits, milk of five cows. If my dear merchent were at home, we would play together. In this month of Ashar, there is new water in Ganges, The milkwoman shouts :"Take curds! Take Curd! Whose curds who will take, who would like to eat it? The merchant is not at home, my days pass in fasting. In this month of Sraban, householder cut the paddy the kora-bird calls, sitting on the rice stalk. Dakcalls, damphala calls, bora calls, sitting there, the call of the cruelkokil made my ribs split. In this month of Bhadra tal-fruits (palm) are ripe in the trees, The young girl went out with a plate in her hands. She took her plate, she took a box, she took a quilt on her head Wandering around she went where her dear merchant had gone. In this month of Ashwin there is the new Durga festival. Let the brahmin wives offer flowers (to the goddess) Let them offer offer flowers, let them take the offerings home. If my dear mervhant comes home, I shall offer to him. In this month of Kartik , betel-buds are on the trees. The dear merchant comes home, with an umbrella over his shoulder. Months of the Bengali/Indian Civil Calendar Days Correlation of Indian/Gregorian 1. Chaitra 30 March 22 2. Baisakh-31 April 21 3. Jyaistho-31 May 22 4. Asahar -31 June 22 5. Sravan July 23 6. Bhadra--31- August 23 7. Ashwin-30 September 23 8. Kartik--30 October 23 9. Agrahayan-30 November 22 10. Paus--30- December 22 11. Magh--30- January 21 12. Falgun--30 February 20 * In a leap year, Caitra has 31 days and Caitra 1 coincides with March 21. The history of calendars in India is a remarkably complex subject owing to the continuity of Indian civilization and to the diversity of cultural influences. Early allusions to a lunisolar calendar with intercalated months are found in the hymns from the Rig Veda, dating from the second millennium B.C.E. Literature from 1300 B.C.E. to C.E. 300, provides information of a more specific nature. Before the introduction of the Bangla Calendar, agricultural and land taxes were collected according to the Islamic Hijri calendar. However, as the Hijri Calendar is a lunar calendar, the agricultural year did not always coincide with the fiscal year. Therefore, farmers were hard-pressed to pay taxes out of season. In order to streamline tax collection, the Mughal Emperor Akbar ordered a reform of the calendar. Accordingly, Amir Fatehullah Shirazi, a renowned scholar of the time and the royal astronomer, formulated a new calendar based on the lunar Hijri and solar Hindu calendars. The resulting Bangla calendar was introduced following the harvesting season when the peasantry would be in a relatively sound financial position. In keeping with the harvesting season, this new calendar initially came to be known as the Harvest Calendar, or Fôsholi Shôn. The new "Fôsholi Shôn" was introduced on 10 March / 11 March 1584, but was dated from Akbar's accession to the throne in 1556. The new year subsequently became known as Bônggabdo or Bangla Shôn ("Bengali year"). The zero year of the Bangla calendar coincides with the zero of the Islamic Hijri calendar since it was introduced by a Muslim Mongol conqueror of India, Emperor Akbar, descendant of Babar, Tamerlane and Chenghis Khan. Today the two calendars have diverged and have two different years. The Bangla calendar was made a solar calendar to better coincide with harvest times and facilitate better collection of taxes. This caused the difference between the Hijri year and the Bangla year. The Hijri lunar calendar is 11/12 days shorter than the solar year and so has raced ahead. The Hijri year today (January, 2003) is 1422 while the Bangla year is 1409. The Bengali Calendar in use today was created by Emperor Akbar (or rather someone under him) on March 10 or 11th 1584/5 AD. It amalgamated the old Indian calendar and the Islamic Hijri (Arabic) calendar and was originally called Tarikh-e-Elahi... now Bangla Shaal (possibly the name of the old calendar). That was not, however, year zero. Since Akbar had ascended the throne in the year 1556 AD and his new calendar was backdated to that year which was the year 963 in the lunar Hijri era (Islamic calendar). So the new Bangla calendar began at 963 with zero coinciding with the zero of the Hijri calendar. The months, Boishakh, Joishtho, Asharh, Srabon, Bhadra, Ashwin, Kartik, Agrahayon, Poush, Magh, Falgun, Chaitra are used. Boishakh, Joishtho, etc. are Bengali names as opposed to non-Indian names used by Akbar. The Bangla names from the older calendar prevailed. Originally in the region, the first of Chaitra was the beginning of the new year but a new date was selected by Akbar and his administration. It was a date selected from both the Arabic and the Bengali calendars. In 963 AH (Hijri) the first arabic month, Muhurram, had coincided with Baishakh (Boishakh). So the first of Boishakh (Pahela Boishakh) was selected as the first day of the year replacing Chaitra first. Even though the names of the original ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Translated by: ZBAVITEL Dušan - ceský indolog D.-k.: L'orientalisme en Tchécoslovaquie (též angl., nem. a rus.), Praha 1959; (s E. Heroldem a K. Zvelebilem), Indie zblízka, Praha 1960 (nem. 1961); Rabíndranáth Thákur. Vývoj básníka, Praha 1961; Ocenka Tagorom Dviženija svadeši posle 1905, Moskva 1961; Bengali Folk-Ballads and the Problem of their Authenticity, Calcutta 1963; (s J. Markem), Dvakrát Pákistán, Praha 1964 (nem. 1966, rus. 1966); (s kol.), Bozi, bráhmani, lidé. Ctyri tisíciletí hinduismu, Praha 1964 (rus. 1969); The Rise of Modern Literature in Asia, with Special Reference to Bengal, Calcutta 1966; Lehrbuch des Bengalischen, Heidelberg 1970, 3. vyd. 1997; Non-Finite Verbal Forms in Bengali, Praha 1970; (s kol.), Moudrost a umení starých Indu, Praha 1971; Bangladéš. Stát, který se musel zrodit, Praha 1973; Bengali Literature, Wiesbaden 1976; (s kol.), Setkání a promeny, Praha 1976 (pol., 1983); Jedno horké indické léto, Praha 1982 (rus. 1986); Staroveká Indie, Praha 1985; (s kol.), Bohové s lotosovýma ocima, Praha 1987 (2. vyd., 1997); Divadlo južnej Azie, Bratislava 1987; Sanskrt, Brno 1987; (s D. Kalvodovou), Pod praporem krále nebes. Divadlo v Indii, Praha 1988; Hinduismus a jeho cesty k dokonalosti, DharmaGaia, Praha 1993; (s J. Vackem), Pruvodce dejinami staroindické literatury, Trebíc 1996; Otazníky staroveké Indie, Nakladatelství Lidové noviny, Praha 1997. Note: I am very grateful to the Bengali Academy Dacca, for having been given an oppertunity to consult their collection, and to my friend, the Poet Jasim uddin, dacca, who placed to my disposal some baromasiscollected by him. - Dr. Dusan Zbavitel,Oriental Institut Praha, czechoslavakia. Poet Jasim Uddin collected more than 10 thousands folk songs. During his life time Bangla Academy refused to publish the collection with interpretation and for this ground he refused to accept the Bangla Academy literary Award in 1975. It took seven years to publish Jari Gan by the Bangla Academy. It is pity that academy did not show any intrest. It is a great national loss that the academy did not take any action to preserve our national heritage. ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Chandraboti Chandraboti was a sixteenth-century poet from Mymensingh who has been immortalized as the heroine of Joy-Chandraboti, a Mymensingh Geetika. The ballad tells the story of Chandraboti’s love for Joychandra. The two were to get married when Joychandra rejected her for a Muslim girl. Joychandra tried to return to Chandraboti, but Chandraboti rejected her former lover, who committed suicide by drowning himself. Chandraboti’s father suggested that she occupy herself by translating the Ramayana from Sanskrit to Bangla. Chandraboti started the work but died before she could complete it. Dinesh Chandra Sen included Chandraboti’s Ramayana in Purbabanga-Gitika. The following is a transcreation by Nuzhat Amin Mannan of poet Nayan Chand Ghosh’s Chandraboti.