english translation of sumaner gaan
TRANSCRIPT
7/30/2019 English Translation of Sumaner Gaan
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Suman Chatterjee's Songs
TRANSLATED FROM BENGALI BY SUDIPTO CHATTERJEE
For.Sudipto.Chatterjee's.web.site,.click.here.
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CONTENTS
1. Many a Window I Have Seen Ablaze
2. Burning Intense All Night3. Song of Flies and Dead Faces
4. Where Have They All Gone?
5. Salutations to You6. Bhopal
7. I Want You8. Don't Lose Heart, My Friend9. Familiar Sorrow, Familiar Happiness
10. Forgive Us, Anita Dewan
11. If You Think You're Buying Me Up...
12. Song--Become13. Chatterjee Upon Your Wristwatch
14. The Little Neighborhood Park
15. There Is A Vision Which16. The Child On The Roadside
17. Being Means...
18. Sit'N'Draw19. Your Likeness
20. Age, In The Lines On My Face
21. Don't Sing From The Book
22. Cloud-Messenger 23. Sink Teeth Into The Times
24. Song-Wallah
25. Face Of The Executioner 26. By Merit Of Class
27. Desire Is...
28. Smell Of Bread Baking
29. Third World30. The River's Tale
31. Nothing's Lasting32. At Midnight, The Sickle Of The Moon
33. Brigade Meeting
34. Bibhu-tibhu-s.an.
35. I Will Make You Think, I Will36. With You Alone
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MANY A WINDOW I HAVE SEEN ABLAZE
Many a window I've seen ablaze!
On many the likeness of her face.
On many the monsoon's untimely rage.
By many a window pass names, all too familiar;
Smiling faces, flashing constant, faces near and dear.By many a window I see lonesome people lurking;
To them the world is the whole of Time's working.
By many a window it's a lonesome dawn awaking.
Beside many a window lie posters of protest,
A lot of words, a lot of hunger, the din of detest.By many a window it is row after row after row...
People demanding, "Smash all bars... they must go!"
May everybody's bars be smashed on every window.
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BURNING INTENSE ALL NIGHT
It's been burning intense all nightA bluish star, quite jaded.
Take some of its color.
There aren't fireflies in the city--or else--I'd pick its blue light for you--if nothing else.
What if we never have
What we've never had...
Take the "have-not" shade of color.
Things hereabouts are too colorless these daysThere aren't any colors,
There's nothing I can give.
There is nothing I have colored--or else--
I'd color in tomorrow's shade--if nothing else--This faded, jaded
Waiting on the road.
Take the "waiting" shade of color.Take the "have-not" shade of color.
Give the "tomorrow" shade of color.
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SONG OF FLIES AND DEAD FACES
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Some write songs on hunger
Some from hunger are dying
Their faces are puke-covered
With flies over them flying.
If you write a song about a fly
And sing it in a show without flaws
People will applaud you high
Fill your belly with applause.
If you write songs about applause
And sing `em without food
In the middle you'll feel nauseous
Stop the singing for good.
Those whose stomachs go unfed
Will never be able to retain
Songs within their heads
Due to abdomenal pain.
But flies feel hungry, too!
Still it's better to be born a fly
In this land they're bound toFind dead faces black and wry.
When dead faces are in your songAnd you sing it in a show ever
It's bound to rub some people wrong
But still keep up the endeavor.
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WHERE HAVE THEY ALL GONE?
(Based on Pete Seeger's Where Have all the Flowers Gone?)
Where have they all gone?Bending the branches everyone, those full flowers?
Long agoLong long ago
They have all been picked by the girls
With shapely fingers from their bowers.
The young girls?Long ago
Long long ago
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Hand in hand, with the boys they have gone
To spend summer noons in cloudy shades anon.Where do I find the boys, their addresses?
Long ago
Long long ago
Soldiers they have turned in army dresses.
Where have all the soldiers gone?That's long ago
Long long ago, as well
They've gone to graveyards, every one.
Tombs in line above the ground standing
The barren earth conceals their tidings--Long time after
Years later, long long years
Girls alone looking for flowers, eyes flowing with tears.
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SALUTATIONS TO YOU
(Adapted from a poem by Shaheed Qadri)Salutations to you, Beloved.
Do not fear,
I'll bring you days when
The Armed Forces willParade before you--
Not with guns, but--
Rose bouquets.Its you, only you they'll salute
Day in day out, Beloved.
Salutations to you....Do not fear,
I'll bring you days when
Armored cars will come
Across forests,Across barbed wires
And barricadesWith violins, guitars
And harmonicas,Stopping at your, only your
Doorsteps, Beloved.Salutations to you....
Do not fear,
I'll bring you days when
Fighter jetsWill shower--
Not bombs or bullets, but--
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Chocolates and toffees aplenty,
Like paratroopers,Across your, only your
Courtyard, Beloved.
Salutations to you.
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BHOPAL *
Row after row after row of dead people...Sightless people.
They have stopped breathing,
They have died from vomiting,
They have died writhing and twisting...People, people, people....
Their eyes taken, plucked out by methyl-iso cyanate,American-iso cyanate--the Bhopal serenade.
Made with American money by native pimps
By native capitalists with foreign pus--
Genocide's other identity: Bhopal.
The American Voice:
Look now, this is no good!
What you just heard is all falsehood.We're all for the betterment of this earth;
We're the ones to keep poor countries out of dearth
(That is, the rich people of the poor countries).We start a few factories with their helpful offers.
With shared profits we fill mutual coffers.
That's what the native investors prize,They're the ones to eat the leftovers of our enterprise!
What happened in Bhopal was an accident
(By no means an everyday incident).
Moreover, projects like these are like blind dives,Either today or tomorrow you'll lose a few lives.
Just a few....Row after row after row of blind people.
It has taken their eyes, plucked them out;Thousands of lives it has stamped out--
Methyl-iso cyanate.American-iso cyanate--the Bhopal serenade.
Made with American money by native pimps,
By native capitalists with foreign pus--
Genocide's other identity: Bhopal.A mass-grave's indemnity: Bhopal.
___
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* A poisonous gas leak in the Union Carbide insecticide plant in Bhopal (an industrial city in central India)
in 1984, killed thousands of people died overnight and blinded most of the survivors. "The Bhopal GasTragedy," as it is mournfully remembered, is one of the biggest industrial disasters in history.
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I WANT YOU
Firstly, I want you.
Secondly, I want you.
Thirdly, I want you.
Till the very end, I want you.In the quiet of the dark, I want you.
At the turn of dawn, I want you.
In youth of morn, I want you.
In the leisurely eve, I want you.In April storms, I want you.
In July clouds, I want you.In August deluges, I want you.
In October festivities, I want you.
To the time-worn Calcutta streets,
To old 'n' new faces, in houses 'n' retreats,To the innumerable people in a tired procession,
It's you who brought a touch of unknown vacation.
In the fatigue of city-life, I want you.
In a droplet of calm, I want you.At the end of a long walk, I want you.
In my love for life, I want you.
At crossings of streets, in parks and stores,In cities and villages, here and there evermore;
In stations, terminals, ports and outdoors;
In strange living rooms, familiar indoors;On pillows, mattresses, quilts and sheets age-old;
In cuddling comforters on a wintry night's cold;
On ceiling bars and thresholds, door mats and spreads;
In laughter, anger, hurt, quarrels and truces bred--I want you, want you, want you!
In a cup of tea, I want you.On left and right, I want you.
Seen or unseen, I want you.In unspoken words, I want you.
In Shirshendu's latest book,In Aabol Taabol, at a flippant look;
In obtuse poems, in a thumri or khayal;
In slogans painted on wall after wall;
In songs that Salil Choudhury left behind;In the life that Chaurasia's flute defined;
In the music of Himangshu Datta we don't remember,
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The old radio show that played my favorite number--
I want you, want you, want you.In requests and entreatings, I want you.
In cries of pain, I want you.
In wants and demands, I want you.
In shame and hesitation, I want you.
In cutting demands, their right recognized;In posters of struggle painted overnight;
In polished poetry, its rhetoric cadence;
In the logic of prose, the hope of existence;
In an endless longing for a society without class,
A hunger for changing the times, en masse;In the dream of doubts and strife dispelling;
In sleep and waking, when Equality's calling;
In agitation and revolution--I want you.
In the impossible of impossibles, I want you.In war and peace, I want you.
In this confusion, I want you.Firstly, I want you.
Secondly, I want you.
Thirdly, I want you.
Till the very end, I want you. ___
[1] Shirshendu Mukherjee is a leading novelist writing in Bengali.
[2] A classic book of nonsense rhymes in Bengali, by Sukumar Ray, that are only ostensibly for children.
[3] Two major Indian classical singing styles.[4] A prominent poet-composer who revolutionized Bengali modern music in the Fifties and Sixties.
[5] Hariprasad Chaurasia is a leading Indian classical flutist.
[6] A Bengali modern music composer from the Forties and Fifties.
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DON'T LOSE HEART, MY FRIEND
You've given up a lot old habits more or lessCandies and cakes after bouts of sickness
You've given up a lot customs worn out by ageWorn out or salvaged homes burnt out garbage
Don't lose heart.Don't lose heart, my friend, instead--
Loosen your voice, loud and strong,We will meet, you and I,
At the dawn of another song!
You've given up a lot-- that old laughter, for instance;
Announcing even and morn: My love for you is constant!You've forsaken your dreams, it's been quite some time now,
But I love to dream on even today (somehow).
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Don't lose heart.
Don't lose heart, my friend, instead--Loosen your voice, loud and strong,
We will meet, you and I,
At the dawn of another song!
Age is catching up with me-- that midnight coughing...
But once the cough's gone I am in love with living!Keep alive, my friend, your dream of loving.
Wrap tight your arms around the dream of living.
Do not lose your dream of changing the times.
My dream of Change still never declines.
Don't lose heart.Don't lose heart, my friend, instead--
Loosen your voice, loud and strong,
We will meet, you and I,
At the dawn of another song!
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FAMILIAR SORROW, FAMILIAR HAPPINESS
Familiar sorrow, familiar happiness
That all too familiar smiling face
Familiar dark and familiar light.Familiar grounds, your familiar block
On a familiar road the door you knock
Familiar cries in a familiar night.Familiar lips and familiar eyes
Familiar groups of neighborhood boys
The familiar gang where the roads meet.Familiar roads in smithereens
Familiar houses, familiar greens
The familiar jungle made of concrete.
Familiar buses, familiar circuitsFamiliar bread, familiar biscuits.
The all too familiar tea-glasses.Familiar cigarettes that you puff
Walks down a familiar turfFamiliar images--dream-corpses.
Familiar anger, familiar ragesAll too familiar vengeful revenges
Familiar knife and vindication.
Familiar disdain, abomination
Familiar shame--this our nationFamiliar fears, unknown reconciliation.
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FORGIVE US, ANITA DEWAN*
I hear cries time and again
Cries that my heart penetrateMartyrs' pulpit inside my body
Martyrs' pulpit within my head.
Foul and filthy Bantala is but
Another Calcutta neighborhood
Three women are assaulted withThree hundred men in pursuit.
Manhood now makes me shameful
Before myself I hang my head
The blood of the three women sitsIn our conscience, still and dead.
Does Anita Dewan's carcassMake Civility feel some shame?
I have put my shame in song
You can, for yourself, do the same.
I hear cries time and againCries that my heart penetrate
Martyrs' pulpit inside my body
Martyrs' pulpit within my head.
The real mark of barbarism liesIn this silence of heads without torso
Calcutta, meanwhile, dances dirty,
Celebrates three hundred years or so.Your enjoyment puts me to shame
A shame that is too, too dogged
Martyrs' pulpit inside my bodyMartyrs' pulpit within my head.
There's blood in your new apartments
In water faucets, at dusk and dawn,
It's the blood of raped women that flows,Blood telling tales of the land goes on.
Look--it's blood upon the snack-bar,On your mutton-roll--it's blood
It is, again, sprinkled blood thatMy bowl of fish curry floods.
The same invisible blood has nowThe flag of the same color wetted
The colored world of politics
Is stained in blood unabetted.
Anita Dewan's blood will notErase itself, it is so obstinate
Martyrs' pulpit inside my body
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Martyrs' pulpit in my head.
Blood is on your raga MalkoshBlood is in your music chambers
The harmonium's wet with blood
Blood rehearses melodic numbers.
Blood stains your culture and
Blood is in your juvenile memoryThere's blood even in Tagore-songs
Rape becomes your identity.
Covering blood in painted patterns
Is that your civilized barbarity?
I am of the same order, too,I am the so called Calcutta city.
___
* Anita Dewan was a social worker from the Red Cross Society who was raped and brutally murdered by
hoodlums in Bantala, a neighborhood in suburban Calcutta.
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IF YOU THINK YOU'RE BUYING ME UP...
If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!
My voice can be bought, in piece meals
(To make a living I have to make deals).
You can as well buy the fingers on my two hands,I have no problems with making deals (no demands)!
But what are you buying--my deals or me and my hands?
In the end, who then wins Mother Land?If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!
It's money that fills up everybody's belly;
It's buying and selling that runs a family.Chitty chitty, Rabindranath,* bang bang wow...
Enter our entrails as market chow!
Protesting voices are a money-matter;
Protest itself, too, needs food and shelter.Whether you are a laborer or a Mr. Something,
You've got to eat, or it comes to nothing!If you think you're eating me up... you're mistaken!
My voice can be eaten up, in piece meals(Indigestion, though, could theworst reveal).
You can as well eat the fingers of my two hands,I have no problems with making deals (no demands)!
But what are you eating--my deals or me and my hand?
In the end, who then wins Mother Land?
If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!Some put their labor on sale... their muscles.
Some sell their hairy decor... their tassels.
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Some, to a periodical, sell their writing at leisure;
I sell my voice to you for your listening pleasure.I sell my verse through musical expressions,
By means of disgust or disdain, even adoration.
That hope, too, now is up for sale... if sold,
It may bring some money home, I'm told.
So, I sell lyrics that will change the day.Maybe some time another song will bring a way
To dump the rules of tum-ti-ti-tum and find
A way to usher better days for all of mankind.
If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!
___ * Rabindranath Tagore (1860-1941) is the national poet of India and Bangladesh and the greatest literary
figure in the Indian sub-continent. In 1912, he became the first person of color to be awarded the Nobel
Prize for literature.
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SONG--BECOME
Song--become, in Summer, an evening breeze
After day's of burning, to give back some ease.
Song--become Rain that lulls the heatful strife,
Fruitful anarchy blessed with the hope of new life.Song--become, after Rain, the radiance of the blue sky
Love of Light that has bade Cloud's regime goodbye.
Song--become the skies of Bengal in the season of AutumnEven in these bad times, make me move to your rhythm.
Song--become the wintry Noon, the light that overflows
This run down life, too, suddenly, feels good and glows.Song--become the sleeping face of my little daughter
It is the delight of my living, as I keep looking at her.
For all the number of children that live upon this earth
Song--become their fodder for living without dearth.Don't just be a song for song's sake, be the banner of life
Bring in the news of a new age, you will make it arrive.Song--become, amidst the life-less music of the times,
A fight for living, bring me to life amidst your chimes.
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CHATTERJEE UPON YOUR WRISTWATCH
Chatterjee upon
Your wristwatch
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Time's growing.
Restless daysSilent nights
A storm's brewing.
Chatterjee upon
Your bald head
Having slipped,The burning Sun
Sheds its sweat, in
Salt it's dipped.
Chatterjee from
Your sweat-stainThe shirt's collar,
Has become dirty,
It's time for a sweaty
Tale and teller,Through the tales
One more dayIs restfully laid.
The hunger in
Stomach or brain--
Make it wait.This world in
A hungry realm
In prose is rolled,
Comic poemsMake it run--
A crazy foal!
Bedlam bellsChatterjee on
Your girdle thread
Threaded guitar,Six stringed, too,
Has mastery bred.
Chatterjee look
In concert thereA duet's in motion:
Money King andDumb kingdom's
Consummation.Chatterjee now
You must tryConsummating,
Chatterjee your
Revolu-song's
Quite nauseating.Chatterjee look
What is good now
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Is a gambler's game,
New money willIn the same night
Stale all the same.
This is the game
Befitting today
Perhaps the best,Chatterjee look:
Daylight's slowly
Coming to rest.
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THE LITTLE NEIGHBORHOOD PARK
The saris [1] dry on the iron fence
The dung-fuel [2] dries on the wallThe grasses have all dried up, have disappeared withal.
The little neighborhood park
Is all dust and no grass
But the green kids don't care--whether grass or no grass.The wooden seat of the bench
Is sun-burnt and rain covered
Mr. Contemporary sits on it playing the frustrated lover.
Right next to the iron gate--Who are they lighting ovens?
It's the homeless by the fences, the park is their haven.
At a slight distance, over there,The tube-well [3], it's noisy racket.
"Let's go and fetch water," waning Day tells Bucket.
Look hither and look tither:A few trees are still surviving
Even in these worst of times obstinate birds keep arriving.
The little neighborhood park
Is all dust and no grassBut the green kids don't care--whether grass or no grass.
The trees are pale and blanchedFrom dust, the leaves are jaded.
Mr. Time, seeing it's getting risky, knows it's time he faded.A catapult has knocked right out
The bulb of the street lamp, andThe girls play around it... they play Alligator-and-land [4].
When touch-and-tag is the game
The lamp is one of the touch-bases
Under the autumn skies it catches kites without addresses.The number of kids keep growing
In the evening's dusky gleam
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The boy who fell while playing dusts his trousers clean.
The little girl of the homeless, too,Quenches her urge to play
In this ashen, grassless park kid-communism has its way.
___
[1] Apparel worn most commonly by women in South Asia.
[2] Dried cow-dung is used widely as cheap fuel all over South Asia. The dung is slapped on the wall whereit is left to dry.
[3] Most neighborhood parks in Calcutta have wrought iron tube-wells from which ground water is pumped
out and collected for public consumption.
[4] A common game among Bengali children where one player becomes the "alligator" and runs after the
others. Areas are designated as "land/safe" and "water/danger" zones. The other players in the gamehave to tease the "alligator" by going in and out of the "water" zones. The player who is finally touched by
the "alligator" becomes the next "alligator".
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THERE IS A VISION WHICH
There is a Vision which
Exists without an end, and
In one eye she has a huge skyIn the other she boasts a land.
Whatever is in that land
Is etched inside the eyeball
There's a river and a hillDraped in green overalls.
There's dew upon the green
Fallen from the eye's skyThe Vision dreams it every day
On dew dwells her eye.
When from close or afar,The eyes look on the dew
The dew drops, dream-drenched,
Become clouds and bid adieu.
The eye's sky to the eye's landA team of cloud has sent
Clouds bring on rainy thoughtsThe eye's tearful lament.
When the eye's tears will softenThe music of the eye's land
I'll call the land of the moist eyeBy the name of Eye-land.
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THE CHILD ON THE ROADSIDE
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A child on the roadside waves her hands,Two tender hands waving, "Bye."
In the crowded road, only time expands.
Speeding up, the people walk by.
They who, dodging Ambassadors* and scooters,
Have walked by down that way,Did they note the little child's laughter
That made the adult world sway?
Those who steered the big and small cars,
Driving slow or at a fast pace,
Did they note the child waving handsWith faith in the human race?
Perhaps that is how faith lives on,
As a child's hand that waves.
Those two tender hands, perhaps,The future's trail will pave.
___ * A very popular four-door car of Indian make.
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BEING MEANS...
Being meansBeing employed
Or else a little
money;To have means
To have some cash
Or else it's allphoney.
To bear means
Forbearing sorrow
Or else to bear withwrongs,
I do not have toBear with hunger
Which is why I singsongs.
To carry meansTo carry weight
Be it heavy, be it
light;
Can you tell meWhere I could,
Perhaps, my load
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alight?
To want isTo want to live
In a way that I can call
mine,
There are those
Who live a lifeAnd those who live by
dyin'.
To go means
To go very far
To go away beforelong,
Before that day
I pass time away
Spinning words arounda song.
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SIT'N'DRAW
Children--now stay quiet
No questions, no more riot
No more games and pranksSit quietly, no guffaw.
Today's gonna' be great for you
The elders now have more to doYour festival's on, full crank--
"Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw."
Neatly in fields and hallsWe'll catch and bring you all
You'll stand like soldiers in a row
No more hee and haw.
Coloring pencils--get them yourselvesAny store'll have `em on their shelves
Then you'll see how the fun will grow--"Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw."
Draw flowers, rivers and butterfliesA Mickey Mouse (if nothing else flies).
Although it's in concrete houses you stayDraw huts thatched with straw.
Never draw the face of the land apart
Its broken cheeks, its broken heart
Its Life-bee that's about to fly away--"Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw."
Draw patterns, branches, leaves (all the same)
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Draw umbrellas (with brand-name fame)
Draw what you learnt in the English school--"Twinkle, twinkle little Star."
Never draw the one you see on familiar roads
Gathering scrap paper in burlap totes
The boy who walks away all by himself--
His face is ugly and scarred.Does he draw, too, somewhere, in his nook?
Who gives him colors or a drawing book?
Never ask these questions, never
Pretend to be deaf-mute, without ado.
I am a fake as well, like many othersWith songs I cover Life's blisters
But still I'll say, "Don't forget to see, ever
Draw other pictures, too."
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YOUR LIKENESS
I never look for your likenessIn similes worn out with usage.
The froth of words that song-writers churn
Will nothing close to your likeness earn.
I never look for your likeness....Beatific nocturnal moons or narcotic roses
Tunes a wind-filled harmonium carouses
Or the tabla's [1] accompanying beats that returnWill nothing close to your likeness earn.
In the monsoonal downpours of the blue
The sitar's miyan malhar [2], stringing trueThe artist, whether known or of no concern,
Can nothing close to your likeness earn.
Indolent foreign films, their shots in sequence
Bengal's awakened autumn in it's own resplendenceOr, in Swan Lake, the ballerina's twirl and turn
Can nothing even close to your likeness earn.In sonatas, khayals[3], in the songs of Tagore [4],
Painters supreme--their brush strokes galore;Those engrossed in these will never discern,
Will nothing close to your likeness earn.I never look for your likeness
In similes worn out with usage.
___
[1] A two piece drum that accompanies most varieties of North Indian music.[2] A typical monsoon raga.
[3] An Indian classical singing style.
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[4] See earlier. Tagore was a prolific lyricist-composer.
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AGE, IN THE LINES ON MY FACE
A strange trigonometric affair--The culture of the middle-age
Amidst the thinning hair.
I feel a pull in my knees
Pulls in all the other joints
In this middle-class body todayTime devises counter-points.
I've taken to glasses after faltering
Trying to read with the plain eye
Aging, I guess, means to bidClarity of vision good-bye.
So many things have bid good-bye,A few late, others a little early
It is because of age, I guess,
At times I feel a bit lonely.
When the times get lonesomeIt's time for soliloquy by choice
Somewhere in between lies
Akhilbandhu Ghosh's * voice.
Near my voice the sail's been raisedOf a boat full with memories
Aging, I guess, means chatting up
A few memorial reveries.Who says that chatting is
Only meant for the youth?
It's aging that makes enjoyableBoth chatting and quietude.
On the other side of quietude
Just before the evening's come
As I walk, I guess it is ageThat makes me lonesome.
When the evening time arrivesI'll look to the East, not West
To think of a country in whichThe night is coming to a rest.
___ * A well-known Bengali singer-composer from the nineteen fifties and sixties.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DON'T SING FROM THE BOOK
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Don't sing from the book, the pages might turn overAnd once the pages turn, you'll stumble on forever.
The wind is whimsical,
A storm will rise before long
And once the pages turn, you'll find the wrong song.
The head of this song, then, will the torso of another cover.The wind jumps suddenly,
The time is one of sudden gusts
You never know when it shall make a blizzard burst.
Hold the song in your head,
In your recollectionThere'll be no danger in any stormy agitation,
The known song will light up and the darkness sever.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CLOUD-MESSENGER*
At times, the Cloud will don anklets to dance.
At times, it'll dance out of measure... perchance.At times, the Cloud pledges to welcome greenery.
At times, it will summon deluges... unnecessary.
At times, the Cloud means listening to ragas of old.
At times, it means out-of-tune sorrows untold.At times, it beckons you to leave hearth and roam.
At times, the Cloud is a pain on your way home.
At times, the Cloud is an umbrella-ridden mega-city.At times, it will flood roads, sink homes in animosity.
For those who have built homes on the roadside,
The Cloud means nothing but a slushy mud slide.One such person, drenched in that slimy muck,
Has named the Cloud-Messenger: Mister Schmuck!
___
*The Cloud-Messenger is the name of a famous Sanskrit narrative poem by Kalidasa, dating back to thetenth century, where the Cloud is romantically personified as a messenger between estranged lovers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SINK TEETH INTO THE TIMES
Sink teeth into the times
Like a tiger hunts its catch.
The disease of Bad TimesIs in every hut and hatch.
Flirtatious advertisements
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Tempt, trade sickness anew.
Sickness ̀ n' disease merchantsBend shoulders to look at you.
Sink teeth into their shoulders
Like a tiger snaps its catch.
Bad Times and its sellers
Are in every hut and hatch.Call `em bourgeois or what ever
Who cares what you brand `em?
In these Bad Time wagers
Wise Guys compute in tandem.
Aim at the Wise Guy timesClaw at it like a tiger will.
(You can play a tiger in mime
But kill a paper tiger still).
Papers days and paper nights...Newspapers are two-edged knives,
Chopping heads from left to right(For some that is a brighter life).
Time for Big Brother's business now.
Papers and TVs wherever you name.
Bite into that business somehow,Like a tiger hunts its game.
They who are always worrying
About mine and about yours,
Their secret pockets are teemingWith riches, crops and flowers.
Who are the real owners
Of this our land and ranches?Where are their head quarters?
Where do they open branches?
Their branches do businessInside our stomach and brains.
Hunt down that business,
Like a tiger its prey arraigns.
Sink teeth into the timesLike a tiger hunts its catch.
The salesmen of bad timesAre in every hut and hatch.
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SONG-WALLAH*
O Song-wallah
Sing one more songI have no place else to go to,
And with nothing else to do.
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The violin-playing man
From the days of boyhoodHas left with his violin
Has finished his singin'.
Whether or not he'll return
To these changed times, I do not know.
The colored dream-daysAcross the edge of adolescence
Have left with their colors burnt
Have left with their faces turned.
In this land of gambling
The dream-birds have died long ago.* This word, denoting the possessive case, could in derivation mean "song-maker."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FACE OF THE EXECUTIONER
Get off that van--quick!
Where's your position--think.
And while the angry youth grips his brick,
Will you, in uniform, wave a white handkerchief?He may have whatever, never a gun to load;
But you have your canonical cannons of water!
And while the sickness of the land lies on the road
You, in full uniform, will go to fetch water?You are a serviceman inside your uniform.
In the land of the jobless, you've landed a job.
Rifle in hand, you stalk the streets in form--Killer wood-cutter in the forest of the mob.
But you have emotions, too, soft and tender;
Sensitivity, thoughtfulness in their own place.You can shed tears, you can even love (no wonder);
Look at the mirror--a smile, too, will suit your face!
But the rifle's up, upon the order.
Your one-eyed aim the youth's heart locates.The blood you will wash after the murder,
What water will wash the executioner's face?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BY MERIT OF CLASS
Since you are not really exploding in rage
The conning game must still be your craze.The con game in me, too, has quite a deep seat;
Like you, by merit of class, I, too, love to cheat.
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Since it is by choice you decided to leave hearing behind,
It must also be by intention, that you choose to be blind.I am blind, too, my friend... mark our commonness;
By merit of class, my forte, too, is inane foolishness.
Or maybe we're a wise couple, a marvelous set of two;
Let us sleep together, then, the pair of me and you.
On the bed of privileges we'll play coy and silly,Our pact, by merit of class, is beyond willy nilly.
May all that must go to hell get there, sooner than later,
We couldn't care, as long as there's food upon the platter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DESIRE IS...
Desire is some sort of a Grass-hopper
Skip'n'stopping willy nilly-- tipper-topper.Desire is some kind of a little kitten
Her mews will get you quite simply smitten.
Desire is some kind of a free-bee land
Desire-winds shakeReluctance to disband.
Desire is very like some fire-works
That turn nights into days with odd quirks.
Desire is some sort of a naughty girl, whoEats Granpa's pickled relish in the afternoon.
Desire is the art of writing things poetic
Learning to live willfully with words and music.Desire is some sort of a loony Mad-Hatter
Who can do just anything in an eyelid's batter.
Desire is some sort of a dream in my eye:I will see a global Commune before I die!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SMELL OF BREAD BAKING
The smell of bread baking floats near my nose, tells storiesI sniff and retell them in song-land in course of my journeys.
I smell the five spices * which sizzle in the oil that seethesThere are juicy stories even in mustard and bay-leaves.
There are tales of hunger met in smell of lentils and curry
It is a civilized world only when hunger is out scurried.
It's some house in a weird land when half-fed men beat the roofIt may look good today but dampness will give another proof.
I live in one such house, listening to tales of a cultural kind
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I love to sniff out the smell of rice among my cultural finds.
There are those who carry smells of explosives in their eyesWhich roll into one Blasting Tale, crosses the street and flies.
In the streets the stench of sewers mixes with cheap incense
Within it lies the explosive smell like a disguised presence.
There are many such disguised odors well within my range
Like the smell of money that'll dance to the music I arrange.If money dances it's okay to make songs to the guitar's beat
After all it's all about hunger, it's all about getting to eat.
* A special mix of spices (paanch phoron) customarily used in most Bengali dishes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THIRD WORLD
A boy sits with his brother's head on his lap--
`Cause his baby brother's taking a little nap.My car will raise a dust storm, it must--
The brothers get swathed in the road's dust.
On the two sides of Jessore Road* there are viewable scenes;
On my way to a concert I see what the Third World means.The First World--well, this... my car in motion;
The Second--a bus ride, i.e., public transportation.
But there's too little money (or too much) in the Third World.
The two brothers rolled in the road's dust and swirled.A boy sits with his brother's head on his lap--
`Cause his baby brother's taking a little nap.
* The road connecting West Bengal (India) with Bangladesh.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE RIVER'S TALE
Splish'n' splash splish'n' splash splish'n' splash
The ghaat [1] hears the river's tale go back'n' flash.On the ghaat the olden times`ve become moss
Charnock's [2] boat like a ghost still rows across.On the banks jute mills will grow'n' stash.
In the mills the workers work and perspireProfits made from their work owners acquire.
Boats sail on sweat (not water) splash'n' dash.
Boat was here boat is here boat will cross
Whose sweat now on the ghaat has become moss?Tell us River tell their stories back'n' flash--
Splish'n' splash splish'n' splash splish'n' splash.
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[1] A concrete embankment with steps leading into the river.
[2] Job Charnock is the proverbial eighteenth century founder of the city of Calcutta where the juteindustry continues to flourish.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NOTHING'S LASTING
Nothing's lasting the way they should
Within this familiar brain.
The rats have nibbled all they couldOf the little leftover grains.
Heine wrote--the rodent rattus
Has two types, by and large:
While one will run on empty guts,The other will gulp and gorge.
Rats have eaten what little grainWas left inside this head;
But thanks to the class system, you see,
My stomach is fully fed.
Nothing's lasting the way they shouldIn ideology's commonality.
The rats have nibbled all they could
Of the remaining granularity.
What little grain of ideologyWas left's been eaten by a rat.
The teeth of my class, however, has
The fruits of raison d'état!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
AT MIDNIGHT, THE SICKLE OF THE MOON
At midnight, the Sickle of the MoonSharpens itself, but not too soon!
In a discordant age, the darkling NightGrips an unseen hand, holds it tight,
Quietly watching the Sickle of the MoonSharpening itself, but not too soon....
Traveling down light years afar,Bringing signals from a primitive star,
Light takes note of the Sickle of the Moon
Sharpening itself, but not too soon....
The adversary of Darkness who is the Sky,(With sinister intentions, on the sly)
Hushes and watches the Sickle of the Moon
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Sharpening itself, but not too soon....
The ill-boding Owl crouches uneasy.The Night replies: "Shhhh, take it easy!
Look up there--the Sickle of the Moon's
Sharpening itself, but not too soon!"
The nocturnal Dog's eyes they glisten
With ideas that the Night has given.He looks up to see the Sickle of the Moon
Sharpening itself, but not too soon....
All the Fireflies have put out their light
In bushes and shrubs in fear of some plight!
Peeping out, they see the Sickle of the MoonSharpening itself, but not too soon....
Where will now the Sickle's edge fall?
The Cacti are worried, most of all.
Quite unworried is the Sickle of the MoonAs it sharpens itself, but not too soon....
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BRIGADE [1] MEETING
The Brigade meeting'll start
The heads are countless
The Brigade meeting endsCalcutta's breathless.
The Brigade meeting'll start
The maidaan[2] is an uproarThe Brigade meeting ends
Clay cups [3] lie galore.
The Brigade meeting'll startRustic faces, villagers
The Brigade meeting ends
The poor, poor strangers.
The Brigade meeting'll startThe roads are gridlocked
The Brigade meeting endsThe roads are still blocked.
The Brigade meeting'll startThe stage is so high
The Brigade meeting endsLife--so low it lies.
The Brigade meeting'll start
The people have come to life.
If only one could tell us--How to stay alive?
The Brigade meeting'll start
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A mountain of words has grown
Now that you've seen its peakBetter return to your own.
The Brigade meeting's over
In the sprawling maidaan
The shadowy figures return
In search of an occupation. ___
[1] The Brigade Parade Ground in Calcutta is a famous place for political rallies where huge numbers of
people gather from all over Bengal. In Bengali, the word "Brigade," having lost its military reference,
metonymically stands for the Ground itself. ]
[2] The Brigade Parade Ground is a part of the "maidaan" which is a piece of sprawling green that strechesover a large part of Western Calcutta.
[3] Street vendors sell tea, in disposable clay cups, at rallies and all kinds of public gatherings in Calcutta.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BIBHU-TIBHU-S.AN.[1]
When Butterfly tires of flitting between wild flowers
And Caterpillar stops at the foot of a familiar tree,Evening begins his walk down Dusk's borderline.
Twilight rests her finger on a pebble on the road, lightly.
Ant, the busy tourist's voyages come to a close.
Silk Worm, all by himself on the Banyan, wriggles along.Caressing Dusk's half-light, Subarn.arekha- rests herself
At last, after meddling with Sunlight all day long.
As the din of Day slides into the Cricket's chorusThe Generator, all on a sudden, exhales sonic pollution,
The Sam.tha-l [3] returns from temp work at the Tourist Lodge.
Down this path, all alone, he would walk:Bibhu-tibhu-s.an..
___
[1] Bibhu-tibhu-s.an. Bandyopa-dhya-y (1899-1950) is a celebrated Bengali novelist, famous mainly for his
Apu novels, Pather Pa-m.ca-li- and Apara-jito. The song evokes memories of Ghats'ila-, a rural town inSouther West Bengal (India), where Bibhutibhushanspent a number of years of his life.
[2] A river flanking Ghats'ila-.[3] Sam.tha-ls are among the numerous under-privileged aboriginal peoples (a-diva-sis) in India.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I WILL MAKE YOU THINK, I WILL
I will make you think, I willWhatever it is that you may say
I'll get you out on the streets, I will
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However much at home you stay.
The lightning of my two eyesWill fire you up, it will
The signal of my dreams
Will move your heart, it will.
Human beings bring on their own curse,
With their own fading they are smitten.Human beings still, in their own hearts,
Become the history that is written.
Won't you ever think of this--
Days upon days have been spent?
All the awareness we can gainMust be mingled to this end.
I will show you, I will
The history in my rib-cage
I will show you, I willA fire has scorched outer space.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WITH YOU ALONE
Where Morning, at the cross roads,
Via Afternoon, into Evening corrodes--
That's where on my ownI shall meet with you alone.
Where City, just across a by-lane at the border,
Assumes the evening suburban order--That's where on my own
I shall meet with you alone.
Where Evening, in search of NocturneUpon Chronos' prod, decides to sojourn--
That's where on my own
I shall meet with you alone.
Where the Stars, at the sky's borderline,Turn into a silent harmony unconfined--
That's where on my ownI shall meet with you alone.
Where Sky, in an envelope of watery Cloud,Sends you a letter with Rain's shroud--
That's where on my ownI shall meet with you alone.
In the flood of your tears, where Rain
Tells stories of someone else's pain--
That's where on my ownI shall meet with you alone.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------Translation Copyright ? 1994 Sudipto Chatterjee.
All rights reserved. However, these translations may
be used for educational purposes, provided this
statement is included in any reproduction.
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