Sahltya Akademi Award-winning Bengali Poems

I Can, But Why Should I Go

by
Sakti Chattopadhyay

Translated by
Jayanta Mahapatra

._(A_.

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

Sahitya Akademi

Rabindra Bhavan, 35. Ferozeshah Road, New Delhi

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© Sahitya Akademi
First Published, 1994

ISBN : 81-7201-577-1

Rs. 30/-

Printed at Computer Comer, H-15, Uttam Nagar.

New Delhi 110 059.
fo r Meenakshee Chattopadhyaya
who Jlrst instilled in me
the idea
o f translating Shaktl's poetry
 Contents

Translator's Note xt
I can, but why should I go 1
Lying down, this broken sleep, tom dreams 2
Painful for me to walk the road 3
Death 4
Is this the time? 5
Cat 6
Intolerable 7
I stand with hands outstretched 8
This splendour from here below 9
You stay alone 10
I Just want to live 11
In these last days 12
Tell me, you love me 13
The tree’s roots stand erect 14
Old and new grief 15
Coming back 16
The darkness of many centuries 17
For the two of us 18
In the colorful arena of north bengal 19
Now I have no hurt at all 20
Evening at the Dongarpur dakbungalow 21
Never found 23
Something is there 24
Destroy this body 25
For a couple of days only 26
As though something might happen 27
Beetle 28
Looking out of the window 29
You have no fear of grief 30
On fire 31
The roots of love 32
Why it’s there 33
The sharp blades of fire 34
It had come near like love 36
Let me look at them 37
Otherwise why should you be human 38
Once again 40
This ascetic in the world 41
Sakya 42
If they take me along 43
Let’s find out 44
The poet and the Deity-Prophet 45
Be well 46
Love had spread out its funereal offering 48
Give me pain if you wish 49

(viii)
Evening in Nischintapur 50
Ten years before, and after 51
A special discount 52
Breaking down has more value than building 53
It's better to leave 54
Hilly Calcutta 55
Digariya. the mountain Dervish 56
Epitaph 57

(ix)
 Translator’s Note

Translation o f poetry—good translation certainly—is es­

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

J a y an t a M a h a p a t r a
I can, but why should. I go

I think I should turn around and stand.

So much black I have smeared with these two hands,
all these years!
I have never thought of you, as you really are.

Now when I stand beside the pit at night

The moon calls out: Come!
Now, when I stand, drowsy on the Ganga’s bank
The wood of the pyre calls: Come!

I can go
I can go any way I want to
But why should I?

I shall plant a kiss on my child’s face

Go, I will
But not now
I shall take you all along
1 will not go alone before my time.

(1)
Lying down, this broken sleep, tom dreams

You appeared to me as I lay asleep in dawn’s early

hour
By the window’s railings, the sky of your face severed.
Salt-sprayed hair, your hand inert, sand in the bed.
On either side mounds o f cotton, casuarinas in the
room.
And water being mixed with milk in the half-lit hotel
veranda...
Lying down, this disturbed sleep, tom dreams, holding
on
To your tender face with these hands of mine
Like a dishevelled lotus, and nearby, the waves
Breaking upon the shore, fate unbroken in dream —
The other day as I lay asleep and the girl pushed
open the door
A little and said: Go away, don’t ever come back
Never come to me, not any day, don’t ever come here.

So I have not come, falling flat on my face

As I passed through grief on the path of grief itself.
Never have I sprung back with a cobra’s upraised hood
Poised on its tail in venomous hate to swallow the
moon.
Ravenous as 1 am, (ny thirst intense, never waited to
devour
The moon, never staying awake to partake o f half of
fate —
Lying down, this disturbed sleep, tom dreams, holding
on
To your tender face with these hands like a
dishevelled lotus
I lie down, and close by, the waves break upon the
shore.

(2)
Painful fo r me to walk the road

Painful for me to walk the road, I sit down by the

wayside
Like a dry leaf I lie beneath the tree’s depths
Like a mere leaf, enduring pain, at the hands of the
wind
Without a fear that I might fly off, or be burnt.

Painful for me to walk the road, so I sit down by the

wayside
Lying like a mound or a long-unstirred stone
Neither foolish nor an adornment, simply a rock
without care

Not a useful stone, forsaking work, it lies on the road

But not right in the middle, a little to a side
Beneath the tree’s deeps it lies like an abandoned
stone.
Painful for me to walk the road, so I sit down by the
wayside

(3)
Death

A wood pyre bums, pervading the burning ground

And I love to bum myself out love to be burnt.
How 1 wish I could bum on the bank o f some river.

Because a time comes, and come it might.

When the names become unbearable on the riverbank
And the corpse may reach out for a drop of water!

Death has no fulfilment then, no fulfilment at all!

(4)
Is this the time

Why do Incensed finger naHs wound the shoulder?

The dunes lie flat, the tree sends its roots into the
shoulder
Neither harsh nor hostile, these nails just there for
loving
They may hurt, or squabble, but cause pleasure on
the glade.

Why do incensed finger nails wound the shoulder?

Is this the time for both to give in

To love and to stone? Around is the verdant air of the
woodland.
Even the villagers desire something
from the bubbling spring!
Is this the time for both to give in
To love and to stone?

(5)
Cat

Very close to happiness sits an ill cat

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

(6)
Intolerable

When you make your child’s eyes smart with kohl,

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

(7)
I stand with hands outstretched

A man stands alone with hands outstretched

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

(8)
This splendors from here below

Curtains suffer defeat in this struggle with the wind.

Outside, the breeze blows hard, grows biting in the
salt-heat.
Grains of sand stick to the muggy, moist skin —
How hard it is to stay fresh and clean by the sea!

Alive is the sea, clouds float above this muteness.

Like the clouds, the flustered waves break upon the
shore.
Then collect themselves like a centipede, at the
slightest touch.
Enraged, they turn back again, a wounded beast.
upon the shore.

A number o f days spent this way by the sea

Makes me long to move away into the forest.
There, in groves of sai, sharpens the wind’s concern.
The calm breeze sways, clasping the sal tops alone -
While the sky gazes on, childhood, at the wind.

From here, I watch the splendoured chaos up above.

(9)
You stay alone

Only you the avenue of deodars lure

In its deep roots, you are breast-fed!
The colour of milk is there, full-bodied is your taste
This you’ve written on a poster and hung out —
Some day. at midnight, in the depths of moonlight?
Tell me the truth. I’d like to see for myself.

For I am a beggar for love, thirsty too.

The pyre of sandalwood only summons:
Come near, do not act otherwise.

My home is empty, the sands have been shifted.

Come near, do not act otherwise.

Before I go my way. let me rest my face at the deodar

roots
At least this once, let me go then, let me go as I
wish—
And you. you stay alone.

(10)
I ju st want to live

The riverbanks slip into the water

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

(11)
In these last days

Hunger gnaws at the heart, sifter so long —

Wasn’t the house habitable all this while?
Hunger gnaws at the heart, after so long a time.

Here begins the day, the darkness ends —

And you were here, inside and out. always.
Here begins the day the darkness ends!

This last day too, floats the ash o f love —

Lost and scattered once, how is it here beside?
This last day too floats the ash o f love!

(12)
Tell me, you love me

Here, in the hospital, I find I am the only one ill.

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

(13)
The tree’s roots stand erect

The tree’s roots grip the earth with sharp hunger

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

(14)
Old and new grief

To grief grown old, I say. come and sit by me today

Where I sit is cool shade; if grief comes and sits
beside
I feel rested, it seems so, and to new sadness, I say :
Go away, wander around in some other garden o f
happiness
Destroy a few flowers, bum tender leaves, lay things
waste
Loiter around for some days and exhaust yourself,
sadness.
And then come, sit beside me.

Make room now for this old grief

It has roamed many a garden, many homes, causing
much devastation
And now wants to sit by my side. So may it be for
some time. Gaining peace, companionship. And come
afterwards.

And you. my new sadness, come afterwards.

(15)
Coming back

The river waters are held by the sluggish banks

In the noon heat the tree’s shade drowns in the tree

There is no rain, leaves bum and turn to stone
Gulmohar flowers and dry leaves pile up at the tree’s
root
Root-held, the once-Joyful leaves wish for water
To fill their outstretched palms, give us water,
tired. Chandalika

Pour water over these roots o f mine

Enough water to float the heart
Set me afloat in the August rains
This, my root-held body

To the river waters the birds of rain return

Return to this green o f mine
Return to the water’s shores
Return to grass and leaf

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

(16)
The darkness of many centuries

Today the darkness of many centuries emerges from

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

(17)
For the two o f us

This self-imposed exile is for the two of us

The Gorumara bungalow on the dense slopes

of the jungle, sits as though with covered head—
And we, climb up from the plains and stand
at the door, to have a glimpse of its face.

Lift up the planks, ready the moat

so that elephants and other wild beasts
simply walk around and do not let afloat
cruelty and savageness in the wind.

The wind grows heavy, in the faint whine

of crickets, it seems as if it is only the world’s loss
Deeper, more painful to man’s ears alone
The tree sees all. seeing more than
what man ever sees, with its thousand-eyed leaves.

This self-imposed exile is for the two of us...

(18)
In the colourful arena o f north Bengal

In the grip o f webs of leaf and vine

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

(19)
Now I have no hurt at all

So much water is there inside, then too, this hurt!

Why does the earthen pitcher wear its hurt look?

Droplets of water snake down from the all-wet body.
As though it were meeting a river, finding a beloved
face.
And today the heart’s pool will surely flood in salt
water.
But why? Because the time is right?

Not all, but some trees are hurt easily.

Strip the bark off with a kiss, blood shall ooze out.
And blood means gum. sap, the sharp hurt
You don’t need the axe’s cruelty
When the shy mimosa shuts at a casual touch!

Even the rain has hurt inside it.

Snorting when it touches water, playing hide-and-seek.
Bursting with the scent o f bumt-earth when it fails
On field and bam. But why is its hurt?
Because of its downfall, its persecution?

I feel no hurt these days.

Long back there was. this hurt
O f unfathomable water.
Today, there is no water.

(20)
Evening at the Dongarpur dak bungalow

I have never come this side.

The dark path has brought one here

Piercing the wintry morning, tying up woods of
bramble

And thorn. On either side, dust-smeared fields stretch

on.
In the far distance the village
Where men seem eternal, resolute.
As they lever up water from the bowels of the earth;
And the Bhutia’s palms fill slowly with grain
From his daily grind.
Where living is painful
Yet life goes on.

The path slopes up, cutting across mountains.

It goes down the navel's valleys
There the camel grazes with its mantle of peace of the
plains.
The Rajput woman’s mysterious eyes blaze with
streaks of colour.
There is no hint of illness in the Aravalli ranges.

The place comes to view from the Dongarpur bungalow

A ruined fort, the lake’s infinite grace
And birds, skeins of geese.
Skimming the waters to rest.

We, too, have flown here

To this strange place on the border
To spend a night in this chilly room of the bungalow.

(21)
Then, we shall fly back.
But not like geese, we realise;
We will never return here in our lifetime.
Just this once has the capital city of the Bhils
Accepted us. that is all.
And that we will remember —
Like the faraway, forlorn smile of the Rajput woman
Is the plain, comely Dongarpur of the Bhils.
That had cradled us
One day. and one night in the bungalow.
One winter evening.

(22)
Never found

In just two days, this has happened.

Midnight, clear moonlight above.

The rhythm of its flood hugging the blind lane.
The breeze softly caressing.
The street-lights a little downcast.
Looks of listlessness on the doors of buildings.

But this house o f ours, so familiar —

That we kept on searching.
But could never And
Any day. or ever, later.

(23)
Something is there

Grief has everything, but no Jewellery of its own

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

(24)
Destroy this body

I wetted my feathers In a day’s thrill

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

Destroy this body in the rain, in this thunderstorm.

(25)
i
For a couple o j days only

To be away from the house only for a couple of days

Just for a couple of days to leave the house and take
to the road

A bungalow inside the forest, from where one can see

down below
A crystal-clear spring floating away into the river basin
Where two streams rush towards the forested hills—
Two streams that run down like the thighs o f a woman
Onto the open glade: the enchanting scene embracing
the lake
Attracts, but only for a couple o f days, not for all time!

Always to be in the house.

Then to stay in the heart’s inner depths...

(26)
As though something might happen

Like a scent taking shelter, driven out in the wind

Onto the narrow Jungle path.
The Oraon youth with an axe on his shoulder.
The owl hoots in the dense night
Everything is quiet, deathly still
The moon alone looking deformed
And like the wind, the stars
Moist, splintered, tom to bits -
The jungle too. somewhat abused
One feels as if something might happen
As if something might really happen!

Why does this youth walk alone,

is he really friendless ?
Is he actually out for some work
on this dark night?
The moment was not propitious,
was it right then to be away
From the embrace of two devoted arms
and the fervor of dreams?

Then why did the eyes of the dark youth startle.

Why were merciless pieces o f rock strung
between his clamped teeth?

Walking on, he looks back.

Spitting in sheer disgust —
Never an exploiter.
He knows that the savage denizens
Of this Jungle are many and free.

(27)
Beetle

Cut the same whorls in the dust, circle around. Beetle

Bring that distant letter to me. Beetle
Bring home good tidings, build a swing in the move
you make
In your anxiety, build up your greed. Beetle!
I trace a circle with the finger. Beetle
My digging hand has built a fort. Beetle
Break down the house of dust, shrewd Beetle
Come out in vicious guise. Beetle!

The few copper vessels there were, have gone to the

pawnbroker
Even the juice of the four date palms has gone to the
mullah’s house
The loincloth I wear just meets my need,
where is the wood for the pyre?
This is not the chest of a child, but the rounded roof
of a boat!
Whether the man is there or has disappeared, do not
outwit me
If you didn’t today, never tomorrow. Beetle!

(28)
Looking out o f the window

This river, my little river, when 1 look out of the

window
Rushing down from the Ganga to be near my house
The sky suddenly tore apart onto the grassy Maidan
This river, my little river, when I look out of the
window.

The city of lanes is lost, buses and trams are sunk

The city of Calcutta appears as a village afloat in the
floods
Hard, hard to recognise — the alley’s rivers’ boats go
past
Here and there in the heart, the ghats only the end of
these steps.

Airplanes of clouds fly past; we hear the deep roar

The sound greatly mysterious — just as the waters of
Barisal’s gorge
Resound, like a cannon firing under water
As fire strikes the clouds, and water falls into this
basin o f clay.

(29)
You have no fear o f grief

You have no fear of grief, none at all, it loves you too

Do you ever fear the thought o f love? Do you fear
happiness too?
If noteworthiness takes one to the seashore
Do you have cause for fear? Is there joy there?
Rows of trees line the shore; there, under the prostrate
shadows
If you just sit down once, aping the stillness of stone.
Then, too, are you in fear? Is fear everywhere!
I find other meanings from your ignorant fear.

(30)
On fire

One side o f the blanket is on fire.

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

(31)
The roots o j love

Its house has just one door, but a number of windows

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

(32)
Why it’s there

Face down it lies hudled in the banyan shade.

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

(33)
The shai-p blades o f fire

Striped, silk-leaved deodars, sensible scholars

And behind, stretching away a vast doormat of meadow
In this old mansion a door flanked by lions, guardian
doorkeeper
With Madhubani moustache built into the terrace
Through an open matchbox the eye extends into an
empty corridor.
Where light, lacking the red of broken ice, lies in this
odd triangle
With none to trod upon, the shapes of men who force
themselves in
Being absent here, in this decaying afternoon, the
deserted corridor
Touches the door-frame of evening, where lie the
sloping stairs
O f marble; from the guards’s tiny cubicle smoke rises
in whorls.
The banyan fruit fall ...
And the throne, where an understanding couple
sits in the morning
And hears the ringing of bells, the classroom filling
With the drowsy chant of honeybees...

Into the veranda’s enclosure wheels drag in filth and

mud
Flinging sticky wet grass everywhere
And dirt stains like differences; cars shake off enraged
petrol
One wants so much to bring back normalcy here
To bring one's family and children into this old house
And sit down on some bench, this is all one desires.
Just to sit and while away the hours.

(34)
Perhaps etch one’s name with a knife on a
high bench, on the walls, and on stone.

Yes, to rest in the shade of the deodars, on the throne.

Sit and talk o f the mind surrounded by rain that day
That is what one desires —
The tom canopy o f clouds, rain on the umbrella of
green
And behind, the deodar fruit fallen in the comers
Of the road’s red gravel puts out the sharp blades of
fire
Of its seed to become trees one day.

And trees they do become ...

(35)
It had come near like love

I am In fear of gold, silver and copper,

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

Like love it had come near - say the evil!

Amalakka tree bearing grape-like fruits, used often for

medicinal purposes.
Alta: a red dye used to embellish the feet on
auspicious occasions/festivals.

(36)
Let me look at them

Bring those trees here, plant them In the garden

I simply want to look at the trees
To observe them
And have a little o f the trees* green in my body
The great need of this green that I have, for good
health

It’s ages since I last went to the Jungle

Days and days
That I haven’t been inside
Here I have been stuck in the city
The city’s illness only swallows up the green
Such a sad lack o f green ...

And so. I’d say. bring those trees

Plant them in the garden
I want so much to look at them
For the eye sorely needs the green!

The body needs a green garden

Bring the trees
Plant them in the garden

I so want to look at them.

(37)
Otherwise why should, you be human

A group of mud-smeared dark boys

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

(38)
And streams rush down from high hillocks
To fill the pools, now clear and pellucid —
Delighted, the small fish rise
Erect with their barbed bodies
Becoming difficult to get a hold on them.
And bristles?
Yes. there are.
As there are ways and ways
Or else life can’t go on.
It is the same everywhere in the world
It has to be caught the right way.
Otherwise it slips through your hands
And isn’t there your loss or gain in this?
But, let things be as they are.
In the eyes o f that man behind
One has to reach out for some such example
Of success, struggle or fear —
Otherwise why should you be human?
You could have been a shy mimosa creeper!

Jiyal shot types of fish usually found in the muddy bottoms

of canals and shallow pools.
Once again

Once again
the blade advances, fearless, head erect
Wars will hurt

But then, are one-sided.

Why this way then? Why?

Why then
is this wallowing in the mire
o f pell-mell insult.
why this reading of poetry?
What use is there
in the garland round the neck,
in living on as one keeps drowning in
the light of a rose bouquet in the hand?

Think o f Gurudeb
He did not have the
cabal’s sharp edge
or the hell o f a lock-up

So?

And so what!

All, all is pure deceit

For does everyone walk the same way?

Talk the same way?

Gurudeb: Rabindranath Tagore

(40)
This ascetic in the world

Never been to a war, still, by the body’s wounds

The man must be a medieval warrior it appears so
Where hasn’t the sharp edge o f the sword struck?
One eye darkly scarlet, and immovable too

Had the man been made, one could have dismissed

him
Not made though, not even a goat, but resentful
He is not guilty of any wrong, rather helpful to others
Free-willed, doing what he wishes, a drunkard, timid!

Illness is a sort o f apathy, and yet it is social

The man is somewhat mysterious, the man is a little
dark
Never does good to himself, going out to help others
This ascetic in the world is somewhat bold and
fearless.

(41)
Sakya

Immersed In thought, I watched a pigeon fledgling

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

Kapilvastu: Birthplace of Lord Buddha (623 B.C. - 543 B.C.)

Sakya: Another name of the Buddha

(42)
IJ they take me along

I have shortened time in my youth

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

(43)
Let’s find oat

Returning from Gowalpara

All alone
It was already evening
Shards were scattering a fishy odour in the rain
And the rain, suddenly starting to pour
a little while back —
Hard to know whether the snake’s head had tom o ff
or not
Whether it had shed its poison in the thick clumps
of the tall white grass
A grove of goldenrods bereft o f its golden blooms
The canal thundering northwards
And on that very side, the Damodar

On the canal’s brink, through the noise

Is heard someone's voice:
Why do you go back?
So?
Anything to gain by going?
Come along. I will show you beauty.
Let’s see.
Come, let’s see.
The poet and the deity-prophet

As temple and dargah the two hands. Joined to the body

The few bricks on the roof of the shrine, pieces o f stone
For one to make his own vow here: and what wishes
do people make !
This wish made silently in the mind, never spoken aloud!

The prayer-chant that gives rise to slips and blunders,

Man never learns even when he is cheated, so he
suffers a fool’s pain!
Again and again the stretched-out hands return empty-
But no. not because he throws or scatters things away.
Only in desire and thought, getting nothing at all!

Look, at Ola Bibi’s, how full they swing from the

banyan,
These bricks from the shrine’s top, innumerable, in
thousands.
Fallen, tom in the winds, waiting to be served
offerings o f rice —
And no harsh words said because the deity did not
comply.

It is only man who finds fault with man and criticizes

him.
The deity is stone, eternally stoical, choosy and
partial—
One loses dignity if one listens to all the things
everyone says.
Just as stark cruelty entices the poet at times!

Old BtbU A well-known shrine, where bricks are hung by wor­

shippers from the roof in fulfillment for vows made.

(45)
Be well -t

After ages. In these days o f cloud and rain.

To be back in Santiniketaji, the hidden grains of rock
Bursting with love, and now
To feel this pull from some deep recess of the heart —
Perhaps to bleed would be easier, than to bear this.

Instead
Both eyes misty with pain, and the spider spinning
Its web from leaf to leaf, to be tom in a gust o f wind.
Such is habit, to think and suffer, is not pure
happiness.
Certain it is to be swept away in private sorrow.
Floating, floating, oblivious toward Gowalpara...
You remember, Urmila?

Is the mind sparkling clean like an ash-scoured plate?

You know, the blue stain of rust on a brass vessel
Will not clear without the touch of tamarind.
All this is old and common knowledge-still, things
That I do repeat at times, for fear you might forget.
For the intellect also errs, and we alone are to blame
for our ignorance!

But enough of this clever talk and remembering !

In the wanderings o f the past is the luxury
Of a soot-smeared house. I wonder now.
If I could, from this chaos gift you
A few words, a little experience, the well-liked water
Of a canal; would that be right ?

For some days this dry earth hasn’t let me go free

Flashes of lightning in the Jungle

(46)
Issue their clear invitation, clean and fresh.
As though after an afternoon bath—
And what a bloody battle it was ! Over that.
One could choke to death in the sun’s vermilion
Watching the tumultuous goings-on.
The lanes and courtyards of faith
Take possession of dreams with both hands -
The strong fishy smell of disbelief
is scattered in the wind,

It pains.

Even today the true lessons o f suffering haven’t been learnt

Uninvited, it comes, leaving only when time gives its sign.

Whatever it may be, are you well?

Have you put on weight after your marriage?
Like the rippled surface of the lake at the hands of the
wind.
The cascade of your wavy hair, aflame—
Have you made the greenery o f life hard and arid ?

I wish I could see you Just once, for Just a moment.

And then it appears, it would rain, and all
would be washed away
The scene of ruin would break down to usher a time of
peace —
A contented world, happiness, small family Joys,
visits to the circus and cinema !
For some days this dry earth doesn’t let me go free.

The picnic lunch will consist

O f small bits like those o f a burnt bird.
On some days it seems so.
Whatever might happen, let it happen
But you, do be well
Be well.

(47)
Love had spread out its funereal offering

Love had spread out its funereal offering in a comer

o f the countryard.
There was shade, and illusion, and thick grass too
And underneath the eaves, were the wounds o f falling
rain ...
Love had spread out its funereal offering in a comer
o f the courtyard
Still no one had come near the offering.
Come silently, on tiptoe, apprehensive, all alone

Still no one had come near the offerings.

Deep, and deeper still, the night became

Still no one had come near the offerings

Deep, and deeper still the night, coming to an end

No one had come still to partake o f the offerings.

(48)
Give me pain if you wish

Give me pain if you wish, I love to be given pain

Give me pain, this pain — I love to be given pain.
But you. live on with your joys, be happy, the doors
are open.

In the house, under the sky, overwhelmed by the

simul's caress
I watch the tree’s rise from where I stand.
Thus the traveller stands under the tree, thus

All alone I watch the embracing banner of this beauty

Be it good or bad, the clouds float on, dispersing in

the sky
As the wind holds me close in the clasp of its arms.

Give me pain if you wish, I love to be given pain

Give me pain, this pain — I love to be given pain.
I love the flower’s thorns, love the remorse in my
wrongs —
And love to be seated on the bank like a weary piece
of rock
In the river is so much water, love, gentle blue
water —
Thai, I fear.

(49)
Evening in Ntschintapur

A narrow path slips away from the main street to the

river.
Going straight, not twisting to left or right, not far
from the village market —
Darkness everywhere, and no rain too: the buttery,
slushy path
Leads to the river and the lake, the river falling into
the sea.

One has to go on thus, from the small through the large

Calcutta’s temerity dissolves in its fields and river

waters.
Little shacks extend around the vast Maidan
Small these are, but keep growing in dignity.
Date palms are delighted to stretch their shadowy
heads.

Wading lines of buffalo in the water

On either side o f two ferry boats tied together
Cross the Haldi River for distant grazing grounds
To chew on grass —
Man never takes grass, what does man eat?
He doesn’t know himself, stretching out both his
hands;
Give me rice!
Ten years before, and after

The ghat o f Bailavpur I saw ten years ago

was glowing with memories.
Torrential rain ruined It all, 1 arrived there
wet and cold:
Difficult to reach by the path along the canal bank
So I took the main road there.

It was torrid that day. Burning sun, unbearable heat

Drenched in sweat I arrived in time for the handia
ceremony.
Tasting dried-up rice, pig cooked in earthenware
Here and there Ramklnkar’s hand-made sculptures
lay around
We stayed on for a day or two believing it was
an artists’ work-place
The air reverberated to the sound of evening drums
While two hundred dancing feet swayed back and
forth ...
How very much we loved the t ♦ifllng heat of Bailavpur
that day!

Now all is gone, all has changed

Gone are the transactions on credit
Today, snares are laid in many shops
but the tribal drums are silent
Ramkinkar’s figures sell at a loss,
the objects are fakes

In Just ten years how man’s appearance has changed!

Handia: a local hooch, brewed from fermented rice by trlbals

In central and eastern India.

(51)
A special discount

If you thought you’d get a discount at some festival time.

Then you’ll surely be wrong, for this isn’t a sale of
handloom or khadi !
This game of terrible words flourishes for ever.
Any talk of discounts isn’t applicable here!

But maybe, later on, when all things fall under

The shadow of a sale, it would be given a special
discount.
Nothing exclusive, only some procedures would be
changed,
A meeting between publishers and poets
or a summit meeting in a hill resort

Would have to be called then!

Certainly, this noose of getting discounts is habit-forming.

(52)
Breaking down has more value
than building

Who knows how the veranda o f desires should be

broken?
The masons are ready, nearby are axes and crowbars
Manpower too. and definite orders for demolition.
The right also to break it down, and the need too is
there.

The veranda is keenly aware, that everyone is not

skilled to break things down!
Demolition has its own meaning, its own rules and
ways.
Thoughtlessly tearing down will only make
The science of demolition spit at the one who does so.
And people will say, it is sheer waste.
Some would call it illiteracy, perhaps stupidity.
Demolition must be learnt —
At times
Competently breaking down has more value than
building!

(53)
 i t ’s better to leave

Do you know
Why you like to leave your own palace to live in a hut?
Is it merely for the sake o f experience ?
r »no^o.m p

Luxurious poverty !

Or because one day.

Leaving this palace and its lawns and gardens,
You would certainly have to stand on the Ganga’s
bank, in the chaotic wind ?
MirMfHAN

To stand, is mere ta lk - rather, you’d have to sleep

You would have to sleep forsaking your friends and
enemies
All alone, without any appearance or desire
OF

And a golden glow would be there to welcome you.

Iy

You do not know yourself

Why you want to leave your own palace to live in a
hut!

It’s better to leave, always much better to leave!

(54)
Hilly Calcutta

Dug-out earth for the underground railway

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

(55)
Digariya, the mountain dewish

Your picture suspended on the western horizon

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

(56)
Epitaph

He died like a human being, having enjoyed

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

(57)