Translations

I realise the brilliance of any literary work  is far from being characterised by ‘translation  invariance’. (Sorry for the physics lingo; couldn't resist it!) Simply put, I know much of its scent is lost in trying to re-bottle the perfume. More so if it is an amateur at play. Yet if the reader familiar with these pieces can find the smell of the original, albeit faint and the unacquainted feel an urge to search about the poets or works by more professional translators (if not read mine further), I will consider my work done and celebrate! Not really. But it will be somewhat encouraging and perhaps I will try harder. P.S: I write this here since there were not enough characters in the space for 'description'.

Everyone can see the King is naked. They keep clapping nonetheless. Bravo! They howl. Bravo! Some are possessed by prejudice, and some by fear; Some have mortgaged their judgments to others; While some are parasites, some Are devout acolytes, some just greedy or deceitful; Some think the royal fabric is indeed fine enough For their eyes to miss, yet it does adorn the King’s body Or at least that is not quite impossible. Everyone knows how the story goes. Yet in that story The crowd did not only consist of some flattering, Downright cowardly, scheming or thoughtless minions. A child too was present. Honest, simple and courageous, a child. The King of the story has descended on the roads of reality, in full view. Again rises the incessant roar of applause; A horde of bootlickers have assembled once again. But that child cannot be found Anywhere in the crowd today. Where did the child go? Has someone kept him in so...

For a thousand years I am walking the same roads as the Earth, From the seas of Ceylon to Malayan waters, dark as the night Much I have roamed about; in the grey worlds of Bimbisara, Ashoka There I stayed; in the city of Vidarbha which was more afar in the dark; A tired soul, amidst the frothy ocean of life I am again, Gave me peace for moments, the one from Natore 1 , the only Banalata Sen. Her hair was as the dark nights in Vidisha of the era bygone; Her face was the workmanship of Shravasti; after crossing the seas Like the sailor with a broken helm, who is lost for long When sees the green scape in the cinnamon islands, comes at ease So I have seen her in the dark, she said, ‘Where were you so long?’ at the door Looking up with the eyes like the nest of bird, Banalata Sen, of Natore. At the end of all that the day was, like the sound of dew The evening sets in; the kite rubs off the smell of sun from its wing; When all colours ...

I summon the greatness that is life, no more of this poetry, not anymore This time bring forth the hard harsh prose, Let the chiming grace of verses be undone! Today let the ruthless hammer of prose strike chaos. Need is not of the genteel charm of ballads So poetry you are dismissed this very day, In the realm of hunger earth is only prosaic The full of the moon is but a burned roti.