Translations

For now, I would rather turn around. Having smeared my hands in black for so long Never did I think of you, as yours. Now as I stand on the cliff at night The moon beckons me fondly Or as I stand on the banks of Ganga, asleep The pyres emit warm invites I could leave, yes I could go away in any odd direction But, why would I? I would rather hold my child’s face and plant a kiss Leave I will Not just yet. I would take you-all along as well Alone, I shall not go at this untimely hour.

My head is hanging down in shame, but that is not a big deal. My veins are throbbing with anger, but neither is that a big deal. The big deal is that, A debate got settled today, at last. A few days ago I was having an intense debate With a senior poet on whether ghosts exist. They don’t, they don’t, they do not- I was screaming. They do, they do, they do- They maintained. That debate got settled today. Ghosts really do exist. Who else would fire the bullets?

Today I stand as a soldier on the frontier Crossing many a bloodied path Today I have come to a halt- At my homeland’s border. From the greys of Tunisia to the pleasant Italy, From pleasant Italy, we charged towards the rebellious France Like fate,controlled by the stars We were unbeatable, with the invincible rifles in our hands; -From France to even our neighbour, Burma. Today my body wears the stern uniform of a soldier, My hand still holds the rifle, invincible, Through my blood flows the ripples of triumph And of vanity that shadows power, a burden too heavy, Now, I am another sentry on the border.                                                          ...

We have kept Lenin standing at Dharmatala By the tram depot. A flock is picking up grains of rice from the garbage and eating away, Digging into the dustbins. Lenin is watching. A village man came to the city to see a doctor and turn into a destitute hence. Much before he could manage any of it, he was left penniless By a pickpocket. Lenin watches on. The girl who was taken away in a taxi At sundown, Has come and stood again under the tree Yawning as the night falls. Lenin is watching still. As he kept on standing, Lenin was yawny too. Suddenly I saw him all stirred up and steady I turned, following his gaze Wherefrom advances a huge parade of labourers holding red banners. I thought I heard Lenin call out, The century is ending- Speed up a little, brother, speed up!

As if with a sudden sweep she tugged the landscape off- The Sea. The sky, she pulled it down and rolled it open on the ground- The Sea. Or as from its hiding Right before one’s eyes, a deer Struck by a bullet shot, unanticipated Leaps high up in the air, Likewise from deep beneath Penetrating through all its sheaths All of a sudden, across the earth     Up sprang before my eyes- the Sea.

When one comes hurrying to grip the handle of a bus,“Which team are you?” you ask. Right before you allow a spoonful food inside a hungry mouth, you ask “What is your affiliation?” Hit by the bullet of Police, he lies on the rocks, But before helping him up you make sure where his allegiance lies With blood on both hands you still look out for which of his hands is colored! Holding a torch through the tunnels you probe the faces,his, her and their, who has the tattoo and who doesn’t What goals and what ideas?They come later. First, tell me “On which side are you?” Who died in Bhilai and who ran to the village of Chhattisgarh, whose head deserve s a lesser price On which roads should the blades dance and clash, on which roads should they march slower Before you render your verdict, you underline the question again “On which side are you?” After cutting loose a stale corpse from the suicide noose, you whisper into its ears, “Which team?” The ques...

Transcending the ambits Of life and of death, O my Friend, you stand And draw your breath. In the desolate skies Of this heart of mine, ‘Tis your throne immersed   In such ethereal shine. With profound joy and a hope,  Perhaps farfetched, I gaze at it,  With my arms outstretched. Her darkness: her tresses Around your feet, the Night, Unfurls her burden In silence and in quiet. Deluging all, today, Which song is this? From your veena that pours Down to the deepest abyss! The world merges in As the tunes resonate. While in agony (of the song) Cast adrift, away I went.

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.

Neither inanimate nor dead, nor from the dark of a mine, I am but a living being, a seed sprouting fine; Nurtured by the soil, timid, only to the call of the sky azure While dreams girdle me, I open my eyes unsure. Though not significant, amongst the perennials, I am trifle In this tiny shoot, still does play a silent rustle. Ripping through the earth, I can see the sunshine trickle gold So in my root lies the noble consciousness of forests age-old. Today only a sprout, I know, but leaflets not far behind Will toss their heads tomorrow accompanying the fierce wind: Then out I will spread my proud arms before all, And bloom flowers that will stun my neighbours tall. In the mighty storm, stays united every root of mine As my branches hinder, its strength will only decline. The friends, who, only to my summons raise their heads The fresh woods’ anthem among them will reverberate. Come the spring, we’d blend with the giants’ grove All ...

I n spite of the sky being blue, the breeze gentle and my good name being Niharranjan, I got married to one PaNkra 2 -dwelling-village-belle called Kshantamani and by the year end, on delivering a girl child, she named it­­­­ - BuNchi 3 . I mildly opposed this naming, to which everyone in the neighborhood correctly pointed out - “This ugly-dark skinned girl, what else do you wish to name it? Pushpamanjari?”       The girl was indeed ugly. Not only was its skin dark, but also one eye was small and the other big, and it kind of looked like an imbecile, the mouth always drooling. Undeniably, she cannot be called Pushpamanjari.       Two years later.       Kshantamani has gone to her father’s taking BuNchi along. A Sunday, nobody has a work at hand – the discussion was taking its course to various subjects till it suddenly reached ‘me’.        Nripen said –“See Nihar’s fa...