Thou Hast Made Me Endless
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g. William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book
THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book. RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com & dasguptarajat@hotmail.com
Rabindra Sangeet – Songs of Rabindranath Tagore: (Part 2) – 6 samplesTranslator’s note: The songs of Rabindranath Tagore are known as Rabindrasangeet which number approx. 2500. It is no exaggeration to say that Rabindrasangeet has explored every corner of human emotion and perception to give them best possible expression. Their philosophical depth also is unparalleled in the music world. It may be claimed, Rabindrasangeet has climaxed wording of the ineffable in literature of all time. Anybody not knowing Bengali definitely miss this aesthetic treasure. A translation can at best explain the central idea of a song, but cannot surface the wonderful matching of music with the original poesy so intimate with its philosophical/spiritual canvas. Unfortunately, therefore, the best of Rabindrasangeet, with all its humanistic appeal of highest order, will remain confined within the Bengali circle. It may be possible, some highly talented musicians endowed with literary command also, will emerge with versions of Rabindrasangeet in other languages, equally appealing. Such experiment in Hindi has not been disappointing and has gained popularity. Hindi is of course quite close to Bengali which must have been a contributory factor to such success. But the Western languages are likely to pose insurmountable challenge to any such effort. While hoping that some highly talented musicians will some day perform this magic of perfect cloning of Rabindrasangeet even in the Western languages, a sensible suggestion in the meantime appears to be to keep its translation handy while the Westerners (and in general all not having access to Bengali) will give their ear to the original Bengali song and try to perceive its import. Those knowing Bengali can only sympathize those not so privileged for such a plight in their struggle to enjoy a song! Below appears translations of some Rabindrasangeets, with a few initial lines of the original Bengali given in Roman script to enable the listeners to relate the translation to the song.Amra dujana swarga khelana garibo na dharanite
Mugdho lalito asrugalito geete
………………………………………….
………………………………………….
[Notes: The song was composed in early thirties of 20th Century, presumably dedicated to the great revolutionary Jatindra Mohan Sengupta and his foreign (Irish, I guess) wife Nellie Sengupta, who had worked shoulder to shoulder with her husband in the freedom struggle for India. In 1932, on his return voyage from Europe, Jatindra was arrested by the British police near Bombay. He was since interned and eventually breathed his last on 22 July 1933 at Ranchi (in Eastern India). Many a couple dedicated to freedom struggle had similar plight at that time and, naturally we may assume, this song was directed to them all. Yet, its appeal extends universally, beyond a particular milieu, to all the couple whose objective is far beyond a mere happy family life to respond to the cause of service of the people at large.]
To compose the toy of heaven
Is not our aim craven –
In emotional songs occult
The nuptial night to exalt
In nostalgic charm
With a heart infirm
To beg at Fate’s feet
All our imploring to meet –
Is not for us intrepid
Both standing firm in our daring bid.
The banner of love we’ll hoist high
Along craggy path our perilous mission to vie;
The distress of the cruel day
Overwhelm us may;
Yet, for peace to languish
Or consolation we’ll not wish.
If the radar is broke, the sail torn,
To us this will be ever known,
That both of us are there
Even when Death at us will stare.
Both of us to vision the Earth there
And each other;
The desert heat to bear
Not to rush for the mirage mere
Evading truth to self beguile
This glory be ours all the while;
This message oh dearest
Be our heart’s closest –
Till we die
That you’re there; so am I.
* * * * * * * * * * * ** ** *
Tumi hatath haway bheshe asha dhan
Tai hatath paoyae chamke othe mon
…………………………………….
……………………………………..
[Note: God’s revelation to us is off and on in course of our life, without notice or ritualistic processes, but even through the simplest objects of Nature if we keep our perceptions open.]
Thou art my treasure windfall
So my mind does startle.
On my secret travel
Thy abrupt reveal I marvel –
In the wind fragrant
On Thy fancies errant.
Daily as we come and go
Each other we do not know;
Kicking up dust visit many
To convey message hardly any;
All of a sudden Thy flute yonder
Alerts the lost passenger.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * *
Tomar holo shuru, amar holo shara
Tomay amay mile emni bahe dhara
…………………………………….
…………………………………….
[Note: Among the Hindu gods, Vishnu is the protector of Creation while e Shiva is for its destruction. One will agree, concepts of Vishnu and Shiva are more philosophical, rather than religious, to perceive this dual faces of Existence. This song brings out this very philosophical perception.]
You set out as I end;
Such a stream founts as we blend.
For you the light does glitter,
At home with mate you are.
For me is the night,
The stars above only I sight.
You have the shore,
For me the seas roar.
You have station,
Mine is motion.
You preserve, I undo,
You fear, I brave in lieu.
* * * * * * * * * * * * **
Bhenge mor gharer chabi niye jabi ke amare, Bandhu amar
Na paye tomar dekha aka aka din je amar kate nare
…………………………………………………….
…………………………………………………….
[Note: While we are confined to the narrow limits of our life, we pine for a bigger significance of our existence beyond our mundane boundaries. This song wonderfully brings out the distress of the human soul seeking exit beyond its confinement and, in the case of the Poet, I believe the eternal Truth is his quest.]
Who’ll break loose oh
My room’s lock for my bondage to go,
That from me does fend
Thou, oh my friend!
Without Thy sight
Lone days are my plight.
Is the night over
The Sun soon to appear
At the horizon Eastern
My rescue to earn;
By the long road ahead
Thy chariot to my door will be led?
In the sky stars countless
Stare at me blink less
Awaiting the dawn
With Thy floodlight to be gone.
The travelers in the morning
All come amidst din;
Pass their pageants with music
Thy glory to seek
In the flowers blooming
Tunes struck by the Sun’s golden string.
* * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * ** **
Charanrekha tabo je pathe dile lekhi
Chinnha aji tari apani ghuchale ki
…………………………………
………………………………
[Note: Everything beautiful in our life is only transitory. Yet. the Poet’s conviction is that only the eternal Truth manifests in these temporal.]
On the path Thou left Thy footprints
To-day to blot out all its hints.
Pollens of Ashoka (*) rendered Thy dust crimson (*= tree)
Only to be lost in the grass on Thy lawn.
Ends flowering,
Birds forget to sing;
The southern wind ceases
Oblivious, self-forfeits as it pleases.
Yet, the Immortal did they not carry,
In death will end its memory?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He nutan dakha dik arbar
Janmero prathama subhakshan
……………………………….
[Note: There has been a boom of celebration of birthday parties of young and adults alike in the Western style even in our country with the trite song ‘Happy birthday to you …..etc.’ preceded by the ritual of cutting/eating of delicious birthday cakes to be followed by sumptuous dishes and, of course, the incumbents are flooded with costly gifts from their guests. Thus, the birthday parties do provide plenty of enjoyment. However, it may be interesting to compare this ethos with that which pervades the whole of Bengal during the Kabi Paksha (Poet’s fortnight) which starts on the 25th day of Baisakh (this month in the Bengali calendar synchronizes with the mid April to mid May period), the birthday of the Poet, when the entire clime here is inundated with Tagore’s songs/recitals etc. in various functions taking us deep into the perception of Creation’s mystery, which we badly miss in our said birthday rituals which, one may feel, are in utter mediocrity once one has experienced the ecstasy and philosophical height in Kabi Paksha. Out of many other recitals relevant to the profundity of ‘birthday’ the following song is sure to be heard on this occasion ]
O Ever New, may Thee reappear
Through Life’s holy primal hour;
With the mist torn
Like Sun be Thy manifestation.
From the midst of inane
Thy victory be over its bane.
Let be hailed by Thy glow
And my heart’s trumpet blow;
Music of Life’s marvel
Infinity’s eternal wonder to reveal;
The clarion call to the Ever New be sent
At the advent
Of Baisakh the twenty fifth
For its un-blighting gift.
Showing posts with label Culture: Tagore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Culture: Tagore. Show all posts
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Song of Tagore
Thou Hast Made Me Endless
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g. William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book. RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com
ajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Rabindra Sangeet – Songs of Rabindranath Tagore:
Translator’s note: The songs of Rabindranath Tagore are known as Rabindrasangeet which number approx. 2500. It is no exaggeration to say that Rabindrasangeet has explored every corner of human emotion and perception to give them best possible expression. Their philosophical depth also is unparalleled in the music world. It may be claimed, Rabindrasangeet has climaxed wording of the ineffable in literature of all time. Anybody not knowing Bengali definitely miss this aesthetic treasure. A translation can at best explain the central idea of a song, but cannot surface the wonderful matching of music with the original poesy so intimate with its philosophical/spiritual canvas. Unfortunately, therefore, the best of Rabindrasangeet, with all its humanistic appeal of highest order, will remain confined within the Bengali circle. It may be possible, some highly talented musicians endowed with literary command also, will emerge with versions of Rabindrasangeet in other languages, equally appealing. Such experiment in Hindi has not been disappointing and has gained popularity. Hindi is of course quite close to Bengali which must have been a contributory factor to such success. But the Western languages are likely to pose insurmountable challenge to any such effort. While hoping that some highly talented musicians will some day perform this magic of perfect cloning of Rabindrasangeet even in the Western languages, a sensible suggestion in the meantime appears to be to keep its translation handy while the Westerners (and in general all not having access to Bengali) will give their ear to the original Bengali song and try to perceive its import. Those knowing Bengali can only sympathize those not so privileged for such a plight in their struggle to enjoy a song! Below appears translations of some Rabindrasangeets, with a few initial lines of the original Bengali given in Roman script to enable the listeners to relate the translation to the song.
Ganer bhitar diye jakhan dekhi bhubankhani
Takhan tare chini ami, takhan tare jani
……………………………………….
[Note: Music of highest aesthetics and philosophical values starting from the Vedic hymns down to folksongs inundate the Poet’s university Viswa-Bharati at Santiniketan. The Poet’s own songs Rabindrasangeets, approx. 2500 in number, have freely drawn from India’s and also from West’s various musical traditions which gift us a new look to the world for our deepest perception of the creative wonder behind it. Maybe, the few songs translated here will give one glimpse of it, though not having access to the original Rabindrasangeets due to linguistic barrier.]
Through music the world as I see,
I know it, reveals its intimacy.
Language of its light
Fills sky in loving delight;
Its dust speaks the innate
Divine words ultimate;
Ceases to be external
In my soul melodies to spell;
On its grass
My heart’s throbs pass;
Beauty shapes up, flows the nectar
My own bounds to blur;
With all then I see
My camaraderie.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amader Shantiniketan, Se je sabar hote apan,
Tar akash bhara kole, moder dole hriday dole
…………………………………………….
[Note: In various celebrations/functions of Santiniketan, the University of the Poet, this song is sung in chorus. Is there a better paean for any institution anywhere in the world?]
Our Santiniketan,
She is our very own;
Lapping our heart
Her sky rocks it to spurt
To see her novel again
In our renewed vein.
The rows of her trees
Our frolic in the field sprees;
Affection of the blue above
Dawn to dusk showers love.
In the shades of our Shawl trees
Music from the wood conveys the breeze.
The Amlaki (*) bowers gay *
With dancing leaves play.
Where we ramble for pleasure,
That never eludes from us far.
In our mind the Sitar (**) of love **
Is tuned to put us hand in glove
With my brothers
Who are one with me and others.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(*) tree (**) musical instrument
Purano sei diner katha bhulbi kire hai
O sei chokher dekha, praner katha
Se ki bhola jai.
………………………………..
…………………………………
[Note: This song as a rule is heard in the alumni associations of the educational institutions of Bengal when old mates meet after a long time gap after they have left their Alma Mater. There could not be a better outlet of their emotions at that moment than this song. Of course, this song is not the exclusive preserve for the alumni and may be appropriately used in similar other get together]
Will you forget that yore,
Our sighting then and heart’s talk that still lure;
O mate, come once more,
To my heart’s core;
Let’s talk our weal and woe
To quench our soul parched so.
At dawn we plucked flower,
Cradled in our bower,
Played flute under the Bakul tree
And sang in musical spree.
In between was our departure –
One from the other flung far;
If we’ve met again,
Be within my heart lain.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amra sabai raja amader eai rajar rajatwe
Naile moder rajar sane milbo ki swatte?
………………………………….
………………………………….
[Note: In God’s kingdom all his subjects are one with their King. While we are bound by His axioms, we never feel the bondage, while the human kings or even the rulers in a democracy tend to be tyrants, maybe with a difference in degree.]
We all are kings in our King’s kingdom
Else how we be one with Him on what other term?
We are arbitrary
Yet, His cravings carry,
Not bound in slave’s bondage
To fear His rage.
He gives honour to all
That bounces on Him to fall;
None is there us to stunt
With any untruth blunt;
We go on our own
To meet the path He had shown;
We won’t die
In the whirl futile.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g. William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book. RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com
ajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Rabindra Sangeet – Songs of Rabindranath Tagore:
Translator’s note: The songs of Rabindranath Tagore are known as Rabindrasangeet which number approx. 2500. It is no exaggeration to say that Rabindrasangeet has explored every corner of human emotion and perception to give them best possible expression. Their philosophical depth also is unparalleled in the music world. It may be claimed, Rabindrasangeet has climaxed wording of the ineffable in literature of all time. Anybody not knowing Bengali definitely miss this aesthetic treasure. A translation can at best explain the central idea of a song, but cannot surface the wonderful matching of music with the original poesy so intimate with its philosophical/spiritual canvas. Unfortunately, therefore, the best of Rabindrasangeet, with all its humanistic appeal of highest order, will remain confined within the Bengali circle. It may be possible, some highly talented musicians endowed with literary command also, will emerge with versions of Rabindrasangeet in other languages, equally appealing. Such experiment in Hindi has not been disappointing and has gained popularity. Hindi is of course quite close to Bengali which must have been a contributory factor to such success. But the Western languages are likely to pose insurmountable challenge to any such effort. While hoping that some highly talented musicians will some day perform this magic of perfect cloning of Rabindrasangeet even in the Western languages, a sensible suggestion in the meantime appears to be to keep its translation handy while the Westerners (and in general all not having access to Bengali) will give their ear to the original Bengali song and try to perceive its import. Those knowing Bengali can only sympathize those not so privileged for such a plight in their struggle to enjoy a song! Below appears translations of some Rabindrasangeets, with a few initial lines of the original Bengali given in Roman script to enable the listeners to relate the translation to the song.
Ganer bhitar diye jakhan dekhi bhubankhani
Takhan tare chini ami, takhan tare jani
……………………………………….
[Note: Music of highest aesthetics and philosophical values starting from the Vedic hymns down to folksongs inundate the Poet’s university Viswa-Bharati at Santiniketan. The Poet’s own songs Rabindrasangeets, approx. 2500 in number, have freely drawn from India’s and also from West’s various musical traditions which gift us a new look to the world for our deepest perception of the creative wonder behind it. Maybe, the few songs translated here will give one glimpse of it, though not having access to the original Rabindrasangeets due to linguistic barrier.]
Through music the world as I see,
I know it, reveals its intimacy.
Language of its light
Fills sky in loving delight;
Its dust speaks the innate
Divine words ultimate;
Ceases to be external
In my soul melodies to spell;
On its grass
My heart’s throbs pass;
Beauty shapes up, flows the nectar
My own bounds to blur;
With all then I see
My camaraderie.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amader Shantiniketan, Se je sabar hote apan,
Tar akash bhara kole, moder dole hriday dole
…………………………………………….
[Note: In various celebrations/functions of Santiniketan, the University of the Poet, this song is sung in chorus. Is there a better paean for any institution anywhere in the world?]
Our Santiniketan,
She is our very own;
Lapping our heart
Her sky rocks it to spurt
To see her novel again
In our renewed vein.
The rows of her trees
Our frolic in the field sprees;
Affection of the blue above
Dawn to dusk showers love.
In the shades of our Shawl trees
Music from the wood conveys the breeze.
The Amlaki (*) bowers gay *
With dancing leaves play.
Where we ramble for pleasure,
That never eludes from us far.
In our mind the Sitar (**) of love **
Is tuned to put us hand in glove
With my brothers
Who are one with me and others.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(*) tree (**) musical instrument
Purano sei diner katha bhulbi kire hai
O sei chokher dekha, praner katha
Se ki bhola jai.
………………………………..
…………………………………
[Note: This song as a rule is heard in the alumni associations of the educational institutions of Bengal when old mates meet after a long time gap after they have left their Alma Mater. There could not be a better outlet of their emotions at that moment than this song. Of course, this song is not the exclusive preserve for the alumni and may be appropriately used in similar other get together]
Will you forget that yore,
Our sighting then and heart’s talk that still lure;
O mate, come once more,
To my heart’s core;
Let’s talk our weal and woe
To quench our soul parched so.
At dawn we plucked flower,
Cradled in our bower,
Played flute under the Bakul tree
And sang in musical spree.
In between was our departure –
One from the other flung far;
If we’ve met again,
Be within my heart lain.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amra sabai raja amader eai rajar rajatwe
Naile moder rajar sane milbo ki swatte?
………………………………….
………………………………….
[Note: In God’s kingdom all his subjects are one with their King. While we are bound by His axioms, we never feel the bondage, while the human kings or even the rulers in a democracy tend to be tyrants, maybe with a difference in degree.]
We all are kings in our King’s kingdom
Else how we be one with Him on what other term?
We are arbitrary
Yet, His cravings carry,
Not bound in slave’s bondage
To fear His rage.
He gives honour to all
That bounces on Him to fall;
None is there us to stunt
With any untruth blunt;
We go on our own
To meet the path He had shown;
We won’t die
In the whirl futile.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Bansi: Tagore
Bansi (Flute)
Parishesh (The End)
1932
Rabindranath Tagore, (1861 AD to 1941 AD) Nobel Laureate of 1913.
Translator: RAJAT DAS GUPTA, Calcutta
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com & rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
‘Phone: 91 33 2571 3699 & (M) 9874135773
[Translator’s note: Many take Tagore as an aristocrat who was by succession a Zemindar (=landlord), away from the hard realities faced by the common people close to the poverty line. This poem negates this idea and shows his deep insight into the tragedy of the deprived class of the society. Those who think that his sympathy for the poor was a poetic luxury, will be well advised to visit particularly Sriniketan, close to Santiniketan, where his Visva Bharati University situates, for a glimpse of the fantastic work he did for development of rural economy by way of promotion of vocational training on various crafts side by side with his mass educational programmes within all the constraints of his time. This may be convincing that he was not a ‘ivory tower’ poet.]
At Kinu Milkman’s Lane
I stay quite to my bane
In a building two storied,
On the ground floor the gate is grilled;
In my room wayside
Walls eroded, do not hide
Their brickwork, with sand shed
Here and there, and graffiti of damp displayed.
A portrait of Lord Ganesh
On a canvas no way fresh,
Who helps us achieve a score
Or so supposed, is fixed on the door.
Besides me, another creature
There, on the same rent, does feature;
A lizard it is;
Difference, it gets its meal more at ease.
A junior clerk at a merchant office,
My salary twenty five rupees.
With their son’s tuition blessed,
At Datta’s my meal is dished.
At Sealdah station
I spend the evenings for no emotion,
But to save the cost of light;
Bear with the engines’ sibilant or such plight,
As they whistle, the passengers’ hurry,
And the porters’ scurry.
Ten thirty as the clock will show,
To my dark recess I’ll go.
Lives in a village my auntie
By the river Dhaleswari;
Daughter of her brother-in-law,
The hour was without flaw
For her wed with this destitute
That auntie planned astute.
Indeed the hour brought luck
As judged by the almanac;
That very hour I did abscond;
Thus the lass eluded my bond;
And I backed to square one
Her passage to my abode to shun
To my dismay;
Though she visits my mind every day
Clad in a Dhakai Sari
Forehead with vermillion smeary.
At the thick of monsoon,
Again, no way a boon,
Cost rises for tram ride
With salary cuts by its side;
The nabs of the street
Mango skin, fish fins, kitten corpse et al greet
To pile and ferment
Their pungency to vent.
The umbrella with many a hole
As my fined salary, meets no goal.
Attired for the office,
Gopikanta Gonsai still does not miss
His sense of humour
From which I’m far.
The dark of the rainy day
Makes its way
Into my damp room
To trap me in a morbid doom,
With a world in limbo
As days and nights go.
At the turn of the lane
Stays Kantababu who would fain
To dress his long hair,
Posh, his round eyes stare –
Plays cornet as his hobby
In the loath of this lane shabby;
At times at dead of night
Or at dawn’s twilight;
Even in the light and shade
As in the afternoon the day will fade;
Or of a sudden in the evening
Sindhu Baroan (*) would spring (* an Indian Raga)
To flood the whole sky
With eternal separational sigh,
At once it is obvious,
This lane is a falsity enormous;
Like the drunk’s rigmarole –
Suddenly the message does unroll –
Between Akbar Badsha and Haripada clerk
Stands no dividing mark.
The music’s compassion
To the same utopia leads on.
The bruised umbrella and the royal one
Both for the same fate done.
Where this music holds true
In the eternal dusk that never knew
A break in the flow
Of Dhaleswari, and waits so
One at the yard,
That the river’s shore neared,
By the Tamals (*1) shaded deep;
She, through her veil keeps peep
Clad in Dhakai Sari
Forehead with vermillion smeary. (*2)
-------------------------------------------------------------------
(*1 A type of Indian tree)
(*2 As per Bengali ritual the Bridegroom smears
the forehead of the Bride with vermillion at the nuptial hour.)
Parishesh (The End)
1932
Rabindranath Tagore, (1861 AD to 1941 AD) Nobel Laureate of 1913.
Translator: RAJAT DAS GUPTA, Calcutta
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com & rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
‘Phone: 91 33 2571 3699 & (M) 9874135773
[Translator’s note: Many take Tagore as an aristocrat who was by succession a Zemindar (=landlord), away from the hard realities faced by the common people close to the poverty line. This poem negates this idea and shows his deep insight into the tragedy of the deprived class of the society. Those who think that his sympathy for the poor was a poetic luxury, will be well advised to visit particularly Sriniketan, close to Santiniketan, where his Visva Bharati University situates, for a glimpse of the fantastic work he did for development of rural economy by way of promotion of vocational training on various crafts side by side with his mass educational programmes within all the constraints of his time. This may be convincing that he was not a ‘ivory tower’ poet.]
At Kinu Milkman’s Lane
I stay quite to my bane
In a building two storied,
On the ground floor the gate is grilled;
In my room wayside
Walls eroded, do not hide
Their brickwork, with sand shed
Here and there, and graffiti of damp displayed.
A portrait of Lord Ganesh
On a canvas no way fresh,
Who helps us achieve a score
Or so supposed, is fixed on the door.
Besides me, another creature
There, on the same rent, does feature;
A lizard it is;
Difference, it gets its meal more at ease.
A junior clerk at a merchant office,
My salary twenty five rupees.
With their son’s tuition blessed,
At Datta’s my meal is dished.
At Sealdah station
I spend the evenings for no emotion,
But to save the cost of light;
Bear with the engines’ sibilant or such plight,
As they whistle, the passengers’ hurry,
And the porters’ scurry.
Ten thirty as the clock will show,
To my dark recess I’ll go.
Lives in a village my auntie
By the river Dhaleswari;
Daughter of her brother-in-law,
The hour was without flaw
For her wed with this destitute
That auntie planned astute.
Indeed the hour brought luck
As judged by the almanac;
That very hour I did abscond;
Thus the lass eluded my bond;
And I backed to square one
Her passage to my abode to shun
To my dismay;
Though she visits my mind every day
Clad in a Dhakai Sari
Forehead with vermillion smeary.
At the thick of monsoon,
Again, no way a boon,
Cost rises for tram ride
With salary cuts by its side;
The nabs of the street
Mango skin, fish fins, kitten corpse et al greet
To pile and ferment
Their pungency to vent.
The umbrella with many a hole
As my fined salary, meets no goal.
Attired for the office,
Gopikanta Gonsai still does not miss
His sense of humour
From which I’m far.
The dark of the rainy day
Makes its way
Into my damp room
To trap me in a morbid doom,
With a world in limbo
As days and nights go.
At the turn of the lane
Stays Kantababu who would fain
To dress his long hair,
Posh, his round eyes stare –
Plays cornet as his hobby
In the loath of this lane shabby;
At times at dead of night
Or at dawn’s twilight;
Even in the light and shade
As in the afternoon the day will fade;
Or of a sudden in the evening
Sindhu Baroan (*) would spring (* an Indian Raga)
To flood the whole sky
With eternal separational sigh,
At once it is obvious,
This lane is a falsity enormous;
Like the drunk’s rigmarole –
Suddenly the message does unroll –
Between Akbar Badsha and Haripada clerk
Stands no dividing mark.
The music’s compassion
To the same utopia leads on.
The bruised umbrella and the royal one
Both for the same fate done.
Where this music holds true
In the eternal dusk that never knew
A break in the flow
Of Dhaleswari, and waits so
One at the yard,
That the river’s shore neared,
By the Tamals (*1) shaded deep;
She, through her veil keeps peep
Clad in Dhakai Sari
Forehead with vermillion smeary. (*2)
-------------------------------------------------------------------
(*1 A type of Indian tree)
(*2 As per Bengali ritual the Bridegroom smears
the forehead of the Bride with vermillion at the nuptial hour.)
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Tale of Two Anthems
By Rajat Das Gupta
[Courtesy- Ramkrishna Mission Institute of Culture, Gol Park, Kolkata 700 029, INDIA- published in their monthly bulletin of May 2007 issue]
In early 2003 ‘Vande Mataram’ was declared to be the second most popular national anthem, the topmost being the Irish one. The news was first broadcast by the BBC World Service Radio, which really bewildered those who are habituated to listening it in the morning. While the thunderous ‘Vande Mataram’ call used to send shivers down the spine of the British in the Raj days, are they themselves now broadcasting this news! Were they really tuned to the BBC? Yes, they had to rub their ears to ensure that.
To look back, the song was composed around 1875 by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, the pioneer of modern Bengali literature. It was later inserted into his novel ‘Anandamath’ in1882 where it became a war cry for the crusading Vaishnavite monks in the famine afflicted Bengal against the backdrop of the dwindling Nawab dynasty and the rising British power in the 18th century. Later it became the war cry of the revolutionaries, both violent and non-violent, rising against the British Raj for independence of India. Thousands went to the gallows voicing this patriotic song which was a major motivating force at that time for the freedom struggle of India. It goes with the compliment- “The greatest and most enduring gift of the Swadeshi movement was ‘Vande Matram’, the uncrowned national anthem” (The Cambridge History of India, Vol: IV, p. 608- courtesy, website TUHL Indian / Hinduism Home Page. The status eventually given to it is ‘national song’ as has been elaborated below). However, nothing can depict the spirit of ‘Vande Matram’ better than the following song of Tagore- ‘Ek sutre bandhiachi sahasrati mon / Ek karye sampiachi, sahasra jiban…/ Vande Matram…’- which, even in my inept translation does not possibly lose all its fervour:
In one string we stitch
Many a thousand mind to pitch;
In one mission we devote
On the divine hymn to float-
‘Vande Matram’ (=Hail Mother / Motherland)
Amidst disastrous storm,
Facing many a hurdle
Our daring heart will not fail;
‘Vande Matram’ –
Undaunted by fright’s myriad form,
Hurricane violent, sea in billow
Will not put us low,
Many a million wave
We’ll brave;
This life ephemeral
We’ll not care to bail;
Yet will remain unsnapped,
The solemnity that us trapped-
‘Vande Matram’
To dispel our hibernation.
‘Vande Matram’ drew attention of the Indian National Congress since the beginning. In its annual conference held in Calcutta in 1896, the song was sung and was tuned by Tagore and later on by several others. Again, in its annual conference in 1905, it was accepted as our national anthem.
As it should be obvious from the reference in the song itself to a population of 7 crore (=70 million, as determined by the census of 1881 to be the strength of Bengalis, including the Muslims, in the eastern part of the country), ‘Vande Matram’ speaks more of ‘Mother Bengal’ rather than the whole of India. Yet, its appeal transcended this narrow geographical concept surfacing in its original wordings obviously because ‘Mother Bengal’ has been identified here with the Goddess Durga who is an inspiration to all Hindus where no regionalism stands. Besides, the 7 crore was edited to 30 crore around 1905 (the then Indian population) by those concerned with the song to extrapolate it in the new national scenario. Now, as the original 7 crore included the Muslims (so does the figure 30 crore) also living in the then Bengal, the song itself may be absolved of the charge of communal bias, particularly when it boosted our nationalistic spirit sweeping away all our narrowness. It is a different matter that the song was voiced by the crusading monks who stood against the misrule of the then Muslim Nawabs of Bengal. Eventually, they also had preferred British rule to the Nawabs’, not to swap Islam for Christianity, but to hail good governance to replace the wobbly one. Again, the narrow geographical concept of Bengal, as found in the ‘Anandamath’, should not disqualify the song as a national anthem of India. It would be ridiculous to presume that Bhabananda, the monk character in the novel, indulged in a nationalistic megalomania by inflating 7 crore to 30 crore or so. It appears, Bankim figured his song quite discreetly to fit it well into the plot of his novel. This aside, the fact is, India was never a ‘nation’ in the Western sense before the advent of the British rule which, along with its gradual expansion to the rest of India, starting from Bengal, with atrocity and Western enlightenment also as its integral part, fuelled our nationalistic sentiment. To criticize the original format of ‘Vande Matram’ on the ground of regionalism is to miss this historical relevance in which context, its said extrapolation to our modern national psyche has been only judicious, without diluting its original core inspiration in the enlarged horizon.
Fundamentalist viewpoint
Nevertheless, religious fundamentalism raised its head and some Muslim clerics and politicians (irrespective of religion) argued that as this anthem indulged in deity worship, it was against the spirit of Islam and was therefore unacceptable to its followers. A compromise was then arrived at by accepting only the first two stanzas (vide website TUHL Indian / Hinduism Home page) of the song as our national anthem editing therein the said 7 crore to 30 crore, and where Goddess Durga also does not occur. Notwithstanding this, the ghost of ‘deity worship’, if not regionalism also, ambushes even to-day to mar the true spirit of the song to the extent that has been accepted as our anthem. While I fail to be overwhelmed by the wisdom of such zealots, I also fail to appreciate the highhandedness of the Govt. trying to impose this song on our various institutions in 2006, on the occasion of its being the centenary year, as our national anthem. After all, a song is an aesthetic creation and should be left to the judgment of one’s finer faculties.
Rabindranath Tagore composed ‘Jana gana mano…’ sometime in 1911 which was officially accepted as the national anthem of independent India. Since then, in an attempt to distinguish it from ‘Vande Mataram’, the latter is often referred to as ‘national song’ while the former as the ‘national anthem’. However, this hardly affected the appeal of any of these songs. It may be noted that in case of ‘Jana gano mano’ also only the first two stanzas out of five have been accepted as our national anthem.
Now, while ‘religion’ was the bone of contention in the anti- ‘Vande Mataram’ tirade, the aim of invectives against ‘Jano gano mono’ was Tagore’s alleged sycophancy of King George V who had visited India in 1911, which happens to be the year of composition of the song too that provided scope for such calumny. However, Tagore himself denied such allegation and I never could find any details as to who felicitated George V with this song, if at all he was, and who were the organizers and if at all Tagore himself was involved in it. Yet, it may be speculated if Tagore tried to entice the King to draw his support for some international accolade for him, say, the Nobel. There also, facts in no way involve the King. It was Rothenstein, a British scholar, who was a great admirer of Tagore’s nephew Abanindranath, a renowned artist. He came to ‘Thakurbari’, the ancestral house of Tagore family, to meet the artist. In the gathering Rabindranath was present and his beaming personality attracted Rothenstein who learnt from Abanindranath that Rabindranath was a poet. This took place around 1911. However, Rothenstein gradually felt the pull of Rabindranath and talked highly about him to the British poets / scholars of that time. Now, I quote Tagore’s own words from Maitrayee Devi’s book ‘Mangpute Rabindranath’ (=Rabindranath in Mangpu, near Darjeeling which was the workplace of her husband), translated with the title ‘Tagore By Fireside’ by the authoress herself. The poet said to her:
“When I first started translating them (poems of Gitanjali, on which basis he was awarded the Nobel) into English, I never thought they would be readable. Many have insinuated that Andrews was doing it for me. Poor Andrews felt sorry and ashamed. When Yeats arranged a meeting of distinguished people at Rothenstein’s house, I cannot tell you how embarrassed I felt. Yeats would not listen to me. He was undaunted. A galaxy of people came. Gitanjali was read. They never said a word. They listened in silence and in silence they left- no criticism, no approbation, no favourable remark, no encouraging comment. Blushing in shame and disgrace, I wished the Earth would have opened and swallowed me. Why did I ever listen to Yeats? How could I write English, had I ever learnt it? I was filled with remorse, I could not raise my head. Next day letters started coming, they flooded in, overwhelming with enthusiasm. Everyone wrote. Then I realized they were so moved that evening that they dared not talk. English people are reserved, it is their nature. It was not possible for them to express their feelings at once. What a surprise it was, unexpected and unimaginable. Friend Yeats was pleased.”
The event took place in 1912 on 30 June or in early July. It is this group of scholars / poets who had recommended Tagore’s name to the Nobel Committee in Sweden. However, I badly miss King George V in the entire episode!
Other relevant facts are that Tagore gave underhand support to the then ‘terrorists’ who had fought for India’s freedom and was a suspect of the British Government. His novel ‘Char Addhaya’ (=Four Chapters) on this theme of terrorism proves this.
Secondly, Tagore’s dialogue with Maitrayee Devi may again be quoted in respect of his renouncing his Knighthood in protest against the Jalianwallabag carnage by the British police in 1919. Tagore said: ‘They (British people) took it as a great insult. In England people are very loyal. So, this disavowal of the King did hurt them very much…..’
Again, Tagore himself led some of the processions on the Calcutta roads in protest against the partition of Bengal by Curzon singing in chorus with thousands of his followers ‘Amar sonar Bangla, ami tomay bhalobasi / Chirokal tomar akash, tomar batash amar prane bajay bansi’ (=Oh my golden Bengal, I love Thee / Thy azure, Thy breeze play flute forever in me). Eventually, the British Government was forced to redress the partition on that occasion. Now, how are these compatible with the story of Tagore’s sycophancy of George V as had been spun?
All these razzamatazz was due to our fiddling with the truncated first two stanzas of the song adopted as our national anthem, overlooking the rest of it as if that did not matter in determining the real intent of the poet. But some people are not cursory like a learned correspondent, who highlighted the penultimate stanza of the song in his letter to the Editor of a Calcutta daily (The Statesman) published on 15 September 2006. There is a line in that stanza- ‘Duhsvapne atanke raksha korile anke snehamoyee Mata.’ This, according to the faithful translation of the correspondent, comes to- ‘O affectionate Mother! You have protected me so long in your lap from all nightmarish terror’. Now, the correspondent leaves the question to us if George V would like to be addressed as ‘Affectionate Mother’! My conviction is, such effeminacy would be a contempt of the top royal personality (a male at that time!) and Tagore would instantly find himself behind the bar for this offence, which he never did! Hopefully, this hits the last nail in the coffin of the ‘sycophancy thesis’. However, it may be wiser no to escalate this point further as nothing stops one from arguing that ‘Mata’ in this song smacks of ‘deity worship’ for which its forerunner ‘Vande Mataram’ was put on the dock.
Yet, some highly relevant points need stress. Even a dunce cannot miss that the ‘Eternal Charioteer’ in the third stanza of the song leading ‘the travelers through ages along the ups and downs of the rugged path resonant with His chariot wheels’ could not be a flesh and blood entity, but a spiritual one illuminating India’s people over millenniums aiming proliferation of peace, benignity, welfare and harmony among humanity across the world not ‘fragmented by parochial walls’. This internationalism that Tagore evinced since the late 19th century, as opposed to the politico-commercial noises we hear nowadays in the name of ‘globalization’, manifests again in the second stanza of the song- ‘East and West come / By the side of Thy throne…’. Of course, ‘throne’ smacks of a ‘king’ and the sleuths in their relentless effort to detect George V here may jump up to cry ‘Eureka!’ We should be content only with our envy for them for the extra grey matter they are endowed with. Now, leaving the sleuths aside, we may further observe that no other national anthem thus looks beyond its concerned national boundary and ego, not even our ‘Vande Mataram’ and ‘Sare Jahanse Acchha’ (by Iqbal), all of which are myopic in their eulogy for a certain population within a geographical limit. Such international overtone flashes in a large number of poems /songs of Tagore, including patriotic ones, a widely quoted one being- ‘Where mind is without fear…’.
All these, by no means acquit ‘Jana Gana Mano’. In early 21st century a legal petition was moved to drop the word ‘Sindhu’ from the text of the song as Sind is no more a part of India after its partition. The Supreme Court, however, gave its verdict against the petition.
These two anthems, much pilloried for decades, however, still retain their charisma and dignity due to their great intrinsic values. All invectives against these have undergone thorough scrutiny of highly eminent and knowledgeable persons many times and nullified also, after which these should have become non-issues long before. One may wonder, why they have not! We have already observed above that it is the British who had forged ‘nationalism’ in India, not an unmixed blessing though, but it heightened our best human qualities like patriotism, courage, determination, self-sacrifice, foresight, etc., whereas, after Independence, with our earlier trials and tribulations gone, our evil propensities are surfacing. Our long persisting tangle on this non-issue is only a symptom of the forces which are fast disintegrating our nation, if not pushing us to the pre-British days. In fact, history never records an anthem which had united as well as divided a nation at different points of time more that this duo.
___________________________________________________ Rajat Das Gupta is the author of a few books including ‘The Eclipsed Sun’, a translation of Tagore’s poems and songs.
In early 2003 ‘Vande Mataram’ was declared to be the second most popular national anthem, the topmost being the Irish one. The news was first broadcast by the BBC World Service Radio, which really bewildered those who are habituated to listening it in the morning. While the thunderous ‘Vande Mataram’ call used to send shivers down the spine of the British in the Raj days, are they themselves now broadcasting this news! Were they really tuned to the BBC? Yes, they had to rub their ears to ensure that.
To look back, the song was composed around 1875 by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, the pioneer of modern Bengali literature. It was later inserted into his novel ‘Anandamath’ in1882 where it became a war cry for the crusading Vaishnavite monks in the famine afflicted Bengal against the backdrop of the dwindling Nawab dynasty and the rising British power in the 18th century. Later it became the war cry of the revolutionaries, both violent and non-violent, rising against the British Raj for independence of India. Thousands went to the gallows voicing this patriotic song which was a major motivating force at that time for the freedom struggle of India. It goes with the compliment- “The greatest and most enduring gift of the Swadeshi movement was ‘Vande Matram’, the uncrowned national anthem” (The Cambridge History of India, Vol: IV, p. 608- courtesy, website TUHL Indian / Hinduism Home Page. The status eventually given to it is ‘national song’ as has been elaborated below). However, nothing can depict the spirit of ‘Vande Matram’ better than the following song of Tagore- ‘Ek sutre bandhiachi sahasrati mon / Ek karye sampiachi, sahasra jiban…/ Vande Matram…’- which, even in my inept translation does not possibly lose all its fervour:
In one string we stitch
Many a thousand mind to pitch;
In one mission we devote
On the divine hymn to float-
‘Vande Matram’ (=Hail Mother / Motherland)
Amidst disastrous storm,
Facing many a hurdle
Our daring heart will not fail;
‘Vande Matram’ –
Undaunted by fright’s myriad form,
Hurricane violent, sea in billow
Will not put us low,
Many a million wave
We’ll brave;
This life ephemeral
We’ll not care to bail;
Yet will remain unsnapped,
The solemnity that us trapped-
‘Vande Matram’
To dispel our hibernation.
‘Vande Matram’ drew attention of the Indian National Congress since the beginning. In its annual conference held in Calcutta in 1896, the song was sung and was tuned by Tagore and later on by several others. Again, in its annual conference in 1905, it was accepted as our national anthem.
As it should be obvious from the reference in the song itself to a population of 7 crore (=70 million, as determined by the census of 1881 to be the strength of Bengalis, including the Muslims, in the eastern part of the country), ‘Vande Matram’ speaks more of ‘Mother Bengal’ rather than the whole of India. Yet, its appeal transcended this narrow geographical concept surfacing in its original wordings obviously because ‘Mother Bengal’ has been identified here with the Goddess Durga who is an inspiration to all Hindus where no regionalism stands. Besides, the 7 crore was edited to 30 crore around 1905 (the then Indian population) by those concerned with the song to extrapolate it in the new national scenario. Now, as the original 7 crore included the Muslims (so does the figure 30 crore) also living in the then Bengal, the song itself may be absolved of the charge of communal bias, particularly when it boosted our nationalistic spirit sweeping away all our narrowness. It is a different matter that the song was voiced by the crusading monks who stood against the misrule of the then Muslim Nawabs of Bengal. Eventually, they also had preferred British rule to the Nawabs’, not to swap Islam for Christianity, but to hail good governance to replace the wobbly one. Again, the narrow geographical concept of Bengal, as found in the ‘Anandamath’, should not disqualify the song as a national anthem of India. It would be ridiculous to presume that Bhabananda, the monk character in the novel, indulged in a nationalistic megalomania by inflating 7 crore to 30 crore or so. It appears, Bankim figured his song quite discreetly to fit it well into the plot of his novel. This aside, the fact is, India was never a ‘nation’ in the Western sense before the advent of the British rule which, along with its gradual expansion to the rest of India, starting from Bengal, with atrocity and Western enlightenment also as its integral part, fuelled our nationalistic sentiment. To criticize the original format of ‘Vande Matram’ on the ground of regionalism is to miss this historical relevance in which context, its said extrapolation to our modern national psyche has been only judicious, without diluting its original core inspiration in the enlarged horizon.
Fundamentalist viewpoint
Nevertheless, religious fundamentalism raised its head and some Muslim clerics and politicians (irrespective of religion) argued that as this anthem indulged in deity worship, it was against the spirit of Islam and was therefore unacceptable to its followers. A compromise was then arrived at by accepting only the first two stanzas (vide website TUHL Indian / Hinduism Home page) of the song as our national anthem editing therein the said 7 crore to 30 crore, and where Goddess Durga also does not occur. Notwithstanding this, the ghost of ‘deity worship’, if not regionalism also, ambushes even to-day to mar the true spirit of the song to the extent that has been accepted as our anthem. While I fail to be overwhelmed by the wisdom of such zealots, I also fail to appreciate the highhandedness of the Govt. trying to impose this song on our various institutions in 2006, on the occasion of its being the centenary year, as our national anthem. After all, a song is an aesthetic creation and should be left to the judgment of one’s finer faculties.
Rabindranath Tagore composed ‘Jana gana mano…’ sometime in 1911 which was officially accepted as the national anthem of independent India. Since then, in an attempt to distinguish it from ‘Vande Mataram’, the latter is often referred to as ‘national song’ while the former as the ‘national anthem’. However, this hardly affected the appeal of any of these songs. It may be noted that in case of ‘Jana gano mano’ also only the first two stanzas out of five have been accepted as our national anthem.
Now, while ‘religion’ was the bone of contention in the anti- ‘Vande Mataram’ tirade, the aim of invectives against ‘Jano gano mono’ was Tagore’s alleged sycophancy of King George V who had visited India in 1911, which happens to be the year of composition of the song too that provided scope for such calumny. However, Tagore himself denied such allegation and I never could find any details as to who felicitated George V with this song, if at all he was, and who were the organizers and if at all Tagore himself was involved in it. Yet, it may be speculated if Tagore tried to entice the King to draw his support for some international accolade for him, say, the Nobel. There also, facts in no way involve the King. It was Rothenstein, a British scholar, who was a great admirer of Tagore’s nephew Abanindranath, a renowned artist. He came to ‘Thakurbari’, the ancestral house of Tagore family, to meet the artist. In the gathering Rabindranath was present and his beaming personality attracted Rothenstein who learnt from Abanindranath that Rabindranath was a poet. This took place around 1911. However, Rothenstein gradually felt the pull of Rabindranath and talked highly about him to the British poets / scholars of that time. Now, I quote Tagore’s own words from Maitrayee Devi’s book ‘Mangpute Rabindranath’ (=Rabindranath in Mangpu, near Darjeeling which was the workplace of her husband), translated with the title ‘Tagore By Fireside’ by the authoress herself. The poet said to her:
“When I first started translating them (poems of Gitanjali, on which basis he was awarded the Nobel) into English, I never thought they would be readable. Many have insinuated that Andrews was doing it for me. Poor Andrews felt sorry and ashamed. When Yeats arranged a meeting of distinguished people at Rothenstein’s house, I cannot tell you how embarrassed I felt. Yeats would not listen to me. He was undaunted. A galaxy of people came. Gitanjali was read. They never said a word. They listened in silence and in silence they left- no criticism, no approbation, no favourable remark, no encouraging comment. Blushing in shame and disgrace, I wished the Earth would have opened and swallowed me. Why did I ever listen to Yeats? How could I write English, had I ever learnt it? I was filled with remorse, I could not raise my head. Next day letters started coming, they flooded in, overwhelming with enthusiasm. Everyone wrote. Then I realized they were so moved that evening that they dared not talk. English people are reserved, it is their nature. It was not possible for them to express their feelings at once. What a surprise it was, unexpected and unimaginable. Friend Yeats was pleased.”
The event took place in 1912 on 30 June or in early July. It is this group of scholars / poets who had recommended Tagore’s name to the Nobel Committee in Sweden. However, I badly miss King George V in the entire episode!
Other relevant facts are that Tagore gave underhand support to the then ‘terrorists’ who had fought for India’s freedom and was a suspect of the British Government. His novel ‘Char Addhaya’ (=Four Chapters) on this theme of terrorism proves this.
Secondly, Tagore’s dialogue with Maitrayee Devi may again be quoted in respect of his renouncing his Knighthood in protest against the Jalianwallabag carnage by the British police in 1919. Tagore said: ‘They (British people) took it as a great insult. In England people are very loyal. So, this disavowal of the King did hurt them very much…..’
Again, Tagore himself led some of the processions on the Calcutta roads in protest against the partition of Bengal by Curzon singing in chorus with thousands of his followers ‘Amar sonar Bangla, ami tomay bhalobasi / Chirokal tomar akash, tomar batash amar prane bajay bansi’ (=Oh my golden Bengal, I love Thee / Thy azure, Thy breeze play flute forever in me). Eventually, the British Government was forced to redress the partition on that occasion. Now, how are these compatible with the story of Tagore’s sycophancy of George V as had been spun?
All these razzamatazz was due to our fiddling with the truncated first two stanzas of the song adopted as our national anthem, overlooking the rest of it as if that did not matter in determining the real intent of the poet. But some people are not cursory like a learned correspondent, who highlighted the penultimate stanza of the song in his letter to the Editor of a Calcutta daily (The Statesman) published on 15 September 2006. There is a line in that stanza- ‘Duhsvapne atanke raksha korile anke snehamoyee Mata.’ This, according to the faithful translation of the correspondent, comes to- ‘O affectionate Mother! You have protected me so long in your lap from all nightmarish terror’. Now, the correspondent leaves the question to us if George V would like to be addressed as ‘Affectionate Mother’! My conviction is, such effeminacy would be a contempt of the top royal personality (a male at that time!) and Tagore would instantly find himself behind the bar for this offence, which he never did! Hopefully, this hits the last nail in the coffin of the ‘sycophancy thesis’. However, it may be wiser no to escalate this point further as nothing stops one from arguing that ‘Mata’ in this song smacks of ‘deity worship’ for which its forerunner ‘Vande Mataram’ was put on the dock.
Yet, some highly relevant points need stress. Even a dunce cannot miss that the ‘Eternal Charioteer’ in the third stanza of the song leading ‘the travelers through ages along the ups and downs of the rugged path resonant with His chariot wheels’ could not be a flesh and blood entity, but a spiritual one illuminating India’s people over millenniums aiming proliferation of peace, benignity, welfare and harmony among humanity across the world not ‘fragmented by parochial walls’. This internationalism that Tagore evinced since the late 19th century, as opposed to the politico-commercial noises we hear nowadays in the name of ‘globalization’, manifests again in the second stanza of the song- ‘East and West come / By the side of Thy throne…’. Of course, ‘throne’ smacks of a ‘king’ and the sleuths in their relentless effort to detect George V here may jump up to cry ‘Eureka!’ We should be content only with our envy for them for the extra grey matter they are endowed with. Now, leaving the sleuths aside, we may further observe that no other national anthem thus looks beyond its concerned national boundary and ego, not even our ‘Vande Mataram’ and ‘Sare Jahanse Acchha’ (by Iqbal), all of which are myopic in their eulogy for a certain population within a geographical limit. Such international overtone flashes in a large number of poems /songs of Tagore, including patriotic ones, a widely quoted one being- ‘Where mind is without fear…’.
All these, by no means acquit ‘Jana Gana Mano’. In early 21st century a legal petition was moved to drop the word ‘Sindhu’ from the text of the song as Sind is no more a part of India after its partition. The Supreme Court, however, gave its verdict against the petition.
These two anthems, much pilloried for decades, however, still retain their charisma and dignity due to their great intrinsic values. All invectives against these have undergone thorough scrutiny of highly eminent and knowledgeable persons many times and nullified also, after which these should have become non-issues long before. One may wonder, why they have not! We have already observed above that it is the British who had forged ‘nationalism’ in India, not an unmixed blessing though, but it heightened our best human qualities like patriotism, courage, determination, self-sacrifice, foresight, etc., whereas, after Independence, with our earlier trials and tribulations gone, our evil propensities are surfacing. Our long persisting tangle on this non-issue is only a symptom of the forces which are fast disintegrating our nation, if not pushing us to the pre-British days. In fact, history never records an anthem which had united as well as divided a nation at different points of time more that this duo.
___________________________________________________ Rajat Das Gupta is the author of a few books including ‘The Eclipsed Sun’, a translation of Tagore’s poems and songs.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Tagore's Jogin-da
Jogin-da
A poem by Rabindranath Tagore, (1861 AD to 1941 AD) Nobel Laureate of 1913.
Translator: RAJAT DAS GUPTA, Calcutta
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com & rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
‘Phone: 91 33 2571 3699 & (M) 9874135773
Poem: Jogin-da (=Jogin the big brother) of the book ‘Chharar Chhabi’ (=Pictures in Rhyme) written in 1937, 4 years before the death of the Poet.
[Translator’s note – In our childhood our hot favourite was ‘Thakurmar Jhuli’ (=The Granny’s Bag), a book of tales by Dakshinaranjan Majumdar. Dakshinaranjan had picked up the stories hot from the Grannies’ mouths as they would tell their grandchildren at bedtime in rural Bengal of yore. The stories comprised King, Queen, Prince, Princess, other royalties, commoners like woodcutters, weavers, hermits etc. along with demons, ghosts, flying horse, chariots, peacock boats etc. with boundary between reality and fantasy lost, or rather rendered irrelevant, manifesting various human weal and woe, strife, impediments to achieve life’s ambition etc. which would hypnotize children, the audience to these from their grannies/elders, and for the latter these stories were unfailing to tame the kids and glue them to the bed when it would be time for it. This book was fore worded by Rabindranath Tagore and only he could pen such a superb foreword. As Tagore wrote, initially he had a lot of apprehension about the scripts produced before him by Dakshinaranjan as he had taken up a difficult task of capturing a fugitive treasure from our life that so much nourished the imagination of the children of Bengal which is being gradually left dry of what was possibly the best gift of their childhood with a blend of their elders’ affection (irreplaceable by the modern ‘idiot box’ packages). But Tagore gave Dakshnaranjan his unreserved compliment having performed this difficult task so well. He concluded his foreword with the proposal of launching an institution based on Dakshinaranjan’s ‘Thakutmar Jhuli’ for training of the modern grannies in story telling to their sibling kids.
In the olden days story tellers abounded Bengal though they are now an effaced specie. I am inclined to believe that ‘Joginda’ is a first hand experience of the Poet in his childhood and not merely his imagination. Tagore himself was a great story teller and even in the form of a poetry as may be seen here. This story is also an example how amusing and enjoyable an inconsistent story, bordering rigmarole, can be. This is another dimension of the Poet’s boundless talent which never rejected the lighter aspects of life amidst his engrossment with those profoundest, particularly towards the end of his life when he wrote Jogin-da.]
Born at Dehra-Ismail-Khan
Jogin-da had traveled many a town western,
And villages too on survey work,
While in military service stark.
At last settled among the children;
While by sheer age he was olden.
“I’ll endure not your torture”;
Aloud daily he would declare.
The very next day he would look for
Those very lads and lasses at his door;
And call out, “where’s Tunu and Khonki,
Hey Bhaju, a wild monkey”.
At his voice formidable
The locale would tremble,
Only around him to get
The greedy children to satiate –
Some with marble, some with picture
Or lozenge as one would fervour;
Those were mere bribe
At his court their attendance to subscribe.
If Kajli would grieve without reason,
A sweet Pan (1) in her mouth he’d slip in. (1)
Many a granddaughter he had
Or so they were he’d fad –
Like Pagli, Patli and Janguli –
Some to get him Khayer (2), some Kasundi (2) (2)
Or home made lemon drink,
By their mothers, that with his taste would link.
Till then with physique robust,
At sixty plus his youth did last;
Smile on his lips, eyes bright
The face a ripe mango, age didn’t blight;
Wide forehead, hair thin,
The moustache, his renown had been.
As the day would be over,
The lamp on the stand would flicker;
At the road’s turn, the Gardner
Would hawk aloud garlands of flower.
At his face we would stare
With our docile behaviour.
The evening, the bell would greet
Ringing at the temple of the street.
In those days, the evenings
Were true ones, to-day it seems;
Then was not invented the electric
The daylight to mimic.
At the corners of the room
The darkness would loom;
Amidst that faint light
In tales our minds would flight.
As a story he’d begin to mint
We’d allow him no stint;
True or false whatever pleased he,
Would cook up however flimsy.
Even geography
Would go topsy-turvy;
Funny it was nevertheless
Though devoid of base.
I give a story below
With my ability low
To do in his style
With many a hue all to beguile.
Past Hosierpur the Chhandousi bound train
Left Sarhora at half past one again.
At dawn sped past
Bundelsor and Amlorisarsar pretty fast.
By the time it arrived Firozabad,
Jogindada’s appetite was well bud;
So popping in his mouth fast
Pakouri (3) and hot gram with gust; (3)
When the King of Jounpur appeared
With many a bodyguard
Attendant and elephant herd;
A big parasol upon him held –
At once on Dada’s head
The minister put a crown and did implore,
“Prince, how long Motimahal you’ll abjure,
Do come back, restore our heart” –
And the bugles and drums played up in concert.
The matter was like this –
For thirteen years the prince was amiss
Absconding the palace
Soon after his wedding took place;
As at Nathdoara forest
He went on prey’s quest;
No more found since then
Queen Mother’s tears in vain
Rolled down to turn her blind
As the royal agents failed him to find
On their wild goose chase
With only rumours as their base.
To Pindidadankhana, Lalamusa they had been
Also Ludhiana and Punjab; but yet to be seen
Guljarpur, to be combed later
While visit to Rawalpindi was to their despair.
The antecedent- Jogindada at Hatras junction
With tea, bread munches on.
Quite well did he dine
While breeze from the field was fine.
Suddenly a Jounpur spy
With folded hands and respect high
Asks, “where’s your home Your Highness!”
Dada thought the honour splendid, and no less;
So, better his identity he’d suppress
And only the spy to impress
By his behaviour
That he was the Prince of the empire –
And, with royal signs so many –
God! The spy had never seen in the body of any!
Five months passed thereafter,
Message went to Jounpur of their lost treasure.
In the station Dada was relaxed quite
Till the mystery took height –
While a Gurkha infantry saluted him –
That a guard of honour he did deem.
And the station thronged with Sikhs and Afgans
Escorting him to Itarsy or so with slogans
In his glory in Urdu and Persian,
There from to Mainpuri then Lachmonjhola was their sojourn,
With Sehnai (4) played all the way, on palanquin magnificent (4)
Shouldered by ten bearers with twenty five more contingent.
At Bhatinda stinted for a look,
To the South spotted Dada Vindhya (5) by fluke. (5)
Right there they served drink of green mango,
Reached Jounpur when the afternoon Sun was low.
Here, at the threshold of coronation
Jogindada put his brake on.
With his laugh evasive, said –
“In the process to my gram popping they put paid;
Alas brothers! And that’s all I’ve to tell”;
“That won’t do! Won’t!” the boys in a babel
Said, “Finish you must!”
And thus Joginda cut it fast.
Said he, “Lucky it didn’t finish,
So I’m still alive as I did wish.
In three days I was through –
A Prince, if you just knew
What it is to be! Daily
To eat Parathas (6) soaked with Ghee (7) (6) & (7)
How can endure that a timid Bengali?
The shining Nagra (8) bruises the feet, (8)
The turban a porter’s load indeed –
It’s no joke to bear with these;
So, only to escape these I did please.
Further, on hearing the Prince’s Hindi (9) (9)
None as Hindi they suspected it to be.
On the day of Ramlila (10) festival holy (10)
Far in the town performed ecstatically,
The slack guard brought fortune –
As for escape the moment was opportune.
And this Bengali
In a marathon run did flee
Straight to Bengal and that very night
To Dacca took his flight.
And the spy did earn Rupees ten thousand
Though with his ears boxed, at the end
Had to refund the whole sum
As the rumour to Dada did come.
“Why did you return!” we shout;
Jogindada smiles a bit to end the rout.
And half the night as we retired to bed,
The towns he’d named muddled our head.
If I forget the country’s all address,
I’ll reminisce Joginda’s tale with geographic mess.
**********************
Notes:-
(1) Pan- beetle leaf with spice which is often an addiction with the Bengalis.
(2) Khayer- is an input spice for Pan while Kasundi is a tasty sauce made of mustard.
(3) Pakouri- a fried snack made of pulses and flour.
(4) Shenai- A type of flute played in various festivals like wedding etc
(5) A mountain range.
(6) Paratha- made of flour in disk shape, generally quite heavy.
(7) Ghee- Indian buffalo milk butter.
(8) Nagra- A gorgeous footwear for the royal persons.
(9) Hindi- The common language of North India. Bengalis are ill at ease with Hindi and they are laughing stock in North India for the funny way they speak this language.
(10) Ramlila- A widely performed festival of North India with grandeur.
Translator: RAJAT DAS GUPTA, Calcutta
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com & rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
‘Phone: 91 33 2571 3699 & (M) 9874135773
Poem: Jogin-da (=Jogin the big brother) of the book ‘Chharar Chhabi’ (=Pictures in Rhyme) written in 1937, 4 years before the death of the Poet.
[Translator’s note – In our childhood our hot favourite was ‘Thakurmar Jhuli’ (=The Granny’s Bag), a book of tales by Dakshinaranjan Majumdar. Dakshinaranjan had picked up the stories hot from the Grannies’ mouths as they would tell their grandchildren at bedtime in rural Bengal of yore. The stories comprised King, Queen, Prince, Princess, other royalties, commoners like woodcutters, weavers, hermits etc. along with demons, ghosts, flying horse, chariots, peacock boats etc. with boundary between reality and fantasy lost, or rather rendered irrelevant, manifesting various human weal and woe, strife, impediments to achieve life’s ambition etc. which would hypnotize children, the audience to these from their grannies/elders, and for the latter these stories were unfailing to tame the kids and glue them to the bed when it would be time for it. This book was fore worded by Rabindranath Tagore and only he could pen such a superb foreword. As Tagore wrote, initially he had a lot of apprehension about the scripts produced before him by Dakshinaranjan as he had taken up a difficult task of capturing a fugitive treasure from our life that so much nourished the imagination of the children of Bengal which is being gradually left dry of what was possibly the best gift of their childhood with a blend of their elders’ affection (irreplaceable by the modern ‘idiot box’ packages). But Tagore gave Dakshnaranjan his unreserved compliment having performed this difficult task so well. He concluded his foreword with the proposal of launching an institution based on Dakshinaranjan’s ‘Thakutmar Jhuli’ for training of the modern grannies in story telling to their sibling kids.
In the olden days story tellers abounded Bengal though they are now an effaced specie. I am inclined to believe that ‘Joginda’ is a first hand experience of the Poet in his childhood and not merely his imagination. Tagore himself was a great story teller and even in the form of a poetry as may be seen here. This story is also an example how amusing and enjoyable an inconsistent story, bordering rigmarole, can be. This is another dimension of the Poet’s boundless talent which never rejected the lighter aspects of life amidst his engrossment with those profoundest, particularly towards the end of his life when he wrote Jogin-da.]
Born at Dehra-Ismail-Khan
Jogin-da had traveled many a town western,
And villages too on survey work,
While in military service stark.
At last settled among the children;
While by sheer age he was olden.
“I’ll endure not your torture”;
Aloud daily he would declare.
The very next day he would look for
Those very lads and lasses at his door;
And call out, “where’s Tunu and Khonki,
Hey Bhaju, a wild monkey”.
At his voice formidable
The locale would tremble,
Only around him to get
The greedy children to satiate –
Some with marble, some with picture
Or lozenge as one would fervour;
Those were mere bribe
At his court their attendance to subscribe.
If Kajli would grieve without reason,
A sweet Pan (1) in her mouth he’d slip in. (1)
Many a granddaughter he had
Or so they were he’d fad –
Like Pagli, Patli and Janguli –
Some to get him Khayer (2), some Kasundi (2) (2)
Or home made lemon drink,
By their mothers, that with his taste would link.
Till then with physique robust,
At sixty plus his youth did last;
Smile on his lips, eyes bright
The face a ripe mango, age didn’t blight;
Wide forehead, hair thin,
The moustache, his renown had been.
As the day would be over,
The lamp on the stand would flicker;
At the road’s turn, the Gardner
Would hawk aloud garlands of flower.
At his face we would stare
With our docile behaviour.
The evening, the bell would greet
Ringing at the temple of the street.
In those days, the evenings
Were true ones, to-day it seems;
Then was not invented the electric
The daylight to mimic.
At the corners of the room
The darkness would loom;
Amidst that faint light
In tales our minds would flight.
As a story he’d begin to mint
We’d allow him no stint;
True or false whatever pleased he,
Would cook up however flimsy.
Even geography
Would go topsy-turvy;
Funny it was nevertheless
Though devoid of base.
I give a story below
With my ability low
To do in his style
With many a hue all to beguile.
Past Hosierpur the Chhandousi bound train
Left Sarhora at half past one again.
At dawn sped past
Bundelsor and Amlorisarsar pretty fast.
By the time it arrived Firozabad,
Jogindada’s appetite was well bud;
So popping in his mouth fast
Pakouri (3) and hot gram with gust; (3)
When the King of Jounpur appeared
With many a bodyguard
Attendant and elephant herd;
A big parasol upon him held –
At once on Dada’s head
The minister put a crown and did implore,
“Prince, how long Motimahal you’ll abjure,
Do come back, restore our heart” –
And the bugles and drums played up in concert.
The matter was like this –
For thirteen years the prince was amiss
Absconding the palace
Soon after his wedding took place;
As at Nathdoara forest
He went on prey’s quest;
No more found since then
Queen Mother’s tears in vain
Rolled down to turn her blind
As the royal agents failed him to find
On their wild goose chase
With only rumours as their base.
To Pindidadankhana, Lalamusa they had been
Also Ludhiana and Punjab; but yet to be seen
Guljarpur, to be combed later
While visit to Rawalpindi was to their despair.
The antecedent- Jogindada at Hatras junction
With tea, bread munches on.
Quite well did he dine
While breeze from the field was fine.
Suddenly a Jounpur spy
With folded hands and respect high
Asks, “where’s your home Your Highness!”
Dada thought the honour splendid, and no less;
So, better his identity he’d suppress
And only the spy to impress
By his behaviour
That he was the Prince of the empire –
And, with royal signs so many –
God! The spy had never seen in the body of any!
Five months passed thereafter,
Message went to Jounpur of their lost treasure.
In the station Dada was relaxed quite
Till the mystery took height –
While a Gurkha infantry saluted him –
That a guard of honour he did deem.
And the station thronged with Sikhs and Afgans
Escorting him to Itarsy or so with slogans
In his glory in Urdu and Persian,
There from to Mainpuri then Lachmonjhola was their sojourn,
With Sehnai (4) played all the way, on palanquin magnificent (4)
Shouldered by ten bearers with twenty five more contingent.
At Bhatinda stinted for a look,
To the South spotted Dada Vindhya (5) by fluke. (5)
Right there they served drink of green mango,
Reached Jounpur when the afternoon Sun was low.
Here, at the threshold of coronation
Jogindada put his brake on.
With his laugh evasive, said –
“In the process to my gram popping they put paid;
Alas brothers! And that’s all I’ve to tell”;
“That won’t do! Won’t!” the boys in a babel
Said, “Finish you must!”
And thus Joginda cut it fast.
Said he, “Lucky it didn’t finish,
So I’m still alive as I did wish.
In three days I was through –
A Prince, if you just knew
What it is to be! Daily
To eat Parathas (6) soaked with Ghee (7) (6) & (7)
How can endure that a timid Bengali?
The shining Nagra (8) bruises the feet, (8)
The turban a porter’s load indeed –
It’s no joke to bear with these;
So, only to escape these I did please.
Further, on hearing the Prince’s Hindi (9) (9)
None as Hindi they suspected it to be.
On the day of Ramlila (10) festival holy (10)
Far in the town performed ecstatically,
The slack guard brought fortune –
As for escape the moment was opportune.
And this Bengali
In a marathon run did flee
Straight to Bengal and that very night
To Dacca took his flight.
And the spy did earn Rupees ten thousand
Though with his ears boxed, at the end
Had to refund the whole sum
As the rumour to Dada did come.
“Why did you return!” we shout;
Jogindada smiles a bit to end the rout.
And half the night as we retired to bed,
The towns he’d named muddled our head.
If I forget the country’s all address,
I’ll reminisce Joginda’s tale with geographic mess.
**********************
Notes:-
(1) Pan- beetle leaf with spice which is often an addiction with the Bengalis.
(2) Khayer- is an input spice for Pan while Kasundi is a tasty sauce made of mustard.
(3) Pakouri- a fried snack made of pulses and flour.
(4) Shenai- A type of flute played in various festivals like wedding etc
(5) A mountain range.
(6) Paratha- made of flour in disk shape, generally quite heavy.
(7) Ghee- Indian buffalo milk butter.
(8) Nagra- A gorgeous footwear for the royal persons.
(9) Hindi- The common language of North India. Bengalis are ill at ease with Hindi and they are laughing stock in North India for the funny way they speak this language.
(10) Ramlila- A widely performed festival of North India with grandeur.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Tagore: Hope
HOPE
Poem: Asha (Hope) of the book Purabi (name of an Indian Raga played in the evening), written on board SS Andes on 19 October, 1924.
Translator: RAJAT DAS GUPTA (Calcutta)
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com
& rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
[Translator’s note: To the Poet, a man’s greatest achievements which bring him wealth and honour are not necessarily his life’s greatest accomplishments. As one advances in age with all recognition in the society for his successes, he may start realizing that he has missed many precious rewards which might be his exclusive either in his daily trifles or in his meditation for some supreme perceptions, which are not for the market place.]
Many a fantastic feat
Are not difficult indeed;
For the world’s welfare
I move everywhere.
Compatriots congregate
Many to educate
A lot of verbiage
In many a language
A lot of demolition
To follow new formation.
The nets web up, the knots fasten,
Bricks erect mansion after mansion.
Such creation some say good, some bad,
Credulous, some come close, some doubt as fad.
Some pure, spurious some,
As raw materials will chance to come –
On the whole
Something builds up as your goal.
But the hopes very humble
Sound easy, but not at all simple.
A bit of pleasure
From a song or fragrance of flower,
Dream in the shade of a tree
When I crave in leisurely spree –
Those fugitives are nowhere
So far I stare.
As the Creator fastened His belt
And the vast steamy space He dealt
To shape it up thundering the sky
With His primal labour raised mountains high;
But after dream of ages many a million
The first bunch of flower did dawn.
I cherished the hope many a day
In the corner of the earth I may
Stay exclusive in a cot,
Not with wealth and honour a lot.
The cool shade of the tree
The river flowing free,
In the dusk the evening star
The fragrance of the flower,
Just outside my window
Through which does glow
The first light of the morning
On the pond there shimmering;
Embracing All these
May work up my pathos and glees –
Not wealth and honour a lot
But I had hoped a mere cot.
For long I did cherish
My humble wish –
That my heart’s treasure
In eloquence will flower;
Not wealth nor honour –
But to be overt mere.
Hues the clouds the setting Sun
When his day’s round is done
To paint the portrait of the end
With his imagination’s blend.
Like that if I could
My dreamland paint I would
In light and shade
Bright and fade
Its myth to build
And around it to yield
Fullness to life’s tear and smile
Nor wealth nor honour to pile –
But only the language of dedication
Was my expectation.
For long the hope I did keep,
Thirst of my life deep,
To quench with the ultimate nectar –
Not wealth, nor honour –
A bit of love mere,
Only that hope I did bear.
With my heart’s music
Someone I would seek,
To put hand in hand
As one close to me will stand,
Worry alone when goes far
Talk eye to eye when comes near.
Around all these trifle
Will slowly fulfill
All tear and smile
Of this life for a while –
Nor wealth, nor honour
But I had hoped a bit of love mere.
Poem: Asha (Hope) of the book Purabi (name of an Indian Raga played in the evening), written on board SS Andes on 19 October, 1924.
Translator: RAJAT DAS GUPTA (Calcutta)
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com
& rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
[Translator’s note: To the Poet, a man’s greatest achievements which bring him wealth and honour are not necessarily his life’s greatest accomplishments. As one advances in age with all recognition in the society for his successes, he may start realizing that he has missed many precious rewards which might be his exclusive either in his daily trifles or in his meditation for some supreme perceptions, which are not for the market place.]
Many a fantastic feat
Are not difficult indeed;
For the world’s welfare
I move everywhere.
Compatriots congregate
Many to educate
A lot of verbiage
In many a language
A lot of demolition
To follow new formation.
The nets web up, the knots fasten,
Bricks erect mansion after mansion.
Such creation some say good, some bad,
Credulous, some come close, some doubt as fad.
Some pure, spurious some,
As raw materials will chance to come –
On the whole
Something builds up as your goal.
But the hopes very humble
Sound easy, but not at all simple.
A bit of pleasure
From a song or fragrance of flower,
Dream in the shade of a tree
When I crave in leisurely spree –
Those fugitives are nowhere
So far I stare.
As the Creator fastened His belt
And the vast steamy space He dealt
To shape it up thundering the sky
With His primal labour raised mountains high;
But after dream of ages many a million
The first bunch of flower did dawn.
I cherished the hope many a day
In the corner of the earth I may
Stay exclusive in a cot,
Not with wealth and honour a lot.
The cool shade of the tree
The river flowing free,
In the dusk the evening star
The fragrance of the flower,
Just outside my window
Through which does glow
The first light of the morning
On the pond there shimmering;
Embracing All these
May work up my pathos and glees –
Not wealth and honour a lot
But I had hoped a mere cot.
For long I did cherish
My humble wish –
That my heart’s treasure
In eloquence will flower;
Not wealth nor honour –
But to be overt mere.
Hues the clouds the setting Sun
When his day’s round is done
To paint the portrait of the end
With his imagination’s blend.
Like that if I could
My dreamland paint I would
In light and shade
Bright and fade
Its myth to build
And around it to yield
Fullness to life’s tear and smile
Nor wealth nor honour to pile –
But only the language of dedication
Was my expectation.
For long the hope I did keep,
Thirst of my life deep,
To quench with the ultimate nectar –
Not wealth, nor honour –
A bit of love mere,
Only that hope I did bear.
With my heart’s music
Someone I would seek,
To put hand in hand
As one close to me will stand,
Worry alone when goes far
Talk eye to eye when comes near.
Around all these trifle
Will slowly fulfill
All tear and smile
Of this life for a while –
Nor wealth, nor honour
But I had hoped a bit of love mere.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Tagore's Legacy
Life sketch of Rabindranath Thakur (Tagore)
By RAJAT DAS GUPTA (KOLKATA)
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com
& rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Birth : 7 May 1861 AD
Demise : 7 August 1941 AD
Nobel Laureate : 1913 AD
Born at Jorasanko in Calcutta in a Brahmo family, Rabindranath Thakur was the youngest of his siblings. His grandfather Prince Dwarakanath Thakur earned his fortune from his trade, lead a luxurious life, an atheist but tolerant to all beliefs, was very Western minded promoting modern medical science which was a taboo even in the Tagore family, while Ayurvedic, the Indian medical science, ruled the roost in this entire sub-continent. He was widely traveled and died in England. Rabindranath’s father Maharshi Debendranath Thakur (“Maharshi” is an appellation for the sage-like persons) was a strict monotheist according to the preaching of Brahmo religion [in contrast with Brahminism- see note (**) at the end] and was averse to deity worship which his other family members did not give up. He was a failure in pecuniary and estate matters in which Rabindranath fared better when he had to take these over in his mid-twenties.
Rabindranath was a truant pupil both in Calcutta and England and eventually a confirmed drop-out from the formal educational courses including Bar-at-Law which more than he himself his elders had aimed.
Nevertheless, his scholarly/cultural/spiritual heritage and family environment, where such values are deeply imbibed, much more than made good his shortcomings in schooling. He was married at the age of 23 and thereafter he had to look after the huge feudal properties he had inherited, mostly located at the then East & North Bengal along the Padma river. Then, for a decade spent his time in that superb natural environment – “a meet nurse for a poetic child”.
In 1901, he came down to Santiniketan (where his University Viswa Bharati situates – about 4-hour train journey from Calcutta) the meditation place for his father Debendranath which he had shaped up in the model of Tapoban (wilderness for meditation) of ancient India, where learned sages in recluse would perform their worship and meditation along with giving lessons to their pupils on scriptures like Vedas, Sanskrit language and other classics. In that milieu of Tapoban, a gift of his father, Rabindranath built up his Viswa Bharati (=World University) true to its name which, since early twentieth century had been a pilgrim place for the scholars, poets etc. from various parts of the world, especially Britain, Germany, China, Japan etc. While this influx still continues, it is a pity the heavenly serenity there left behind by Rabindranath in 1941, when he had passed away, is alarmingly polluted by urbanization as well as onslaught of mod culture. In his learned article “The Tagore Connection” published in The Statesman on 9 January 2001, Dr. Martin Kampchen (a German scholar now translating Tagore in German language) reports about the institution ‘Ecole d’ Humanite’ in Switzerland – “ Its founder Paul Geheeb and his wife Edith were in touch with Tagore for about 10 years, almost until Tagore’s death. The impression these educationists made on each other was deep and lasting. Anybody who is aware of Rabindranath’s educational vision, can make out the similarities between Santiniketan and the Ecole d’ Humanite in Switzerland except that this vision is still thriving at Ecole, but, alas, is it still alive at Santiniketan?” Many like Dr. Kampchen are apprehensive about the finest humanistic culture at Santiniketan that ever evolved on our earth. Tagore built up this great institution under acute financial stress. Yet, the values he had built up there cannot be measured in terms of money. After independence of India in 1947 the Central Govt. of India took up the charge of Viswa-Bharati under the aegis of Jawharlal Nehru, our the then Prime Minister which solved the financial crisis. Yet, the regret of many eminent persons concerned about the institution’s future is – “earlier Viswa-Bharati had everything but money; now it has money at a high cost to everything else.”
Yet, sometimes there is a silver lining in the cloud. The Statesman in its Kolkata supplement of 3 December 2001 (Monday) reports encouragingly. The newly appointed Vice Chancellor of Viswa Bharati Dr. Sujit Kumar Basu has planned to open mini Viswa-Bharatis, one each in Japan, France and the U.K., to spread Tagore’s heritage in the fields of art, literature and music and thus to reach out to the world outside in the centenary year of Viswa-Bharati. Surely, the Bengalis will extend their wholehearted goodwill to Dr. Basu and eagerly watch his vision shape up. Like Switzerland, these places also may prove better host of Tagore’s ideals in contrast with Santiniketan amidst the all round corruption in West Bengal.
Rabindranath, however, never isolated himself from the rest of the country in his pre-occupation with his Viswa-Bharati. A fervent patriot, a number of his songs inspired freedom fighters against the British rule to whom the Poet had extended his active support also and was a suspect of the British Govt.. Interestingly, his song- “Jana Gana Mano Adhinayaka …..” is the national anthem of India while another song- “Amar Sonar Bangla, Ami Tomay Bhalobashi… (O my golden Bengal, I love Thee)” is the national anthem of Bangladesh, thus, he is the only Poet in the world whose songs enjoy the status of “National Anthem” in two different sovereign countries. Again, the Indian one is the only which imbibes the liberal concept of internationalism, a line of which is “Purba Paschim Aashe, Tabo Singhsana Pashe …(East and West come, By the side of Thy throne)”. After the historic carnage at Jalianwalabagh (in Punjab) in 1919 by the British police, when the freedom movement was at its peak, the Poet renounced his Knighthood to outlet his torment. As he described to Maitrayee Devi, while he was intermittently her guest at Mangpu (near Darjeeling) during the last few years of his life – “ They (British people) took it as a great insult. In England people are very loyal. So, this disavowal of the King did hurt them very much……”
Yet, he was against the negative spirit of the then Swadeshi (or National movement), loaded with sentimentalism losing the wider human perspective. His conflict with Gandhiji on this issue made history. Many of course opine that Tagore in his zeal for internationalism, missed some home realities of that time.
Thus, entangled in national and international life streams side by side with his enormous preoccupations in shaping up and driving forward his dream institution Viswa-Bharati, the Poet met all his domestic obligations as a dutiful head of the family. His love and affection for all his kith and kin was as anybody else’s. But remarkable was the calmness with which he had frequently faced many tragedies including death of his children and other near and dear ones.
While various events in the Poet’s life will go down in history with losing significance, eternal will be the vast literary treasure he left for us, or so it should be as many implore, to keep elevated the human mind and soul from mundane mediocrity. Poems, songs, short stories, novels, satires, scientific dissertations and even his personal letters rising to the level of belles-lettres did spontaneously fount from his pen since his early teens till his death, in which aesthetics/spiritual perception, wits etc. of highest order run through. Far from being an authority in Tagore literature, I have not shown the impertinence to make my work all pervasive which, in any case, seems to be an impossible task even for an erudite. I have only nibbled here and there of this vast treasure to present a few of its gems in English language, however incompetently.
Yet, I think, it will not stand on the way of exposing the greatness of the Poet as each piece of his work, big or small, is a window to the panoramic perception of the Poet of the wonders of Creation and his other noblest human faculties. The magic of his words also transmits instantly to the readers/audience to raise them to the lofty level of the Poet’s intuitions, however momentarily. Assimilation of Upanishada (4000 year old Indian scripture) in his blood props up his bewilderingly vast literature with its bewildering high quality, excelling all eschatology ever discoursed. Whit surfaces most in his oeuvre is his life long quest for the ever evasive Eternal Truth which, nevertheless, has been the pursuit of all great thinkers of all time and place, Maybe, the following poem sums up well this futile search of man –
Asked the primordial Sun
To the nascent Creation
“Who are you?”
But no answer he knew;
Years rolled by –
As on the Western horizon did lie
The Sun at the day’s end,
In the solemn hour when light and shade blend,
Asked,.” Who you are?”
Followed no answer.
Yet, “God freely reveals His secret to the worthy” (as was told about Newton), only a bit of which they can pass on to us..
(**) Brahmo is a religion established in the early nineteenth century by Raja Rammohan Roy by way of defection from the Hindu religion with domination of Brahmins at that time while the whole Hindu community was ailing under the caste system, depriving the vast majority of the people of their legitimate social and economic rights. While the object of the Brahmos was to fight out all these social evils, it also aimed to stop the conversion to Christianity which the rebel younger generation in Bengal, newly enlightened by the Western education, had opted for at that time in large number. One of the major evil custom Rammohan fought against was the ‘Sati’ system under which the young widows used to be burnt alive in the pyre with their dead husbands often to usurp the estates of the dead husbands by their relatives that would otherwise be inherited by the widows had they been allowed to survive. He persuaded hard the then British Govt. to ban ‘Sati’ while the latter hesitated a lot to interfere with the customs of the Hindus,
however inhuman. Rammohan traveled to England to press upon the Indian Council there, overseeing the governance of the Indian colony of the British, to abolish this cruelty at the earliest. Eventually, Rammohan in his death bed heard the good news that the bill of banning ‘Sati’ was passed by a single majority vote. After his death Rammohan’s was buried at Bristol in England.
**********************************************************************
Prelude to Nobel:
A few English scholars played important role to win the Poet his international accolade, the Nobel Prize. Rothenstein, one of them, was the first to discover the Poet while he had visited the Poet’s ancestral home (toward the end of the first decade of the twentieth century) at Jorasanko (North Calcutta) as a guest of the Poet’s nephew Abanindranath Thakur who was a renowned painter, his fame reaching Europe and, thus, earning high esteem of Rothenstein and of many others. Interestingly, Abanindranath never traveled far and wide, as, it is learnt, he was allergic to travel, and rarely crossed the boundaries of the then undivided Bengal. It is also learnt, it is Abanindranath who was supposed to visit Delhi to meet Rothenstein there but, somehow, the reverse followed. At Jorasanko, Rothenstein did not miss the beaming personality of Rabindranath at a gathering there, and on his enquiry, learnt from Abanindranath that Rabindranath was his uncle and a poet. So, had Abanindranath overcome his lethargy for travel and really visited Delhi to meet Rothenstein there, Rabindranath might not ever have been a Nobel Laureate and would remain a lesser local celebrity of Bengal. Another mishap was, when Rabindranath went over to London at the invitation of Rothenstein, he lost his manuscript of Gitanjali (see next paragraph) in a London underground tube which, of course, he got back courtesy British Railway else this trifle slip would have been enough to deprive him of this international accolade.
It is a shame that until the Nobel was conferred on the Poet many leading academicians of that time at home would not recognize this rare genius in human history. However, it is his own translation of a number of poems, which he had translated in Santiniketan to compile in a book titled “Gitanjali” (Offering of Songs) which were eventually read (on the 30th June 1912, it is said) in a gathering of a good number if top litterateurs of England of that time, that had paved his way for the Nobel. The Poet’s own description of that evening in London, as he had narrated to Maitrayee Devi in Mangpu (near Darjeeling), while he was her guest there shortly before his death (in 1941), may be found interesting by the readers. The following are the quotes from Maitrayee Devi’s book “Tagore By Fireside”, a translation by herself of her original Bengali book “Mangpute Rabindranath” (Rabindranath at Mangpu). Thus how the Poet had narrated that evening in London –
“When I first started translating them into English, I never thought they would be readable. Many have insinuated that Andrews was doing it for me. Poor Andrews felt sorry and ashamed. When Yeats arranged a meeting of distinguished people at Rothenstein’s house, I cannot tell you how embarrassed I felt. Yeats would not listen to me. He was undaunted . A galaxy of big people came. Gitanjali was read. They never said a word. They listened in silence and in silence they left – no criticism, no approbation, no favourable remark, no encouraging comment. Blushing in shame and disgrace, I wished the earth would have opened and swallowed me. Why did I ever listen to Yeats? How could I write English, had I ever learnt it? I was filled with remorse. I could not raise my head. Next day letters started coming, they flooded in, overflowing with enthusiasm. Everyone wrote. Then I realized they were so moved that evening that they dared not talk. English people are reserved, it is their nature. It was not possible for them to express their feeling at once. What a surprise it was, unexpected and unimaginable. Friend Yeats was pleased. “
How the Poet reacted when the Nobel had finally come through? Well, he said that it (the Nobel) was like a tin can tied up to the tail of a dog (the urchins’ favourite game) who can no more move around without making noise.. The flip effect of Nobel was the award money eased out the financial stress of Viswa-Bharati and soon put the institution on the international map to its great advantages, which the Poet acknowledged, though at the cost of its earlier solitude and peace. (Refer poem “Asha” to be seen in next publication)
By RAJAT DAS GUPTA (KOLKATA)
rajatdasgupta@yahoo.com
& rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Birth : 7 May 1861 AD
Demise : 7 August 1941 AD
Nobel Laureate : 1913 AD
Born at Jorasanko in Calcutta in a Brahmo family, Rabindranath Thakur was the youngest of his siblings. His grandfather Prince Dwarakanath Thakur earned his fortune from his trade, lead a luxurious life, an atheist but tolerant to all beliefs, was very Western minded promoting modern medical science which was a taboo even in the Tagore family, while Ayurvedic, the Indian medical science, ruled the roost in this entire sub-continent. He was widely traveled and died in England. Rabindranath’s father Maharshi Debendranath Thakur (“Maharshi” is an appellation for the sage-like persons) was a strict monotheist according to the preaching of Brahmo religion [in contrast with Brahminism- see note (**) at the end] and was averse to deity worship which his other family members did not give up. He was a failure in pecuniary and estate matters in which Rabindranath fared better when he had to take these over in his mid-twenties.
Rabindranath was a truant pupil both in Calcutta and England and eventually a confirmed drop-out from the formal educational courses including Bar-at-Law which more than he himself his elders had aimed.
Nevertheless, his scholarly/cultural/spiritual heritage and family environment, where such values are deeply imbibed, much more than made good his shortcomings in schooling. He was married at the age of 23 and thereafter he had to look after the huge feudal properties he had inherited, mostly located at the then East & North Bengal along the Padma river. Then, for a decade spent his time in that superb natural environment – “a meet nurse for a poetic child”.
In 1901, he came down to Santiniketan (where his University Viswa Bharati situates – about 4-hour train journey from Calcutta) the meditation place for his father Debendranath which he had shaped up in the model of Tapoban (wilderness for meditation) of ancient India, where learned sages in recluse would perform their worship and meditation along with giving lessons to their pupils on scriptures like Vedas, Sanskrit language and other classics. In that milieu of Tapoban, a gift of his father, Rabindranath built up his Viswa Bharati (=World University) true to its name which, since early twentieth century had been a pilgrim place for the scholars, poets etc. from various parts of the world, especially Britain, Germany, China, Japan etc. While this influx still continues, it is a pity the heavenly serenity there left behind by Rabindranath in 1941, when he had passed away, is alarmingly polluted by urbanization as well as onslaught of mod culture. In his learned article “The Tagore Connection” published in The Statesman on 9 January 2001, Dr. Martin Kampchen (a German scholar now translating Tagore in German language) reports about the institution ‘Ecole d’ Humanite’ in Switzerland – “ Its founder Paul Geheeb and his wife Edith were in touch with Tagore for about 10 years, almost until Tagore’s death. The impression these educationists made on each other was deep and lasting. Anybody who is aware of Rabindranath’s educational vision, can make out the similarities between Santiniketan and the Ecole d’ Humanite in Switzerland except that this vision is still thriving at Ecole, but, alas, is it still alive at Santiniketan?” Many like Dr. Kampchen are apprehensive about the finest humanistic culture at Santiniketan that ever evolved on our earth. Tagore built up this great institution under acute financial stress. Yet, the values he had built up there cannot be measured in terms of money. After independence of India in 1947 the Central Govt. of India took up the charge of Viswa-Bharati under the aegis of Jawharlal Nehru, our the then Prime Minister which solved the financial crisis. Yet, the regret of many eminent persons concerned about the institution’s future is – “earlier Viswa-Bharati had everything but money; now it has money at a high cost to everything else.”
Yet, sometimes there is a silver lining in the cloud. The Statesman in its Kolkata supplement of 3 December 2001 (Monday) reports encouragingly. The newly appointed Vice Chancellor of Viswa Bharati Dr. Sujit Kumar Basu has planned to open mini Viswa-Bharatis, one each in Japan, France and the U.K., to spread Tagore’s heritage in the fields of art, literature and music and thus to reach out to the world outside in the centenary year of Viswa-Bharati. Surely, the Bengalis will extend their wholehearted goodwill to Dr. Basu and eagerly watch his vision shape up. Like Switzerland, these places also may prove better host of Tagore’s ideals in contrast with Santiniketan amidst the all round corruption in West Bengal.
Rabindranath, however, never isolated himself from the rest of the country in his pre-occupation with his Viswa-Bharati. A fervent patriot, a number of his songs inspired freedom fighters against the British rule to whom the Poet had extended his active support also and was a suspect of the British Govt.. Interestingly, his song- “Jana Gana Mano Adhinayaka …..” is the national anthem of India while another song- “Amar Sonar Bangla, Ami Tomay Bhalobashi… (O my golden Bengal, I love Thee)” is the national anthem of Bangladesh, thus, he is the only Poet in the world whose songs enjoy the status of “National Anthem” in two different sovereign countries. Again, the Indian one is the only which imbibes the liberal concept of internationalism, a line of which is “Purba Paschim Aashe, Tabo Singhsana Pashe …(East and West come, By the side of Thy throne)”. After the historic carnage at Jalianwalabagh (in Punjab) in 1919 by the British police, when the freedom movement was at its peak, the Poet renounced his Knighthood to outlet his torment. As he described to Maitrayee Devi, while he was intermittently her guest at Mangpu (near Darjeeling) during the last few years of his life – “ They (British people) took it as a great insult. In England people are very loyal. So, this disavowal of the King did hurt them very much……”
Yet, he was against the negative spirit of the then Swadeshi (or National movement), loaded with sentimentalism losing the wider human perspective. His conflict with Gandhiji on this issue made history. Many of course opine that Tagore in his zeal for internationalism, missed some home realities of that time.
Thus, entangled in national and international life streams side by side with his enormous preoccupations in shaping up and driving forward his dream institution Viswa-Bharati, the Poet met all his domestic obligations as a dutiful head of the family. His love and affection for all his kith and kin was as anybody else’s. But remarkable was the calmness with which he had frequently faced many tragedies including death of his children and other near and dear ones.
While various events in the Poet’s life will go down in history with losing significance, eternal will be the vast literary treasure he left for us, or so it should be as many implore, to keep elevated the human mind and soul from mundane mediocrity. Poems, songs, short stories, novels, satires, scientific dissertations and even his personal letters rising to the level of belles-lettres did spontaneously fount from his pen since his early teens till his death, in which aesthetics/spiritual perception, wits etc. of highest order run through. Far from being an authority in Tagore literature, I have not shown the impertinence to make my work all pervasive which, in any case, seems to be an impossible task even for an erudite. I have only nibbled here and there of this vast treasure to present a few of its gems in English language, however incompetently.
Yet, I think, it will not stand on the way of exposing the greatness of the Poet as each piece of his work, big or small, is a window to the panoramic perception of the Poet of the wonders of Creation and his other noblest human faculties. The magic of his words also transmits instantly to the readers/audience to raise them to the lofty level of the Poet’s intuitions, however momentarily. Assimilation of Upanishada (4000 year old Indian scripture) in his blood props up his bewilderingly vast literature with its bewildering high quality, excelling all eschatology ever discoursed. Whit surfaces most in his oeuvre is his life long quest for the ever evasive Eternal Truth which, nevertheless, has been the pursuit of all great thinkers of all time and place, Maybe, the following poem sums up well this futile search of man –
Asked the primordial Sun
To the nascent Creation
“Who are you?”
But no answer he knew;
Years rolled by –
As on the Western horizon did lie
The Sun at the day’s end,
In the solemn hour when light and shade blend,
Asked,.” Who you are?”
Followed no answer.
Yet, “God freely reveals His secret to the worthy” (as was told about Newton), only a bit of which they can pass on to us..
(**) Brahmo is a religion established in the early nineteenth century by Raja Rammohan Roy by way of defection from the Hindu religion with domination of Brahmins at that time while the whole Hindu community was ailing under the caste system, depriving the vast majority of the people of their legitimate social and economic rights. While the object of the Brahmos was to fight out all these social evils, it also aimed to stop the conversion to Christianity which the rebel younger generation in Bengal, newly enlightened by the Western education, had opted for at that time in large number. One of the major evil custom Rammohan fought against was the ‘Sati’ system under which the young widows used to be burnt alive in the pyre with their dead husbands often to usurp the estates of the dead husbands by their relatives that would otherwise be inherited by the widows had they been allowed to survive. He persuaded hard the then British Govt. to ban ‘Sati’ while the latter hesitated a lot to interfere with the customs of the Hindus,
however inhuman. Rammohan traveled to England to press upon the Indian Council there, overseeing the governance of the Indian colony of the British, to abolish this cruelty at the earliest. Eventually, Rammohan in his death bed heard the good news that the bill of banning ‘Sati’ was passed by a single majority vote. After his death Rammohan’s was buried at Bristol in England.
**********************************************************************
Prelude to Nobel:
A few English scholars played important role to win the Poet his international accolade, the Nobel Prize. Rothenstein, one of them, was the first to discover the Poet while he had visited the Poet’s ancestral home (toward the end of the first decade of the twentieth century) at Jorasanko (North Calcutta) as a guest of the Poet’s nephew Abanindranath Thakur who was a renowned painter, his fame reaching Europe and, thus, earning high esteem of Rothenstein and of many others. Interestingly, Abanindranath never traveled far and wide, as, it is learnt, he was allergic to travel, and rarely crossed the boundaries of the then undivided Bengal. It is also learnt, it is Abanindranath who was supposed to visit Delhi to meet Rothenstein there but, somehow, the reverse followed. At Jorasanko, Rothenstein did not miss the beaming personality of Rabindranath at a gathering there, and on his enquiry, learnt from Abanindranath that Rabindranath was his uncle and a poet. So, had Abanindranath overcome his lethargy for travel and really visited Delhi to meet Rothenstein there, Rabindranath might not ever have been a Nobel Laureate and would remain a lesser local celebrity of Bengal. Another mishap was, when Rabindranath went over to London at the invitation of Rothenstein, he lost his manuscript of Gitanjali (see next paragraph) in a London underground tube which, of course, he got back courtesy British Railway else this trifle slip would have been enough to deprive him of this international accolade.
It is a shame that until the Nobel was conferred on the Poet many leading academicians of that time at home would not recognize this rare genius in human history. However, it is his own translation of a number of poems, which he had translated in Santiniketan to compile in a book titled “Gitanjali” (Offering of Songs) which were eventually read (on the 30th June 1912, it is said) in a gathering of a good number if top litterateurs of England of that time, that had paved his way for the Nobel. The Poet’s own description of that evening in London, as he had narrated to Maitrayee Devi in Mangpu (near Darjeeling), while he was her guest there shortly before his death (in 1941), may be found interesting by the readers. The following are the quotes from Maitrayee Devi’s book “Tagore By Fireside”, a translation by herself of her original Bengali book “Mangpute Rabindranath” (Rabindranath at Mangpu). Thus how the Poet had narrated that evening in London –
“When I first started translating them into English, I never thought they would be readable. Many have insinuated that Andrews was doing it for me. Poor Andrews felt sorry and ashamed. When Yeats arranged a meeting of distinguished people at Rothenstein’s house, I cannot tell you how embarrassed I felt. Yeats would not listen to me. He was undaunted . A galaxy of big people came. Gitanjali was read. They never said a word. They listened in silence and in silence they left – no criticism, no approbation, no favourable remark, no encouraging comment. Blushing in shame and disgrace, I wished the earth would have opened and swallowed me. Why did I ever listen to Yeats? How could I write English, had I ever learnt it? I was filled with remorse. I could not raise my head. Next day letters started coming, they flooded in, overflowing with enthusiasm. Everyone wrote. Then I realized they were so moved that evening that they dared not talk. English people are reserved, it is their nature. It was not possible for them to express their feeling at once. What a surprise it was, unexpected and unimaginable. Friend Yeats was pleased. “
How the Poet reacted when the Nobel had finally come through? Well, he said that it (the Nobel) was like a tin can tied up to the tail of a dog (the urchins’ favourite game) who can no more move around without making noise.. The flip effect of Nobel was the award money eased out the financial stress of Viswa-Bharati and soon put the institution on the international map to its great advantages, which the Poet acknowledged, though at the cost of its earlier solitude and peace. (Refer poem “Asha” to be seen in next publication)
Friday, August 29, 2008
Rabindranath Tagore
Thou Hast Made Me Endless- XV
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs). More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs). More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.
As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.
Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g. William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book.
Poem No: 8 of the book PATRAPUT written at Santiniketan, ( where the Poet’s University “Visva Bharati” situates) on 5th November 1935.
[Translator’s note: Volumes of philosophical dissertations might not have brought home better the Upanishadic perception of oneness of the trivia with the cosmos than this small poem.]
This wild seedling finds way to me,
Yellow and green in her leaves I see,
Flowers are violet, cups wily
To sip light delightfully.
But no answer anywhere
When her name I inquire
She is in the club of the anonymous
Where belong the heavenly stars inglorious.
So, I capture her in my pet name
Piali (*), in my privacy that is her fame. (*)
There, Fuchsia, Marigold and Dahlia golden,
Grace the ceremony of the garden.
But my Piali remains in liberty,
Though in utter ignominy –
Unfettered by distinction of class,
A Boul (**), unsocial, lost in the mass. (**)
But soon the flowers drop and dry
Without clamour or outcry.
Her horoscope – only a few moments’ combine,
The nectar in her heart a few drops fine.
In a short span of time is her journey done,
While ages engulf flaming petals of the Sun;
Her history noted at the corner of a tiny page
With a tiny quill by the Scribe of all age.
Yet, a massive history it does unfold,
From one page to other one can’t behold.
The centuries in their eternal stream,
Their ups and downs in slow rhythm
That raised and buried many a mountain range,
In oceans and deserts brought seas of change,
Along that Time’s flow eternal,
Advanced this flower’s vision primordial.
In this flower’s transience, this vision primordial
Lives all through fresh, dynamic and eternal.
Its end one is to sight yet,
That formless concept, the un-sketched portrait
Remains eternal in some unseen contemplation
That I try to conceive in my imagination.
In which unseen is held Mankind’s trend,
The future, past and present.
· * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(*) ‘Piala’ in Bengali means ‘Cup’ from which the Poet has coined its feminine ‘Piali’ which also happens to be the name of many a girl/women, not necessarily relating them to a ‘cup’, unlike this flower where its similarity with a ‘cup’ is implied.
(**) Bouls are a sect of people in Bengal, whose concentration is most in the Birbhum district of W. Bengal where the Poet’s University “Visva Bharati” (=World University”) situates. Bouls are remarkable for their highly spiritual songs with their “Ektara” (a single stringed musical instrument) played in tune, which is their heritage for generations. Religious liberalism is also a remarkable feature of Boul song. These are notwithstanding the low educational level of the Bouls particularly in their earlier generations when singing and begging was their sole occupation. Bouls songs have profoundly influenced Tagore’s own music known as Ranindra Sangeet (=Rabindranath’s songs). In the nineties of the last century Purna Das Boul familiarized the Western world with Boul song by virtue of his performances there including America.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Tagore on Life and Death
Thou Hast Made Me Endless- Part XIII
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) Nobel Laureate of 1913
(Some translated pieces from his Bengali works)
Tagore on ‘Death’ (2)
In the first chapter under this caption published on 2nd March 2008,. it has been mentioned that Tagore’s thoughts on ‘Death’ are mostly Upanishad (more than 4000 year old Indian scripture in Sanskrit language) based. We have Tagore’s interpretation of this Upanishada aplenty in his book ‘Santiniketan’ (in Bengali) an extract from which is translated below.
[…..From age to age Man is deriving wisdom through ignorance, he is gaining bliss by annihilation of sin and blight. Through strife he is getting Truth, there is no other means for it. Those who think that this ‘light’ is untruth, Utopia is a mere fiction, had they been right, Man would remain same as he was on the day of his advent on this earth, he would not grow any more. Because Amritam (Immortality) is inherent in him, man has made way through Death to radiate his Immortality;. Through the narrow outlet of Death, Amritam founts. Those who had visualized this, gave their call- “Be not afraid; this darkness is not true, neither Death is; you are successors of Amritam. Don’t accept serfdom to Death; if you surrender to your physical instincts, you’ll insult your inheritance to Immortality”. As insects nibble the flower, so does your physical instincts to your Immortality. He Himself had said –“Thou art the sons of Immortal; like Me.” Shall we belie his words every day?
…….’Whatever we piled up, we shall guard for ever’; what sort of piety is this? Just as our penchant for our torso to guard which our relentless frantic attempts go futile. However much we may pine for it, because our relation with it is for long, we cannot protect it, as to do so is to protect Death itself. We have to kill Death only by shunning our body……………….]
Thus, in Tagore’s dissertations on ‘Death’ we more hear about ‘’Life’ and his songs/poems on ‘Birth’ and ‘Death’ are hand in glove. A few examples follow.
1) A Tagore’s song on birthday:
He nutan dakha dik arbar
Janmero prathama subhakshan
……………………………….
[Note: There has been a boom of celebration of birthday parties of young and adults alike in the Western style even in our country with the trite song ‘Happy birthday to you …..etc.’ preceded by the ritual of cutting/eating of delicious birthday cakes to be followed by sumptuous dishes and, of course, the incumbents are flooded with costly gifts from their guests. Thus, the birthday parties do provide plenty of enjoyment. However, it may be interesting to compare this ethos with that which pervades the whole of Bengal during the Kabi Paksha (Poet’s fortnight) which starts on the 25th day of Baisakh (this month in the Bengali calendar synchronizes with the mid April to mid May period), the birthday of the Poet, when the entire clime here is inundated with Tagore’s songs/recitals etc. in various functions taking us deep into the perception of Creation’s mystery, which we badly miss in our said birthday rituals which, one may feel, are in utter mediocrity once one has experienced the ecstasy and philosophical height in Kabi Paksha. Out of many other recitals relevant to the profundity of ‘birthday’ the following song is sure to be heard on this occasion ]
O Ever New, may Thee reappear
Through Life’s holy primal hour;
With the mist torn
Like Sun be Thy manifestation.
From the midst of inane
Thy victory be over its bane.
Let be hailed by Thy glow
And my heart’s trumpet blow;
Music of Life’s marvel
Infinity’s eternal wonder to reveal;
The clarion call to the Ever New be sent
At the advent
Of Baisakh the twenty fifth
For its un-blighting gift.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Poem No: 39 of the book ‘Sesh Saptak’ written in 1933, about 8 years before his death in 1941 at the age of 80.
[Translator’s note: Tagore’s wonderful interpretation of Upanishada is found in a large number of his essays which helps us understand this oldest scripture of mankind in Sanskrit which founted from the profound spiritual inspiration of the sages of ancient India more than 4000 years back. The following quote from Tagore’s essay ‘Dukkha’ (=Woe) is a sample of such interpretation which also appears to me very relevant to this poem on Death, the extreme form of woe according to the limited perceptions of lesser mortals like us. Only a saintly frame of mind, as the Poet had, can perceive Death in the vast canvas of Creation where Death’s severity is so diluted.
“Those who lack in spiritual and devotional power, want to perceive as total truth the manifestation of God only amidst happiness, pleasure and wealth. They say, wealth and fame are gift of God, beauty evinces Him and that worldly success is His blessing and reward for our virtuosity. Benevolence of God, to them, is tender and piteous. These infirm with their euphoric reveries take the mercy of God as an aid to their greed, delusion and cowardice with their fragmented fads. But O Awful, where do I confine Your mercy and joy? Only in my happiness, wealth and a panicles life? Shall I have to split woes, hazards, fear and death to juxtapose against You for my knowledge about You? Not so. O Lord, You are sorrow, hazard, fear and death. The blazing flames of Your face are gutting out the mortals, Your vigour is warming up the whole world. O Terrible, we can get rid of the illusion of grief and death only by sighting Your awful form. Else, in Your world we have to go around with a coward’s inhibition, failing to surrender totally to Truth. Then I address You as Benevolent and implore Your mercy and, on its denial, complain against You and lament for my protection from You. But O Terrible, I beg of You that strength which will enable me to deem Your mercy not for my self-comfort and narrow utilities to deprive myself with Your incomplete perception. Let me not deceive myself by approaching You with a trembling heart and a moistened eyes to earn Your compassion. From age to age You are rescuing Man from untruth to Truth, from darkness to illumination, from death to immortality, the journey for which is not one of comfort, but of the severest ordeal.”]
They came to me to say –
“O Poet, tell us about Death, pray”.
Said I, “Death is my very intimate,
Its rhythms my heart vibrate;
Entangled in my vein
Joy of its flow in my blood lain.
Says He – ‘Go ahead
With your burdens shed;
Go on dying every second,
At my pull, on my moment.”
Says, “if you sit static
Everything to grip –
In your world flowers will harsh
Rivers will marsh,
The stars will fade –
Stop not” – so He said;
“Don’t look back –
Get across the old, ruins weary that slack.
I’m the Death shepherd
Driving Creation’s herd
From age to age
Pasture to pasture to graze.
When Life’s stream flowed,
I followed.
Allowed it not to ditch,
Lured it past the guard of its beach;
Led it to the vast sea,
That is none but me.
The Present aims permanence,
Imposes on you hence
All its load; all your virtues
To this glutton you lose.
On its surfeit, this monster
Craves a stall in wakeless slumber.
The Creation to rescue from the grip
Of this hibernate Present, is my severe sweep;
That eternal stumbling block
To smash with my disastrous shock,
To pave the way for the pageant perennial
Of the yet to appear, those newcomers to hail.”
* * * * * * * ** * ** * * ** ** * * ** ** ** * **
Poem” Punarabartan (Re-incarnation) from the book Geetali (Music) written in Buddha Gaya in 1914.
[Translator’s note: The Hindu belief in re-incarnation may conflict with the scientific mindset if we try to interpret it in a physical sense. But even scientists will never be able to explain the mystery behind the mortal life which apparently terminates while new life re-appears. Are these totally isolated phenomenon or linked up? The Poet is inclined to accept the latter. Incidentally, recital of this piece goes both as a poem as well as a song, the starting of which in Bengali is as follows –
Abar jadi ichcha karo abar ashi phire,
Dukkha sukhar dheu khelano ei sagarer tire….]
Here I revert to if you’ll wish so
This shore dashed by the waves of weal and woe.
Float my boat again,
On the dust play my game –
Run after the elusive golden deer
Only to flood in tear.
In the dark night, on the road thorny
Again I start my journey –
Either to succumb to my injury
Or survive its fury.
Again in disguise me to beguile
You play with me all in smile;
With my renewed mirth
Again I love this Earth.
In the first chapter under this caption published on 2nd March 2008,. it has been mentioned that Tagore’s thoughts on ‘Death’ are mostly Upanishad (more than 4000 year old Indian scripture in Sanskrit language) based. We have Tagore’s interpretation of this Upanishada aplenty in his book ‘Santiniketan’ (in Bengali) an extract from which is translated below.
[…..From age to age Man is deriving wisdom through ignorance, he is gaining bliss by annihilation of sin and blight. Through strife he is getting Truth, there is no other means for it. Those who think that this ‘light’ is untruth, Utopia is a mere fiction, had they been right, Man would remain same as he was on the day of his advent on this earth, he would not grow any more. Because Amritam (Immortality) is inherent in him, man has made way through Death to radiate his Immortality;. Through the narrow outlet of Death, Amritam founts. Those who had visualized this, gave their call- “Be not afraid; this darkness is not true, neither Death is; you are successors of Amritam. Don’t accept serfdom to Death; if you surrender to your physical instincts, you’ll insult your inheritance to Immortality”. As insects nibble the flower, so does your physical instincts to your Immortality. He Himself had said –“Thou art the sons of Immortal; like Me.” Shall we belie his words every day?
…….’Whatever we piled up, we shall guard for ever’; what sort of piety is this? Just as our penchant for our torso to guard which our relentless frantic attempts go futile. However much we may pine for it, because our relation with it is for long, we cannot protect it, as to do so is to protect Death itself. We have to kill Death only by shunning our body……………….]
Thus, in Tagore’s dissertations on ‘Death’ we more hear about ‘’Life’ and his songs/poems on ‘Birth’ and ‘Death’ are hand in glove. A few examples follow.
1) A Tagore’s song on birthday:
He nutan dakha dik arbar
Janmero prathama subhakshan
……………………………….
[Note: There has been a boom of celebration of birthday parties of young and adults alike in the Western style even in our country with the trite song ‘Happy birthday to you …..etc.’ preceded by the ritual of cutting/eating of delicious birthday cakes to be followed by sumptuous dishes and, of course, the incumbents are flooded with costly gifts from their guests. Thus, the birthday parties do provide plenty of enjoyment. However, it may be interesting to compare this ethos with that which pervades the whole of Bengal during the Kabi Paksha (Poet’s fortnight) which starts on the 25th day of Baisakh (this month in the Bengali calendar synchronizes with the mid April to mid May period), the birthday of the Poet, when the entire clime here is inundated with Tagore’s songs/recitals etc. in various functions taking us deep into the perception of Creation’s mystery, which we badly miss in our said birthday rituals which, one may feel, are in utter mediocrity once one has experienced the ecstasy and philosophical height in Kabi Paksha. Out of many other recitals relevant to the profundity of ‘birthday’ the following song is sure to be heard on this occasion ]
O Ever New, may Thee reappear
Through Life’s holy primal hour;
With the mist torn
Like Sun be Thy manifestation.
From the midst of inane
Thy victory be over its bane.
Let be hailed by Thy glow
And my heart’s trumpet blow;
Music of Life’s marvel
Infinity’s eternal wonder to reveal;
The clarion call to the Ever New be sent
At the advent
Of Baisakh the twenty fifth
For its un-blighting gift.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Poem No: 39 of the book ‘Sesh Saptak’ written in 1933, about 8 years before his death in 1941 at the age of 80.
[Translator’s note: Tagore’s wonderful interpretation of Upanishada is found in a large number of his essays which helps us understand this oldest scripture of mankind in Sanskrit which founted from the profound spiritual inspiration of the sages of ancient India more than 4000 years back. The following quote from Tagore’s essay ‘Dukkha’ (=Woe) is a sample of such interpretation which also appears to me very relevant to this poem on Death, the extreme form of woe according to the limited perceptions of lesser mortals like us. Only a saintly frame of mind, as the Poet had, can perceive Death in the vast canvas of Creation where Death’s severity is so diluted.
“Those who lack in spiritual and devotional power, want to perceive as total truth the manifestation of God only amidst happiness, pleasure and wealth. They say, wealth and fame are gift of God, beauty evinces Him and that worldly success is His blessing and reward for our virtuosity. Benevolence of God, to them, is tender and piteous. These infirm with their euphoric reveries take the mercy of God as an aid to their greed, delusion and cowardice with their fragmented fads. But O Awful, where do I confine Your mercy and joy? Only in my happiness, wealth and a panicles life? Shall I have to split woes, hazards, fear and death to juxtapose against You for my knowledge about You? Not so. O Lord, You are sorrow, hazard, fear and death. The blazing flames of Your face are gutting out the mortals, Your vigour is warming up the whole world. O Terrible, we can get rid of the illusion of grief and death only by sighting Your awful form. Else, in Your world we have to go around with a coward’s inhibition, failing to surrender totally to Truth. Then I address You as Benevolent and implore Your mercy and, on its denial, complain against You and lament for my protection from You. But O Terrible, I beg of You that strength which will enable me to deem Your mercy not for my self-comfort and narrow utilities to deprive myself with Your incomplete perception. Let me not deceive myself by approaching You with a trembling heart and a moistened eyes to earn Your compassion. From age to age You are rescuing Man from untruth to Truth, from darkness to illumination, from death to immortality, the journey for which is not one of comfort, but of the severest ordeal.”]
They came to me to say –
“O Poet, tell us about Death, pray”.
Said I, “Death is my very intimate,
Its rhythms my heart vibrate;
Entangled in my vein
Joy of its flow in my blood lain.
Says He – ‘Go ahead
With your burdens shed;
Go on dying every second,
At my pull, on my moment.”
Says, “if you sit static
Everything to grip –
In your world flowers will harsh
Rivers will marsh,
The stars will fade –
Stop not” – so He said;
“Don’t look back –
Get across the old, ruins weary that slack.
I’m the Death shepherd
Driving Creation’s herd
From age to age
Pasture to pasture to graze.
When Life’s stream flowed,
I followed.
Allowed it not to ditch,
Lured it past the guard of its beach;
Led it to the vast sea,
That is none but me.
The Present aims permanence,
Imposes on you hence
All its load; all your virtues
To this glutton you lose.
On its surfeit, this monster
Craves a stall in wakeless slumber.
The Creation to rescue from the grip
Of this hibernate Present, is my severe sweep;
That eternal stumbling block
To smash with my disastrous shock,
To pave the way for the pageant perennial
Of the yet to appear, those newcomers to hail.”
* * * * * * * ** * ** * * ** ** * * ** ** ** * **
Poem” Punarabartan (Re-incarnation) from the book Geetali (Music) written in Buddha Gaya in 1914.
[Translator’s note: The Hindu belief in re-incarnation may conflict with the scientific mindset if we try to interpret it in a physical sense. But even scientists will never be able to explain the mystery behind the mortal life which apparently terminates while new life re-appears. Are these totally isolated phenomenon or linked up? The Poet is inclined to accept the latter. Incidentally, recital of this piece goes both as a poem as well as a song, the starting of which in Bengali is as follows –
Abar jadi ichcha karo abar ashi phire,
Dukkha sukhar dheu khelano ei sagarer tire….]
Here I revert to if you’ll wish so
This shore dashed by the waves of weal and woe.
Float my boat again,
On the dust play my game –
Run after the elusive golden deer
Only to flood in tear.
In the dark night, on the road thorny
Again I start my journey –
Either to succumb to my injury
Or survive its fury.
Again in disguise me to beguile
You play with me all in smile;
With my renewed mirth
Again I love this Earth.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Tagore: Such is Thy pleasure
Thou Hast Made Me Endless- Part XII
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g.William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book. RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta53@yahoo.com
rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Tagore on ‘Death’ (1)
Tagore’s poems/songs on ‘Death’ are numerous, as those are on almost any other subject he had penned down. However, ‘Death’ being an awe to the humans since their advent on this earth, it may be fascinating how Tagore breaks away from this eternal ‘awe’. His thoughts on ‘Death’ draw mostly on the oldest scriptures on Earth e.g. Vedas & Upanishadas that evolved in India more than 4000 years back, that said (in Sanskrit) –
“Srinnantu Biswe Amritasya Putra;
Aa Ye Dhamani Dibyani Tasthu
Vedahamatam Purusam Mahantam….”
[Hearken the sons of Immortal
Residing in this heavenly abode;
I’ve known that person Great…]
As Tagore interprets it – Those who uttered “I’ve known Him…” assured us at the outset, “You are the sons of ‘Immortal’ in your heavenly abode, not of ‘Death’ in this mundane Earth…”
This message of Upanishada echoes in all the dissertations of Tagore on ‘Death’. A few poems/songs in this series may illustrate this.
Poem: KANKAL (Skeleton) of the book Purabi: on board Chapad Malal in December 1924.
[Translator’s note: Saint Aurobindo said that the biological evolution in the animal world , which had started with amoeba, dinosaur etc ages back, has ended with Man after which no better species has evolved. According to Aurobindo, now the objective of the Creator is to raise Man to the level of divinity (in spite of the massacre in the animal world by the genetic engineering?). We get an echo of this theory in this poem.. The Poet refuses to accept that Man has appeared only to be turned into a carcass. As in his numerous poems/songs and other dissertations, here also he reiterates Upanishada that humans are sons of the Immortal and that they are pacing towards a glorious spiritual objective in association with their untiring advancement in science and other areas of wisdom to explore the mysteries of Creation.]
The carcass lays aside
On the grass there wayside;
The grass that once nourished it
Gave repose too after its feast –
Only a few pale bones left there
To hint Time’s silent laughter;
Towards Death to direct,
Allusive of my same fate
Where with animal I don’t differ –
And that too will end there;
That, as will end my life’s nectar
In dust will be left the broken clayware.
Said I, O Death, I believe not
In Thy mock of naught.
Mine is not the life to terminate
Bankrupt of all treasures in the ultimate;
At the end of the day
The debt of my meal and sleep to re-pay.
Whatever I’ve thought, told or heard,
Or sang in my music abrupt –
Could not be seized by Death,
Measureless are what I’ve got or will bequeath.
Dance of my mind excelled
Life and Death, and traveled
To the land of music
Its eternal beauty to seek
A countless times
Merely to belie all its sublimes
At the skeleton’s threshold
In mere flesh is my true self to be told?
No, my moments didn’t torment me to tire,
Bereft, to cast me at the wayside dust there.
From the lotus of form on the earth here
I’ve drunk that formless nectar,
Amidst sorrow to glimpse joy
Has been my ploy;
In my heart to have the signal
Of the message of the silent Eternal;
I’ve seen light’s passage
At the brink of darkness;
I’m not mere
The Creator’s satire;
With boundless treasure
Is composed my noble disaster.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g.William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book. RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta53@yahoo.com
rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Tagore on ‘Death’ (1)
Tagore’s poems/songs on ‘Death’ are numerous, as those are on almost any other subject he had penned down. However, ‘Death’ being an awe to the humans since their advent on this earth, it may be fascinating how Tagore breaks away from this eternal ‘awe’. His thoughts on ‘Death’ draw mostly on the oldest scriptures on Earth e.g. Vedas & Upanishadas that evolved in India more than 4000 years back, that said (in Sanskrit) –
“Srinnantu Biswe Amritasya Putra;
Aa Ye Dhamani Dibyani Tasthu
Vedahamatam Purusam Mahantam….”
[Hearken the sons of Immortal
Residing in this heavenly abode;
I’ve known that person Great…]
As Tagore interprets it – Those who uttered “I’ve known Him…” assured us at the outset, “You are the sons of ‘Immortal’ in your heavenly abode, not of ‘Death’ in this mundane Earth…”
This message of Upanishada echoes in all the dissertations of Tagore on ‘Death’. A few poems/songs in this series may illustrate this.
Poem: KANKAL (Skeleton) of the book Purabi: on board Chapad Malal in December 1924.
[Translator’s note: Saint Aurobindo said that the biological evolution in the animal world , which had started with amoeba, dinosaur etc ages back, has ended with Man after which no better species has evolved. According to Aurobindo, now the objective of the Creator is to raise Man to the level of divinity (in spite of the massacre in the animal world by the genetic engineering?). We get an echo of this theory in this poem.. The Poet refuses to accept that Man has appeared only to be turned into a carcass. As in his numerous poems/songs and other dissertations, here also he reiterates Upanishada that humans are sons of the Immortal and that they are pacing towards a glorious spiritual objective in association with their untiring advancement in science and other areas of wisdom to explore the mysteries of Creation.]
The carcass lays aside
On the grass there wayside;
The grass that once nourished it
Gave repose too after its feast –
Only a few pale bones left there
To hint Time’s silent laughter;
Towards Death to direct,
Allusive of my same fate
Where with animal I don’t differ –
And that too will end there;
That, as will end my life’s nectar
In dust will be left the broken clayware.
Said I, O Death, I believe not
In Thy mock of naught.
Mine is not the life to terminate
Bankrupt of all treasures in the ultimate;
At the end of the day
The debt of my meal and sleep to re-pay.
Whatever I’ve thought, told or heard,
Or sang in my music abrupt –
Could not be seized by Death,
Measureless are what I’ve got or will bequeath.
Dance of my mind excelled
Life and Death, and traveled
To the land of music
Its eternal beauty to seek
A countless times
Merely to belie all its sublimes
At the skeleton’s threshold
In mere flesh is my true self to be told?
No, my moments didn’t torment me to tire,
Bereft, to cast me at the wayside dust there.
From the lotus of form on the earth here
I’ve drunk that formless nectar,
Amidst sorrow to glimpse joy
Has been my ploy;
In my heart to have the signal
Of the message of the silent Eternal;
I’ve seen light’s passage
At the brink of darkness;
I’m not mere
The Creator’s satire;
With boundless treasure
Is composed my noble disaster.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Sagarika: Tagore
Sagarika
A poem by Tagore
From: RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta53@yahoo.com
rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Thou Hast Made Me EndlessPart XI
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g.William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book.
Tagore as historian (Contd. IV- concluding part)
Seemingly a romantic love poem, ‘Sagarika’ hides a massive chapter in Indian history with its glory followed by ignominy. Reference from the poet’s Java diary quoted below, will surface the true implications of the poem.
Poem: ‘Sagarika’ (the daughter of the sea) of the book ‘Mahua’.
[Translator’s note: Toward the close of 2000 A.D. the then President of the USA Bill Clinton visited India and while addressing a gathering in his honour, India’s the then President K. R. Narayanan had said that it was of late fashionable to call the world a ‘Small Village’, which is of course a fall out of the revolution in the communication system defeating space and time. But, Narayanan had pointed out to Clinton that in the mediaeval age the villages were ruled by the Morols (Village Chiefs) while the modern villages are ruled by the Panchayats (Village Associations) manned by the elected representatives of the people. He had thereby analogized the United Nations (UN) with the Indian Panchayats for the purpose of to-day’s ‘Small Village’ and had implied that its affairs should be overseen by the UN instead of the sole superpower now existing e.g. the USA. Of course he had meant the Big Brother role for which the USA had been aggressive from time to time often myopic to others’ causes besides her own.
History tells us about such aggressive role of some Western nations over several centuries past with their imperialist ambition. Whichever territory they had occupied, they had enslaved the local people there by brute force to enjoy their “Master” status. We ourselves had been victim of the British rule for about 2 centuries till 1947. This instinct of domination has not died even to-day and has rather been found infectious world over with the progressive perfection in genocide technology.
Indian history had been quite different. Indians had taken their voyage abroad in the past to export their humanistic ideas, religious values, music and culture along with their merchandise, but never with imperialist contemplation. The poem was written on the 1st October 1927, soon after which the Poet took his voyage to Bali island, now a part of Indonesia. India’s link with this island is age old. Stamps of Indian culture, religion, music, art etc. have survived time in this island. The Poet recalls all this past link with Bali which dates back to the glorious period of Indian history, but was particularly snapped since mid-eighteenth century when the dark period of our country was at the worst with the advent of the British rule, and the Poet was on voyage to Bali with a heavy mind while the freedom fighters’ suffering was at its peak in his own land. The Poet thus regrets his inability to offer anything precious new to Bali except his humble music.
The following quote from Tagore’s diary recording his thoughts at the time of his voyage to Java will more clarify his thoughts behind ‘Sagarika’.
“The pure dedication that Science has ushered in is for all country, all time and all men; so it has imbibed in man the power of God, to drive out all woe, penury and ailment from human family with its weaponry. The Viswakarma (God of Engineering) for creation of heaven for man is this Science. But when this very Science laboured to shape up man’s desire for fruit to an enormity , it became the Yama (God of Death). If man on this earth will annihilate, it will be for this reason – he knew Truth but not its use. He achieved divine power, but not divinity. In modern time that divine power is manifest in Europe. But has it been so for genocide? In the last war this very question has emerged stark. Europe has become a terror outside her boundaries, as evidenced throughout Asia and Africa. Europe
has not come to us with her Science, but with her greed. So the blockade for manifestation of Europe within the heart of Asia. With impertinence of her Science, hubris of her power and her greed for wealth, for long Europe has cultivated this hassling of man all over the earth. When it boomeranged at her home she is anxious.
She put others’ pasture on fire which has now caught on her wood. She is now wondering where to stop. Is it by halting her machinery? I don’t say so. But they have to halt their greed. Will it be achieved by religious sermons? That won’t be enough. Science also must complement it. The dedication which controls greed inwardly is of religion, but that which removes the external causes of it is of Science.
These two combined, accomplish their dedications. Wisdom of science to-day awaits union with religion’s. But why all these debates are labouring my head on my way to Java? The reason is, India’s erudition once went abroad. But those aliens had regarded it favourably.
Tibet, Mongolia, Malayas, wherever India had preached her wisdom, had been through genuine human relations. To-day my pilgrimage is to witness those historical evidences of man’s holy access everywhere. Also to note is, that India of yore did not preach some cut and dried sermons, but inaugurated the inner treasure of man through architecture, sculpture, painting, music and literature, stamps of which remain in the deserts, woods, rocks, isles, rugged terrain and difficult
resolves………”. [Java diary, July, 1927]
I am unaware of any poetry in any other language which better conveys one’s passion for the old link with a country through such a superb love allegory. I also think, evaluation of this poem in the context of goodwill that was in India’s political ethos in the past, as this poem reveals, but largely missing globally, is only relevant.
Bathing in the deep blue sea,
On the pebbled beach sat thee;
Thy garments loose
Left scribbles on the shore profuse.
The affectionate Sun on thy body un-ornate
Left its golden paint.
With crown on my head,
In right hand archery held,
Stood in my royal attire –
Said, “I’ve come, O foreigner!”
Startled, from thy seat of rock,
Thou stood up with a shock –
Asked, “Why did you come?”
Said I, “Let thy mind calm,
Only I want to pluck flower
For God’s worship, in thy bower.”
Thou attended me with indulgent smile;
We plucked Juthi, (1) Jati (1) and Champa (1) to pile. (1)
To sort those in the basket sat together,
Worshipped Nataraj (2) with our earnest prayer. (2)
The mist was over, light flooded the sky,
Facing Shiva (2), Parbati’s (2) smile did lie. (2)
As rose the evening star
On the mountain top there,
Thou alone at home
On thy waist shone
Bright blue sapphire,
Round thy head, garland of flower.
Bangles in thy hands both –
On my way playing flute I quoth –
“Guest I’m at thy door.”
Scared, stretched thy lamp my face to explore;
Asked, “Why did you come?”
Said I, “Let thy mind calm,
Thy charming person I’ll adorn
With the decors I’ve borne.”
Flashed a beaming smile
On thy face, its beauty sparked awhile.
The gold necklace on thy chest
I suspended, the crown on thy head set at rest.
Lit up lights thy mates, their frolic sublime
Flooded the entire clime.
Thy ornate person did flitter
The charm of the night’s lunar glitter.
With my rhyme matched thy jingle,
Smiles at the sky the full moon single;
Light and shade to and fro
As the sea waves go.
Unwittingly, the day was over;
So, my ship raised its anchor.
Sudden was the wind adverse on my voyage,
Unleashed havoc, put the sea in rage;
Drowned my ship in the salt water
In the dark night with all my treasure.
With shattered fate, I’m again at thy door
Attired as destitute, my royal robes no more;
Saw at the temple of Nataraj (2) (2)
As before, was the decor of flowers;
While at night, the festive sea
Rhymes moonlight dance in wavy glee;
With thy silent face down in that fest
I stole a look at my garland round thy chest,
At my paints, listened rhythms of my song
Sway thee in ecstasy, all to me belong.
I implore thee; O bonny,
Once more hold thy lamp to me;
Now I’m no more crowned,
My archery no more to be found;
In the southern wind brought neither
My basket to fill in thy bower;
Only I’ve brought my flute;
Try please to make me out thou astute.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(1) these are Indian names of some flowers.
(2) Nataraj, the Lord of Dance, is the other name of Shiva and, according to the Hindu concept, his dance cycles Destruction after Creation. Parbati is the wife of Shiva.
A poem by Tagore
From: RAJAT DAS GUPTA: Calcutta: e-mail: rajatdasgupta53@yahoo.com
rajarch@cal3.vsnl.net.in
Thou Hast Made Me EndlessPart XI
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941 AD) the Nobel Laureate of 1913 was introduced to the West primarily through the collection of English translation of some of his poems/songs captioned as ‘Gitanjali’ (=Offering of Songs).More translations of his works followed by the poet himself and others after he had won the Nobel, including poems/songs, dramas, short stories etc. However, such efforts were sporadic and sluggish, mostly on individual initiative, which still remain so.As a result, a vast volume of the poet’s works remains un-translated while, it appears, it is an impossible proposition to translate even a substantial part of the poet’s total works to permit those, not privileged by the knowledge of Bengali language, a reasonably broad view of his myriad creations where unfathomable perceptional depth of top grade aesthetics runs through, literally true to his song “Thou hast made me endless / Such is Thy pleasure”.Notwithstanding this, an upsurge of Tagore translation took place in the last decade of the twentieth century by virtue of a good number of eminent poets/translators e.g.William Radice, Joe Winter, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, to name a few, all of whom left their valuable contribution to this oeuvre and my book THE ECLIPSED SUN is a modest addition to this. I have put stress on a few aspects of the poet’s works, particularly those in his twilight years, which seemed to me quite inadequately covered so far. The followings are presented mostly based on this book.
Tagore as historian (Contd. IV- concluding part)
Seemingly a romantic love poem, ‘Sagarika’ hides a massive chapter in Indian history with its glory followed by ignominy. Reference from the poet’s Java diary quoted below, will surface the true implications of the poem.
Poem: ‘Sagarika’ (the daughter of the sea) of the book ‘Mahua’.
[Translator’s note: Toward the close of 2000 A.D. the then President of the USA Bill Clinton visited India and while addressing a gathering in his honour, India’s the then President K. R. Narayanan had said that it was of late fashionable to call the world a ‘Small Village’, which is of course a fall out of the revolution in the communication system defeating space and time. But, Narayanan had pointed out to Clinton that in the mediaeval age the villages were ruled by the Morols (Village Chiefs) while the modern villages are ruled by the Panchayats (Village Associations) manned by the elected representatives of the people. He had thereby analogized the United Nations (UN) with the Indian Panchayats for the purpose of to-day’s ‘Small Village’ and had implied that its affairs should be overseen by the UN instead of the sole superpower now existing e.g. the USA. Of course he had meant the Big Brother role for which the USA had been aggressive from time to time often myopic to others’ causes besides her own.
History tells us about such aggressive role of some Western nations over several centuries past with their imperialist ambition. Whichever territory they had occupied, they had enslaved the local people there by brute force to enjoy their “Master” status. We ourselves had been victim of the British rule for about 2 centuries till 1947. This instinct of domination has not died even to-day and has rather been found infectious world over with the progressive perfection in genocide technology.
Indian history had been quite different. Indians had taken their voyage abroad in the past to export their humanistic ideas, religious values, music and culture along with their merchandise, but never with imperialist contemplation. The poem was written on the 1st October 1927, soon after which the Poet took his voyage to Bali island, now a part of Indonesia. India’s link with this island is age old. Stamps of Indian culture, religion, music, art etc. have survived time in this island. The Poet recalls all this past link with Bali which dates back to the glorious period of Indian history, but was particularly snapped since mid-eighteenth century when the dark period of our country was at the worst with the advent of the British rule, and the Poet was on voyage to Bali with a heavy mind while the freedom fighters’ suffering was at its peak in his own land. The Poet thus regrets his inability to offer anything precious new to Bali except his humble music.
The following quote from Tagore’s diary recording his thoughts at the time of his voyage to Java will more clarify his thoughts behind ‘Sagarika’.
“The pure dedication that Science has ushered in is for all country, all time and all men; so it has imbibed in man the power of God, to drive out all woe, penury and ailment from human family with its weaponry. The Viswakarma (God of Engineering) for creation of heaven for man is this Science. But when this very Science laboured to shape up man’s desire for fruit to an enormity , it became the Yama (God of Death). If man on this earth will annihilate, it will be for this reason – he knew Truth but not its use. He achieved divine power, but not divinity. In modern time that divine power is manifest in Europe. But has it been so for genocide? In the last war this very question has emerged stark. Europe has become a terror outside her boundaries, as evidenced throughout Asia and Africa. Europe
has not come to us with her Science, but with her greed. So the blockade for manifestation of Europe within the heart of Asia. With impertinence of her Science, hubris of her power and her greed for wealth, for long Europe has cultivated this hassling of man all over the earth. When it boomeranged at her home she is anxious.
She put others’ pasture on fire which has now caught on her wood. She is now wondering where to stop. Is it by halting her machinery? I don’t say so. But they have to halt their greed. Will it be achieved by religious sermons? That won’t be enough. Science also must complement it. The dedication which controls greed inwardly is of religion, but that which removes the external causes of it is of Science.
These two combined, accomplish their dedications. Wisdom of science to-day awaits union with religion’s. But why all these debates are labouring my head on my way to Java? The reason is, India’s erudition once went abroad. But those aliens had regarded it favourably.
Tibet, Mongolia, Malayas, wherever India had preached her wisdom, had been through genuine human relations. To-day my pilgrimage is to witness those historical evidences of man’s holy access everywhere. Also to note is, that India of yore did not preach some cut and dried sermons, but inaugurated the inner treasure of man through architecture, sculpture, painting, music and literature, stamps of which remain in the deserts, woods, rocks, isles, rugged terrain and difficult
resolves………”. [Java diary, July, 1927]
I am unaware of any poetry in any other language which better conveys one’s passion for the old link with a country through such a superb love allegory. I also think, evaluation of this poem in the context of goodwill that was in India’s political ethos in the past, as this poem reveals, but largely missing globally, is only relevant.
Bathing in the deep blue sea,
On the pebbled beach sat thee;
Thy garments loose
Left scribbles on the shore profuse.
The affectionate Sun on thy body un-ornate
Left its golden paint.
With crown on my head,
In right hand archery held,
Stood in my royal attire –
Said, “I’ve come, O foreigner!”
Startled, from thy seat of rock,
Thou stood up with a shock –
Asked, “Why did you come?”
Said I, “Let thy mind calm,
Only I want to pluck flower
For God’s worship, in thy bower.”
Thou attended me with indulgent smile;
We plucked Juthi, (1) Jati (1) and Champa (1) to pile. (1)
To sort those in the basket sat together,
Worshipped Nataraj (2) with our earnest prayer. (2)
The mist was over, light flooded the sky,
Facing Shiva (2), Parbati’s (2) smile did lie. (2)
As rose the evening star
On the mountain top there,
Thou alone at home
On thy waist shone
Bright blue sapphire,
Round thy head, garland of flower.
Bangles in thy hands both –
On my way playing flute I quoth –
“Guest I’m at thy door.”
Scared, stretched thy lamp my face to explore;
Asked, “Why did you come?”
Said I, “Let thy mind calm,
Thy charming person I’ll adorn
With the decors I’ve borne.”
Flashed a beaming smile
On thy face, its beauty sparked awhile.
The gold necklace on thy chest
I suspended, the crown on thy head set at rest.
Lit up lights thy mates, their frolic sublime
Flooded the entire clime.
Thy ornate person did flitter
The charm of the night’s lunar glitter.
With my rhyme matched thy jingle,
Smiles at the sky the full moon single;
Light and shade to and fro
As the sea waves go.
Unwittingly, the day was over;
So, my ship raised its anchor.
Sudden was the wind adverse on my voyage,
Unleashed havoc, put the sea in rage;
Drowned my ship in the salt water
In the dark night with all my treasure.
With shattered fate, I’m again at thy door
Attired as destitute, my royal robes no more;
Saw at the temple of Nataraj (2) (2)
As before, was the decor of flowers;
While at night, the festive sea
Rhymes moonlight dance in wavy glee;
With thy silent face down in that fest
I stole a look at my garland round thy chest,
At my paints, listened rhythms of my song
Sway thee in ecstasy, all to me belong.
I implore thee; O bonny,
Once more hold thy lamp to me;
Now I’m no more crowned,
My archery no more to be found;
In the southern wind brought neither
My basket to fill in thy bower;
Only I’ve brought my flute;
Try please to make me out thou astute.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(1) these are Indian names of some flowers.
(2) Nataraj, the Lord of Dance, is the other name of Shiva and, according to the Hindu concept, his dance cycles Destruction after Creation. Parbati is the wife of Shiva.
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