Wednesday, December 1, 2010


At times too many thoughts and ideas crowd the top level of the body. It almost reminds me how the top of the mountain is usually painted as if shrouded in mists. Too many water particles getting heavy at the top. Guess am at that part of the mountain. The droplets of words and ideas are getting collected in various soul-buckets. 

In the mean time, am sharing with you a translation that I did of the bengali poem, "Anandabhairabi" by Shakti Chattopadhyay, some time back. A special thank you to Supratikda for initiating me in this process.

The Joyous Bhairabi

By Shakti Chattopadhyay

in that room today, the image has dipped;
it wasn’t like this at the monsoons’ end-
with rain-drenched blooms in the gardens
was the joyous bhairabi.

no shepherd boy comes to that lea,
banyan roots shed no tear at the enchanting flute-
yet, when the rains dig through the clouds,
streaks of lightning are found.

wasn’t it known that such hard times
leap and seize the cock’s red crest?
wasn’t it known that in a squandered heart
the miser’s gains rest?

wasn’t it known, though the seat be vast,
the heartland is not known that much?
wasn’t it known, much that I know
is but oceans in the nails?

in that room today, the image has dipped.
it wasn’t like this at the monsoons’ end,
With rain drenched blooms in the gardens
Was the joyous bhairabi.

Translated by Susmita Paul
© 2010


Sandipan Roy said...

A Truth Bound Sentiment

Sunil Gangopadhyay

This hand has touched Neera's face,
could I use this hand to commit a sin,
ever again?
In the late evening glow
swathing the hanging balcony,
a 'daring' light had fallen on her face,
and like a telegram,
had instantly revealed Neera's grace!
A hint of a smile had merged
on her brows and eyes,
or was it the shine of mica-fines?
At such times,
I so long to call that lady, just a 'babe'.
I raise my right hand
and with my muscles flexed,
I whisper to myself --
'Be worthy of her,
Be worthy and rise'
I touch Neera's chin --
This hand has touched Neera's face,
could I use this hand to commit a sin,
ever again?

These lips have told Neera,
'I love you', once,
could a deceit play on these lips
ever again?
Coming down the steps
I remember, all of a sudden,
that the most important words
were yet to be said!
A breeze from the alien shores
would one day, soon,
carry this lady away
as nimble and graceful as a swan!
And the stairs would all give way
to the surge of a sudden quake!
I stop,
and look deep into Neera's eyes ...
I realize,
love is such an ardent pledge,
a deep emotional bondage,
and a sentiment bound in truth.
My eyes begin to burn ...
standing on the steps,
these lips had told Neera,
'I love you', once,
could a deceit play on these lips,
ever again?

that's the translated version of one of the poetries that ushered manhood in me.There are lines that transcends you beyond the petty existence and elevates you to a different level inspiring to create a different world of your own.But as time passes and you get more acquainted with life you come to the terms that there cannot be a different world and in case that thirst persists you become a Rip Van Winkle.Yet there are people who loves to be that Rip Van Winkle rather than getting moulded to prosaic life.
The way you started the write up is fascinating but I know there is very little time in people's hand to have dip in themselves to appreciate these similes.Yet hats off! your inner eyes are gathering the visibility that's a writer's greatest asset.

Susmita said...

@Sandipan: thank you for sharing the translation! I am humbled by your appreciation ... thank you for reading on...