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