The Poet's Age

A few months ago, my friend Abhijit sent me the following lines by Rabindrananth Tagore:

Sabaar aami samaanboyeshi je

Chule aamaar jatoi dhoruk paak.

He wanted me to find out the whole poem and send it to him if possible. With my very limited knowledge of Tagore's poetry, the first thing that I did (after Googling for the lines, of course) was to search the first-line-index at the end of Tagore's Sanchayita, with the assumption that these lines were the first two lines of the poem. I failed to find it. Then I mailed the lines to my father one night, casually mentioning that my friend was in no hurry and he could take his time finding it out.

And the next morning, I woke up to find a mail from my father, saying that the poem is called "Kobir Boyes" (The Poet's Age) and it was part of the book called Kshanika. The given lines are actually the last lines of the poem, and the first lines of the poem are

Orey kobi sandhya hoye elo,

Keshe tomar dhorechhe je pak.

Bosey bosey urdhopaney cheye

Shuntechho ki parokaler dak?

Now I was so impressed by my father's random-access memory of Tagore's poems that I felt interested to read the poem myself. This time, since I knew the first lines, I was able to find it in Sanchayita. I liked it immensely, and instantly decided to translate it, not only because I had to give it to my friend, but also to publish here. It was easier said than done, though, and after several months of racking my brains over rhyming synonyms of certain words, I present the final version below, on the occasion of the poet's 148th birth anniversary today. I do not like certain lines myself, and I'll be changing the translation if I think of something better.

The Poet's Age

By Rabindranath Tagore

O poet, the day’s end is near,

                White hairs adorn your brow---

Looking heavenwards do you hear

                The next world call you now?

The poet says, the day is near its end,

                But my tired body continues to hear,

For a voice that may still call my name

                From the little village over there.

If under the bakul trees here

                Young lovers happen to meet,

Two pairs of eyes wish to join

                With music appropriate---

Who will give words to their thoughts

                And play them on the veena’s strings,

If sitting on the shores of this world

                I count just the next world’s things?

.                 

The Evening Star rose and went down,

                Pyres went out on the river bed,

The yellow coloured waning crescent moon

                Peeks out at the forest’s edge,

In the empty yard of the ruined house

                Now howls the gathered fox-pack---

If at such a time one who left home

                Comes here to spend the night awake,

If he raises his head with folded arms

      Looks at the stars beyond the clouds,

Wants to knock softly at life

      With a sleepy song devoid of sound ---

With the secrets of this universe

      Who will put in words in his mind

If I sit in my home by myself

      And think of being free from mankind?

.

It is true that my hair is turning white,

      You are bothered by its colour? But why?

I’m of the same age as the young

      And the old men who live nearby.

Someone’s lips hold a simple smile

      Someone has a smile in each eye.

Someone’s tears of grief spill over

      Someone’s tears in their mind dry,

Some live in their homes quietly

      In the world some drive out loud,

Some are sad for their lonely homes

      Some lose their way in the crowd---

All those people keep calling me still,

        Where’s time for the next world’s call?

My hair may have turned grey to white

But I’m of the same age as all.

.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)