Identity

Rabindranath Tagore's 150th birth anniversary is here, and I am here with the English translation of another Tagore poem. This year, when I was selecting a poem to translate, I came across this gem that reminded me of a little girl whom I had met recently. And although she has a name that her parents selected for her, we, the people who know her (including her parents), like to call her by any name that comes to our minds. So here's a tribute to Tagore that is also dedicated to our Little Gherkin.

Identity

~Rabindranath Tagore

There’s a girl that I know,

She rules over our village small

She’s the one who is worshipped

And called little goddess by all.

But let me tell you something

Trust me and hear me out---

That her qualities are godlike

Is what I really doubt.

Early morning, when it’s still dark

Where does her sleep flee?

A row ensues on her bed

By her little shouts of glee.

By her loud chortles

Half the street wakes up,

She runs doing mock fights

Away from mother’s lap.

Arms stretched, she looks at me

I have no choice then,

But to take her out on a stroll

On my shoulder again.

Getting the ride of her choice,

In her great joy she insists

On pummeling me repeatedly with

Her plump and soft fists.

When I hurriedly tell her ---

“Wait a little, stop it please!”

She promptly tries to grab and take

The glasses from my eyes.

With me she quarrels so much

In words un-understood.

What an uproar! Could you ever

Call her manners good?

And yet, it hardly befits me

To engage her in a fight.

Without her, the music stops,

The household feels quiet.

Without her, will flowers

Still greet the morning light?

Without her, will the evening star

Still rise every night?

If the mischief-maker isn’t home

For a moment if we part

It seems impossible to fill

The void in my heart.

Her naughtiness is the southern breeze

It wakes a storm joy-laden

It makes all the flowers sway

In my mind’s flower garden.

The only thing that worries me

Her name, if you ask,

To call her by a single one

That is a difficult task.

Who knows about her real name?

I call her as I please –

Miss Mischief, Little Bandit,

Black-face or Ogress.

The name given by her parents

With her parents let it rest.

Let them find the sweetest name

And lock it in a chest.

One person names a baby

In some ceremony,

For everyone to adopt that name

Is nothing but tyranny.

Each calling as they please is how

Naming should be done

The father may call Chandrakumar,

The uncle Ramsharan.

A Sanskrit name is something that

Our girl can hardly carry,

The only thing it adds worth to is

Cost of the dictionary.

I for one, call her by

Whatever I think of

The one I call knows it’s her,

Let the others laugh.

A hundred different games

That little one plays

Is it right to call her by

A single name always?

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)