Karma

I have been practically living indoors for over seven weeks now. On the one or two occasions when I had to go outside for essential work, I had to clean myself obsessively after coming home. Even then, I inevitably spent the next few days worrying about catching the virus and dying. Between that and feeling anxious about family members back in India (not to speak of the millions of other people in the world), naturally, little else could occupy my mind during this time. So when I sat down to choose a Tagore poem to translate this year, I was still thinking of the pandemic and death and wondering whether the poet wrote anything applicable to the Coronavirus. As some geniuses on social media have already discovered, some Tagore creations are particularly suited for this situation.

So searching for a poem applicable to the pandemic, I came across a poem called "Karmaphal" (কর্মফল) which means payback for one's actions. While the subject of the poem isn't really pandemic-related, it can be argued that this terrible disease is a payback to Humanity for the blatant destruction of Nature and overcrowding the planet beyond its capacity. It also talks about dying and being born again in the same place, which is probably the most positive thing that you can think of when you are being forced to think about death all the time. So this was my choice.

Also, when I was thinking of a suitable English title for this poem, I realized the most suitable word was "Karma". Although the English language has pretty much internalized that word today, it is really the Sanskrit root in the actual Bengali title of this poem, and for the first time, my English translation of a Bengali poem has practically the same name as the original Bengali version (where it is neither a proper noun nor an English word). So here's my translation.

Karma

~ Rabindranath Tagore

If a next birth truly comes 

I know what is in my fate—

I’ll be drawn again to this

Capital of the Bengal state.

Poems and prose I’ve woven a lot,

In their snare I’ll get caught,

All faults in all that work will

Atone for their every vice—

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

In those days, if by chance,

Loving readers I still retain.

Their ears will all blush crimson

I’ll call them such ugly names.

Any book that comes my way

Page by page I’ll blaze away,

To ruin my fate, I will like

A mythic demon re-arise— 

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

I will say, “This ancient text!

Seems stolen from start to end.

I think even I can pen,

Baskets full of such nonsense.”

Other things that I will pen

Thinking now, it causes pain,

For cruelty of my next birth

Now I wish to apologize—

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

You, who often don’t say things

That I really like to hear.

If you too reincarnate

And as critics reappear—

My own self I will spite,

You will think of how to write

Rubbing pens in your dens

To my protest, fit replies.

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

I’ll write, “He’s a misfit poet,

Like a heron among the swans!”

You’ll write, “What hateful mind

Lies with such nonchalance!”

I will call you – ignorant,

You will call me – rude and blunt,

Then the things that will be written

By no means will they be nice.

You will write a strong response,

I will strongly criticize.

.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)