A lot of stuff happened between the last blog post and this one.
First, we bought a house in the US. This wasn't exactly between the last blog post and this one, since the deal was closed in the end of April last year, but we still moved in mid-May. That was a big event. It was particularly stressful because my wife Poulami was expecting at the time.
Then the summer passed trying to settle down in the new house - buying and assembling furniture, making improvements, befriending neighbors. Then, in the middle of October, we welcomed our second child, our son Sagnik a.k.a. Rik. He was supposed to be born in early November, but you know how these things go. I was terrified that he would be born on my birthday, and forever rob me of the only day when people give me some importance. Luckily, he missed by a whisker.
Naturally, with the child being born, we invited my parents to come and spend a few months in the new house. The winter turned out to be exceptionally severe this year, and everyone in the house took turns in falling sick. I lost my voice temporarily and had to miss college for a week. In the middle of all this, my Facebook account, and Poulami's too, were hacked. We eventually recovered them, but only after a very anxious 48 hours.
Then, in March, we flew to India to spend the next few months of my sabbatical here. We've been here since then, getting cooked in the 42+ temperatures and hoping to eat ripe mangoes and jackfruits in the near future in return for all this pain.
And so, this year, I get to spend Tagore's birth anniversary sitting in Bengal. I'm posting my translation of another Tagore poem this year as usual. Like one of last year's poems, this one is from "Katha o Kahini" as well. And just like this blog post, the events of the poem span the major part of a year from one monsoon to the next spring. You can read the original (titled Avisaar) here. And yes, AI-based image generators became freely available over the last year, so my translated poem is now illustrated, thanks to Meta AI and my prompt-writing skills.
Under the walls of Mathura town
Once in sleep was sunk—
The wind had blown out lamps by force,
The city hall had closed its doors,
In monsoon skies, clouds in scores
Made stars of night defunct.
Whose anklet-adorned feet
Rang out on his chest?
The monk woke up with a start,
His web of dreams flew apart,
Harsh lamplight seemed to smart
Pretty eyes mercy-blessed.
The town courtesan goes on a tryst
In drunkenness youth-caused.
Covered in a deep blue drape,
Jewels tinkling every step—
Stumbling on the monk who slept,
Basabadatta paused.
She held the lamp close and saw
His handsome form aglow—
Gentle smiling young face,
Eyes lit with kindly grace,
A soothing serene peacefulness
On his fair moon-like brow.
The woman, in a charming voice,
With bashful eyes observed,
“O young Sir, I beg to thee,
Forgive and come home with me
The ground here is hard, stony,
As your bed it cannot serve.”
The monk said in a wistful voice,
“O lady full of grace,
My time has not arrived yet,
Young lady, you go ahead,
On my own, on the right date
I'll come visit your place."
With an abrupt lightning flash
A storm opened its mouth.
The woman shivered with sudden fear,
Conchs of cataclysm filled the air,
In the skies, with a loud cheer
Thunder laughed out loud.
***
The year had not ended yet,
An April night came through.
Restless, anxious is the breeze,
Flowers bloom on roadside trees,
In the royal park one bakul sees,
Parul and tuberose too.
From far away the wind carries
A flute’s heady tune.
The homes are empty, the citizens left
For the honey-grove, to the flower-fest—
Watching the vacant town, silent
Smiles a rotund moon.
On the moonlit street the monk
Is the only one in sight.
Above, in the tree canopy
The cuckoo calls out repeatedly,
After so long, could it be
The time for his tryst-night?
The lonely monk crossed the town
And went outside the gate.
Came to the town moat’s far side—
In the dark mango grove he spied
A woman who was cast aside
Lying near his feet!
A deadly rash, from a terrible plague
Covers her completely—
Her darkened form, disease-stained,
Beyond the moat, has been sent
By the townsfolk, to prevent
Her toxic company.
Sitting, the woman’s stiffened head
On his lap the monk placed—
Her parched lips he watered well,
On her head, said a curing spell,
Carefully, her rashes he quelled
With cool sandalwood paste.
Blossoms falling, cuckoo’s calling,
On a moonlight-drunk night.
“Who are you, o compassionate?”
The woman asked, the monk said--
“At long last, tonight’s the date,
Basabadatta, I’ve arrived!”.
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