I fondly look back at the days when I used to write a blog post every three days or so. Good heavens! What did I even talk about? But then, I remember Suman Chatterjee's song - the talkative ones of today will turn silent tomorrow, when they cross forty and wear bifocal glasses. But at least, I'm writing one post a year - because I'm so busy that it's a miracle that even this one post appears here. That miracle, if we agree to call it that, is due to Rabindranath Tagore and his birthday.
Today, I'm posting another one of my rhyming English translations of a Rabindranath Tagore on his birth anniversary. I wasn't sure whether today was an appropriate occasion to share this though, given the war going on between India and Pakistan. However, I decided to share this eventually - especially since I have full faith that our armed forces will wrap this war up soon.
This has been one of my favourite poems since a very long time, along with other poems in the same book. But the poem came back to my mind from a news item I read a few months ago. It was about Dr. Annie L'Huillier, winner of the 2023 Nobel Prize in Physics. The article was quite detailed, but the gist was that she was teaching a class when the Nobel committee called her to tell her she won. She received the call, heard the news, then cut the call short and went right back to teaching, because, you know... her students were waiting and she had to finish her class.
Those of you who know the original Bengali poem would know why I was reminded of this poem from this incident. For others, I hope my translation would be helpful.
P.S. The illustration is by ChatGPT. I told it to draw me an illustration in the style of old Bengali books based on the first few lines of this poem. This is exactly how it was given to me - except for the text below, which was garbled a little and had to be fixed.
The Philosopher's Stone
~ Rabindranath Tagore
The Philosopher's Stone
~ Rabindranath Tagore
By the river in Vrindavan, focused, saint Sanatan
The Lord's name praised.
Suddenly, in clothes torn, a Brahmin, forlorn,
At his feet himself placed.
Inquired Sanatan "Where do you come from?Name please, Sir?"
Brahmin says, "What to say, I could meet you today
By traveling from afar.
Jeevan is my name, from Maankar I came,
In district Barddhaman---
Luckless such as me, or poor to such degree
There’s not another one.
A little land I hold, my head remains bowed
Little do I earn.
For rituals of religion, I once had a reputation
Now there is none.
To improve my state, to Lord Shiva I prayed
And asked for a boon.
One night, near dawn in a dream He responds---
“You'll get it soon!
Go to the Yamuna bank; meet Sanatan, the monk
At his feet you must pray!
Consider him your father; to wealth, none other
Can show you the way."
Sanatan, having heard, thought long and hard---
“What do I have to give?
Whatever I had once, I have now renounced---
On alms now I live.”
Suddenly remembering, the saint starts hollering,
“I should’ve known!
On the beach one day, I found, there lay
A philosopher’s stone.
‘I may gift it’, I thought and there, at that spot
I buried it in the sand---
You take it, Sir, your pains will disappear
When it touches your hand.”
The Brahmin rushed and dug up the sand
To unearth the gem.
Iron amulets two, turned a golden hue
As it touched them.
In shock profound, on the sand he sat down---
In a pensive state.
The Yamuna’s singing waves, to the thinker raved
Such a lot was said.
The far bank turned red, the tired sun did set
The day’s end drew near---
The Brahmin rose up then, at the ascetic’s feet again
He fell, and said through tears,
“The wealth you own, that you don’t value this stone
Of that, a small sliver
I beg for, with head bowed,” and taking the stone out
He threw it in the river.
