The Philosopher's Stone

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.

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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.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji )

The Tryst

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.

The Tryst

~ Rabindranath Tagore

Upagupta, the monk

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!”. 

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)

The Miser

Normally I post a translation of a Tagore poem every year on Rabindranath Tagore's birth anniversary. This year I already posted an extra one on Holi, and here's one for the big day. The original can be found here.

The Miser

~Rabindranath Tagore

Begging for alms back and forth

The village lanes I strolled,

You were then passing on

Your chariot of gold.

As a magnificent dream

In my eyes it did seem

Such wondrous appearance,

Wonderful attire.

I was thinking in my mind,

“Who are you, Sire?”

The morning brought a good omen

I had then thought,

Today, to beg door to door

I will need not.

Outside as I set my foot

I met the one on my route,

Who would throw, riding by, 

Riches on the wayside---

I would just pick handfuls,

Opening my arms wide.

That chariot stopped suddenly

As it reached me

Looking at my face, you

Alit smilingly.

Observing your serene face

My pains left without a trace,

At this time, for some reason

Suddenly you said

“Please give me something”

With your palm spread.

Image source

What is this you say, my Lord,

“Give me something please!”

Hearing this, for a few moments

My head I couldn’t raise.

What is it that you could want,

That a begging beggar can grant.

This is just jest for you

For me, a mean trick.

From my bag I gave you

One tiny speck.

On returning home, that container I

Pour out, and behold!

Among my alms, I can see

A tiny speck of gold.

Royal-beggar, what I gave thee

In gold it came back to me,

Then tears swelled in my eyes

And I sat crying---

Oh, why didn’t I give you then

All that was mine.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

Holi

 While I have been busy with a variety of things, there have also been a lot of developments in my life since I wrote the last blog post almost a year ago. Most notably, we went to India for a month-and-a-half in the winter and were able to get our US visas stamped. This was our first visit home since the COVID-19 pandemic started.

Anyway, my readers know about my hobby of translating Bengali poems by Rabindranath Tagore to English, and I have worked on several poems lately. This one, "Horikhela", is one of my favourite poems since the day I read it in the book "Katha O Kahini" in my school days. Since this tells the story of brave Rajput women, and takes place on Holi, it seemed particularly suitable for posting today, on the occasion of Holi and International Women's Day.

Holi

~Rabindranath Tagore

A letter came to the Pathan, Kesar Khan,

        From Kaitun, king Bhunag's queen writes---

"Has war satisfied your thirst?

Springtime is now  going past

Come with your Pathan army fast---

        To play Holi with us, the Rajput wives.

Losing a battle, leaving Kota town

        From Kaitun, the queen a letter writes.

 

Reading it, Kesar laughed out loud,

Happily his moustache he twirled.

Put a colourful turban on his head

His eyes with kohl he painted.

Picked a handkerchief scented--

A thousand times his beard he uncurled.

With Pathans the queen will play Holi

Chuckling, his moustache Kesar twirled.

In March, the wind from the south

Arrived at the bakul groves drunk.

Blossoms have filled the mango woods,

The bees are in inattentive moods,

Buzzing by themselves they brood

And fly around, their minds blank.

To play Holi in Kaitun city today,

The Pathan soldiers arrive in ranks.

 

At Kaitun palace, in the king's park,

Just then was the glittering time of day.

In the woods stood the Pathan platoon,

The flute played the Multaan tune ---

The queen’s handmaidens came soon,

A hundred Rajput wives, to Holi play.

The sun was tinted red, like blood,

Then was just the glittering time of day.

With each step their skirts start to sway,

In the southern breeze the scarves blow.

In their right hand a plate of coloured powder,

From their belt hangs the colour-water-sprayer,

In their left hand a can of rose-water --

The Rajput ladies arrive, row by row.

With each step their skirts start to sway,

In the southern breeze the scarves blow.

 

Wittily smiling through his eyes

Kesar says, as he comes close,

“I came through many battles alive,

But today I may not survive!

Hearing, from the hundred Rajput wives

Suddenly a loud laughter rose.

Tilting his red turban Kesar Khan

Jokingly bowed and came close.

Then the Holi festivities started,

Colour filled the red evening skies.

The bakul flowers got a new hue,

On tree-roots, blood-red dust blew—

Frightened birds forgot to coo 

By the guffaws of the Rajput wives.

It seemed a red mist had appeared

And filled up the red evening skies.

 

Why don’t my eyes feel drunk?

Kesar Khan wonders in his thoughts.

Why does my heart not sway?

The women’s twisted anklets play

Out of tune sounds in a way,

The bangles too, properly ring not!

Why don’t my eyes feel drunk,

Kesar Khan wonders in his thoughts.

The Pathan says, “In the Rajput woman’s being

Isn’t there anything delicate?

Her arms aren’t soft as a lotus stem,

Voice’d put a thunderbolt to shame— 

Hard, dry, flowerless, untamed

Vines of the desert waste.”

The Pathan thinks, in body or in mind

The Rajput woman isn’t delicate.

 

Starting tunes in Iman - Bhupali

The flute then plays a faster beat.

In earrings, strings of pearls sway,

On strong wrists, gold bracelets play

With a maid carrying colours on a tray

The queen now entered the woods to meet.

Starting tunes in Iman - Bhupali

The flute was then playing a faster beat.

 

Kesar says, “Staring at your path

My eyesight has almost gone away!”

The queen says, “I’m the same way now.”

The hundred maids laugh anyhow —

Suddenly, on the Pathan kings’ brow

The queen hits her heavy metal tray.

Blood flowed out freely from the wound

The Pathan king’s eyesight went away.

Like a bolt of thunder from the blue

Loud began the beat of war-drums.

The moon  startles in a stark sky,

Clinking cutlasses make sparks fly,

Sitting at the gate, the shehnai

Starts on deep Kanara hums.

From under the trees of the park

Loud began the beat of war-drums.

The scarves blew away riding the breeze,

The skirts that were there, fell away.

A hundred men by magic materialized,

Emerged from their fake female guise,

Encircled the Pathans from all sides

Like a hundred snakes from a bouquet.

The scarves blew away like a dream, 

The skirts that were there, fell away.

 

The road by which the Pathans had arrived,

On that road they never did return.

In the woods on that pretty March night

The crazed cuckoo wouldn’t stay quiet,

In Kaitun groves with bakul trees in sight

Kesar Khan’s game was finally done.

The road by which the Pathans had arrived,

On that road they never did return.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

(Illustrations found on the Internet)

Infamy

What I have repeatedly felt while reading poems by Rabindranath Tagore, is that he could express my exact feelings better than me. This is more true now, when I'm raising a child. There are many poems where he describes the parent-child relationship, both from the parent's viewpoint and the child's, and I have translated several of them in the past. This year, my annual translation is another such poem, where the poet defends the actions of his child.

Infamy

                                                ~Rabindranath Tagore

Dear child, why do you have tears?

Who has said bad things to you

Please let me hear.

While writing, your hands and face

With some ink got soiled

Is that why they said, “A dirty child”?

Shame, is that fair?

The full moon is smeared with ink

Call him dirty, I dare! 

Child, your faults are all they see.

I find anything you do

Makes them unhappy.

You go to play and come back

With clothes torn away

Is that why “Wretched boy!” they say?

Shame, how’s that true?

The dawn smiles through torn clouds,

Is he wretched too?

Don’t listen to what people say.

I find your infamy

Growing everyday.

You love sweets

That’s why all of them

Call you greedy and blame?

Shame, what to say. 

All those who love you

Then what are they?

                                                                    (Translated by Sugata Banerji)

Mother-loving Child

These are bad times.

People are dying of COVID-19. People are dying from lack of oxygen. People are even being killed by other people. Sitting in this far-off land, the news from India is just unbearably depressing. And yet, I cannot travel back to India to be with the people I love.

So when Rabindranath Tagore's birth anniversary approached this year in the middle of all this, I had to think extra-hard about what poem to translate. I was tempted to look for some poem that talks about suffering or death (which I sort of did last year), but then I decided against it. There's enough of that already out there - there's no need for me to add to it. Then I realized the day of Tagore's birthday is also Mother's Day here in the US and since I had started to translate a poem about a mother-loving child sometime ago, it would be suitable for the occasion. So here's my Tagore translation for this year. The original can be found here.

Mother-loving Child

~Rabindranath Tagore

Those who live, mother, in the clouds

They call to me, call out loud.

They say, “All we do is play,

Morning to end of the day.”

We play a game of gold at dawn,

Holding the moon, a silver one.”

I say, “How will I go on?”

They say, “Come to the field’s end.

Stand there with your arms raised,

We’ll take you into cloud-land.”

I say, “But mother’s at home

Sitting waiting for me all alone,

Without her, how can I be gone?”

Hearing that they laugh and disband.

Better, mother, if I be the clouds;

To act as my moon you can try—

I’ll cover you up with my hands,

Our roof will act as the sky.

In the waves, mother, those who live,

To me repeated calls they give.

They say, “Singing is all we do,

From the morning and all day through.”

They say, “To what lands we flow,

Their locations no one can know.”

I ask them, “How can I go?”

They say, “Come to the shore’s end.

Stand there with your eyes closed,

We’ll take you into wave-land.”

I say, “But mother looks out,

In the evening my name she’ll shout,

Her, how can I live without?”

Hearing that they laugh and disband.

Better, mother, I’ll be the waves,

You’ll be some land from afar.

I’ll jump and fall into your lap,

No one will know where we are.

(Translated and illustrated by Sugata Banerji)

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)

The Laws of Twenty-one

This Bengali nonsense poem by the great Sukumar Ray talks about the strange laws in the imagined country of Lord Shiva. Such laws may or may not resemble real laws in real countries. The laws relate to the number 21 various ways.

Today being the 21st of February, the International Mother Language Day, AND Maha Shivaratri, the annual worship day of Lord Shiva, I couldn't resist the temptation to translate this poem to English from my mother language today.

In the land where Lord Shiva stays,
Terrible laws one must obey!
If someone happens to slip and fall,
A policeman will arrest and haul
To the court, and the judge opines,
He pays twenty-one rupees in fines.

There, before it's evening six
For sneezing you need permits.
Without permit, if a sneeze will come,
Bang! Boom! On your back they drum,
A dose of snuff the Chief applies,
Until you sneeze twenty-one times.

A loose tooth, if someone has,
They must pay four rupees as tax.
If whiskers grow on someone's face,
A hundred annas is their cess.
Poking his back, bending his neck,
Twenty-one salutes they have him make.

While walking, if someone chance
To cast left or right, a sideways glance,
At once to the king this news will rush,
The soldiers all jump and make a fuss,
They make him drink, in the sun at noon,
Water in twenty-one serving spoons.

With poetry, those who fill the pages,
They are caught, and put in cages,
And made to listen, in tunes variable,
Recitations of the multiplication table.
They have to read grocery-store ledgers,
And do additions for twenty-one pages.

If suddenly when the night is deep,
Someone snores while they're in sleep.
On their head they rub with glee,
Cow-dung mixed with apple puree,
Twenty-one times they are spun
And hung for hours twenty-one.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

Astronomy

Astronomy is making the news these days, with the first picture of a black hole becoming public last month. So I thought of translating this little poem by Rabindranath Tagore this year on his birth anniversary, whose Bengali title literally translates to "astronomy." It is based on a dialogue between a little boy and his elder brother. Once I and my slightly older cousin brother recited this poem at an event back home in Hooghly. Those days almost seem like another life when I think about it.

So here's my translation of the poem, without much further ado. The illustration is my attempt at digital art using the Wacom tablet I impulse-bought last Thanksgiving.

Astronomy
~Rabindranath Tagore


All I said was, “In the evenings,
On the kadam tree
When the full moon gets entangled
And can’t get himself free
Could someone then
Catch and bring him in?”
Why did big brother, hearing that,
Laugh and tell me, “Brother,
A fool like you I’ve seen no other.

The moon stays very far
How can we even touch?”
I said, “Big brother, you
Surely don’t know much.
When our mother smiles at us
Through the window bars
Would you then say that mother
Lives very far?”
Even then he told me, “Brother,
A fool like you I’ve seen no other.”


Brother says, “Where will you get
Such a large snare?”
I tell him, “Why brother,
The moon is tiny there;
To grab him, my two
Little fists would do.”
On hearing that why did he
Laugh and tell me “Brother,
A fool like you I’ve seen no other.


If the moon came close to us
You’d see it’s immense.”
I say, “Hasn’t attending school
Given you any sense?
When mother, to kiss us
Bows down her head
Then, does her face look like
A huge thing by our bed?”
Even then he told me, “Brother,
A fool like you I’ve seen no other.”

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

A Dream and an Announcement

Let me start with the dream. It isn't mine, it was Rabindranath Tagore's dream. The original Bengali poem is part of a collection of easy prose and poetry aimed at children learning to read. This is the poem that I chose for translating on Tagore's birthday this year. This was very different from the other Tagore poems that I have translated in recent times, and was great fun. The poem doesn't really have a name, but I decided to give it the title "The Dream" in my English translation. I decided to use the names Calcutta and Bombay instead of the more modern versions Kolkata and Mumbai since those were the names used during Tagore's time.

The Dream

~Rabindranath Tagore

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

The other night I had a dream

“Look! Look!” I heard Binu scream.

I looked and saw roof beams collide,

Calcutta on the go, nodding side-to-side.

The houses are rhinos made of brick

Doors and windows moving quick.

The roads, like pythons they crawl,

On their backs the tramcars fall.

Up and down go markets and shops.

Rooftops head-butt other rooftops.

The Howrah Bridge, giant centipede goes,

Harrison Road on its tail follows.

The Monument swings, an elephant crazed

Dancing, his trunk skyward raised.

Our schoolhouse runs with a clamor

The math book runs, so does grammar

The maps on the walls struggle and slap

Just like birds, when wings they flap.

The bell rings ding-dong swinging away—

Does not stop any hour of the day.

Millions of people say, “Stop please!”

“Wherefrom? Where to? This is craziness.”

Calcutta, busy going, ignores these calls—

Drunk with dance her pillars and walls.

I think to myself, worry there’s none,

To Bombay Calcutta can straight go on.

If Delhi, Lahore or Agra she’ll choose

I’ll wear a turban, put on jeweled shoes.

Or if today, to London she scoots

Like English folk, all would wear suits.

Then some noise made my sleep shatter

I saw, Calcutta was still in Calcutta.

--------------------------------------------------

Which brings us to the announcement. And that is very much mine.

My sleep is getting shattered by some noise or other every night now for the last two weeks, and so is my wife Poulami's. Unlike Tagore, we don't find our life restored to normalcy even when we wake up, because our dream has come true and has decided to live with us (while making all kinds of noises at all kinds of hours).

She is our daughter Shalmoli. She was born on April 25, 2018 at Lake Forest Hospital, approximately three weeks before her due date amidst a lot of drama. Shalmoli is the name of a flower that blooms in early summer in India on a dry, rugged-looking tree and contains letters from both my name and my wife's. Being a Bengali, she also has a nickname, and that nickname is formed by the last three letters of her official name. The nickname has a meaning too. Oli means bee in Bengali.

Oli also rhymes with Tuli, which is the name of my niece.

So right now, my parents are staying with us. They were supposed to arrive on the 26th anyway, and throw a baby shower for my wife on the 27th. Oli was born while they were in the air and the baby arrived on the day of the baby shower. Now I am finding it hard to do anything not strictly necessary (such as blogging), between the final exams week at the college, all kinds of extra work at home and pediatrician visits at, well, the pediatrician's office. Life has changed overnight - nothing is as easy as it was before.

And we're enjoying every moment of it.

Shirt painted by me. Photos not taken by me.

Hookah-faced Crave-all

As I have written before on this blog, Sukumar Ray was a multi-faceted genius who is primarily remembered for his Bengali nonsense poems for children. I cannot emphasize this multi-faceted aspect enough - much of what I know today about science, technology, engineering, mythology, geography, and the natural world, had its roots in Sukumar Ray's writings. All these years later, when I see a beaver building a dam in a documentary, or I see compressed air being used to transport messages through tubes, or I read an article about some underground fire burning for decades, or I see Thor and Loki fighting on the silver screen, my mind travels back to that large red book of my childhood, with the smirking green cat on the cover.

When it comes to translating something out of that book, however, I always choose one of the nonsense poems. I find translating nonsense particularly interesting, especially since I try to preserve the rhyme of the original poem. I try to do the same with Tagore's verse, but in case of Ray, since the tone is decidedly more frivolous and common Bengali words and their sounds play a very important role in conveying the mood, translating is somewhat more challenging. I'm not the first person to translate Ray's nonsense though. Acclaimed scholar Sukanta Chaudhuri translated many of these poems about twenty years ago and he did a fantastic job. But I still go ahead and translate some of these poems from time to time, just for the fun of it, and I make sure I don't look at Sukanta Chaudhuri's translation before I do. So here's one of my favorite poems, with the illustration by Sukumar Ray himself. [Coming to think of it, this is how I would expect one of my image classification algorithms to behave when a query image is equidistant from two reference images.]

Hookah-faced Crave-all

~Sukumar Ray

Hookah-faced Crave-all,                              lives in Bengal

His face holds no smile, have you seen?

No smile, why so?                            Anyone in the know?

To stay with him, have you ever been?

Shyamadas, uncle of his                     is the opium police,

He has no other relation---

Is that why alone,                          his face devoid of tone,

He sits with a sad expression?

Thumping his feet,                      he danced to every beat

His voice always full of glee,

All day he would sing                   Do-re-mi-Fa-Ting-ting,

An image of happiness was he.

Today during lunch,                      sitting on that branch,

He was eating smashed plantain.

Then what transpired?                   Did his uncle expire?

Or did his leg suffer a sprain?

Hookah-face yells back      "You're on the wrong track!"

"Don't you see the fix I'm in?"

"The way to swat flies                         the more I theorize,

My whole day passes worrying.

If it sits on the right,                    in my rule-book I write

This tail I use for the kill.

If the left it would choose,                  I'm not one to lose,

This other tail then fits the bill.

But if some naughty fly                 the centre-line does try

I can't imagine what I would do ---

How hard it is to choose              which tail should I use,

I don't have tails but these two."

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)

Compromise

My friends know that I translate a poem by Rabindranath Tagore every year on Tagore's birthday. I have been doing this since 2006, the year I started this blog. I recently realized that there was no easy way to find all of these translations in one place, and so here's a list of all that I have translated over the years.

• Poems

1. The River (This is my first translation, done when I was an undergrad)
2. The Palm Tree 
3. The Two Birds
4. The Hero
5. The Poet's Age
6. Africa 
7. Judgment
8. Identity
9. Small and Big
10. The Schoolmaster
11. Strange Ambitions
12. The Right Place
13. The Poet

• Tiny poems embedded within posts:

1. Revisiting Hyderabad
2. Momentary Rhyme
3. A Tiny Tagore Translation

• Prose:

1. The Wrong Heaven

Coming to this year's translation, this beautiful poem was one of a few suggested by my father. I liked all of them, but chose this one eventually because of no particular reason. Probably I was influenced by the fact that my wife Poulami knew the poem by heart. She also helped me with my translation, giving me feedback on the meanings of certain phrases to enhance my understanding. As usual, I tried to preserve the rhyme of the original Bengali poem, a quality that is usually missing from English translations of Tagore. So without further digressing, I present this year's translation.

Compromise

                                                     ~ Rabindranath Tagore

Today, tell your mind this,

Whatever comes, good or bad,

Accept the truth with ease.

            Some people may love you

              Others are never meant to,

            Some are ever grateful, others

              Don’t owe a cent to you.

            Some of it is their nature

              Some of it is yours, brother,

            Partly, the way of this world ---

              Not each one suits the other.

            Some will bluff you at times,

              At other times, you will bluff,

            You will get your share,

               Others get the remaining stuff.

            From times immemorial

              That’s how things have worked 

            How can you be so lucky that

              You’ll get through unmarked!

                      Today, tell your mind this,

                                                 Good or bad whatever may come

                      Accept the truth with ease.

            Weathering many a storm you reach

              The port of happiness to rest

            An underwater hidden cliff

              Strikes you inside the chest,

            Instantly your weary ribs

             Tremble with a painful creak---

            Does that mean with everyone

          A deathly quarrel you must seek?

           If you can stay afloat

              That’s the best thing to do,

          If you cannot, then quietly

              Sink without much ado.

          That wouldn’t be unusual,

              It’s a common incident ---

            Where people don’t fear

              Shipwrecks are most frequent.

                                                         So tell your mind this,

                                                  Whatever comes, good or bad,

            Accept the truth with ease.

          Not everyone is sized for you

            Nor you made in everyone’s size,

          You seem to die of someone’s shove

            By your squeeze, someone dies---

          Still, if we think it through,

            Over everything must we vie?

          The proper approach can give

            A lot of happiness if you try.

          The sky remains as blue as ever,

            Sweet seems the light of dawn,

          When death arrives, we find

            Better to live than to be gone.

          For those whom we closed our eyes

            And cried out a tearful sea

          Even without them we find

            The world is pretty good to see.

                                                  So tell your mind this,

                                             Whatever comes, good or bad,

           Accept the truth with ease.

          At the sunset if you sit,

             Let your large shadow loom

           And with your own fault

             Fill your life with gloom,

           If fate you choose to fight

            And dig yourself a grave,

           Then please finish this task

            As soon as you can, we crave.

           Weep a while if you must

            Filling pitchers from your eyes,

           With your mind then somehow

             Brother, compromise.

           Then, in your dark chamber

              A lamp you must shine---

           Forget, brother, with whom

              Your ideas don’t align.

                                       So tell your mind this,

                                Whatever comes, good or bad,

            Accept the truth with ease.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)