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)

Small and Big

Here's my annual Tagore translation, on yet another birth anniversary of the poet. This one might seem a little concocted at places, since I lost my original translation in my hard drive crash and hurriedly had to cook up this version from what I remembered of my own translation. The original poem can be found here.

Small and Big

~Rabindranath Tagore

I am not grown up yet,

          I'm young hence I'm still small.

I'll be much bigger than big brother

          When like father I grow tall.

Then, if brother doesn't study,

Wants to play with his little birdie,

How I'll chastise him then!

           "Study quietly!" I'll scold.

"How naughty you are!" I'll say,

            When like father, I'm old.

      Brother's bird-cage I'll get,

      And keep little birds as pet.

When the clock goes past ten,

            I won't hurry for my bath.

With an umbrella on my head

            I will amble down the path.

Seeing my tutor on the porch

I'll call him to sit indoors.

If he asks, "Where's your slate?

             Don't delay, read your book."

I'll say, "I'm no longer a child,

             I'm as big as father, look."

       Hearing that, he'll say,

       "Then, Sir, I'll go away."

In the evening, when Bhulu comes,

             To take me to play in his tow,

I will scold him and say,

             "I'm working, don't make a row."

However crowded be the fair,

I'll go alone, without any fear.

If uncle comes running and says

                "You'll get lost! Ride me, son."

I'll tell him, "Uncle, don't you see,

                 Big as father I've grown!"

       Seeing that, uncle will say, "Wow!

       Our child is not so small now."

The day when I first grow up,

                  Mother, after her river-dip rite,

Comes wondering through the back door,

                  "Why is the house so quiet?"

Meanwhile I've learnt to use the keys

And I'm paying the maid as I please.

Mother, seeing this, will say,

                   "Child, your game is so wrong!"

I will say, "I'm paying her salary, mother,

                    Like father, I'm now big and strong.

          If we ran out of money, or food,

          Replenish it mother, I would."

In October, in the festival-break,

                   During Gajantala's annual fair,

Father's boat will come from afar,

                   And dock at the Babuganj pier.

Father, with his simple mind,

Will think his son's still a child.

Tiny shirts and shoes he'll buy,

               Give them to me and say, "Wear!"

I will say, "Let big brother don them,

               I am now as big as you there.

         That shirt is too small, don't you see?

          If I wear, it will be tight on me."

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)

The Song of Envy

Last week I posted an English translation of a Bengali poem by the Late Sukumar Ray who, inspite of being a multi-faceted genius, is primarily known for his nonsense poems for children. Here is another one of his short poems , on a special request from Kuntala. My translation is evidently unable to decipher the complete humor hidden in the Bengali original, but I have tried to maintain the rhyme and the essence of the poem.

The Song of Envy

~Sukumar Ray

All of us are good and nice, you are bad and nasty,

You will drink a bitter serum, we will eat a pastry.

We will get all toys and dolls, we will get sweet vittles,

None of you get any of that, and if you do, too little.

We will sleep on spacious beds right by mother's side,

You sleep in the dark alone, scared and trying to hide.

We will visit a hill station and we will ride a train,

If you cry, "Take us too" we'll say "Eat plantain!"*

We strut with a proud gait, clicking colourful shoes.

You are dirty, with runny noses, greedy, brains no use.

The clothes we don are rich brocade, we wear jewelry too,

Since you never get all those, they're unbearable to you.

We will be all lavish-minded, you will be stingy folk,

Ask us for something, and we'll squeeze you till you choke.

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)

* "Eat Plantain" is a mildly offensive Bengali idiomatic phrase which one says when one wants to deny someone's request in a mocking manner.

The Schoolmaster

Here's my translation of this poem by Rabindranath Tagore on his 152nd birth anniversary. Meanwhile, I wonder what the poor kitten who comes to our house in Hooghly everyday for after-lunch leftovers is doing in the absence of my parents in the house.

The Schoolmaster

~Rabindranath Tagore

Let’s say I’m schoolmaster Kanai,
        The kitten is my pupil today,
I don’t use the cane on him, mother,
        It’s just a twig that I use to play.
He’s always late for class,
        Never interested in the lesson,
Raises his right paw and yawns
        When I say, “Here, listen”
He neglects his studies all day,
        Spends all his time in play.
I say, “M N O P Q”
        He only says, “Mew, mew.”

I explain the books to him,
        As much, mother, as I’m able,
“You should never steal food,
        Be good, like Gopal of the fable”
All I say goes in vain,
        He listens to nothing at all,
Let him come across a fish,
        None of this he’ll recall.
And sparrows – if he spies one,
        He’ll leave the class and run.
I keep saying, “M N O P Q”
        He mischievously says, “Mew.”

Repeatedly to him I say,
        “At school time you must learn.
Play to your heart's content,

        Once school is over and done.”

He’ll act as if he’s a good boy,
        Glance at my face looking bland,
Every word that I said,
        He’ll pretend to understand.
Whenever he gets a chance,
        He’ll vanish from sight at once.
I say, “M N O P Q”
        He only says, “Mew, mew.”

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)

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)

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)

Strange Ambitions

Here's my translation of this little poem on Rabindranath Tagore's birth anniversary this year. With all this research work leading nowhere but taking up my entire day, I cannot say I do not have ideas like this child sometimes myself.


Strange Ambitions

~Rabindranath Tagore

Daily when I go to my class,
        By this lane where our house stands
At ten each morning I pass
        The vendor with wares in his hands.
“Bangles! Bangles!” he calls
His basket has porcelain dolls,
He takes the path that he likes,
        He goes home to eat when he wants.
Whether it is ten or half past,
        Never does he once fear delay.
I wish my slate I could toss
        And go selling things that way.

Source: Google Images

I come home, hands ink-stained
        Half-past four is the hour.
The gardener digs with a spade
        In the rich man’s patch of flowers.
No one ever tells him to stop
On his feet lest the spade he drop.
His head and body gathers dust,
        But his work no one shouts over.
Mother doesn’t give him clean shirts,
        To wash the dirt she never wants.
I wish I could have been
        The tender of those flower-plants.


It is hardly very late in the night
        When mother sends me to bed.
I look out the window and sight
        The guard with the turbaned head.
Darkened lane, few people go,
Dimly the gas lamps glow
Dangling a lantern in hand,
        He stands at the doorstead.
The night goes from ten to eleven
        “It’s late!” he never has to hear.
I wish I could be a guard
        Awake alone in the lane here.

(Translation by Sugata Banerji)

The Hero

Today is 25th Baishakh, Rabindranath Tagore's birthday by the Bengali calendar. I was thinking of translating one of his poems for this occasion. As I said before on this blog,

One of the earliest memories that comes to my mind when I think about Rabindranath Tagore is that of my mother reading Beerpurush (The Hero) to me. Whenever she took the Sanchayita (a fat anthology of Tagore’s poems) in hand, I’d tell her to read that poem at least once.

Here's Tagore's own translation of the lovely poem. However, that translation only tells the story. The structure of the original Bengali poem is not preserved. So I thought, "Why not translate Beerpurush?" and started on it. Lack of time and difficulties in translating certain phrases keeping the rhyme intact almost made me give it up. Then I found this on the Net:



I have a very skeptical view of the Indian animation industry, but this animation is so beautiful that I feel I need to change my views. It is the recitation of the original Beerpurush in Tagore's own voice, along with animation created along the lines of Nandalal Bose's illustrations of Tagore' book "Sahaj Path". I felt I needed to share this.

So I started with renewed vigour and translated the rest of the poem. Enjoy!


The Hero
By Rabindranath Tagore

Imagine, I’m on a foreign tour and

Taking mother to a far away land.

You are on a palanquin, mother,

Going with the door slightly ajar,

I’m traveling on my red steed,

Trotting by your side.

The hooves kick up a cloud of red dust

That flies behind us as we ride.

.

Evening comes, the sun drops down low,

By the field of the twin ponds we go.

It’s desolate as we look all around,

There’s not a single soul to be found,

You are by yourself, in your mind,

A little scared, thinking “Where are we?”

I’m telling you, “Don’t be afraid mother,

That’s the dried up river we can see.”

.

Hidden thorns cover the vast field,

The curved path in the middle lies revealed.

Cattle are nowhere to be found,

To the village they went at sundown,

Who knows where we are bound?

In the dark we can’t see properly.

Then imagine you called me and said,

“What’s that light on the shore that we see?”

.

Suddenly a war cry we hear

And see some people draw near!

Scared inside the palanquin

To the gods you start praying---

The bearers dropped their load trembling

In the bushes they have hidden in dread.

Imagine, I call you and say,

“I’m here mother, why are you afraid?”

.

Sticks in hands, bushy hair on their heads---

Their ears are stuffed with flowers red.

I call out “Halt where you are,

If you take a single step further

Just take a look at my sabre,

With this blade I’ll mince all of you.”

Hearing this they jumped up

And uttered their war cry anew.

.

“Child, don’t you go!” you pray

“Be quiet and watch me.” I say.

I rode on my horse in their midst,

There was a clanking of swords and shields,

The fighting was, mother, so intense

You’ll get goose bumps if you hear.

So many people ran away in fright,

So many others’ heads were chopped clear.

.

Fighting with so many people alone,

You think your child is surely gone.

Then I come drenched in blood and sweat

And tell you, “The fight has ended.”

Then from the palanquin you alight

And kiss me and pick me in your arms.

Saying, “Thank God my child was with me,

Or what a calamity it would be!”

.

So many events happen every day---

Why doesn’t something happen this way?

It would just be like a story then,

It would amaze all who’d listen---

Brother would say, “How can it happen?

My little brother isn’t that strong!”

The neighbours would hear it and say,

“Thank God she took her child along.”

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)