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)

Death on the Nile - A Review

I just watched Gilderoy Lockhart's Kenneth Branagh's version of Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile, and wanted to share a few of my thoughts about it. This review will have mild spoilers, so stay away if you haven't read the book or seen another version of the movie.

I'll start with the positives.

Kenneth Branagh isn't terrible as Poirot. In fact, he seems to have improved his act since the first movie, Murder on the Orient Express, and his accent is slightly more like David Suchet in this movie (who is the best Poirot in my opinion). I would keep Branagh ahead of Alfred Molina, Peter Ustinov, and of course, John Malkovich. He may even be better than Albert Finney. I like the rest of the cast as well - Gal Gadot, Emma Mackey and Armie Hammer fit into their roles. The visuals are great, and modern techniques, such as drone shots and CGI suit the story well. The digitally de-aged Branagh looks a little weird in a flashback scene, but I can live with that. Overall, anyone who is not fanatic about murder mysteries or Poirot would probably find this a gripping movie.

But I'm not such a person. I scrutinize murder mysteries with psychopathic attention to detail, and I'd not hesitate to end friendships over a disagreement involving Poirot. So here's my verdict.

First, the story is incoherent and full of holes. It's too much to think Poirot would go back to the heat of Egypt after having just come from there, whatever be the justification. Secondly, when people are dropping dead like flies, and everyone is trapped on a boat, is it believable that Poirot will not have everyone's belongings searched? And how does the murderer get the gun in the revelation scene, while Poirot himself remained clueless? The first murder comes a bit too late in the movie, and as a result, the movie drags on quite a bit longer than necessary.

The second aspect in which this movie fails is perhaps evident even from the poster above. Quick, look at it, and tell me who the main character is in the movie? From the beginning to the end, Poirot remains just a character in the movie, not the character. I would have blamed the director for this, but Kenneth Branagh himself is the director. If a person who played Gilderoy Lockhart and Hercule Poirot, arguably two of the most pompous characters in British literature, fails to make a movie revolve around himself, I don't know who can. I re-watched David Suchet's Death on the Nile right after watching this one and the difference between the two is stark. The older version has long sequences focused on Poirot, his mannerisms, his dialog, his idiosyncrasies. In the newer one, the other characters often steal the show. We never even see Poirot sitting still and thinking, exercising his little grey cells, something that the older version focused on often. The newer version replaces that by cheap thrills of a nimble Poirot chasing the murderer across the ship's deck, up and down stairs.

But the third and most vital point where the movie maker failed, and which was totally avoidable in my opinion, is what they did with Poirot's moustache. They gave it a back story.

I try to keep an open mind when it comes to interpretation of literature into film, and while I'm infinitely more fond of David Suchet's waxed version of the moustache, I don't blame Kenneth Branagh for trying to do something different. But whatever be the style, I do consider Poirot's moustache to be his pride, not his weakness. Characters like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot are like superheroes in many ways, and their little oddities, however illogical, become part of their personalities. Imagine a Superman movie showing a backstory about why Superman started using the red cape, then trying to explain the cape using aerodynamics, and finally showing him giving it up so that he can fly/fight better. Would you like that movie? I wouldn't. Similarly, one can invent all sorts of backstories to make the character more real, but when they try to rationalize Poirot's moustache, or love for symmetry, with logic from that backstory, these things definitely lose their magic. These things are not loved because they are logical - in fact, I'd say it's quite the opposite.

Branagh has said he wants to do more Poirot movies, and this movie hints "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" is going to be the next installment. Will I watch that when it comes out?

Probably.

I'll watch it for the same reason I watch every new Jurassic World movie, every new Fantastic Beasts movie, every new Feluda / Byomkesh movie or Srijit Mukherjee's Kakababu movies - even when I know the stories and I hate the movies. I have grown up with these characters, and watching them say or do something familiar on screen still gives me a moment of  attachment to my childhood days, and harks me back to the carefree summer afternoons I spent binge-reading mystery stories lying on my bed. Watching any rendition of Poirot a rendition of Poirot that at least tries to stay faithful to the original will always recreate some of that magic for me, and Branagh's rendition is definitely in that category.

But if he wants me to love him as Poirot, he will have to do better. He'll have to stop trying to explain Poirot's eccentricities and embrace them for what they are, and make the movie all about himself, as Gilderoy Lockhart would have done.