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.

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

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)