The Ploy

What a year it has been!

While that sounds quite dramatic, it's not quite accurate. The more accurate sentence would have been "What a year this is!"

I have never been busier in my life, and the reason for that will be announced later. But quite apart from any special reason, just managing two kids has been quite overwhelming. My son Rik is quite a handful, and keeping an eye on him is a full-time job.

And that brings us to the subject of this year's translation.

I chose this poem least year as it reminded me of Rik and his antics. But then, I decided to publish a different one and this remained unfinished. Now, finally, I am publishing this on the occasion of Rabindranath Tagore's birth anniversary this year. The accompanying illustrations were created using ChatGPT.

The Ploy 

~Rabindranath Tagore 

My child, if he so desires
    Can fly away, right this instant
  To a grove of heavenly flowers.
  But he doesn’t, you know why?
    With his head on mother’s breast
    He loves to lie down for a rest,
    If mother’s face he doesn’t see
  His heart wants to cry.

My child knows every kind of word.
   Yet, his tongue is such,
  To understand it’s hard.
  He stays mum, but why?
  From mother’s mouth, words of her
      To learn up, he is most eager.
      That’s why with a dumb stare
  Her moonlike face he’ll eye.

Such treasures my child used to own —
    Yet he came to our lap
  Like a beggar, forlorn.
     But why in such a state?
   Of poverty, this pretension
    Grabs his mother’s attention,
    That’s why he came unclothed
  Like a monk, abstinent.

Boundless my child once stayed —
   Where the moon wakes anew
  The morning star goes to bed.
  He let us catch him, why?
     In mother’s bosom, nectary-soft,
      In endless glee he would stay lost,
      Sweeter than freedom, is being bound
  By mother’s loving ties.

Crying, to my child, was unknown,
  In laughter-land, he used to speak
  Of happiness alone.
  He wants to cry, but why?
   To smile sweetly, when he chose
     He could draw his mother close,
     But his cries, in snares of pain
  Bind her doubly tight. 

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

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)

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.

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)

Death of a Teacher

I started learning Computer Science when I was in the fifth grade. We called it Computer Studies.

Throughout the first year, we learnt mostly theory: the characteristics of a computer, the parts of a computer, the history of computers, etc. Then in the sixth grade, we started to learn programming in BASIC. Little did I know at the time that this would become my favourite subject in school, and then I would go on to get an engineering degree and a Ph.D. in this field. Today, I am a professor of Computer Science, and if I try to trace the roots of my love for this subject, I will inevitably end up in those fifth and sixth grade classrooms where we learnt the basics of computer science and programming.

And I will inevitably end up remembering our teacher, Mr. Sandeep Chintamani. If I have to choose one teacher from my school who had the most influence on my life, it would be him.

I can still clearly remember his voice, his smile, his mannerisms and even his accent, as he taught computer science to us. Most of us had never even seen a computer when we started to learn about them, but he told us a secret: we did not need to actually sit at computers to learn programming. And then, the latter half of sixth grade onwards, we would form a queue and walk to the computer lab at the back of the biology lab once every few weeks and spend some time at a computer. There were only eight or ten computers for the fifty-odd students in our class, and they were old even by the standards of the day, but I still eagerly looked forward to these practical sessions and even theory classes with Mr. Chintamani. Of course, I may be biased, since I eventually fell in love with Computer Science, but I don't know whether that would have happened if the subject had been taught by another teacher.

I later had other Computer Science teachers, of course, and I remember all of them fondly. But Mr. Chintamani held a special place in my childhood memories, and even now, when I teach my students about if-else blocks, or loops, I hear certain words and phrases in my head in his voice. "How would Mr. Chintamani teach this?" has been a question that I have asked myself often, and used the answer to improve my teaching.

I bring this up today, because Mr. Chintamani passed away last week. He was on my Facebook friendlist, and when the obituary from my school appeared on my timeline, it was shocking and sad in equal parts. Just a couple of days ago, he had shared some COVID-related information on his wall. Little did I know that his life would be cut short by the disease within the week. Of the millions of lives this pandemic is claiming in India right now, this one is a little too close to my heart. He was only fifty-five. Rest in peace Sir, you left us too soon!

I don't feel like writing anything more. I don't feel like doing anything anymore. I want to be able to go home and see my parents again.

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)

Where are they now?

A man stood at the midpoint of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence on a clear golden summer evening. A crowd had gathered around him to see the sunset, but he had his back to the sun. The beautiful medieval covered bridge was a major tourist attraction in this colorful Italian city full of tourist attractions, and the fact that it offered a magnificent view of the sun setting over the river Arno had pushed the whole crowd to this spot. It was almost 9 o'clock but the crowd was still mostly energetic. This man was holding a guitar, and he was singing into a microphone. He had large speakers next to him which amplified the music and filled the atmosphere with rhythm. Was he a great singer? I wouldn't say so. He was more loud than melodious, his voice more mundane than magical as he reminded everyone to tip him and buy his CDs. But the music that he created is definitely part of my memory of that evening from last June. From his sweaty face to his sinewy hands, everything about him showed that he was hardworking if nothing else, and sincere about his music. I had photographed him and dropped a Euro into his hat, but I had not really expected to remember him a few months later. His music, maybe, because that was an overwhelming part of the scene, but not him as a person.

And yet, I find myself thinking about him for the past few days. Is he still alive, or is he one of the nearly 19,000 people that have died in the Covid-19 pandemic? If he's alive, what is he doing now? He can't sing on the streets anymore, so what does he do for a living? What about the waiter who stood waiting for customers at the Piazza della Signoria in the summer evenings, or the art sellers in Piazza della Repubblica? Where are the musicians who played for the open-air diners at the San Marco Square in Venice, or the sellers of leather goods at the Florence Central Market? I saw an old gentleman in Venice having a morning walk and buying a newspaper from a newsstand. Is he still alive? If he is, he definitely cannot go out for walks anymore, and can he still get his newspapers?

These are questions that keep haunting me and my wife Poulami repeatedly as we look through the photos of our Europe tour from last summer. We had always wanted to tour Europe, and Italy was the brightest jewel in that crown of a tour. We remember Italy as a hot, crowded, colourful country full of loud, cheerful people everywhere eating delicious food in the roadside cafes. A country of bustling marketplaces, busy alleyways, and people standing in queues to eat gelato while the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked pizza wafted through the air. The brightly colored country full of tourists, souvenir sellers and priceless wonders scattered everywhere surely left us impressed and longing for more. My parents had also come from India to accompany us during these ten days of tiring but unforgettable sight-seeing.  

And today, barely eight months later, all of that is gone. It's gone, along with nearly 19,000 people, leaving hundreds of thousands whose lives were changed forever. Of course, everyone in the media is talking about the sufferings of gondoliers, cafe owners, shopkeepers and other faceless people, but it feels particularly bad when one has captured some of their faces. Many of the people in my photos are tourists, and they are unlikely to be there now. But there were others whom we remember vividly, such as the lady who owned the gelateria near our AirBnB in Rome, the young woman who showed us our AirBnB in Venice, and the taxi driver in Rome who magically changed my 50 euro note to a 10 euro note. Maybe we don't remember that last person with a lot of fondness, but we do remember him vividly. It feels very painful to think of that country under lockdown now, with the hospitals overflowing with COVID-19 patients.

Italy is by no means the only country to suffer in this pandemic, and bodies are piling up fast in my favourite city in the US as well. Spain wasn't part of our itinerary last summer, but we traveled through UK, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Switzerland, Greece, Germany, Austria and Greece. All of these countries are affected to various degrees and I really hate to think what this beautiful continent is going through right now. Meanwhile, we haven't left the house for the last three weeks and teaching classes through Zoom seems like the new normal. The world we know has changed - probably forever - and it happened so quickly that everyone seems to be in denial. It is this denial that is exacerbating all this suffering in the US, and I shudder to think what can happen back home in India if things are not handled well.

But this blog post is about Italy and the happy people we met there. I wish I had some way of knowing where they are now, and how they are doing. I also hope they can get back to their normal way of living sometime soon. For an elderly gentleman who has spent all his life taking morning walks and buying newspapers, it would be very sad if he has to spend the last few years of his life deprived of these simple pleasures of his daily routine.

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)