Ode to a River

Ode to a River

O thou Padma mine,

You and I here have met – many, many a time.

On these very shores, from crowds far away,

At the pious dusk hour, one late autumn day,

In His divine presence, until death do us part,

Unto you my love, had I bequeathed my heart.

The evening that day, as a bride newly wed

Watched shy and demure, not a word she said!

And the lone evening star, in the far eastern sky,

Fondly she watched, with a twinkle in her eye.

Forever since that day, O thou Padma mine,

You and I here have met – many, many a time.

Many have oft wondered; they studied many scrolls,

But none could ever grasp, the bonds of our souls,

None did ever fathom, do I come rushing why –

To your serene banks, under the twilight sky.

When the ruddy geese, all their chatter fade,

Done with their frolic, to their homes wade.

When in the silent village, on the eastern shore,

They light their oil lamps; they close every door.

In those still hours, the songs we did croon

None, alas, did hear, in either bank their tune!

On many such evenings, and in every clime,

You and I here have met – many, many a time.

Oft have I pondered, as I sat on this shore,

If ever I was reborn, as in the tales of yore,

Aboard a foreign boat, from a far-off distant land,

Floating in your waters, beside the shores of sand –

Across many mountains, forests and plains bare,

Riding your waves, sailing to who knows where.

And then if ever, were I to reach this shore?

Would love again awaken, at the deepest core?

Where here in a past life, with the mellow sky above,

Like bashful secret lovers, we poured forth our love,

Again here on this bank, one such evening time,

Shall we not again meet – like the old time?

Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

Original: “Padma” by Rabindranath Tagore

Padma (পদ্মা), from the Chaitali (চৈতালি) collection is a masterful personalization of the river Padma – and a romanticized evocation of the deep love he felt for the river. Tagore had spent a significant part of his life floating in a private barge on this river. The tranquillity inspired him. The Padma in that sense was his muse.

In this poem, he personifies the river to his lady love. One whom he had fallen in love with at first sight, and had since met hundreds of times. For others, this relation is inexplicable. For them nature is to be enjoyed, admired. For Tagore, however, the bonds are deeper. They go beyond – to the core of his being. He even fantasizes a metaphysical relation, one that would even survive the cycle of rebirths.

Some of Tagore’s most memorable compositions have been authored on the Padma. No collection of Tagore’s creations would therefore be complete without this tribute to the source which inspired them. Like always, the original is included below for those who are conversant with the Bengali script.

হে পদ্মা আমার,

তোমায় আমায় দেখা শত শত বার।

একদিন জনহীন তোমার পুলিনে,

গোধূলির শুভলগ্নে হেমন্তের দিনে,

সাক্ষী করি পশ্চিমের সূর্য অস্তমান

তোমারে সঁপিয়াছিনু আমার পরান।

অবসানসন্ধ্যালোকে আছিলে সেদিন

নতমুখী বধূসম শান্ত বাক্যহীন;

সন্ধ্যাতারা একাকিনী সস্নেহ কৌতুকে

চেয়ে ছিল তোমাপানে হাসিভরা মুখে।

সেদিনের পর হতে, হে পদ্মা আমার,

তোমায় আমায় দেখা শত শত বার।

নানা কর্মে মোর কাছে আসে নানা জন,

নাহি জানে আমাদের পরানবন্ধন,

নাহি জানে কেন আসি সন্ধ্যা-অভিসারে

বালুকা শয়ন-পাতা নির্জন এ পারে।

যখন মুখর তব চক্রবাকদল

সুপ্ত থাকে জলাশয়ে ছাড়ি কোলাহল,

যখন নিস্তব্ধ গ্রামে তব পূর্বতীরে

রুদ্ধ হয়ে যায় দ্বার কুটিরে কুটিরে,

তুমি কোন্‌ গান কর আমি কোন্‌ গান

দুই তীরে কেহ তার পায় নি সন্ধান।

নিভৃতে শরতে গ্রীষ্মে শীতে বরষায়

শত বার দেখাশুনা তোমায় আমায়।

কতদিন ভাবিয়াছি বসি তব তীরে

পরজন্মে এ ধরায় যদি আসি ফিরে,

যদি কোনো দূরতর জন্মভূমি হতে

তরী বেয়ে ভেসে আসি তব খরস্রোতে--

কত গ্রাম কত মাঠ কত ঝাউঝাড়

কত বালুচর কত ভেঙে-পড়া পাড়

পার হয়ে এই ঠাঁই আসিব যখন

জেগে উঠিবে না কোনো গভীর চেতন?

জন্মান্তরে শতবার যে নির্জন তীরে

গোপন হৃদয় মোর আসিত বাহিরে,

আর বার সেই তীরে সে সন্ধ্যাবেলায়

হবে না কি দেখাশুনা তোমায় আমায়?

The Divine Ousting

The Divine Ousting

In the sprawling temple halls, (in rituals, well-versed)

Sits the learned high priests, in worship, immersed.

To the gates of this shrine, one evening he came

His clothes, torn and tattered. So frail was his frame.

With folded hands, he pleaded, “On thy feet, I fall.

Pray, a little shelter, in a corner of your hall!”

“Back!”, said the devout, “You wretch – unwashed, vile!

This hallowed temple ground, how dare you defile?”

Shamed and saddened, as he turned with a sigh,

To splendour he transformed, in the blink of an eye!

Aghast and contrite they cried, “O Lord, why this guile?”

“It is Me that you oust!”, He replied with a smile.

“As a beggar do I travel, only kindness do I seek,

I live in his home, who doth welcome the weak.”

Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

Original: “Debotar Biday” by Rabindranath Tagore

Debotar Biday (দেবতার বিদায়), from the Chaitali (চৈতালি) collection is one among many of Tagore’s creation that brings out the humanist in him, his strong leanings towards benevolence and philanthropy. In this poem, Tagore rues the degradation of the essentials that every religion has taught – that of kindness towards fellow humans. Over generations, man have mastered the rigours of rituals and the arcane texts of the scriptures. But alas, their spirit has been lost. The facades of the temples have been cleaned, but alas, the souls of the devout remain uncleaned. Religion has flourished, but alas, faith has diminished.

Ramakrishna Paramhansa, and his devotee, Swami Vivekananda has always preached – ‘To serve man is to serve God’. This, in their teachings, is the fundament on which Hinduism (indeed, all religions) is based. When this foundation is weakened, divinity is ousted. No other poem of Tagore says this as well as Debotar Biday (দেবতার বিদায়). 

Like always, the original is included below for those who are conversant with the Bengali script.

দেবতামন্দিরমাঝে ভকত প্রবীণ

জপিতেছে জপমালা বসি নিশিদিন।

হেনকালে সন্ধ্যাবেলা ধুলিমাখা দেহে

বস্ত্রহীন জীর্ণ দীন পশিল সে গেহে।

কহিল কাতরকণ্ঠে "গৃহ মোর নাই

এক পাশে দয়া করে দেহো মোরে ঠাঁই।"

সসংকোচে ভক্তবর কহিলেন তারে,

"আরে আরে অপবিত্র, দূর হয়ে যারে।"

সে কহিল, "চলিলাম"--চক্ষের নিমেষে

ভিখারি ধরিল মূর্তি দেবতার বেশে।

ভক্ত কহে, "প্রভু, মোরে কী ছল ছলিলে!"

দেবতা কহিল, "মোরে দূর করি দিলে।

জগতে দরিদ্ররূপে ফিরি দয়াতরে,

গৃহহীনে গৃহ দিলে আমি থাকি ঘরে।"

The Other Side

The Other Side

Part 1: The City Boy

On an upholstered seat, sat the anxious boy,

With his head on the window pane.

Watching the world pass fleeting by,

As homeward chugged the train.

Dreading the maddening drive to school,

Now that the vacation was done.

Through a soot choked city, behind high walls,

To a school that was devoid of fun.

Then, just for a moment, under an azure sky –

Like a pearl, in an ocean of green.

In a tranquil village; a shepherd with his flock –

He saw a beauty never before seen.

Woken by the sun, after a blissful sleep,

He imagined what his life might be.

Dancing through life in joyous abandon,

As on a flower dances the bee.

“If our lives could swap, through a slice of magic,

Or perhaps through blessings divine!”

“What fun would life be then”, he wondered,

“O, only if his life could be mine!”

Part 2: The Village Boy

On the stubby grass, sat the shepherd boy,

On the western field by the brook.

Beyond lay his village, remote and still, where –

E’en clouds stopped not to look.

His means were meagre, the elements, harsh,

No roads to their village ever came.

The herd that he tended, belonged to his father –

Alas! Life remained ever the same.

Then all of a sudden, as a sharp long whistle,

Shattered the still of the sky.

He stood up straight, watchful, intent –

As a train, like a dream, passed by.

He thought of the boy, in finery clad –

Perhaps, seated by that window pane.

Of the lands that he travelled, of the sights that he saw,

And of the wealth that he did attain.

“If our lives could swap, through a slice of magic,

Or perhaps through blessings divine!”

“What fun would life be then”, he wondered,

“O, only if his life could be mine!”

Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

11^th April 2020, Reading

Decades ago, in 1993, I had spent a few eventful days in a village called Kayasthagram – deep in the hinterland of the Barak Valley region of Assam. During one of those evenings, I had joined the village lads for a game of volleyball. As we played the game, far in the distant tracks, a train hurtled past – to who knows where. For a few moments, I had simply watched – it was one of those rare moments in life when I got to see what it felt like to watch the same thing from a different perspective, a different view. That vision forever remained with me.

I have used this imagery today to express a universal truth – that truth itself is relative. It always depends on one’s perspective, the advantage of one’s reference of vision. The same event will inevitably trigger different thoughts, different conclusions, different aspirations – even different truths. Truth therefore is always a shade of grey.

In this poem, for a few isolated, random moments – a city bred boy and a village lad share a moment. Only they know their circumstances. Alas, they can only infer the other’s circumstance. For them this inference is their truth. And for them, like everyone else, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Ashoka - The Great

Ashoka – The Great

Proudly fluttered the Mauryan flags,

Their war cries, the skies did fill.

The nobles knelt, and bowed their heads,

As the emperor rode up the hill.

Horse hooves clattered, drumbeats rolled,

And the cries of pain from afar.

Mixed with the victorious bugle strain,

In a brutal song of war!

From atop the hill, the emperor watched.

Now that the battle was won.

The blood drenched Daya. The price she paid,

For the defiance of her son.

Littered with the dead, flood plains ravaged,

Carrion birds circling the air.

There on those killing fields he saw that day,

The broken back of their dare.

The Mauryas secure. The rebels crushed. Ashoka,

Prepared to leave with a sigh.

When a mourner beside a fallen warrior,

Suddenly did catch his eye!

With steel in his eyes, he held his gaze,

A mere boy he was then.

And sword in hand, for his father’s cause,

He stood to battle again!

He cowered not in fear and grieved not in pain.

For vengeance, he did not rage.

Though the Kalinga body lay bloodied and battered,

Their spirit he could not cage!

To what end then, this war that was fought?

He flung his sword away!

Futile this might, that could not secure,

A victory, even for a day!

A million sins was the price he paid,

For the truth that upon him came!

No sword would he need to win the heart,

Only that victory would remain.

Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

26^th Oct 2019, Guwahati

“Dedicated to my friends from TCS Bhubaneshwar, who led me on an impromptu trip of discovery across Orissa. I will be forever indebted to them for bringing the magic of Emperor Ashoka’s legacy alive.”

Inspiration comes upon us stealthily, suddenly. One cannot plan for it – it happens. Standing beside the 2500 years old rock inscriptions at Dhauligiri, containing the edicts of Emperor Ashoka, one afternoon a few weeks ago – I was hit by an urge. A strong desire to write about his conquest, his greatness and what brought about the change in a ruthless conqueror. What was the moment, the thought, which transformed him from ‘Chandashok’ (The Killer Ashoka) to ‘Dharmashok’ (The Righteous Ashoka)? Ashoka had fought many a battle before the Kalinga war. One of the greatest warriors in the history of humankind would not have seen death and destruction for the first time in Kalinga. While history has paid rich tributes to this mighty king, who renounced battle at the zenith of power and became an apostle of peace, little is known of what he saw and felt, as he stood watching the blood soaked Daya river flowing past the killing fields of Dhauli. It was a story worth retelling.

As I stood on the hill, where a Buddhist monument to peace (Shanti Stupa) stands today – I found myself thinking about what Ashoka would have seen that day after his marauding forces had conquered the Kalingas. For as far as the eye could see, he would have seen death and destruction – the fields of Dhauli riddled with the corpses of the Kalinga braves, the waters of the Daya river reddened with the shed blood. He would have seen their resistance crushed. He would have seen their defiance trampled under the Mauryan boot. He would have been pleased – for the last vestige of challenge to his empire would have been smashed to smithereens. An example would have been set – the price of challenge would have been marked. Never would the Mauryas have been more secure.

Then as he was about to leave, something caught his eye. It was a boy, standing beside his fallen father. With a sword in hand, he stood straight and proud, looking directly at the King. He was not distressed. He did not grieve for the dead. He was not angered beyond reason – seeking vengeance. He did not make a manic charge. He merely stood ready and waiting – challenging the Mauryans to battle him. The emperor could not believe his eyes. It was as if the war was about to begin! It did not matter that a million men had already perished. What mattered was the cause for which he stood defending his land.

At that moment Ashoka realized, his victory would forever remain hollow. Not until every Kalinga was put to the sword, would his victory be complete, The defiance against which he waged war, would live on in every soul, would draw inspiration in every breath, would find utterance in every action. To what purpose was then this war? So much misery and grief that he had caused had come to nothing – his victory would not be complete even for a day. He would need a new weapon – the weapon of love. The sword was useless. For only with the weapon of love, the weapon of humanity, would he win hearts, would he be able to truly end defiance.

Many before me have speculated as to what could have led Ashoka to renunciation. This speculation is mine. This is the thought that stealthily crept unto me as I stood at the monument of peace that day.  Ashoka is today known as “Ashoka – The Great”, not for his battles and victories, but for his humanity. His royal symbols still adorn those of modern India. The Mauryan lions identify us as a nation, even 2500 years after his death. May more Ashoka’s walk the earth in the days to come.

Bad Times

Bad Times

The doors are locked. Alas, you are late,

Empty and lifeless – the streets, sedate,

The vagrant winds – mournful, irate,

Prowls through the night.

None shall greet, as they pass you by,

Their memories today, in old graves lie,

Unwelcome you came. O stranger, why?

In this grim hour of fright.

In vain today, do you knock on their door,

This feeble call, drowned in the roar,

E’en the faintest hope, alive no more,

In this your fearful soul.

Where you once, much honour did earn,

Like a woeful beggar, did you return,

For whose love, does your heart yearn?

Craving beyond control!

Let them sleep, with their worries freed,

Seeking to enter, O why do you plead?

Your sight shall, surprise them indeed,

On their doorsteps cold.

And of those awake, in new found cheer,

Behind barred doors, revelling sans fear,

O what place, do you have here,

Among these people old!

No more look, through the crack in the gate,

Tis best to return, no longer hesitate,

The night grows dark, it is their fate,

Clouds, ready to smite.

The doors are locked. Alas, you are late,

They will not open, though long you wait,

The vagrant storm – mournful, irate,

Prowls through the night.

Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

Original: “Dushamay” by Rabindranath Tagore

Dushamay (দুঃসময়), from the Chitra (চিত্রা) collection is a masterful poem, personifying destiny. The essence of Indian spiritualism lays great emphasis on fate – what is ordained, shall indeed happen. When the fates have ordained misfortune, creation robs men of reason, of sense and even of sight. They fail to see the looming spectre of disaster and walk straight into it. The Gods offer a helping hand – but destiny, the decrees of time, are so strong that even these are ignored. This is the fundament of the philosophy of Karma.

In this poem, Tagore personifies fortune, indeed divinity, in the form of a stranger who comes uninvited to a people facing an impending disaster. Though in the past, he was much revered and honoured – he is no longer remembered anymore. He walks from home to home, knocking on doors, offering help – but alas, these doors are now shut for him. And as the night grows darker and the vengeful storm clouds gather to strike, the faintest hopes of redemption are slowly extinguished. It is after all their fate – the decree of destiny.

Like always, the original is included below for those who are conversant with the Bengali script.

বিলম্বে এসেছ, রুদ্ধ এবে দ্বার,

জনশূন্য পথ, রাত্রি অন্ধকার,

গৃহহারা বায়ু করি হাহাকার

ফিরিয়া মরে।

তোমারে আজিকে ভুলিয়াছে সবে,

শুধাইলে কেহ কথা নাহি কবে,

এহেন নিশীথে আসিয়াছ তবে

কী মনে করে।

এ দুয়ারে মিছে হানিতেছ কর,

ঝটিকার মাঝে ডুবে যায় স্বর,

ক্ষীণ আশাখানি ত্রাসে থরথর্

কাঁপিছে বুকে।

যেথা একদিন ছিল তোর গেহ

ভিখারির মতো আসে সেথা কেহ?

কার লাগি জাগে উপবাসী স্নেহ

ব্যাকুল মুখে।

ঘুমায়েছে যারা তাহারা ঘুমাক,

দুয়ারে দাঁড়ায়ে কেন দাও ডাক,

তোমারে হেরিলে হইবে অবাক

সহসা রাতে।

যাহারা জাগিছে নবীন উৎসবে

রুদ্ধ করি দ্বার মত্ত কলরবে,

কী তোমার যোগ আজি এই ভবে

তাদের সাথে।

দ্বারছিদ্র দিয়ে কী দেখিছ আলো,

বাহির হইতে ফিরে যাওয়া ভালো,

তিমির ক্রমশ হতেছে ঘোরালো

নিবিড় মেঘে।

বিলম্বে এসেছ-- রুদ্ধ এবে দ্বার,

তোমার লাগিয়া খুলিবে না আর,

গৃহহারা ঝড় করি হাহাকার

বহিছে বেগে।