The Homecoming

The Homecoming

Our day was done. Soon ‘twould be twilight.

In our hearts we knew, none shall come tonight.

Safely in our huts, herded

Doors, like the night, bolted

‘The King shall come’. But believed a few, despite.

We laughed and said, “None shall come tonight”.

On our doors we had heard – a few sharp raps.

Then we had thought, the spirited wind, perhaps!

Lamps dimmed, our day, spent

We laid on our beds, content

A few insisted, “Hark! The royal messenger claps.”

We laughed and said, “The spirited wind, perhaps!”

A sound pierced the still night, crackled and loud.

Half asleep, we’d thought, the rumble of the cloud.

The clatter, ever so often

The sleeping earth did awaken

“The royal chariot wheels”! A few believers avowed.

Dulled in slumber, we said, “The rumble of the cloud.”

The bugle had sounded. It wasn’t then yet dawn.

Startled, we awoke. Alas, the hour hath gone.

All asleep through the night

We now arose all affright

A few said, “The royal flag doth the chariots adorn.”

All awakened, we said, “Alas, the hour hath gone.”

No ceremony was ready! Our king had come home.

No garlands, no lamps. To seat him, alas, no throne.

Our heads hung in shame

None else could we blame

The wise few whispered, “Your fate, no longer bemoan.

In empty homes, welcome him, with folded hands alone.”

Throw open your doors. Let the conch shells ring.

For this night shall herald, the coming of the king.

Amidst the lightning effulgent,

The roll of the thunder, resonant,

O gather in your courtyards. His praises do sing.

With the storm has come, the sombre night’s king.

Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

Original: “Agomon” by Rabindranath Tagore

Agomon (আগমন) is part of Tagore’s Kheya (খেয়া) anthology of poems published in 1906. This is yet another of his poems that have stood the test of time. I have absolutely enjoyed attempting this translation. The original is included below for those who are conversant with the Bengali script.

তখন রাত্রি আঁধার হল, সাঙ্গ হল কাজ--

আমরা মনে ভেবেছিলেম আসবে না কেউ আজ।

মোদের গ্রামে দুয়ার যত

রুদ্ধ হল রাতের মতো,

দু-এক জনে বলেছিল, "আসবে মহারাজ।'

আমরা হেসে বলেছিলেম, "আসবে না কেউ আজ।'

দ্বারে যেন আঘাত হল শুনেছিলেম সবে,

আমরা তখন বলেছিলেম, "বাতাস বুঝি হবে।'

নিবিয়ে প্রদীপ ঘরে ঘরে

শুয়েছিলেম আলসভরে,

দু-এক জনে বলেছিল, "দূত এল-বা তবে।'

আমরা হেসে বলেছিলেম, "বাতাস বুঝি হবে।'

নিশীথরাতে শোনা গেল কিসের যেন ধ্বনি।

ঘুমের ঘোরে ভেবেছিলেম মেঘের গরজনি।

ক্ষণে ক্ষণে চেতন করি

কাঁপল ধরা থরহরি,

দু-এক জনে বলেছিল, "চাকার ঝনঝনি।'

ঘুমের ঘোরে কহি মোরা, "মেঘের গরজনি।'

তখনো রাত আঁধার আছে, বেজে উঠল ভেরী,

কে ফুকারে, "জাগো সবাই, আর কোরো না দেরি।'

বক্ষ'পরে দু হাত চেপে

আমরা ভয়ে উঠি কেঁপে,

দু-এক জনে কহে কানে, "রাজার ধ্বজা হেরি।'

আমরা জেগে উঠে বলি, "আর তবে নয় দেরি।'

কোথায় আলো, কোথায় মাল্য কোথায় আয়োজন।

রাজা আমার দেশে এল কোথায় সিংহাসন।

হায় রে ভাগ্য, হায় রে লজ্জা,

কোথায় সভা, কোথায় সজ্জা।

দু-এক জনে কহে কানে, "বৃথা এ ক্রন্দন--

রিক্তকরে শূন্যঘরে করো অভ্যর্থন।'

ওরে, দুয়ার খুলে দে রে, বাজা, শঙ্খ বাজা!

গভীর রাতে এসেছে আজ আঁধার ঘরের রাজা।

বজ্র ডাকে শূন্যতলে,

বিদ্যুতেরই ঝিলিক ঝলে,

ছিন্ন শয়ন টেনে এনে আঙিনা তোর সাজা।

ঝড়ের সাথে হঠাৎ এল দু:খরাতের রাজা।

Innocence Regained

Innocence Regained

“Why do they lay out bread crumbs?”

“And a bowl of water on the sill?”

Asked my son on a hot afternoon,

All of three years still.

To feed and quench their thirst, I said,

Of the flocks of birds that fly.

Pigeons, sparrows and mynas dear

Those that adorn our sky.

His eyes lit up. We too shall feed.

‘Twas his solemn pledge.

Grains and water he lovingly laid,

On this our balcony ledge.

The birds didn’t come to accept the meal,

Laid out by the keen little host.

They milled around our neighbours’ instead,

And ignored our little outpost.

Who knows why they ignored our offer.

Perhaps they were afraid!

The dozens of sparrows and mynas dear,

Even the pigeons greyed.

Dejected, defeated, we returned indoor,

To discover a new little game.

When the raucous cawing of a crow on our perch,

My attention did reclaim.

I rushed incensed, and chased the thief.

My son soon followed me.

“’Twas for the birds, wasn’t it?” he asked,

“Why didn’t you let him be?”

Words of wisdom, guised in innocence,

It later to me occurred.

Two score years it took to forget, that

The crow too was a bird.

Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

26^th Sep 2018, Gurugram.

This endeavour is dedicated to Chirayush Bhattacharjee, whom we lovingly call Arjun. Indeed, it has been inspired by him. Amidst the lively chatter and incessant questions, accentuated by the deep furrows on his forehead – he has taught me an invaluable lesson. With disarming simplicity he has shown where prejudice begins, where conflict and discrimination begins – where we begin to lose humanity. May you forever hold on to your humanity my son. God bless.

The Alchemist's Stone

The Alchemist’s Stone

            Crazed, he seeks the alchemist’s stone.

Unwashed and unkempt,            the impossible, he dreamt

            Even his shadow, withered to the bone.

His lips tightly clenched,             one desire, firmly etched

            A searing fire, rages through his eyes.

E’en at night,                               a miner’s unfailing light,

            Relentless they seek the one solitary prize.

Homeless and lone,                    a mere cloth, his own

            Soiled and ragged, his loins doth cover.

Friends, he had none,                 no father, no son.

            Poorer than even the most wretched beggar.

But oh what pride,                     gold, he casts aside,

            Too less for him, the king’s jewelled throne.

“Foolish”, they sigh                    nothing else will satisfy

            All Maddy seeks, is the alchemist’s stone.

            Ahead roared the ocean – endless, vast.

The waves watched, amazed.      Grudgingly, they praised

            A futile search, yet resolute, steadfast.

With unblinking awed eyes         watched the blue skies

            The wind whirled above, amazed at the sight.

Right from dawn,                        the sun watches on

            The moon bears witness through the night.

The waves, boundless                forward, they press

            Their ancient secrets, yearning to reveal.

Old lost tales                             of hidden treasure trails

            For him, who can, these ciphers unseal.

Without any care                       its song, so rare

            The ocean sings on, the arcane tone.

Baffled, men pass by                  some laugh, some cry

            Unruffled, Maddy seeks the alchemist’s stone.

            Legends doth say, in the days of yore.

A blazing golden light,               a sight so bright

            Creation’s first, in the skies did soar.

Together, God and Demon,        one desire in common,

            Had amassed slowly on this hallowed coast.

Watching the infinite                  humbled and contrite

Bowed and prayed, a penance, foremost.

For ages, silent                           to the song, eloquent

            They listened. Its secrets, longing to learn.

Then without fear,                      those beings, austere

            Plunged to the deep, its mysteries to churn.

Arose with the nectar                 the Goddess in splendour

            Stunned, they watched, such beauty unknown.

On that very coast,                     shrivelled, like a ghost

            Maddy seeks on his alchemist’s stone.

Ah! Cruel time. Fierce faith it will drain.

Yet, his quest                              relentless, sans rest.

            For though belief fades, habit will remain!

Singing all night,                        unaware of its plight

            The songbird awaits, in vain, its mate.

All day, despite                          sings without respite

            To call from its perch, alas, his fate.

None knows why                       with waves sky high

            The ocean seeks, his one true love.

His arms, both                           in a matchless oath

            Awaits forever, outstretched above.

Through plaintive bars,              guided by the stars

            As wandering fakirs, for the world, atone.

Thus, single sighted,                   dusty and matted,

            Maddy seeks on the alchemist’s stone.

            One fine morn, asked, a lanky village lad.

“Monk, be not upset.                 Where’d you get?”

            “This golden chain, on your waist, clad?”

He looked, startled,                    indeed, it sparkled

            Iron turned to gold, he knew not when.

A miracle, supreme?                   Or was it a dream?

            He pinched himself awake, again and again.

Dazed, he swore.                       Then slumped to the floor

            None but himself could he more berate.

Like a madman, stared               wept and despaired,

            For the prize he had won and lost to fate.

Now a mere ritual,                     many a pebble,

            To strike the chain, was picked and thrown.

Without ever looking,                away he would fling.

            One such rock was the alchemist’s stone.

            The sun was setting at the end of its sojourn.

Sky, hued golden,                      Ocean, of gold molten,

            A reddish dream cloaked the western horizon.

The monk without haste            his steps, retraced

            To start afresh the search for his treasure.

His doughty spirit                      now shorn of grit

            Bent and broken, pain beyond measure.

The path he strode                    ahead, long and old

            Aghast, he watched. No end in sight.

From here, endless                    sandy, lifeless

            A pall of gloom in the shadow of the night.

In half a lifetime                         the prize, sublime

            Blessed by its touch, for one moment alone.

The other half, broken               he offered, unspoken

            To search again that alchemist’s stone.

            Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee
            Original: “Parashpathar” by Rabindranath Tagore

Translating “Parashpathar” (পরশপাথর) has been an immensely fulfilling experience. At the onset, it is a long poem. And like most of Tagore’s works, the interplay of imagery with the context of the plot, interlaced with deeper philosophical connotations, creates a heady mix of lyrical magic. This poem has been written in the form of an epic – chronicling the audacious, almost impossible, quest of a wandering mendicant in search of the mythical Alchemist’s Stone. The pathos in the poem is what is most endearing, almost heart breaking. As the monk realizes he has let slip what he had devoted his entire life to, it is impossible to not draw parallels to a higher realization – that of missed opportunities in life. Destiny in the end is a great leveller. And she often surfaces in one’s life with a cruel sense of humour.

Among the numerous ballads that Tagore has composed, this one occupies a unique place in my heart. My first introduction to “Parashpathar” was an abridged version (an excerpt, really) in my school curriculum. It was much later that I fully read this poem and grew to love it. Part of his “Shonar Tori” anthology, this is one poem I love reciting the most. In this humble attempt at translation, I have tried to remain faithful both to the thought as well as to the structure of Rabindranath’s masterpiece. I earnestly hope the English reader will find as much joy in reciting the poem as he enjoys the story of Maddy, the mad ascetic.

As always, for the benefit of those who can read the Bengali script, the original is included below.