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।

The Raindrop Song

The Raindrop Song

The sun has nearly set. It’ll be

Dusk very soon.

The clouds, have flocked the skies,

Awaiting the moon.

In the colours of the monsoon clouds –

The western sky glows,

And in our little village temple,

The conch shell blows.

Across the fields, the rain starts,

On the hazy, misty swamps.

While on this side, the clouds await,

With a hundred lit lamps.

Stormy winds bring memories back,

Of this old childhood song –

“Pitter-patter falls the rain,

And floods come along”.

Across the skies, the monsoon clouds,

Many games they played.

Across countries, beyond borders,

None did ever forbade.

Over many a beautiful garden –

It rains as it passes by,

Conjuring many a new sport,

As boundless it does fly.

The playful clouds reminds me of,

The many games we played,

The endless, timeless hide and seek,

In every home we stayed.

Along with it, comes memories of,

This old childhood song –

“Pitter-patter falls the rain,

And floods come along”.

I remember the evening lamps, and

My mother’s smiling face,

I remember, in the thunderous booms,

My heartbeats would race.

In the far corner of the poster bed,

My little brother did sleep,

Holding her tight, close to him,

Our mother, did he keep.

Inside, I recall, yet unspent,

I played unrestrained,

While outside, with lashing winds,

Furiously it rained.

Along with it, comes memories of,

This, my mother’s song –

“Pitter-patter falls the rain,

And floods come along”.

Suo and Duo, the two queens,

Their story did I recall.

Of Kankabati and the tragedy,

That upon her did fall.

I recall, in one corner,

A flickering lone lamp,

I recall, the dancing shadows,

On the other wall, damp.

The steady rain on the tin roof,

Like drumbeats they rolled,

As the naughty child, enthralled,

Listened to tales old.

Along with it, comes memories of,

A rainy day’s song –

“Pitter-patter falls the rain,

And floods come along”.

Who knows when the floods came by,

And when it rained so.

Of the blessed Lord’s fabled wedding,

From a time so long ago.

Did dark clouds blanket the skies,

One such day, that age.

Along with lightning and thunder claps

Did a manic storm rage.

After their marriage, the three brides,

How did their tale end?

Beside which river, in which land,

Was this story penned?

For which child, this lullaby,

Who first sang this song –

“Pitter-patter falls the rain,

And floods come along”.

Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

Original: “Brishti Pore Tapur Tupur” by Rabindranath Tagore

Brishti Pore Tapur Tupur (বৃষ্টি পড়ে টাপুর টুপুর), from the Shishu (শিশু) collection has been a difficult poem to translate. It is replete with references to folklore and legends, even children’s rhymes – that the great civilization of Bengal has passed on from generation to generation for centuries. Every Bengali child would have heard these legends from their grandmothers, would have read these fairy tales in their childhood books and would have learnt these rhymes at a very young age. For them, these allusions would have instantaneous recall and would need no further elucidation. Not so, for an English reader. And the constraints of poetry would not allow lengthy explanations. Yet, this immortal poem, must be retold. For along with the lyricism and the innocence that is the spirit of this poem, it holds a window to the foundations of the civilization in which Tagore grew and flourished. Indeed, how he, like millions before and after him, had been brought up listening to the same fairy tales in the rain swept plains of Bengal.

The repeating end lines of every stanza are actually the first lines of a memorable Bengali children’s rhyme. I can no longer name the author – it most certainly pre-dates Sukumar Roy, the most illustrated creator of Bengali rhymes. It is also probably one of the most popular among the vast anthology of rhymes in Bengali literature. It tells the tale of the wedding of Lord Shiva to three maidens. Like all rhymes, this one also does not need a critical dissertation of content and structure. Like all rhymes, it was meant to be fun to recite and easy to learn. Its association to the rains is what is probably most endearing.

There is also a reference to Abanindranath Tagore’s “Khirer Putul” (ক্ষীরের পুতুল) – literally, The Sugar Doll. This acclaimed and popular fairy tale tells the story of the king of Deepnagar and his two queens – Duo and Suo (referred as Duorani and Suorani, or Duo Queen and Suo Queen). Suo is pampered, while Duo is neglected. Suo is envious and wicked, while Duo is the epitome of virtue. How justice is delivered and Duo gets her due is the essence of this fairy tale.

Finally, there is a reference to a children’s fantasy novel – Kankabati by Trailokyanath Mukhopadhyay. Retold as a fantasy dream, (similar to Alice in Wonderland) it tells the story of the protagonist Kankabati, the tragedy of her separation and her relentless quest for her betrothed.

In this poem, Tagore has brought to life the joyous memories of the rainy days from his boyhood. To this day, it remains one of the most popular of all his poems. Like always, the original is included below for those who are conversant with the Bengali script.

দিনের আলো নিবে এল,

সুয্যি ডোবে-ডোবে।

আকাশ ঘিরে মেঘ জুটেছে

চাঁদের লোভে লোভে।

মেঘের উপর মেঘ করেছে--

রঙের উপর রঙ,

মন্দিরেতে কাঁসর ঘন্টা।

বাজল ঠঙ ঠঙ।

ও পারেতে বিষ্টি এল,

ঝাপসা গাছপালা।

এ পারেতে মেঘের মাথায়

একশো মানিক জ্বালা।

বাদলা হাওয়ায় মনে পড়ে

ছেলেবেলার গান--

"বিষ্টি পড়ে টাপুর টুপুর,

নদেয় এল বান।'

আকাশ জুড়ে মেঘের খেলা,

কোথায় বা সীমানা!

দেশে দেশে খেলে বেড়ায়,

কেউ করে না মানা।

কত নতুন ফুলের বনে

বিষ্টি দিয়ে যায়,

পলে পলে নতুন খেলা

কোথায় ভেবে পায়।

মেঘের খেলা দেখে কত

খেলা পড়ে মনে,

কত দিনের নুকোচুরি

কত ঘরের কোণে।

তারি সঙ্গে মনে পড়ে

ছেলেবেলার গান --

"বিষ্টি পড়ে টাপুর টুপুর,

নদেয় এল বান।'

মনে পড়ে ঘরটি আলো

মায়ের হাসিমুখ,

মনে পড়ে মেঘের ডাকে

গুরুগুরু বুক।

বিছানাটির একটি পাশে

ঘুমিয়ে আছে খোকা,

মায়ের 'পরে দৌরাত্মি সে

না যায় লেখাজোখা।

ঘরেতে দুরন্ত ছেলে

করে দাপাদাপি,

বাইরেতে মেঘ ডেকে ওঠে --

সৃষ্টি ওঠে কাঁপি।

মনে পড়ে মায়ের মুখে

শুনেছিলেম গান --

"বিষ্টি পড়ে টাপুর টুপুর,

নদেয় এল বান।

মনে পড়ে সুয়োরানী

দুয়োরানীর কথা,

মনে পড়ে অভিমানী

কঙ্কাবতীর ব্যথা।

মনে পড়ে ঘরের কোণে

মিটিমিটি আলো,

একটা দিকের দেয়ালেতে

ছায়া কালো কালো।

বাইরে কেবল জলের শব্দ

ঝুপ্ ঝুপ্ ঝুপ্ --

দস্যি ছেলে গল্প শোনে

একেবারে চুপ।

তারি সঙ্গে মনে পড়ে

মেঘলা দিনের গান --

"বিষ্টি পড়ে টাপুর টুপুর,

নদেয় এল বান।'

কবে বিষ্টি পড়েছিল,

বান এল সে কোথা।

শিবঠাকুরের বিয়ে হল,

কবেকার সে কথা।

সেদিনও কি এম্নিতরো

মেঘের ঘটাখানা।

থেকে থেকে বাজ বিজুলি

দিচ্ছিল কি হানা।

তিন কন্যে বিয়ে ক'রে

কী হল তার শেষে।

না জানি কোন্ নদীর ধারে,

না জানি কোন্ দেশে,

কোন্ ছেলেরে ঘুম পাড়াতে

কে গাহিল গান --

"বিষ্টি পড়ে টাপুর টুপুর,

নদেয় এল বান।'