The Storm

The Storm

The skies pour forth in torrents,

The storm has come.

Resonant with the thunder beats,

O play the tuneful drum.

Which mystic song shall you sing in the rain?

Which tune shall you play?

The wind and clouds has filled with love,

My troubled heart today.

In the wet and misty meadows,

The playful cows call.

The dark lake water ripples,

As on it, raindrops fall.

In the ruins of the burnt house,

Whistles the furious gale.

Sounds as though the distant bank,

The near bank doth hail.

Who inquires for me today,

Standing at the gate?

Cold and wet, from head to toe,

For me, does he await?

My heart is today a boatman’s pipe,

Playing his soulful strain.

But without singing the ageless song,

He walked away in the rain.

Pray step inside my humble home,

Beside me, do sit.

For all ye travellers, my heart awaits,

With welcome lamps alit.

Over land and water, what goes there,

Searing across the skies?

‘Tis but my soul, unchained and free,

In the stormy wind it flies.

O who shall come, riding the streams,

Sailing your boats grand?

Across which ocean tempestuous?

From which foreign land?

From the grieving forests, old and wet,

Her tears, shall you bring?

A fragrant garland, wound of Jasmine,

From the gardens of spring?

After an age, today in this storm,

As I stand all alone.

Breaking its cage of ribs, my pain,

Flies to lands unknown.

To the forest of shadows, where all is ended,

To countries where all is forgot.

To lands where all is created and destroyed,

To places where songs end not.

A strange restive feeling came with,

The clouds, brooding and grey.

In the frolicking, driftless wind, blows

My words, random and stray.

The treetops sway in the forests afar,

In torrents fall the rain.

All is drowned in the thunderclaps,

Only restless thoughts remain.

Translated by: Chinmoy Bhattacharjee

Original: “Jhor” by Rabindranath Tagore

India is often called the gift of the monsoons – were it not for these winds, our motherland would have been arid and dry, almost a desert. The monsoon, therefore, is revered and loved, worshipped and invoked across the length and breadth of this country. It is inexorably entwined in our national psyche – manifesting itself in varied aspects such as festivals, literature, music, dance, religion and economy. No other aspect of nature, a season, is held in such high esteem among our people.

The eastern part of India, where Tagore lived, is particularly blessed by the rain gods. At the onset of spring, people wait expectantly for the rains. And soon enough, the dark clouds appear from the south and the benevolent rain sweeps across the heartland of Bengal and the eastern parts of India. Often enough, the initial bursts of the monsoon are accompanied by furious storms – locally known as the ‘Kaal-Baishakhi”.

Jhor (ঝড়), from the Kheya (খেয়া) collection, is Tagore’s tribute to the monsoon rains. In this musical ode, Tagore describes the deep thoughts that arose in him as he watched the rains lash across the countryside of Bengal. The onset of this climatic change is almost a catalyst for the liberation of his soul. A collage of vivid imageries – the sights and sounds, releases the bounds of his imagination. Swaying with the wind, wetted by the rains – his spirit soars and transcends even the tyranny of structured thoughts. He lets go of pain, his reticence as love fills his core to the brim.

I have thoroughly enjoyed translating this magical poem. Especially because, if there is one thing that I share with the Nobel Laureate, it is this deep inexplicable love for the rains.

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

আকাশ ভেঙে বৃষ্টি পড়ে,

ঝড় এল রে আজ--

মেঘের ডাকে ডাক মিলিয়ে

বাজ্ রে মৃদঙ বাজ্।

আজকে তোরা কী গাবি গান

কোন্ রাগিণীর সুরে।

কালো আকাশ নীল ছায়াতে

দিল যে বুক পূরে।

বৃষ্টিধারায় ঝাপসা মাঠে

ডাকছে ধেনুদল,

তালের তলে শিউরে উঠে

বাঁধের কালো জল।

পোড়ো বাড়ির ভাঙা ভিতে

ওঠে হাওয়ার হাঁক,

শূন্য খেতের ও পার যেন

এ পারকে দেয় ডাক।

আমাকে আজ কে খুঁজেছে

পথের থেকে চেয়ে।

জলের বিন্দু পড়ছে রে তার

অলক বেয়ে বেয়ে।

মল্লারেতে মীড় মিলায়ে

বাজে আমার প্রাণ,

দুয়ার হতে কে ফিরেছে

না গেয়ে তার গান।

আয় গো তোরা ঘরেতে আয়,

বোস্ গো তোরা কাছে।

আজ যে আমার সমস্ত মন

আসন মেলে আছে।

জলে স্থলে শূন্যে হাওয়ায়

ছুটেছে আজ কী ও।

ঝড়ের 'পরে পরান আমার

উড়ায় উত্তরীয়।

আসবি তোরা কারা কারা

বৃষ্টিধারার স্রোতে

কোন্ সে পাগল পারাবারের

কোন্ পরপার হতে।

আসবি তোরা ভিজে বনের

কান্না নিয়ে সাথে,

আসবি তোরা গন্ধরাজের

গাঁথন নিয়ে হাতে।

ওরে, আজি বহু দূরের

বহু দিনের পানে

পাঁজর টুটে বেদনা মোর

ছুটেছে কোন্ খানে--

ফুরিয়ে-যাওয়ার ছায়াবনে,

ভুলে-যাওয়ার দেশে,

সকল-গড়া সকল-ভাঙা

সকল গানের শেষে।

কাজল মেঘে ঘনিয়ে ওঠে

সজল ব্যাকুলতা,

এলোমেলো হাওয়ায় ওড়ে

এলোমেলো কথা।

দুলছে দূরে বনের শাখা,

বৃষ্টি পড়ে বেগে,

মেঘের ডাকে কোন্ অশান্ত

উঠিস জেগে জেগে।