This is a poem by Tagore called 'Banshi', translated into English. At the surface, it reflects the isolation of a penurious young man in Calcutta; but it is also about the loss an urbanite feels as he lives separate from his country roots, and the harmony we miss due to being away from nature.
I enjoyed it a lot: how topical the theme is and how contemporary a feel it has, for something written about a century ago. The wry tone, the Haiku-like sensibility of nature and seasons are appealing. Note how the oppressiveness the monsoon evokes in him is so well laid out- as is the denouement that lifts that weight.
The translator, Mr. Kaiser Haq, has done an excellent job. This is from a fairly recent anthology of Tagore that I acquired a couple of years ago.
The translation challenge: I thought this poem would give the elder Singampallis a Telugu translation challenge, if they feel like it. Gopal babai? G Pinni? SLN?
Wind Instrument
Kinu Goalla Lane:
ground-floor room---grilled window---
in a two -storey house
right on the road.
The walls damp---
plaster crumbling in places,
lichened patches.
Pasted in the door---
label from a bolt of long-cloth,
bearing an image of
Ganesh, fulfiller of worldly desires,
One other creature
shares the room rent free---
a gecko. We differ in this---
it never wants food.
A salary of 25 rupees---
junior clerk in a trading house.
I get my meals
at the Dattas',
tutoring their son,
go to Sealdah station
to while away evenings---
saves on fuel for the lamp ---
amidst the rhythmic noise of engines
shrill whistles,
bustle of travelers,
shouts of porters,
then at ten-thirty
get back to the dark room's lonely stillness
An aunt--father's sister-- lives in a village
on the Dhawaleswari river.
a match was arranged between her brother-in-law's daughter
and this wretch.
The time fixed was auspicious, as was presently proved---
That's when I ran away.
Lucky escape for the girl---
me too.
But though she didn't come to live my house
she often appeared in my consciousness---
in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on her forehead.
At the monsoon's height
spending on trams goes up,
and still there are occasional deductions from the salary.
At the bend in the lane---
mounting piles
of mango peels and stones
jack-fruit cores,
waste from gutted fish,
dead kittens---
and heaven knows what other rubbish
The umbrella is like my depleted salary---
lots of holes.
My office wear
is like Gopikanta Goshai's soul,
ever steeped in rasa.
On entering the damp room
the dark shadow of rain
is like an animal caught in a trap---
knocked unconscious, inert.
Day and night, it seems, I am shackled hand and foot
to a half-dead world.
At the mouth of the lane lives Kanta Babu---
long, neatly parted hair,
large eyes,
artistic bent.
His hobby, playing the cornet.
Every now and then
the notes float
in the lane's horrid air---
sometimes deep at night,
in the twilight before dawn,
amidst the afternoon's play of light and shade.
Suddenly one evening
the Sindhu-Barwa raga strikes up---
the skies resound
with the perennial lament
of separated lovers.
At once it's clear--
that the lane is an illusion
like the things described
in a drunken delirium.
Suddenly I feel it in my heart---
there is no difference
between Badshah Akbar
and Haripada the lowly clerk.
Borne on the plaintive tones of the wind instrument
Tattered umbrella and royal canopy
rise together
towards heavenly Baikuntha.
In the eternal sunset--
where the music is true
the Dhawaleswari flows on,
its banks in the thick shade
of tamal trees----
and in the courtyard she is waiting,
in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on the forehead.
***
I enjoyed it a lot: how topical the theme is and how contemporary a feel it has, for something written about a century ago. The wry tone, the Haiku-like sensibility of nature and seasons are appealing. Note how the oppressiveness the monsoon evokes in him is so well laid out- as is the denouement that lifts that weight.
The translator, Mr. Kaiser Haq, has done an excellent job. This is from a fairly recent anthology of Tagore that I acquired a couple of years ago.
The translation challenge: I thought this poem would give the elder Singampallis a Telugu translation challenge, if they feel like it. Gopal babai? G Pinni? SLN?
Wind Instrument
Kinu Goalla Lane:
ground-floor room---grilled window---
in a two -storey house
right on the road.
The walls damp---
plaster crumbling in places,
lichened patches.
Pasted in the door---
label from a bolt of long-cloth,
bearing an image of
Ganesh, fulfiller of worldly desires,
One other creature
shares the room rent free---
a gecko. We differ in this---
it never wants food.
A salary of 25 rupees---
junior clerk in a trading house.
I get my meals
at the Dattas',
tutoring their son,
go to Sealdah station
to while away evenings---
saves on fuel for the lamp ---
amidst the rhythmic noise of engines
shrill whistles,
bustle of travelers,
shouts of porters,
then at ten-thirty
get back to the dark room's lonely stillness
An aunt--father's sister-- lives in a village
on the Dhawaleswari river.
a match was arranged between her brother-in-law's daughter
and this wretch.
The time fixed was auspicious, as was presently proved---
That's when I ran away.
Lucky escape for the girl---
me too.
But though she didn't come to live my house
she often appeared in my consciousness---
in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on her forehead.
At the monsoon's height
spending on trams goes up,
and still there are occasional deductions from the salary.
At the bend in the lane---
mounting piles
of mango peels and stones
jack-fruit cores,
waste from gutted fish,
dead kittens---
and heaven knows what other rubbish
The umbrella is like my depleted salary---
lots of holes.
My office wear
is like Gopikanta Goshai's soul,
ever steeped in rasa.
On entering the damp room
the dark shadow of rain
is like an animal caught in a trap---
knocked unconscious, inert.
Day and night, it seems, I am shackled hand and foot
to a half-dead world.
At the mouth of the lane lives Kanta Babu---
long, neatly parted hair,
large eyes,
artistic bent.
His hobby, playing the cornet.
Every now and then
the notes float
in the lane's horrid air---
sometimes deep at night,
in the twilight before dawn,
amidst the afternoon's play of light and shade.
Suddenly one evening
the Sindhu-Barwa raga strikes up---
the skies resound
with the perennial lament
of separated lovers.
At once it's clear--
that the lane is an illusion
like the things described
in a drunken delirium.
Suddenly I feel it in my heart---
there is no difference
between Badshah Akbar
and Haripada the lowly clerk.
Borne on the plaintive tones of the wind instrument
Tattered umbrella and royal canopy
rise together
towards heavenly Baikuntha.
In the eternal sunset--
where the music is true
the Dhawaleswari flows on,
its banks in the thick shade
of tamal trees----
and in the courtyard she is waiting,
in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on the forehead.
***
2 comments:
I will give a chance to others.
Dhaka muslins baaguntayi.kaakunte too expensive .gowri
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