English Translation of Sumaner Gaan

7/30/2019 English Translation of Sumaner Gaan

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Suman Chatterjee's Songs

TRANSLATED FROM BENGALI BY SUDIPTO CHATTERJEE

For.Sudipto.Chatterjee's.web.site,.click.here.

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CONTENTS

1. Many a Window I Have Seen Ablaze

2. Burning Intense All Night3. Song of Flies and Dead Faces

4. Where Have They All Gone?

5. Salutations to You6. Bhopal

7. I Want You8. Don't Lose Heart, My Friend9. Familiar Sorrow, Familiar Happiness

10. Forgive Us, Anita Dewan

11. If You Think You're Buying Me Up...

12. Song--Become13. Chatterjee Upon Your Wristwatch

14. The Little Neighborhood Park

15. There Is A Vision Which16. The Child On The Roadside

17. Being Means...

18. Sit'N'Draw19. Your Likeness

20. Age, In The Lines On My Face

21. Don't Sing From The Book

22. Cloud-Messenger 23. Sink Teeth Into The Times

24. Song-Wallah

25. Face Of The Executioner 26. By Merit Of Class

27. Desire Is...

28. Smell Of Bread Baking

29. Third World30. The River's Tale

31. Nothing's Lasting32. At Midnight, The Sickle Of The Moon

33. Brigade Meeting

34. Bibhu-tibhu-s.an.

35. I Will Make You Think, I Will36. With You Alone



MANY A WINDOW I HAVE SEEN ABLAZE

Many a window I've seen ablaze!

On many the likeness of her face.

On many the monsoon's untimely rage.

By many a window pass names, all too familiar;

Smiling faces, flashing constant, faces near and dear.By many a window I see lonesome people lurking;

To them the world is the whole of Time's working.

By many a window it's a lonesome dawn awaking.

Beside many a window lie posters of protest,

A lot of words, a lot of hunger, the din of detest.By many a window it is row after row after row...

People demanding, "Smash all bars... they must go!"

May everybody's bars be smashed on every window.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BURNING INTENSE ALL NIGHT

It's been burning intense all nightA bluish star, quite jaded.

Take some of its color.

There aren't fireflies in the city--or else--I'd pick its blue light for you--if nothing else.

What if we never have

What we've never had...

Take the "have-not" shade of color.

Things hereabouts are too colorless these daysThere aren't any colors,

There's nothing I can give.

There is nothing I have colored--or else--

I'd color in tomorrow's shade--if nothing else--This faded, jaded

Waiting on the road.

Take the "waiting" shade of color.Take the "have-not" shade of color.

Give the "tomorrow" shade of color.

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SONG OF FLIES AND DEAD FACES



Some write songs on hunger

Some from hunger are dying

Their faces are puke-covered

With flies over them flying.

If you write a song about a fly

And sing it in a show without flaws

People will applaud you high

Fill your belly with applause.

If you write songs about applause

And sing èm without food

In the middle you'll feel nauseous

Stop the singing for good.

Those whose stomachs go unfed

Will never be able to retain

Songs within their heads

Due to abdomenal pain.

But flies feel hungry, too!

Still it's better to be born a fly

In this land they're bound toFind dead faces black and wry.

When dead faces are in your songAnd you sing it in a show ever

It's bound to rub some people wrong

But still keep up the endeavor.

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WHERE HAVE THEY ALL GONE?

(Based on Pete Seeger's Where Have all the Flowers Gone?)

Where have they all gone?Bending the branches everyone, those full flowers?

Long agoLong long ago

They have all been picked by the girls

With shapely fingers from their bowers.

The young girls?Long ago

Long long ago



Hand in hand, with the boys they have gone

To spend summer noons in cloudy shades anon.Where do I find the boys, their addresses?

Long ago

Long long ago

Soldiers they have turned in army dresses.

Where have all the soldiers gone?That's long ago

Long long ago, as well

They've gone to graveyards, every one.

Tombs in line above the ground standing

The barren earth conceals their tidings--Long time after

Years later, long long years

Girls alone looking for flowers, eyes flowing with tears.

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SALUTATIONS TO YOU

(Adapted from a poem by Shaheed Qadri)Salutations to you, Beloved.

Do not fear,

I'll bring you days when

The Armed Forces willParade before you--

Not with guns, but--

Rose bouquets.Its you, only you they'll salute

Day in day out, Beloved.

Salutations to you....Do not fear,


Armored cars will come

Across forests,Across barbed wires

And barricadesWith violins, guitars

And harmonicas,Stopping at your, only your

Doorsteps, Beloved.Salutations to you....

Do not fear,


Fighter jetsWill shower--

Not bombs or bullets, but--



Chocolates and toffees aplenty,

Like paratroopers,Across your, only your

Courtyard, Beloved.

Salutations to you.

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BHOPAL *

Row after row after row of dead people...Sightless people.

They have stopped breathing,

They have died from vomiting,

They have died writhing and twisting...People, people, people....

Their eyes taken, plucked out by methyl-iso cyanate,American-iso cyanate--the Bhopal serenade.

Made with American money by native pimps

By native capitalists with foreign pus--

Genocide's other identity: Bhopal.

The American Voice:

Look now, this is no good!

What you just heard is all falsehood.We're all for the betterment of this earth;

We're the ones to keep poor countries out of dearth

(That is, the rich people of the poor countries).We start a few factories with their helpful offers.

With shared profits we fill mutual coffers.

That's what the native investors prize,They're the ones to eat the leftovers of our enterprise!

What happened in Bhopal was an accident

(By no means an everyday incident).

Moreover, projects like these are like blind dives,Either today or tomorrow you'll lose a few lives.

Just a few....Row after row after row of blind people.

It has taken their eyes, plucked them out;Thousands of lives it has stamped out--

Methyl-iso cyanate.American-iso cyanate--the Bhopal serenade.

Made with American money by native pimps,

By native capitalists with foreign pus--

Genocide's other identity: Bhopal.A mass-grave's indemnity: Bhopal.

___



* A poisonous gas leak in the Union Carbide insecticide plant in Bhopal (an industrial city in central India)

in 1984, killed thousands of people died overnight and blinded most of the survivors. "The Bhopal GasTragedy," as it is mournfully remembered, is one of the biggest industrial disasters in history.

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I WANT YOU

Firstly, I want you.

Secondly, I want you.

Thirdly, I want you.

Till the very end, I want you.In the quiet of the dark, I want you.

At the turn of dawn, I want you.

In youth of morn, I want you.

In the leisurely eve, I want you.In April storms, I want you.

In July clouds, I want you.In August deluges, I want you.

In October festivities, I want you.

To the time-worn Calcutta streets,

To old 'n' new faces, in houses 'n' retreats,To the innumerable people in a tired procession,

It's you who brought a touch of unknown vacation.

In the fatigue of city-life, I want you.

In a droplet of calm, I want you.At the end of a long walk, I want you.

In my love for life, I want you.

At crossings of streets, in parks and stores,In cities and villages, here and there evermore;

In stations, terminals, ports and outdoors;

In strange living rooms, familiar indoors;On pillows, mattresses, quilts and sheets age-old;

In cuddling comforters on a wintry night's cold;

On ceiling bars and thresholds, door mats and spreads;

In laughter, anger, hurt, quarrels and truces bred--I want you, want you, want you!

In a cup of tea, I want you.On left and right, I want you.

Seen or unseen, I want you.In unspoken words, I want you.

In Shirshendu's latest book,In Aabol Taabol, at a flippant look;

In obtuse poems, in a thumri or khayal;

In slogans painted on wall after wall;

In songs that Salil Choudhury left behind;In the life that Chaurasia's flute defined;

In the music of Himangshu Datta we don't remember,



The old radio show that played my favorite number--

I want you, want you, want you.In requests and entreatings, I want you.

In cries of pain, I want you.

In wants and demands, I want you.

In shame and hesitation, I want you.

In cutting demands, their right recognized;In posters of struggle painted overnight;

In polished poetry, its rhetoric cadence;

In the logic of prose, the hope of existence;

In an endless longing for a society without class,

A hunger for changing the times, en masse;In the dream of doubts and strife dispelling;

In sleep and waking, when Equality's calling;

In agitation and revolution--I want you.

In the impossible of impossibles, I want you.In war and peace, I want you.

In this confusion, I want you.Firstly, I want you.

Secondly, I want you.

Thirdly, I want you.

Till the very end, I want you. ___

[1] Shirshendu Mukherjee is a leading novelist writing in Bengali.

[2] A classic book of nonsense rhymes in Bengali, by Sukumar Ray, that are only ostensibly for children.

[3] Two major Indian classical singing styles.[4] A prominent poet-composer who revolutionized Bengali modern music in the Fifties and Sixties.

[5] Hariprasad Chaurasia is a leading Indian classical flutist.

[6] A Bengali modern music composer from the Forties and Fifties.

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DON'T LOSE HEART, MY FRIEND

You've given up a lot old habits more or lessCandies and cakes after bouts of sickness

You've given up a lot customs worn out by ageWorn out or salvaged homes burnt out garbage

Don't lose heart.Don't lose heart, my friend, instead--

Loosen your voice, loud and strong,We will meet, you and I,

At the dawn of another song!

You've given up a lot-- that old laughter, for instance;

Announcing even and morn: My love for you is constant!You've forsaken your dreams, it's been quite some time now,

But I love to dream on even today (somehow).



Don't lose heart.

Don't lose heart, my friend, instead--Loosen your voice, loud and strong,

We will meet, you and I,


Age is catching up with me-- that midnight coughing...

But once the cough's gone I am in love with living!Keep alive, my friend, your dream of loving.

Wrap tight your arms around the dream of living.

Do not lose your dream of changing the times.

My dream of Change still never declines.

Don't lose heart.Don't lose heart, my friend, instead--

Loosen your voice, loud and strong,

We will meet, you and I,


------------------------------------------------------------------------

FAMILIAR SORROW, FAMILIAR HAPPINESS

Familiar sorrow, familiar happiness

That all too familiar smiling face

Familiar dark and familiar light.Familiar grounds, your familiar block

On a familiar road the door you knock

Familiar cries in a familiar night.Familiar lips and familiar eyes

Familiar groups of neighborhood boys

The familiar gang where the roads meet.Familiar roads in smithereens

Familiar houses, familiar greens

The familiar jungle made of concrete.

Familiar buses, familiar circuitsFamiliar bread, familiar biscuits.

The all too familiar tea-glasses.Familiar cigarettes that you puff

Walks down a familiar turfFamiliar images--dream-corpses.

Familiar anger, familiar ragesAll too familiar vengeful revenges

Familiar knife and vindication.

Familiar disdain, abomination

Familiar shame--this our nationFamiliar fears, unknown reconciliation.



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FORGIVE US, ANITA DEWAN*

I hear cries time and again

Cries that my heart penetrateMartyrs' pulpit inside my body

Martyrs' pulpit within my head.

Foul and filthy Bantala is but

Another Calcutta neighborhood

Three women are assaulted withThree hundred men in pursuit.

Manhood now makes me shameful

Before myself I hang my head

The blood of the three women sitsIn our conscience, still and dead.

Does Anita Dewan's carcassMake Civility feel some shame?

I have put my shame in song

You can, for yourself, do the same.

I hear cries time and againCries that my heart penetrate

Martyrs' pulpit inside my body

Martyrs' pulpit within my head.

The real mark of barbarism liesIn this silence of heads without torso

Calcutta, meanwhile, dances dirty,

Celebrates three hundred years or so.Your enjoyment puts me to shame

A shame that is too, too dogged

Martyrs' pulpit inside my bodyMartyrs' pulpit within my head.

There's blood in your new apartments

In water faucets, at dusk and dawn,

It's the blood of raped women that flows,Blood telling tales of the land goes on.

Look--it's blood upon the snack-bar,On your mutton-roll--it's blood

It is, again, sprinkled blood thatMy bowl of fish curry floods.

The same invisible blood has nowThe flag of the same color wetted

The colored world of politics

Is stained in blood unabetted.

Anita Dewan's blood will notErase itself, it is so obstinate

Martyrs' pulpit inside my body



Martyrs' pulpit in my head.

Blood is on your raga MalkoshBlood is in your music chambers

The harmonium's wet with blood

Blood rehearses melodic numbers.

Blood stains your culture and

Blood is in your juvenile memoryThere's blood even in Tagore-songs

Rape becomes your identity.

Covering blood in painted patterns

Is that your civilized barbarity?

I am of the same order, too,I am the so called Calcutta city.

___

* Anita Dewan was a social worker from the Red Cross Society who was raped and brutally murdered by

hoodlums in Bantala, a neighborhood in suburban Calcutta.

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IF YOU THINK YOU'RE BUYING ME UP...

If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!

My voice can be bought, in piece meals

(To make a living I have to make deals).

You can as well buy the fingers on my two hands,I have no problems with making deals (no demands)!

But what are you buying--my deals or me and my hands?

In the end, who then wins Mother Land?If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!

It's money that fills up everybody's belly;

It's buying and selling that runs a family.Chitty chitty, Rabindranath,* bang bang wow...

Enter our entrails as market chow!

Protesting voices are a money-matter;

Protest itself, too, needs food and shelter.Whether you are a laborer or a Mr. Something,

You've got to eat, or it comes to nothing!If you think you're eating me up... you're mistaken!

My voice can be eaten up, in piece meals(Indigestion, though, could theworst reveal).

You can as well eat the fingers of my two hands,I have no problems with making deals (no demands)!

But what are you eating--my deals or me and my hand?

In the end, who then wins Mother Land?

If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!Some put their labor on sale... their muscles.

Some sell their hairy decor... their tassels.



Some, to a periodical, sell their writing at leisure;

I sell my voice to you for your listening pleasure.I sell my verse through musical expressions,

By means of disgust or disdain, even adoration.

That hope, too, now is up for sale... if sold,

It may bring some money home, I'm told.

So, I sell lyrics that will change the day.Maybe some time another song will bring a way

To dump the rules of tum-ti-ti-tum and find

A way to usher better days for all of mankind.

If you think you're buying me up... you are mistaken!

___ * Rabindranath Tagore (1860-1941) is the national poet of India and Bangladesh and the greatest literary

figure in the Indian sub-continent. In 1912, he became the first person of color to be awarded the Nobel

Prize for literature.

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SONG--BECOME

Song--become, in Summer, an evening breeze

After day's of burning, to give back some ease.

Song--become Rain that lulls the heatful strife,

Fruitful anarchy blessed with the hope of new life.Song--become, after Rain, the radiance of the blue sky

Love of Light that has bade Cloud's regime goodbye.

Song--become the skies of Bengal in the season of AutumnEven in these bad times, make me move to your rhythm.

Song--become the wintry Noon, the light that overflows

This run down life, too, suddenly, feels good and glows.Song--become the sleeping face of my little daughter

It is the delight of my living, as I keep looking at her.

For all the number of children that live upon this earth

Song--become their fodder for living without dearth.Don't just be a song for song's sake, be the banner of life

Bring in the news of a new age, you will make it arrive.Song--become, amidst the life-less music of the times,

A fight for living, bring me to life amidst your chimes.

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CHATTERJEE UPON YOUR WRISTWATCH

Chatterjee upon

Your wristwatch



Time's growing.

Restless daysSilent nights

A storm's brewing.

Chatterjee upon

Your bald head

Having slipped,The burning Sun

Sheds its sweat, in

Salt it's dipped.

Chatterjee from

Your sweat-stainThe shirt's collar,

Has become dirty,

It's time for a sweaty

Tale and teller,Through the tales

One more dayIs restfully laid.

The hunger in

Stomach or brain--

Make it wait.This world in

A hungry realm

In prose is rolled,

Comic poemsMake it run--

A crazy foal!

Bedlam bellsChatterjee on

Your girdle thread

Threaded guitar,Six stringed, too,

Has mastery bred.

Chatterjee look

In concert thereA duet's in motion:

Money King andDumb kingdom's

Consummation.Chatterjee now

You must tryConsummating,

Chatterjee your

Revolu-song's

Quite nauseating.Chatterjee look

What is good now



Is a gambler's game,

New money willIn the same night

Stale all the same.

This is the game

Befitting today

Perhaps the best,Chatterjee look:

Daylight's slowly

Coming to rest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE LITTLE NEIGHBORHOOD PARK

The saris [1] dry on the iron fence

The dung-fuel [2] dries on the wallThe grasses have all dried up, have disappeared withal.

The little neighborhood park

Is all dust and no grass

But the green kids don't care--whether grass or no grass.The wooden seat of the bench

Is sun-burnt and rain covered

Mr. Contemporary sits on it playing the frustrated lover.

Right next to the iron gate--Who are they lighting ovens?

It's the homeless by the fences, the park is their haven.

At a slight distance, over there,The tube-well [3], it's noisy racket.

"Let's go and fetch water," waning Day tells Bucket.

Look hither and look tither:A few trees are still surviving

Even in these worst of times obstinate birds keep arriving.

The little neighborhood park

Is all dust and no grassBut the green kids don't care--whether grass or no grass.

The trees are pale and blanchedFrom dust, the leaves are jaded.

Mr. Time, seeing it's getting risky, knows it's time he faded.A catapult has knocked right out

The bulb of the street lamp, andThe girls play around it... they play Alligator-and-land [4].

When touch-and-tag is the game

The lamp is one of the touch-bases

Under the autumn skies it catches kites without addresses.The number of kids keep growing

In the evening's dusky gleam



The boy who fell while playing dusts his trousers clean.

The little girl of the homeless, too,Quenches her urge to play

In this ashen, grassless park kid-communism has its way.

___

[1] Apparel worn most commonly by women in South Asia.

[2] Dried cow-dung is used widely as cheap fuel all over South Asia. The dung is slapped on the wall whereit is left to dry.

[3] Most neighborhood parks in Calcutta have wrought iron tube-wells from which ground water is pumped

out and collected for public consumption.

[4] A common game among Bengali children where one player becomes the "alligator" and runs after the

others. Areas are designated as "land/safe" and "water/danger" zones. The other players in the gamehave to tease the "alligator" by going in and out of the "water" zones. The player who is finally touched by

the "alligator" becomes the next "alligator".

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THERE IS A VISION WHICH

There is a Vision which

Exists without an end, and

In one eye she has a huge skyIn the other she boasts a land.

Whatever is in that land

Is etched inside the eyeball

There's a river and a hillDraped in green overalls.

There's dew upon the green

Fallen from the eye's skyThe Vision dreams it every day

On dew dwells her eye.

When from close or afar,The eyes look on the dew

The dew drops, dream-drenched,

Become clouds and bid adieu.

The eye's sky to the eye's landA team of cloud has sent

Clouds bring on rainy thoughtsThe eye's tearful lament.

When the eye's tears will softenThe music of the eye's land

I'll call the land of the moist eyeBy the name of Eye-land.

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THE CHILD ON THE ROADSIDE



A child on the roadside waves her hands,Two tender hands waving, "Bye."

In the crowded road, only time expands.

Speeding up, the people walk by.

They who, dodging Ambassadors* and scooters,

Have walked by down that way,Did they note the little child's laughter

That made the adult world sway?

Those who steered the big and small cars,

Driving slow or at a fast pace,

Did they note the child waving handsWith faith in the human race?

Perhaps that is how faith lives on,

As a child's hand that waves.

Those two tender hands, perhaps,The future's trail will pave.

___ * A very popular four-door car of Indian make.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BEING MEANS...

Being meansBeing employed

Or else a little

money;To have means

To have some cash

Or else it's allphoney.

To bear means

Forbearing sorrow

Or else to bear withwrongs,

I do not have toBear with hunger

Which is why I singsongs.

To carry meansTo carry weight

Be it heavy, be it

light;

Can you tell meWhere I could,

Perhaps, my load



alight?

To want isTo want to live

In a way that I can call

mine,

There are those

Who live a lifeAnd those who live by

dyin'.

To go means

To go very far

To go away beforelong,

Before that day

I pass time away

Spinning words arounda song.

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SIT'N'DRAW

Children--now stay quiet

No questions, no more riot

No more games and pranksSit quietly, no guffaw.

Today's gonna' be great for you

The elders now have more to doYour festival's on, full crank--

"Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw."

Neatly in fields and hallsWe'll catch and bring you all

You'll stand like soldiers in a row

No more hee and haw.

Coloring pencils--get them yourselvesAny store'll have èm on their shelves

Then you'll see how the fun will grow--"Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw."

Draw flowers, rivers and butterfliesA Mickey Mouse (if nothing else flies).

Although it's in concrete houses you stayDraw huts thatched with straw.

Never draw the face of the land apart

Its broken cheeks, its broken heart

Its Life-bee that's about to fly away--"Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw."

Draw patterns, branches, leaves (all the same)



Draw umbrellas (with brand-name fame)

Draw what you learnt in the English school--"Twinkle, twinkle little Star."

Never draw the one you see on familiar roads

Gathering scrap paper in burlap totes

The boy who walks away all by himself--

His face is ugly and scarred.Does he draw, too, somewhere, in his nook?

Who gives him colors or a drawing book?

Never ask these questions, never

Pretend to be deaf-mute, without ado.

I am a fake as well, like many othersWith songs I cover Life's blisters

But still I'll say, "Don't forget to see, ever

Draw other pictures, too."

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YOUR LIKENESS

I never look for your likenessIn similes worn out with usage.

The froth of words that song-writers churn

Will nothing close to your likeness earn.

I never look for your likeness....Beatific nocturnal moons or narcotic roses

Tunes a wind-filled harmonium carouses

Or the tabla's [1] accompanying beats that returnWill nothing close to your likeness earn.

In the monsoonal downpours of the blue

The sitar's miyan malhar [2], stringing trueThe artist, whether known or of no concern,

Can nothing close to your likeness earn.

Indolent foreign films, their shots in sequence

Bengal's awakened autumn in it's own resplendenceOr, in Swan Lake, the ballerina's twirl and turn

Can nothing even close to your likeness earn.In sonatas, khayals[3], in the songs of Tagore [4],

Painters supreme--their brush strokes galore;Those engrossed in these will never discern,

Will nothing close to your likeness earn.I never look for your likeness

In similes worn out with usage.

___

[1] A two piece drum that accompanies most varieties of North Indian music.[2] A typical monsoon raga.

[3] An Indian classical singing style.



[4] See earlier. Tagore was a prolific lyricist-composer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

AGE, IN THE LINES ON MY FACE

A strange trigonometric affair--The culture of the middle-age

Amidst the thinning hair.

I feel a pull in my knees

Pulls in all the other joints

In this middle-class body todayTime devises counter-points.

I've taken to glasses after faltering

Trying to read with the plain eye

Aging, I guess, means to bidClarity of vision good-bye.

So many things have bid good-bye,A few late, others a little early

It is because of age, I guess,

At times I feel a bit lonely.

When the times get lonesomeIt's time for soliloquy by choice

Somewhere in between lies

Akhilbandhu Ghosh's * voice.

Near my voice the sail's been raisedOf a boat full with memories

Aging, I guess, means chatting up

A few memorial reveries.Who says that chatting is

Only meant for the youth?

It's aging that makes enjoyableBoth chatting and quietude.

On the other side of quietude

Just before the evening's come

As I walk, I guess it is ageThat makes me lonesome.

When the evening time arrivesI'll look to the East, not West

To think of a country in whichThe night is coming to a rest.

___ * A well-known Bengali singer-composer from the nineteen fifties and sixties.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

DON'T SING FROM THE BOOK



Don't sing from the book, the pages might turn overAnd once the pages turn, you'll stumble on forever.

The wind is whimsical,

A storm will rise before long

And once the pages turn, you'll find the wrong song.

The head of this song, then, will the torso of another cover.The wind jumps suddenly,

The time is one of sudden gusts

You never know when it shall make a blizzard burst.

Hold the song in your head,

In your recollectionThere'll be no danger in any stormy agitation,

The known song will light up and the darkness sever.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CLOUD-MESSENGER*

At times, the Cloud will don anklets to dance.

At times, it'll dance out of measure... perchance.At times, the Cloud pledges to welcome greenery.

At times, it will summon deluges... unnecessary.

At times, the Cloud means listening to ragas of old.

At times, it means out-of-tune sorrows untold.At times, it beckons you to leave hearth and roam.

At times, the Cloud is a pain on your way home.

At times, the Cloud is an umbrella-ridden mega-city.At times, it will flood roads, sink homes in animosity.

For those who have built homes on the roadside,

The Cloud means nothing but a slushy mud slide.One such person, drenched in that slimy muck,

Has named the Cloud-Messenger: Mister Schmuck!

___

*The Cloud-Messenger is the name of a famous Sanskrit narrative poem by Kalidasa, dating back to thetenth century, where the Cloud is romantically personified as a messenger between estranged lovers.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SINK TEETH INTO THE TIMES

Sink teeth into the times

Like a tiger hunts its catch.

The disease of Bad TimesIs in every hut and hatch.

Flirtatious advertisements



Tempt, trade sickness anew.

Sickness ̀ n' disease merchantsBend shoulders to look at you.

Sink teeth into their shoulders

Like a tiger snaps its catch.

Bad Times and its sellers

Are in every hut and hatch.Call èm bourgeois or what ever

Who cares what you brand èm?

In these Bad Time wagers

Wise Guys compute in tandem.

Aim at the Wise Guy timesClaw at it like a tiger will.

(You can play a tiger in mime

But kill a paper tiger still).

Papers days and paper nights...Newspapers are two-edged knives,

Chopping heads from left to right(For some that is a brighter life).

Time for Big Brother's business now.

Papers and TVs wherever you name.

Bite into that business somehow,Like a tiger hunts its game.

They who are always worrying

About mine and about yours,

Their secret pockets are teemingWith riches, crops and flowers.

Who are the real owners

Of this our land and ranches?Where are their head quarters?

Where do they open branches?

Their branches do businessInside our stomach and brains.

Hunt down that business,

Like a tiger its prey arraigns.

Sink teeth into the timesLike a tiger hunts its catch.

The salesmen of bad timesAre in every hut and hatch.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SONG-WALLAH*

O Song-wallah

Sing one more songI have no place else to go to,

And with nothing else to do.



The violin-playing man

From the days of boyhoodHas left with his violin

Has finished his singin'.

Whether or not he'll return

To these changed times, I do not know.

The colored dream-daysAcross the edge of adolescence

Have left with their colors burnt

Have left with their faces turned.

In this land of gambling

The dream-birds have died long ago.* This word, denoting the possessive case, could in derivation mean "song-maker."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FACE OF THE EXECUTIONER

Get off that van--quick!

Where's your position--think.

And while the angry youth grips his brick,

Will you, in uniform, wave a white handkerchief?He may have whatever, never a gun to load;

But you have your canonical cannons of water!

And while the sickness of the land lies on the road

You, in full uniform, will go to fetch water?You are a serviceman inside your uniform.

In the land of the jobless, you've landed a job.

Rifle in hand, you stalk the streets in form--Killer wood-cutter in the forest of the mob.

But you have emotions, too, soft and tender;

Sensitivity, thoughtfulness in their own place.You can shed tears, you can even love (no wonder);

Look at the mirror--a smile, too, will suit your face!

But the rifle's up, upon the order.

Your one-eyed aim the youth's heart locates.The blood you will wash after the murder,

What water will wash the executioner's face?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BY MERIT OF CLASS

Since you are not really exploding in rage

The conning game must still be your craze.The con game in me, too, has quite a deep seat;

Like you, by merit of class, I, too, love to cheat.



Since it is by choice you decided to leave hearing behind,

It must also be by intention, that you choose to be blind.I am blind, too, my friend... mark our commonness;

By merit of class, my forte, too, is inane foolishness.

Or maybe we're a wise couple, a marvelous set of two;

Let us sleep together, then, the pair of me and you.

On the bed of privileges we'll play coy and silly,Our pact, by merit of class, is beyond willy nilly.

May all that must go to hell get there, sooner than later,

We couldn't care, as long as there's food upon the platter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

DESIRE IS...

Desire is some sort of a Grass-hopper

Skip'n'stopping willy nilly-- tipper-topper.Desire is some kind of a little kitten

Her mews will get you quite simply smitten.

Desire is some kind of a free-bee land

Desire-winds shakeReluctance to disband.

Desire is very like some fire-works

That turn nights into days with odd quirks.

Desire is some sort of a naughty girl, whoEats Granpa's pickled relish in the afternoon.

Desire is the art of writing things poetic

Learning to live willfully with words and music.Desire is some sort of a loony Mad-Hatter

Who can do just anything in an eyelid's batter.

Desire is some sort of a dream in my eye:I will see a global Commune before I die!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SMELL OF BREAD BAKING

The smell of bread baking floats near my nose, tells storiesI sniff and retell them in song-land in course of my journeys.

I smell the five spices * which sizzle in the oil that seethesThere are juicy stories even in mustard and bay-leaves.

There are tales of hunger met in smell of lentils and curry

It is a civilized world only when hunger is out scurried.

It's some house in a weird land when half-fed men beat the roofIt may look good today but dampness will give another proof.

I live in one such house, listening to tales of a cultural kind



I love to sniff out the smell of rice among my cultural finds.

There are those who carry smells of explosives in their eyesWhich roll into one Blasting Tale, crosses the street and flies.

In the streets the stench of sewers mixes with cheap incense

Within it lies the explosive smell like a disguised presence.

There are many such disguised odors well within my range

Like the smell of money that'll dance to the music I arrange.If money dances it's okay to make songs to the guitar's beat

After all it's all about hunger, it's all about getting to eat.

* A special mix of spices (paanch phoron) customarily used in most Bengali dishes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THIRD WORLD

A boy sits with his brother's head on his lap--

`Cause his baby brother's taking a little nap.My car will raise a dust storm, it must--

The brothers get swathed in the road's dust.

On the two sides of Jessore Road* there are viewable scenes;

On my way to a concert I see what the Third World means.The First World--well, this... my car in motion;

The Second--a bus ride, i.e., public transportation.

But there's too little money (or too much) in the Third World.

The two brothers rolled in the road's dust and swirled.A boy sits with his brother's head on his lap--

`Cause his baby brother's taking a little nap.

* The road connecting West Bengal (India) with Bangladesh.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE RIVER'S TALE

Splish'n' splash splish'n' splash splish'n' splash

The ghaat [1] hears the river's tale go back'n' flash.On the ghaat the olden times`ve become moss

Charnock's [2] boat like a ghost still rows across.On the banks jute mills will grow'n' stash.

In the mills the workers work and perspireProfits made from their work owners acquire.

Boats sail on sweat (not water) splash'n' dash.

Boat was here boat is here boat will cross

Whose sweat now on the ghaat has become moss?Tell us River tell their stories back'n' flash--

Splish'n' splash splish'n' splash splish'n' splash.



[1] A concrete embankment with steps leading into the river.

[2] Job Charnock is the proverbial eighteenth century founder of the city of Calcutta where the juteindustry continues to flourish.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

NOTHING'S LASTING

Nothing's lasting the way they should

Within this familiar brain.

The rats have nibbled all they couldOf the little leftover grains.

Heine wrote--the rodent rattus

Has two types, by and large:

While one will run on empty guts,The other will gulp and gorge.

Rats have eaten what little grainWas left inside this head;

But thanks to the class system, you see,

My stomach is fully fed.

Nothing's lasting the way they shouldIn ideology's commonality.

The rats have nibbled all they could

Of the remaining granularity.

What little grain of ideologyWas left's been eaten by a rat.

The teeth of my class, however, has

The fruits of raison d'état!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

AT MIDNIGHT, THE SICKLE OF THE MOON

At midnight, the Sickle of the MoonSharpens itself, but not too soon!

In a discordant age, the darkling NightGrips an unseen hand, holds it tight,

Quietly watching the Sickle of the MoonSharpening itself, but not too soon....

Traveling down light years afar,Bringing signals from a primitive star,

Light takes note of the Sickle of the Moon

Sharpening itself, but not too soon....

The adversary of Darkness who is the Sky,(With sinister intentions, on the sly)

Hushes and watches the Sickle of the Moon




The ill-boding Owl crouches uneasy.The Night replies: "Shhhh, take it easy!

Look up there--the Sickle of the Moon's

Sharpening itself, but not too soon!"

The nocturnal Dog's eyes they glisten

With ideas that the Night has given.He looks up to see the Sickle of the Moon


All the Fireflies have put out their light

In bushes and shrubs in fear of some plight!

Peeping out, they see the Sickle of the MoonSharpening itself, but not too soon....

Where will now the Sickle's edge fall?

The Cacti are worried, most of all.

Quite unworried is the Sickle of the MoonAs it sharpens itself, but not too soon....

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BRIGADE [1] MEETING

The Brigade meeting'll start

The heads are countless

The Brigade meeting endsCalcutta's breathless.


The maidaan[2] is an uproarThe Brigade meeting ends

Clay cups [3] lie galore.

The Brigade meeting'll startRustic faces, villagers

The Brigade meeting ends

The poor, poor strangers.

The Brigade meeting'll startThe roads are gridlocked

The Brigade meeting endsThe roads are still blocked.

The Brigade meeting'll startThe stage is so high

The Brigade meeting endsLife--so low it lies.


The people have come to life.

If only one could tell us--How to stay alive?




A mountain of words has grown

Now that you've seen its peakBetter return to your own.

The Brigade meeting's over

In the sprawling maidaan

The shadowy figures return

In search of an occupation. ___

[1] The Brigade Parade Ground in Calcutta is a famous place for political rallies where huge numbers of

people gather from all over Bengal. In Bengali, the word "Brigade," having lost its military reference,

metonymically stands for the Ground itself. ]

[2] The Brigade Parade Ground is a part of the "maidaan" which is a piece of sprawling green that strechesover a large part of Western Calcutta.

[3] Street vendors sell tea, in disposable clay cups, at rallies and all kinds of public gatherings in Calcutta.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BIBHU-TIBHU-S.AN.[1]

When Butterfly tires of flitting between wild flowers

And Caterpillar stops at the foot of a familiar tree,Evening begins his walk down Dusk's borderline.

Twilight rests her finger on a pebble on the road, lightly.

Ant, the busy tourist's voyages come to a close.

Silk Worm, all by himself on the Banyan, wriggles along.Caressing Dusk's half-light, Subarn.arekha- rests herself

At last, after meddling with Sunlight all day long.

As the din of Day slides into the Cricket's chorusThe Generator, all on a sudden, exhales sonic pollution,

The Sam.tha-l [3] returns from temp work at the Tourist Lodge.

Down this path, all alone, he would walk:Bibhu-tibhu-s.an..

___

[1] Bibhu-tibhu-s.an. Bandyopa-dhya-y (1899-1950) is a celebrated Bengali novelist, famous mainly for his

Apu novels, Pather Pa-m.ca-li- and Apara-jito. The song evokes memories of Ghats'ila-, a rural town inSouther West Bengal (India), where Bibhutibhushanspent a number of years of his life.

[2] A river flanking Ghats'ila-.[3] Sam.tha-ls are among the numerous under-privileged aboriginal peoples (a-diva-sis) in India.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I WILL MAKE YOU THINK, I WILL

I will make you think, I willWhatever it is that you may say

I'll get you out on the streets, I will



However much at home you stay.

The lightning of my two eyesWill fire you up, it will

The signal of my dreams

Will move your heart, it will.

Human beings bring on their own curse,

With their own fading they are smitten.Human beings still, in their own hearts,

Become the history that is written.

Won't you ever think of this--

Days upon days have been spent?

All the awareness we can gainMust be mingled to this end.

I will show you, I will

The history in my rib-cage

I will show you, I willA fire has scorched outer space.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

WITH YOU ALONE

Where Morning, at the cross roads,

Via Afternoon, into Evening corrodes--

That's where on my ownI shall meet with you alone.

Where City, just across a by-lane at the border,

Assumes the evening suburban order--That's where on my own

I shall meet with you alone.

Where Evening, in search of NocturneUpon Chronos' prod, decides to sojourn--

That's where on my own

I shall meet with you alone.

Where the Stars, at the sky's borderline,Turn into a silent harmony unconfined--


Where Sky, in an envelope of watery Cloud,Sends you a letter with Rain's shroud--


In the flood of your tears, where Rain

Tells stories of someone else's pain--




------------------------------------------------------------------------Translation Copyright ? 1994 Sudipto Chatterjee.

All rights reserved. However, these translations may

be used for educational purposes, provided this

statement is included in any reproduction.

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English Translation of Sumaner Gaan