Tagore Songs

আহা তোমার সঙ্গে প্রাণের খেলা, প্রিয় আমার, ওগো প্রিয়--

বড়ো উতলা আজ পরান আমার, খেলাতে হার মানবে কি ও॥

কেবল তুমিই কি গো এমনি ভাবে রাঙিয়ে মোরে পালিয়ে যাবে।

তুমি সাধ করে, নাথ, ধরা দিয়ে আমারও রঙ বক্ষে নিয়ো--

এই হৃৎকমলের রাঙা রেণু রাঙাবে ওই উত্তরীয়॥

Oh this poignant sport with thou, my own

Unsettled is my spirit today, won’t be played down

Smear me thou only to bid adieu

Yield to me willfully your heart smears in my hue

The pigment of my spirit permeates your elements…

কাঁদালে তুমি মোরে ভালোবাসারই ঘায়ে--

নিবিড় বেদনাতে পুলক লাগে গায়ে॥

তোমার অভিসারে যাব অগম-পারে

চলিতে পথে পথে বাজুক ব্যথা পায়ে॥

পরানে বাজে বাঁশি, নয়নে বহে ধারা--

দুখের মাধুরীতে করিল দিশাহারা

সকলই নিবে-কেড়ে, দিবে না তবু ছেড়ে--

মন সরে না যেতে, ফেলিলে একি দায়ে॥

I am in tears; your love struck a blow

From deep anguish sheer joys doth flow

In quest of your love I travel afar

Pain intones every step I cover 

Music fills my heart as tears trickle down

In the ecstasy of my grief I’m drown

All my riches lost, I still not be spared I know

Yet infirm in love, I can’t leave you and go.

অনেক পাওয়ার মাঝে মাঝে কবে কখন একটুখানি পাওয়া,

     সেইটুকুতেই জাগায় দখিন হাওয়া ॥

দিনের পর দিন চলে যায় যেন তারা পথের স্রোতেই ভাসা,

     বাহির হতেই তাদের যাওয়া আসা।

কখন আসে একটি সকাল সে যেন মোর ঘরেই বাঁধে বাসা,

     সে যেন মোর চিরদিনের চাওয়া ॥

হারিয়ে যাওয়া আলোর মাঝে কণা কণা কুড়িয়ে পেলেম যারে

     রইল গাঁথা মোর জীবনের হারে।

সেই-যে আমার জোড়া-দেওয়া ছিন্ন দিনের খণ্ড আলোর মালা

     সেই নিয়েই আজ সাজাই আমার থালা--

এক পলকের পুলক যত, এক নিমেষের প্রদীপখানি জ্বালা,

     একতারাতে আধখানা গান গাওয়া ॥

Of all life’s bounty, its those chance rewards of little measure

That waft a wind of warmth and pleasure

Days go by; down the road do they flow

The outer world  they come from and go.

There comes a morn that settles down in my dwelling

The insignia of all my yearning

Motes I gathered from the waning light

In my life's laurel shine bright

Oh my garland of half-light on a spliced day distraught

With thee my life's platter is wrought

All the momentary mirth, a brief candle afire,

A half song played on a lyre.

Mother and Son

Mother and son they were. Selling pakodas on a rode side stall at a busy cross road of Kolkata for last 15 years, the duo appears almost detached and phlegmatic about life and its purpose. The mother makes the hot and spicy batter fries while the son sells them. Fifteen years of drudgery and monotony have settled heavy and deep on their faces. There was something about the posture of the mother washing the wares after the night's business which drew me towards her on a mundane evening. She was doing the chore with no apparent business of finishing it. It reminded me of the rat race, most of us are into, in our lives and in an odd way i understood the absurdity  of that race. The mother's stoicism reminded me of Plath's line, “Everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.” Slowly I approached her and sat on a bench the other end of which was occupied by  the son. He squirmed and fidgeted with the bag which perhaps contained their day's earning. To deal with the discomfort, I struck a conversation with him on the variety of the fried stuff they sell and also tried two three of them. The conversation got easy soon after and I came to know that Ramesh and his mother Sakuntala Devi, stayed in a slum in the eastern fringe of the metro and travel to the spot of trade everyday. Ramesh is married with two children. The boy goes to school while the girl, bing 3 years old, reads at home. Ramesh is a proud father and says, "even if I remain half fed, I will ensure the education of my children". His eyes sparkled as he declared his motto with conviction. Working in the social sector for more than two years now, I am quite well versed with the RTE act and the Govt. schemes on education. While sharing them with Ramesh, I felt that learning never goes in vain! I did not take any picture of the two, for I felt that would undermine their dignity as humans. Time was up for me as my driver returned from the nearby shop where I sent him on an errand. Getting up from the seat it suddenly occurred to me, "do the children at Ramesh's home have enough clothes and shoes to cover and protect them? How utterly impossible it must be, to support a family of five, with the frugal income of selling pakodas!" The oft heard line, "amar sontan jeno thake dudh e bhaat e" (may my children always stay well fed) appeared ridiculous and hollow then! It was a deeply disturbing moment! In my muddled state I handed a five hundred rupee note to Sakuntala Devi, telling her to buy clothes and shoes for her grandchildren. Once in the car, something struck me again. There were few more five hundred rupee notes in my bag and I often spend thousands to procure my daughter's fancy stuff. Why could I not give the remaining notes to the ones whose many necessities are perhaps beyond fantasy! The last line of Tagore's celebrated poem, Kripon, kept ringing in my ears till sleep silenced it that night. The line goes- " Keno taare di ni amar sakal sunyo kore" (Why did I not give my everything up to him! )