MONK UPAGUPTA

The monk called Upagupta -

Once upon a time he was fast asleep 

under the wall of Mathura city.

The city lights were blown off with the wind

All doors of the township were shut.

The evening stars of the Sravan–sky were

covered under dark clouds.

Someone’s foot with her anklet suddenly

resounded on his chest.

The startled monk woke up from sleep

In a moment disappeared his dreamy state.

The bright light of her lamp, rudely struck   

his kind beautiful eyes.

The courtesan of the town was going on a love tryst

inebriated with the spirit of her youth.

Dressed up in a blue outfit,                                   

her bells were making a sweet jingling sound.

Inadvertently, when she trod on the body of the monk,

Basavadatta stopped.  

Holding the lamp, she could see the tender fair beauty of his

A smiling, unruffled, young face,

His eyes gleaming with rays of kindness,

Over his shining forehead, there was a glow of calm tranquil peace.

The woman spoke in a gentle voice casting a shy look.

Forgive me – please – you callow youth

Kindly accompany me to my house.

The ground underneath is rough and hard, it can’t be your bed.

The monk replied in a kind voice, “You the charming one,   

My time has still not come.

Thou blessed one, go wherever you are going –    

When the time is right, I myself will come to your grove.

Suddenly, a rainstorm with flashes of lightening

opened its wide mouth

The lady was totally shaken with fear.

The blowing sound of the terrible affray was filling the air

The thunder in the sky, in a cruel joke

unleashed a loud roaring laughter.    

At a later date….

The year hasn’t ended yet, the chaitra-evening has come

The wind was restless and blowing freely 

Buds have appeared on branches of trees

Bakul, Parul and Rajanigandha  have blossomed in the royal garden.

From a great distance, comes with the wind, the sweet tune of the flute.

There is no one left in town: all residents have gone to the pleasure-grove

to celebrate the festival of flowers.

Seeing the city totally deserted, silently smiles, the full moon of night.

In the lonely road under the light of the stars, the monk is the lone passer-by

Overhead there is the avenue of trees

The cuckoo is cooing again and again

At long last, has the night’s love-tryst eventually arrived for him?

Beyond the city limit went the ascetic, near the outer boundary wall.

He came and stood by the side of the moat,

near the shade of the mango - grove.

He wondered who that woman was, lying on her side right under his feet.

   

She was gravely ill with pustules of small-pox spread all over her body.

The dark stain of the disease has blackened her skin

The people carrying her beyond the moat of the city

have thrown her away and shunned her poisoned company.

The monk sat down and lifted her afflicted head upon his own lap.

On her parched mouth, he poured water

and chanted mantra over her head.

With his own hand, he then smeared her body with cool sandal paste.     

The buds were falling, the cuckoo was cooing, the night was full of stars

“Who are you, oh my kind saviour,” asked the woman. The monk replied,

“The moment of truth has arrived tonight and here I am Basavadatta”

Dr DEBIDAS RAY.

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem entitled ‘Abhisar’

Published in SANCHAYITA,11^th.ed, 2010, p341- 343.

Original Bengali poem first line : sannyasi upagupta  

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI QUARTERLY

August 2017 pp1-2.

WORSHIPPER

King Bimbisar

Bowing his head, he begged of Buddha

for a piece of nail from His toe.

Placing it in the secluded palace- garden,

meticulously he built on its top,

a very beautiful stone stupa –                      

a marvel of architectural art.

In the evening hours putting on fresh clothes,

The queen and the princesses used to come

with a basket filled with flowers

 and on a golden plate

- at the bottom of the stupa -

with their own hands would light a row of

golden lamps.

When Ajatashatru became the king     

after occupying his father’s throne,

With the blood that was spilled, 

he wiped out the religion of his father

and threw away in the sacrificial fire

all Buddhist scriptures which were there.            

Ajatashatru then called upon         ,

all women residing in the city,

“Beside the Vedas, Brahmin and King,

there is nothing else on earth to worship for,

Strictly remember these few words –

if by chance you forget, danger you will face.” 

At the end of that day in autumn

Srimati, the slave- girl,

after taking bath in cool holy water

- Carrying a plate with flowers and lamps –

with head down, went at the feet of the Empress

and silently she stood.

Shaken with fear the Queen said,

“Don’t you remember,  

Ajatashatru has proclaimed that

who so ever performs puja on the stupa,

will either be impaled or banished till death.”

Turning from there slowly she went

to the daughter in law, Amita’s room.

Placing a golden mirror in front,

she was tying her long luxuriant hair

and putting vermillion on the parting,

with utmost care.

Seeing Srimati, the line wavered and her hand

began to shake - She told her,

“You senseless woman, how dare you bring

puja offerings, please go away at once –

if someone, somewhere comes to know,

grave danger will follow.”

In the light of the rays of the setting sun,

near the open window –

Princess Shukla sitting alone

 was busy reading a poetry book.

Hearing the jingle of the anklets,

startled she looked at the door.

       .,

Seeing Srimati she put her book down

and hurriedly went to her.

Cautiously she whispered to her ears,

“Who doesn’t know today, what the Royal order is? 

Is this the way for anyone  

to rush towards one’s death?”

From door to door went Srimati

with the puja plate in her hand,

She called everyone, “You women of the city,

it is time now for puja of the Lord.”

Hearing her call, some got scared  

and some hurled abuses at her.

The last light of the day became barely visible

on top of the mansions of the city.

The deserted roads were plunged into darkness,

Din and bustle were dying down.

The bells of the aarati started ringing                                                    

in the ancient temple of the Palace.

In the darkness of a clear autumnal night,

numerous stars were shining in the sky.

At the lion-gate, the last post was sounded

and the prisoners sang the evening note      

“The cabinet- meeting has come to an end,”

 announced the gateman.

At that moment, the startled palace- guards

suddenly looked and saw

that in the middle of the desolate royal garden,

-At the bottom of the stupa,    

in the thick of the darkness –

there seemed to have appeared 

a chain of lamps burning in rows!

With open swords, the royal guards,

at once ran there and asked,

 “Who are you the mischievous one   

performing aarati, only to invite death?”

In a sweet voice came the reply,               

“I am Srimati – servant of Buddha, the Lord.”

On that day, blood was spilled

on the white marble slab.

On that clear autumn night in the royal garden,

 - in silence and solitude –

Suddenly went off at the bottom of the stupa,     

the last aarati’s flame.

                                                  - Dr DEBIDAS RAY

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem entitled

“Pujarini” from his collection of poems Katha” in        

Rabindra Rachanavali.Vol.1.1961, pp623-25.                                                                

The first line of the original Bengali poem- nripati bimbisar. 

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI QUARTERLY

April 2017 p1-3.

LIFE' S GUARDIAN

Oh my most intimate one,

Have you quenched all your thirst

                     getting into my heart? 

Crushing my chest like the grapes in a vineyard

I squeezed million streams of joy and sorrow

and after filling the cup, I offered it to you.

So many colours, so many scents,

so many tunes and so many verses,         

I stitched together to make your bridal bed.

I kept on melting the gold of desire

and made new images every day

                            for your transient plays.

You only chose me –

 I don’t know with what fond  hope .

Oh you the guardian of my life,

did you like my mornings and my nights -

my acts and my plays during your lonely stay?        

In rains and in autumn, in winter and spring,

the heartfelt sound of all those songs,       

did you manage to hear them all   

while sitting alone on your throne?

Plucking the flowers of your dream

on the expanse of your apparel ,

did you stitch them to make a garland    

to put on yourself and unmindfully  

roam around in the garden of my youth?  

With your eyes fixed in my heart  

what are you looking for, my sweetheart?  

Have you forgiven all my failings, omissions and mistakes?

For days without puja and the nights without service,

how many times you went back my lord

while the flowers for offering blossomed and withered

in the forlorn forest.

The pitch to which you tuned the strings of this veena  

went down and down time and again,

The music that you composed - oh my poet –

can I ever aspire to sing ?                

When I went there to water your garden

I fell asleep in the shade, 

In the evening when I came back,

I came with eyes full of tears.

Whatever I possessed - oh lord of my life -

Have I now exhausted them all -

the shows and the songs,

the vivacity, wakefulness and slumber?

Lax has become my embrace,

gone is the passion from my kisses -      

Has the night’s love tryst in life’s grove      

ended at its dawn?

Dissolve then, our meeting of today,

bring in new fashion and new shows -

Accept me once more as your own

renewing the old familiar one.

A new marriage will tie me down  

to a new knot in life.

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem entitled

 “Jibananath” from his collection of poems “Chitra” in

Sanchayita, 11^th ed. 2010. pp.265-7.

The first line of the original Bengali poem is – Ohey antaratama.

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI QUARTERLY

Dec 2016 p1-3.

AT THE END OF THE DAY

The day comes to an end – darkness descends on earth

There is no point carrying on rowing the boat any more.

“Listen, whose country is this where a

foreigner like me has landed?”

just as I asked this with a smile on my face,

at once without speaking a word -

splashing water from her full pitcher-

with head down, walked away the young lass.

Anchor my boat in this ghat I shall.

                                                                                                                

Shadows are silently creeping 

on the ground under thick forest cover.

The still water evokes no response,

Motionless are the leaves.

The birds in the forest are already asleep.

In this golden evening on the middle

of the lonely path

only the pitcher, struck by her bangles

makes a metallic cry.

The very sight of this does appeal to me.

The lightening from the cloud

is splashing over the golden trident.

The lamp is burning in the temple at a distance.

The shadowy path, made of white marble

is totally covered with shed bakul flowers.

On seeing the rows of dwelling houses

and the gardens with fences,

restless becomes the mind of the passerby.

The lamp is burning in the temple at a distance.

From the royal palace, the distant air

carries the purabi tune in the sky.

The world has moved forward to somewhere unknown,

no idea why a sense of detachment overcomes my soul

This coming and going again and again

and venturing to places far away abroad

does not appeal to me anymore.

The purabi tune is filling the sky.

On top of the palace in the forest slowly descends night,

there is no point in rowing the boat any more.

If somewhere I find a place where I can take shelter,

I will give up this traffic of buying and selling

and at once go there –

where along that winding path

with head down, walked away the young lass

carrying the full pitcher on her waist.

Let me anchor my boat here in this ghat.

                                                                    - Dr DEBIDAS RAY

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem

entitled “Dinaseshe” in his collection of poems “Chitra”

in Sanchayita, 11^th ed.2010, p257-8.

Original Bengali poem first line –Din sesh hoye alo andharilo dharani

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI  QUARTERLY

August issue 2016.  p1-2

x

MANASI

You woman, you are not a creation of God alone,

It’s man who made you what you are

by infusing beauty on to you from his heart.

The poets sit and spin your apparel with golden threads.

By attributing new glory to you, the artists have made

                                                       your image immortal.

How many colours, how many aromas and jewels

                                                              are on display -

Pearls come out of sea, gold comes from mines,

From the garden in spring comes the bouquet of flowers,

The insects inject their life into lac - to colour your feet.

By imparting shyness, by dressing you up and covering you with veils,

they have made you hard to access and kept you hidden.

Burning desire has cast its shadow on you -

In reality, half of you is woman, the other half comes from imagination.

Note:

‘Manasi’ The graceful woman of one’s imagination.

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem entitled “Manasi” from his

collection of poems  Chaitali in Sanchayita,11^thed., 2010 p.285.

The first line of the original Bengali poem- shudhu bidhatar sristi naha tumi nari

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI QUARTERLY

Volume 24 Number 4 Jan 2016 – March 2016 p 11.

A CHANCE- MEETING

It was a chance meeting in a railway compartment,

                          never ever thought it would happen.

I have seen her before often in red colour saris-

as bright as the colour of pomegranate flowers.

Today she is wearing a black silk sari -

putting a part of it on top of her head

and around her face which is as fair and

beautiful as dolon chanpa flowers.

It seemed that the black colour has brought about

an aura of remoteness around her own self which was

similar to that of the blue vitriol of a Sal tree forest,

lying beyond the furthest point of a mustard field.

I saw a very familiar face hidden inside the seriousness

of the unknown.

Suddenly, putting aside the newspaper,

she greeted me with folded hands.                      

That broke the barrier of social formality

and I began conversing -

‘How are you, how is life etc.’

She kept looking out of the window with a gaze

seemingly triggered by the memory

of the closeness of our earlier days.

She gave very brief answers to one or two queries

and didn’t reply to some.

By restless gestures of hand she conveyed –

‘What was the use of all these talks,                       

it would be far better if we remained silent.’

I was there on another bench with her companions.

At some point she gestured to me with her finger    

to come up to her.             

I thought to myself how bold she was –

I went and sat on the same bench with her.

In the background of the noise of the carriage

she said in a soft voice,                  

‘Please don’t mind,

 there is no time to waste.

I have to get down at the next station itself.

You will go far, 

we will never meet again.

Therefore, the answer to the question

that has remained pending so far,

I want to hear directly from you.

Will you speak the truth?’

I said, ‘I will.’

Still looking at the sky outside, she then asked,

‘Those days of ours which are gone,

have they gone forever -

Is there no trace of them left?’

I remained silent for a while

and then said,

‘The stars of the night they are all there,

deep inside the light of the day.’

I had a doubt whether I made it up or not.

She said, ‘Stop, you can go to the other side now.’

They all got down at the next station.

I carried on my journey alone.

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem

entitled “Hatat dekha” from his collection of poems

Shyamali in Sanchayita, 11^th.ed 2010 pp 719-21.

Original Bengali poem first line – rail garir kamrai hataat dekha

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI QUARTERLY

Vol.24 Number 4 Jan 2016 – March 2016 pp 9-10. 

UNFINISHED

UNFINISHED

Tell him, please tell him -

At long last I met him.

At that time at the end of a shower,

the sun had come out and touched

the blooming bunch of Gulmohar flowers.

At the temple inside the forest,

there was sound of music from the trees,

The song of praise of the eternal was heard –

Tears flowed from my eyes,

I felt humbled by the prayer,

Mesmerized were my mind and soul.

Over how many births and rebirths,

the boon from the gods

-on speechless nights of destiny -

has been writing across the sky,

words of reassurance of this meeting of ours!

Along the shore of existence,

I have carried the message of that meeting

through the flow of my blood.

Looking at the distant sky, my eager eyes

search for a note for the lyric embedded in that meeting.

Please tell him today –

‘We have come to know each other now.

You guest of mine, silently and repeatedly

like a shadow - trembling – you came to my door.

On how many nights of the month of Chaitra

-through the fragrance of unseen flowers -

your breath coming close to me, vibrated my veil

and made the strings of the sitar cry.’

Please tell him today –

‘I felt deeply ashamed within.

I could not say anything as my throat was choked,

Neither did I have the dress befitting the occasion.

It is full moon that is hidden in my bosom,

It was the new moon only, that you encountered that day.

Day by day, my dear, my offerings are bound to increase -

Please forgive me for my penury of the day.’

Dr DEBIDAS RAY.

English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem entitled

“Asamapta” from his collection of poems “Mahua” in

SANCHAYITA, 11^th.ed 2010, pp625-6

Original Bengali poem first line – bolo, tare bolo

Published in THE VISVA-BHARATI QUARTERLY

Volume 24 Numbers 2 & 3 July 2015 – December 2015 pp2-3