& çâÌæÚUæð´ ·¤è ¥ôÚU Îð¹Ùæ ÁæÚUè ÚU¹ð´ ¥ÍæüÌ ¥ÂÙð ÜÿØ ÂÚU ŠØæÙ ÚU¹ð´Ð ãæÚU Ù ×æÙð´, €UØô´ç·¤ ·¤æ× ·¤ÚUÙð âð ¥æÂ·¤ô ©gðàØ ·¤è Âýæç# ãôÌè ãñ ¥õÚU ÁèßÙ ·¤æ ¹æÜèÂÙ ÎêÚU ãôÌæ ãñÐ ÖÜð ãè ÁèßÙ ×ð´ ç·¤ÌÙè Öè ·¤çÆÙæ§ü €UØô´ Ù ¥æ°, çÁ™ææâæ ¥õÚU ©ˆâæã ÕÙæ° ÚU¹ð´Ð ŠØæÙ ÚU¹ð´, ÜÿØ ã×ðàææ ¥æÂ·Ô¤ Âæâ ãôÌð ãñ´ çÁ‹ãð´ ÂæÙð ·Ô¤ çÜ° ÂýØæâ ¥æÂ ·¤Öè Öè àæéM¤ ·¤ÚU â·¤Ìð ãñ´Ð

poems

Uncollected Poems of Jibanananda Das

Translated by Fakrul Alam
***Remarkably, scholars keep discovering poems written by Jibanananda Das published in little-known, as well as famous, magazines, and in the many notebooks he had left behind. By now the number of these uncollected and /or unpublished poems exceed the nearly three hundred poems included in the volumes of his verse published during or after his lifetime. What follows is a selection from these poems.***
To a Woman in Pain
Kono Bathitake
You have a bed to sleep late at night
The room is soft and dark
Peaceful and silent;
don't think of anything now
Don't listen to any voices now.
Wipe your bleeding heart
Enfold yourself like the tuber rose In sleep.
Where could You be Now
Janina Kathay Tumi
Where could you be now — when evening comes to the reeds — When the river calms down.
When the white-breasted kite cries no more — flying all alone — And crickets keep quiet.
Then your features — the beauty of your face — bloom in my heart like magnolias fragrant in the dew.
The kite disappears into a palmyria forest — evening s soft colors bathe the reedforest in blue.
The Poet
Kavi
I took a look at the poet
1 had a really good look at him
He was writing happy poems one after another
And yet he needs to earn money desperately.
For no one has left him anything in their wills.
He doesn't have a Job
He doesn't understand the intricacies of business
In fact, he asked me: what if the share market turns bearish?'' Imagine, asking me!
He wants to know: "isn't it a good idea to take a life insurance agency" How about buying a lottery ticket? Not the Derby - Nor the
Irish sweepstakes — Goa s or Boubazar's?"
Having had his say. this wintry morning, he wraps his shawl even more snugly around his body
Every once in a while, he scratches his face
Bares his yellowed, unbrushed teeth, and grins
Behind minus eight lenses his halfalive fisheyes flicker: still alive! or almost dead?
Did he ever enjoy the delights of youth? or didn't he?
The thick foggy glasses seem to have taken over from the fisheyes The almost expiring minnow Somehow sucking in the world's delights Reassuring everyone there Is hope Celebrating love.
Through his yellowed teeth
The smell of bile seeps out he survives on cheap cigarettes He 11 never be a life insurance agent, he says. The thought that even after a thousand and one Arabian nights he won t be able to procure a policy for Oriental or Hindustan Life
. Comforts him.
isn't that something, he asks?
How about getting him a job in The Daily Anandabazar?
But will that be a big help?
If only someone left him something in a will!
Only then
Wiping his lenses
Wrapping his shrunk shawl even more tightly around his body
to keep the cold from biting
He could have kept on writing poems effortlessly.
Happy poems.
Perhaps he would have bought a prophylactic toothbrush then
And used Forhan's toothpaste
His teeth and gum would have become healthy and white
he wouldn't have halitosis
Nor dyspepsia
heartburn
Streptococcus.
His greasy sweat-filled shawl would have got a new lease on life then
But never mind — what do these things have to do with poetry
Especially happy poems?
And what should we do when we meet the poet?
We will read his book of happy poems
His books published in art paper by an arty press
With their ineffable covers
Sometimes in dark tones, sometimes starry, sometimes showing moonlight
On the stump of a tree in a field — or even the ghost of moonlight:
His demi-size books pouring out one after another
During the festive puja season
Or during the riotous Christmas holidays.
I find a copy of one of his books in my hands reassuring.
I wonder: does he make some money out of them?
He possibly doesn't
But surely he makes money out of his novels
Never mind —
Let's read his poems
Countless optimistic poems
Each like a goldflake cigarette
Popping out of the loaded slotmachine of his life.
A Star Appears
Ekti Nakkhatra Aashe
A star appears: and then ambles all by itself past
The tamarisk tree this star-filled late-autumnal evening.
It seems she will come this way — when will her practiced hands Open my door in the darkness!
All of a sudden ir the evening
She comes and shows how the touch of her hands
Puts to sleep the sea. the sun, and all motion.
And brings about nightfall.
Up above in the sky and far away
The movements of planets and stars, bright or dim.
Bring about Aghran’s autumnal night;
Does history recall anything more vivid than this lustrous night? The last tram has gone, the last sound fades; in a Calcutta
Life, nature, and the world itself is In its final darkness; Everywhere the press of houses, broken bridges, and tombs. Fatigued, decrepit, she treads her eternal way As If she has crossed Innumerable oceans
The ancient heart of a woman In her newly full body.
Where have all Those Birds Gone?
Kothay Giyechhe Aj Sheishab Pakhee
Where have all those birds gone now — and those horses —
And the women in those white houses?
Wet with the fragrance of acacias — tinged with golden sunlight
Those birds — and those horses —
Have left our world behind;
My heart, tell me where —- where have they all gone now!
Darkness: like that dead pomegranate, silence.
Grass
Ghas
Death disfigured him and left him lying on the river bank. Foaming sunlight lapped him in the afternoon.
A green breeze swept away whatever withered on earth And dug in its stores to try and make him whole again. Excited, the voluble waters tried to restore him Tb smoothness —yet — the debt he owed to Time Gradually took him towards grotesque, skeletal bareness. Then, seeing hell opening a distinctive door of its rampart To take him in. his bones hid inside the kanasona grass. Since then, the world's grass has been giving amusement. For six months to jackasses, and for six delicious months to geniuses!
Evening Descends
Shondhy Haye Ashe
Evening descends — evening descends
All alone in wind swept fields
Roam 1 sit 1 on grass
Far off can be seen some sari's scarlet border
Must be Prasad's wife — next to her
Must be Prasad himself — its getting darker.
Four years back the two had married
I recall: though time has passed The two have not become lost to sight. Every evening they will pass by And on grass at the end of day lie Looking up at the star-filled sky.
They keep lying down — to me it seems They keep talking of the moonlit scene Their two souls feel so serene.
I know full well
These two people have what it takes to jell
That they have no questions — no doubts — I can tell. With deep desire for each other They will stay close forever
Lest they are ruined when torn asunder.
Life's formula for bliss — precisely is why
Prasad always lets chances of pilgrimage go by If this question to him I let fly Do you plan to lei Death pass you by?
But never mind... look at the Iwo of them lie
Like Iwo birds — wings tucked up. looking at the sky. The stars look on and wonder from up above At such deep bliss — such wordless love: COuld it be earth has such a treasure trove?
Because of stars in the sky
Blue red lights blaze up high
Illuminating what below them lie:
Men's minds with thoughts of blood run Rome was destroyed... so was Babylon All tales told under the sun
Will one day die like insects, will turn to dust Rome is in ruins... Babylon too didn't last Yet one heart for another still will thirst.