Krishnakali

`
Translated from the original in Bengali by Rabindranath Tagore
`
Krishnakali, that’s what she is to me
Dark they call her, the village laity
On a cloudy day, I’d seen her in the field
Her dark gazelle eyes and their dark beauty
Her wanton veil frisked the village track
Her plaited locks danced on her back
Dark, O however dark she be
Her dark gazelle eyes did I see

Dense clouds cast a dense murk
Lowed aloud a couple of cows gray
Her dusky feet scampered anxiously
All along the cattle-beaten way
Casting her locked brow upon the sky
Heard she the dark clouds rumble by
Dark, O however dark she be
Her dark gazelle eyes did I see

A sudden gust rushes from the east
Rippling the emerald paddy yield
Alone, I stood by the ridge
None else were there in the field
Turning her gaze, did she look at me
Know I, and knows only she
Dark, O however dark she be
Her dark gazelle eyes did I see

Just this way, the kohl-dark cloud
Diffuses onto the summer blue
Just this way, the soothing dark shadow
Paints the woods with her inky monsoon hue
Just this way, on a moist monsoon night
Sprouts within a sudden sprig of delight
Dark, O however dark she be
Her dark gazelle eyes did I see

Krishnakali, that’s what she is to me
Whatever they may call, the village laity
I had seen her in the Moynapara field
Her dark gazelle eyes and their dark beauty
With her wanton veil, she ne’er tried to cover her face
She hadn’t the time to care about her naked grace
Dark, O however dark she be
Her dark gazelle eyes did I see
Krishnakali, that’s what she is to me...
`

Chandannagar, WB,

August, 2004

Evening on my terrace in Chandannagar

`
The moon, so forlorn, so peaceful
Crimson diffusing into blue, the evening sky
Littered with gray cottonwool;

Swaying palm leaves in the gentle breath of air
Squeals of laughter, young children at play
Floats across the distant hum of gong, hymn and prayer.

The disc of luminous gold, across fly swallows free
At each other we gaze, just the two of us,
Lady moon and me.
`

Chandannagar, WB,

July, 2004

Summer vacation

`
Crawls along a morning
Drags along a day
Passes along like strange void
Night falls, as dull, as gray.

No job at hand, no sleep in eyes
Awake I sleep, like the old new-born
At length grows drowsy the indolent eyes
Crawls along another morn.
`

Chandannagar, WB,

July, 2004

`
For some reason
I was agitated that day,
Wailing aloud hysterically…

Ma, soft and kind as ever,
Came along; she took me in her lap,
Cuddled and caressed me
Against all my physical protests.
I somehow flung myself away,
Darted off to the large verandah,
And sat there sobbing…

I was sure she would come
Just in a while,
To pacify my temper;
And only after she begged and pleaded
Would I royally forgive her for all.
I sobbed and waited,
Having long forgotten
The cause behind this tantrum…

My wait grew impatient,
I got tired of my sobbing.
My tears having got dry,
Only an empty sniffle remained.
And yet, Ma still wasn’t there…

My bubble self-esteem
Bid me stay,
Yet curiosity,
She dragged me along,
Where in the world was Ma!

Just then,
Those lovely divine arms
Wrapped around me,
And in a moment
She was kissing me all over my face
As I clenched onto her bosom.
She just laughed and kissed,
And I punched her and hugged her
Simultaneously…


I sighed,
And sigh gave away to a dry smile
As I lay on my cot.
Some hostel-mate knocked on the door.
They were debating outside in the corridor,
Over the present socio-economic scenario.
I had wise and knowledgeable friends.
`

Chandannagar, WB,

June, 2004

The Stench of the Lull

`
Nor a whisper
Nor a sound,
Not a gurgle
The brook is bound

The air is still
No wind does blow,
Nor barks the dog
Nor caws the crow

For they like the quiet
They like the lull,
They like no stir
But the rust-red dull

No gibberish they’ll bear
No prattle, no chatter
They only talk
Talk what does matter

There are ladies
There are gentlemen,
Not a child alive
The heart’s so dead, lives the brain

It’s the kingdom of the wise
The kingdom of the grave
Such a proud kingdom they made
They, the living dead
`

Chandannagar, WB,

May, 2004

At the Temple

`
So many of them,
Boys, girls, men and women,
Went there everyday.
They called it His dwelling place.
They called it the Temple.

I never went though.
Why would he be there,
Of all places, I reasoned.

Then, one evening,
As I was wandering nowhere,
You took me along – to the Temple.
I ne’er protested too, but went along
In jest.

Again I saw, so many of them,
Boys, girls, men and women,
I wondered aloud – what for?

To speak to Him, you said.
I watched in amazement
… so many were kneeling down,
You quietly did the same,
All of them were speaking,
Silently telling Him all they had to say
All the twists in the play
The play of Life.

So much love, so much faith…
As they murmured the great fiction of existence
So many thanked, so many asked for more
Others just talked, told Him their all.

True, he was there,
How could he not be,
So many tales to listen to, over pegs of love to drink

I just watched, and smiled…
In their devotion, their love,
I had found His,
I had felt Him.
`

Pilani, RJ, 

February, 2004