Suman Chatterjee's Songs TRANSLATED FROM BENGALI BY SUDIPTO CHATTERJEE For.Sudipto.Chatterjee's.web.site,.click.here. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS 1. Many a Window I Have Seen Ablaze 2. Burning Intense All Night 3. Song of Flies and Dead Faces 4. Where Have They All Gone? 5. Salutations to You 6. Bhopal 7. I Want You 8. Don't Lose Heart, My Friend 9. Familiar Sorrow, Familiar Happiness 10. Forgive Us, Anita Dewan 11. If You Think You're Buying Me Up... 12. Song--Become 13. Chatterjee Upon Your Wristwatch 14. The Little Neighborhood Park 15. There Is A Vision Which 16. The Child On The Roadside 17. Being Means... 18. Sit'N'Draw 19. 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 World 30. The River's Tale 31. Nothing's Lasting 32. At Midnight, The Sickle Of The Moon 33. Brigade Meeting 34. Bibhu-tibhu-s.an. 35. I Will Make You Think, I Will 36. 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 night A 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 days There 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 `em 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 to Find dead faces black and wry. When dead faces are in your song And you sing it in a show ever It's bound to rub some people wrong But still keep up the endeavor. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 ago Long 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 will Parade 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, I'll bring you days when Armored cars will come Across forests, Across barbed wires And barricades With violins, guitars And harmonicas, Stopping at your, only your Doorsteps, Beloved. Salutations to you.... Do not fear, I'll bring you days when Fighter jets Will shower-- Not bombs or bullets, but-- Chocolates and toffees aplenty, Like paratroopers, Across your, only your Courtyard, Beloved. Salutations to you. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 Gas Tragedy," as it is mournfully remembered, is one of the biggest industrial disasters in history. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DON'T LOSE HEART, MY FRIEND You've given up a lot old habits more or less Candies and cakes after bouts of sickness You've given up a lot customs worn out by age Worn 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, At the dawn of another song! 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, At the dawn of another song! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 circuits Familiar bread, familiar biscuits. The all too familiar tea-glasses. Familiar cigarettes that you puff Walks down a familiar turf Familiar images--dream-corpses. Familiar anger, familiar rages All too familiar vengeful revenges Familiar knife and vindication. Familiar disdain, abomination Familiar shame--this our nation Familiar fears, unknown reconciliation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ FORGIVE US, ANITA DEWAN* I hear cries time and again Cries that my heart penetrate Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit within my head. Foul and filthy Bantala is but Another Calcutta neighborhood Three women are assaulted with Three hundred men in pursuit. Manhood now makes me shameful Before myself I hang my head The blood of the three women sits In our conscience, still and dead. Does Anita Dewan's carcass Make Civility feel some shame? I have put my shame in song You can, for yourself, do the same. I hear cries time and again Cries that my heart penetrate Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit within my head. The real mark of barbarism lies In 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 body Martyrs' 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 that My bowl of fish curry floods. The same invisible blood has now The flag of the same color wetted The colored world of politics Is stained in blood unabetted. Anita Dewan's blood will not Erase itself, it is so obstinate Martyrs' pulpit inside my body Martyrs' pulpit in my head. Blood is on your raga Malkosh Blood 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 memory There'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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 Autumn Even 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHATTERJEE UPON YOUR WRISTWATCH Chatterjee upon Your wristwatch Time's growing. Restless days Silent 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-stain The shirt's collar, Has become dirty, It's time for a sweaty Tale and teller, Through the tales One more day Is restfully laid. The hunger in Stomach or brain-- Make it wait. This world in A hungry realm In prose is rolled, Comic poems Make it run-- A crazy foal! Bedlam bells Chatterjee on Your girdle thread Threaded guitar, Six stringed, too, Has mastery bred. Chatterjee look In concert there A duet's in motion: Money King and Dumb kingdom's Consummation. Chatterjee now You must try Consummating, Chatterjee your Revolu-song's Quite nauseating. Chatterjee look What is good now Is a gambler's game, New money will In 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 wall The 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 grass But the green kids don't care--whether grass or no grass. The trees are pale and blanched From 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, and The 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 where it 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 game have 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". ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THERE IS A VISION WHICH There is a Vision which Exists without an end, and In one eye she has a huge sky In the other she boasts a land. Whatever is in that land Is etched inside the eyeball There's a river and a hill Draped in green overalls. There's dew upon the green Fallen from the eye's sky The 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 land A team of cloud has sent Clouds bring on rainy thoughts The eye's tearful lament. When the eye's tears will soften The music of the eye's land I'll call the land of the moist eye By the name of Eye-land. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 hands With 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 means Being employed Or else a little money; To have means To have some cash Or else it's all phoney. To bear means Forbearing sorrow Or else to bear with wrongs, I do not have to Bear with hunger Which is why I sing songs. To carry means To carry weight Be it heavy, be it light; Can you tell me Where I could, Perhaps, my load alight? To want is To want to live In a way that I can call mine, There are those Who live a life And those who live by dyin'. To go means To go very far To go away before long, Before that day I pass time away Spinning words around a song. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SIT'N'DRAW Children--now stay quiet No questions, no more riot No more games and pranks Sit quietly, no guffaw. Today's gonna' be great for you The elders now have more to do Your festival's on, full crank-- "Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw." Neatly in fields and halls We'll catch and bring you all You'll stand like soldiers in a row No more hee and haw. Coloring pencils--get them yourselves Any store'll have `em on their shelves Then you'll see how the fun will grow-- "Sit'n'draw," "Sit'n'draw." Draw flowers, rivers and butterflies A Mickey Mouse (if nothing else flies). Although it's in concrete houses you stay Draw 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 others With songs I cover Life's blisters But still I'll say, "Don't forget to see, ever Draw other pictures, too." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ YOUR LIKENESS I never look for your likeness In 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 return Will nothing close to your likeness earn. In the monsoonal downpours of the blue The sitar's miyan malhar [2], stringing true The 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 resplendence Or, 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 today Time devises counter-points. I've taken to glasses after faltering Trying to read with the plain eye Aging, I guess, means to bid Clarity 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 lonesome It's time for soliloquy by choice Somewhere in between lies Akhilbandhu Ghosh's * voice. Near my voice the sail's been raised Of 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 enjoyable Both chatting and quietude. On the other side of quietude Just before the evening's come As I walk, I guess it is age That makes me lonesome. When the evening time arrives I'll look to the East, not West To think of a country in which The 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 over And 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 recollection There'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 the tenth 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 Times Is in every hut and hatch. Flirtatious advertisements Tempt, trade sickness anew. Sickness `n' disease merchants Bend 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 `em bourgeois or what ever Who cares what you brand `em? In these Bad Time wagers Wise Guys compute in tandem. Aim at the Wise Guy times Claw 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 teeming With 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 business Inside our stomach and brains. Hunt down that business, Like a tiger its prey arraigns. Sink teeth into the times Like a tiger hunts its catch. The salesmen of bad times Are in every hut and hatch. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SONG-WALLAH* O Song-wallah Sing one more song I have no place else to go to, And with nothing else to do. The violin-playing man From the days of boyhood Has 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-days Across 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 shake Reluctance 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, who Eats 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 stories I sniff and retell them in song-land in course of my journeys. I smell the five spices * which sizzle in the oil that seethes There 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 roof It 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 eyes Which 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 perspire Profits 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 jute industry continues to flourish. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ NOTHING'S LASTING Nothing's lasting the way they should Within this familiar brain. The rats have nibbled all they could Of 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 grain Was left inside this head; But thanks to the class system, you see, My stomach is fully fed. Nothing's lasting the way they should In ideology's commonality. The rats have nibbled all they could Of the remaining granularity. What little grain of ideology Was 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 Moon Sharpens itself, but not too soon! In a discordant age, the darkling Night Grips an unseen hand, holds it tight, Quietly watching the Sickle of the Moon Sharpening 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 Sharpening itself, but not too soon.... 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 Sharpening itself, but not too soon.... 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 Moon Sharpening 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 Moon As it sharpens itself, but not too soon.... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BRIGADE [1] MEETING The Brigade meeting'll start The heads are countless The Brigade meeting ends Calcutta's breathless. The Brigade meeting'll start The maidaan[2] is an uproar The Brigade meeting ends Clay cups [3] lie galore. The Brigade meeting'll start Rustic faces, villagers The Brigade meeting ends The poor, poor strangers. The Brigade meeting'll start The roads are gridlocked The Brigade meeting ends The roads are still blocked. The Brigade meeting'll start The stage is so high The Brigade meeting ends Life--so low it lies. The Brigade meeting'll start The people have come to life. If only one could tell us-- How to stay alive? The Brigade meeting'll start A mountain of words has grown Now that you've seen its peak Better 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 streches over 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 chorus The 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 in Souther 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 will Whatever 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 eyes Will 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 gain Must be mingled to this end. I will show you, I will The history in my rib-cage I will show you, I will A fire has scorched outer space. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ WITH YOU ALONE Where Morning, at the cross roads, Via Afternoon, into Evening corrodes-- That's where on my own I 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 Nocturne Upon 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-- That's where on my own I shall meet with you alone. Where Sky, in an envelope of watery Cloud, Sends you a letter with Rain's shroud-- That's where on my own I shall meet with you alone. In the flood of your tears, where Rain Tells stories of someone else's pain-- That's where on my own I shall meet with you alone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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.