Virtual Bangladesh : Literature: Poetry: Jibananda Das

banolatA shen / AbAr Ashibo fiRe

banolatA shen

        Long have I been a wanderer of this world,
        Many a night,
        My route lay across the sea of Ceylon somewhat winding to
        The seas of Malaya
        I was in the dim world of Bimbisar and Asok, and further off
        In the mistiness of Vidarbha.
        At moments when life was too much a sea of sounds,
        I had Banalata Sen of Natore and her wisdom.

        I remember her dark hair as night at Vidisha,
        Her face an image of Srvasti as the pilot,
        Undone in the blue millieu of the sea,
        Never twice saw the earth of grass before him,
        I have seen her, Banalata Sen of Natore.

        When the day is done, no fall somewhere but of dews
        Dips into the dusk; the smell of the sun is gone
        Off the Kestrel's wings. Light is your wit now,
        Fanning fireflies that pitch the wide things around.
        For Banalata Sen of Natore.

Translated by JibonAndo dAs himself

AbAr Ashibo fiRe

         Abar ashibo fire dhanshiritir teere - ei Banglai
         Hoito manush noi - hoito ba shankachil shaliker beshe,
         Hoito Bhorer kak hoiye ei kartiker nobanner deshe
         Kuashar buke bhese ekdin asibo e kathal sayai;
         Hoito ba hansh hobo - kishorir - ghungur rohibe lal pai
         Saradin kete jabe kolmir gandhabhora jole bhese bhese;
         Abar ashibo ami Banglar nodi math khet bhalobese
         jolangir dheuye bheja Banglar e sabuj karun dhangai;

         Hoito dekhibe cheye sudarshan uritese sandhar batashe;
         Hoito shunibe ek laksmipecha dakitese shimuler dale;
         Hoito khoier dhan soratese shishu ek uthaner ghase;
         Rupasar ghola jole hoito kishor ek shada sera pale
         Dinga bai; - ranga megh satraye ondhokare ashitese nirhe
         Dekhibe dhabal bok; amarei pabe tumi ihadher bhire.

I shall return once more

I shall return once more to the banks of the Dhansiri, to this Bengal
Perhaps not as a man, but in the guise of a white hawk or shalik
Perhaps as a dawn crow to this land of autumn's new rice harvest
Floating on fog's breast
       I shall return one day to the shade of a jackfruit tree
Perhaps I shall be a duck -
       some young lass's, her crimson feet adorned with bells
I shall spend the day floating upon duck-weed scented waters
I shall return - loving this Bengal's rivers, meadows and farms,
This gentle green land, washed with the waves of the Jalangi

Perhaps I shall descry buzzards soaring upon twilight's breezes
Perhaps I shall hear the cry of a spotted owl from a Shimul branch
Perhaps a young child scatters puffed rice in some courtyard
Or a youth guides his dinghy with its torn white sails
        upon the murky waters of the Rupasa;
Rubiscent clouds swim by, and perchance I shall see white herons
returning in the darkness to their nests;
This is where you shall find me - amongst them all.

Translated by Zunaid Kazi