Fragments from an Old Shop / Three

 
Is This Bangladesh?
-----------------------


Here rise mansions and towering monuments,
while over there slums sprawl face-down in the dirt,
where people's sorrows know no end.
Is this Bangladesh?
Here the wealthy feast in bliss on rice pudding and pilaf,
while there the poor scrape by on empty stomachs,
Is this Bangladesh?
Is this my golden dream country?
Here in high-rises we live in luxury,
while over there craftsmen somehow
struggle on in their thatched huts,
Is this Bangladesh?
Was this the dream of our liberation war?
We on this side strut about
in the latest fashions,
while tailors there walk in torn undershirts and lungis.
Is this Bangladesh?
Is this equal rights?
We on this side comfortably eat rice, fish and meat,
while farmers there live hungry or half-fed.
Is this Bangladesh?
Is this dreams made real?
We on this side enjoy our fish cutlets,
while over there fishermen scrape by
on lentils and rice.
Is this Bangladesh?
Is this justice?
Can we not make our country prosperous?
Can we not give equal rights
to all, rich and poor alike?


…………………………………………
4 September 1997


A Thief's Confession
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(Though not all thieves share this mindset.)


I too have joy and sorrow, pain.
There are reasons why I became so despised,
I too have a history,
no one listens, because I'm a thief.
When my sorrows knew no end,
my little brother was starving,
no one gave two handfuls of rice, no one helped.
No one listens, because I'm a thief.
I too was once a top student,
I too had hopes,
dreams, that one day I'd be somebody.
No one listens, because I'm a thief.
I too want to speak, I want to tell
how those well-dressed bloodsucking leeches
snatched away everything we had, our home.
No one listens, because I'm a thief.
I too want to point out
those bloodsucking leeches in their fine clothes.
I too want to shout, "Catch them, catch them!"
No one listens, because I'm a thief.
I too want to stand up against
the enemies of our country,
those who are shattering our economy bit by bit.
No one listens, because I'm a thief.
I'm just an ordinary thief,
I'm not stealing whole ponds like those respectable types,
yet why do they get away with it,
those who crush workers with their iron fists?
No one listens because I'm a thief.
I too want to walk the honest path beautifully,
if I could get a little help.
I too want to see this country
filled with happiness, peace, and prosperity.
No one listens, because I'm a thief.


……………………………………………………………
7 September 1997


Ugliness in Beauty
------------------------------


One afternoon I sat in the shade of an ancient tree,
a banyan it was called.
Just then my friend Kallol came and said,
"Come, let's go see the ocean shore."
At my friend's urging, reluctantly
I went to the beach.
But once there my heart soared,
I found new energy again,
the sun's crimson glow in the western sky
was utterly enchanting.
Seagulls, herons, and countless unnamed birds
were returning to their nests.
The blue sky seemed to turn white
with the crowd of hundreds of birds.
Gentle breeze, the roar of blue waves...
I gazed with my own eyes for a while.
Going there, you lose all desire to return.
As if by some mystical power
even the ugliest heart grows pure.
Just then friend Kallol said, "Wait,
let me go near the waves for a bit,
my heart's really restless."
I said, "Go,
but don't go too far."
He went, an hour passed,
still no word from him.
Meanwhile evening was closing in,
the sun nearly sinking.
I thought, "Why isn't he coming?
The sun's heading toward the western horizon!"
Some unknown dread
filled my heart.
I ran breathlessly
with all my strength.
I found Kallol floating in the waves,
no one going forward to help.
So many people come to this seashore,
so many birds sing songs,
yet that same sea, cruel as a bandit,
stole away my dear friend's life.
Kallol and I were two bodies,
but our hearts were one.
Departing for the other world, he showed me
how terrifying beauty can be!
How beauty can leave a person so grief-stricken!
In everything lurks cruelty
somewhere or other!
This harsh, real truth I learned
at the sun's farewell, at my friend's final journey.


(The reason pride comes to us is that we don't know how little we actually know.)


……………………………………………………
8 September 1997


Monsoon
-----------------


Summer passed and monsoon came,
clouds rumbling low,
water plays in fields and lanes,
fathomless depths overflow.
Rivers brim with rainwater,
young boys row their boats,
earth turns soggy, muddy clay,
everyone slips and tumbles about.
Rain-clouds gather over rain-fields,
reed flowers bloom in reed-beds,
nature adorns itself anew,
creating countless Rabindranaths and Jibananandas.
Pitter-patter falls the rain,
rice grows in the paddy fields,
lying in bed watching the rain
fills the heart with joy.
To some you bring delight,
to others, fear,
crows scurry here and there
seeking a bit of shelter.
To children you bring joy,
no need to go to school,
throwing away umbrellas they say
"Let's get soaked, come on!"
Sometimes you turn cruel,
creating floods.
Then the tears of homeless people
seem never to end.
Monsoon, you are beautiful,
you make nature lovely,
thanks to you so many crops grow—
rice, jute, sugarcane and wheat.


…………………………………………………
10 September 1997


That Little Bird
------------------------


One morning I sat by the window,
gazing steadily at the sky,
birds chirping all around, sweet breeze,
as if they were greeting the new day
with melodious song.
Just then a yellow bird
came and perched on my windowsill.
It asked me, "How are you?"
It wished me "Good morning!"
That little bird's eyes held magic,
held shadows of fairyland,
that little bird's voice seemed to cast spells,
held heart-enchanting charm.
The bird came every dawn,
would wake me from sleep,
waking up, first thing
I'd see its face.
That little bird doesn't come now,
doesn't wake me at dawn.
I don't know where it is,
perhaps it perished
in some hunter's cruel hands.
Perhaps it died of starvation
from environmental cruelty.
Perhaps it didn't die,
lives on in some iron cage.
I still can't forget it
amid all my busy work,
that little bird's sweet memory
still haunts me endlessly.


(As humans increase on earth, true humanity decreases.)


………………………………………………………
26 September 1997


A Talented Boy
-------------------------


Once I found a boy
In a fair.
I went near him
With a great desire.
I was really surprised
To see the boy's talent,
He was writing a beautiful 
Poem named, "A memorable moment."
I cried out in joy
"What a talented you are!
Are you Wordsworth or Shakespeare!"
"I am a poor orphan boy."
He replied.
"I have none in this world,
My parents are sleeping in the ground."
I said to him, "Where do you live?
Where do you pass your days?"
He said, "I live nearby, in an orphanage."
I helped him with some money
And said "I hope you will be a great poet
In course of time."
The boy said nothing but smiled.
I returned home,
And sat under the fan,
And thought myself, "Can we not help them,
As much as we can?"


(Teacher: What three words do students use most?
Student: I don't know.
Teacher: That's correct.)


What's the Point
------------------------


What's the point of blooming like flowers
only to fall like leaves again?
What's the point
of keeping that wretched pile of flesh alive?
What's the point of showing
a hundred colored pretenses on that painted face?
What's the point of wrapping
expensive clothes around that worthless body?
What's the point of keeping
your own picture in that golden frame?
What's the point of gathering
praise and accolades from others' mouths?
What's the point of staying hidden, fading away,
keeping yourself prisoner in your home corner,
if you can't become wise,
can't spread light among others?
What's the point of doing evil deeds
to be remembered by people,
if you can't earn respect,
can't become worthy of honor?
What's the point of chasing fool's gold,
wasting time uselessly?
What's the point of not finding the real deer
while searching mountains of wealth till death?
There's no benefit on this stage
of putting on a brief show,
if you can't become an eternal sun
in people's heart-frames.


(Excessive laughter sometimes becomes a symbol not of purity but of madness.)


………………………………
2 October 1997


You Are Beautiful
------------------------


You are beautiful like sunshine after poison,
you are beautiful like autumn's pure azure,
you are beautiful like a farmer's smile with harvest in hand,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.
You are beautiful like the sea's fierce waves,
you are beautiful like nor'wester storms,
you are beautiful like lightning's daughter's laughter,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.
You are beautiful like an innocent child's laughter,
you are beautiful like a bride's smile through her veil,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.
You are beautiful like a baby's laughter in mother's arms,
you are beautiful like free birds spreading wings in flight,
you are beautiful like the peace of birds returning to nest,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.
You are beautiful like a painting from an artist's brush,
you are beautiful like two lines of a poet's verse,
you are beautiful like two drops of a farmer's sweat,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.
You are beautiful like a son returning to mother's breast,
you are beautiful like a beloved's rose-petal smile,
you are beautiful like youth with victory's flag in hand,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.
You are beautiful like a garland of brothers united,
you are beautiful like an outstretched helping hand,
you are beautiful like the joy of making strangers family,
you are freedom, my beloved freedom.


………………………………………………
22 April 1998


Homage
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To Samarendra Sir---
Today on this earth a festival of seasons,
spring's playful dance frightens the jealous mist.
Companion to this game of heart's passion seems sorrow's veena,
the pain of gaining and losing, perhaps this was destiny.
From darkness you brought light, created golden radiance,
so in this parting I seem to hear departure's call.
Brilliant as the pole star was your wisdom,
with it you quenched my infinite thirst for knowledge.


O Venus, in knowledge's ocean-mud you raised my debt's Ganges,
dawn of the heart seems to have faded in compassionate anguish.
Bowing my head at your feet I beg this alms—
give me your feet's sacred dust—accept my heart's flower-offering.


...............................................................
25 February 2000