Silent in my city

That day was Ekadashi, the second of the bright fortnight;
a few lines of poetry fell in your name.
In the wild wind, I let my hair flow down my back,
amid the crowd of white and blue, the day passed well!
Swaying in the breeze, the jasmine vines, traces of dreamy joy!
Ah! My day was passing well!

Rose buds, blue lotus,
or else bangles, moon-bright
the master's house, first lessons...
whether Bankim or Chandragupta
when spring arrives, Rabindranath's lyrical verse!

All my days were colored,
all my nights pitch black;
you know, I even had a moon of my own!

In the final watch on a wet train,
on the moving path through nets of smoke,
word by word in succession
it seemed to search for some enchantment!
My moon was quite the connoisseur!

Lakshmi puja at the Mukherjee house,
or on Eid a blue sari and glass bangles,
incense and sweets of chhana-sandesh,
never missing the semolina pudding.
In Baishakh, hilsa and rice, when spring came red roses,
in autumn a pair of earrings, love-talk in the reed groves!
At dewy dawn, rice cakes, when monsoon came water-play!
All friends together would cast off their masks of sorrow.

On the theater stage, in profound dialogue,
sometimes in evening concerts amid the hum of melody,
in Chhaya Nat's dance rhythms, in the unresolved conflicts of passion,
in cheerful gossip under banyan shade,
flocks of doves would revel together.
In all these celebrations, my companions were...
one moon and the wick of a dying lamp!

You wonder, does my moon speak too?!
One whose love remains at infinite distance—
who else would be companion through sleepless hours?
Let it be the moon...silent in my city!