Pablo and Pablo

 This poem is a tribute to two of my favorite Pablo's in the world - Pablo Picasso and Pablo Neruda.

My Beloved's Shadow

My translation of a song by Rabindranath Tagore (from his Nature/Monsoon phase written in 1938.)

My beloved's shadow
Alas, today in the sky floats!
Alas, in the dreary rain-soaked air.

My beloved between the clouds
Hiding in the evening star beholds whom,
Alas, elided light of the evening lamp she recalls.

With the rain-dripped forest-fragrance
Touch-less welcome-garland weaves my beloved.

My beloved in dense monsoon-pour
All over the sky loses her mind.
My beloved's anchal swings
Alas, in the deep forest's dark outbursts.

San Jose, USA
January 14, 2016


Below is the original song in Bengali script.

Me

By the color of my consciousness emerald is green,
ruby turns red.
I open my eyes to the sky-
light flares up
into the east and the west.
glancing at the rose I utter 'beautiful'-
beautiful it becomes.

A philosophy, not a poet's verse, you'll say.
Truth it is I'll reply
hence poetry.
This is my pride,
pride on behalf of the entire mankind.
On man's ego-canvas
the heavenly architect creates his universal art.
The theologist on every breath is reciting silently --
no, no, no-
neither emerald nor ruby, neither light nor rose,
neither me nor you.
On the other hand, the Infinite, who himself prayed
inside man’s limit,
is called “me.”
In the deep of that ‘me’ blend light and darkness,
appears beauty, kindles spirit;
‘no’ suddenly blossoms into ‘yes,’ in illusion’s spell,
in lines and colors, in happiness and despair.

Don’t call it a theory-
Delighted is my mind
in universal-me’s creation bash
with brush in the hand, and color in the palette.

The expert is saying-
The old moon, his smile cruel and clever

Crawling like a death-messenger towards earth’s ribcage.
Someday it will exert the ultimate pull at its mountain and sea;
On the planet will descend a full-page zero
in eternity’s new book,
will engulp the savings of night and day;
Man’s achievement will lose the vanity of immortality,
on its history will smear
the endless night’s soot.
Man’s farewell-bidding eyes
will extract color from earth
Man’s departing-day’s soul
will mop up the flavor.
Power will vibrate from sky to sky,
light will glow nowhere.
In the speechless concert, musicians' fingers will move,
no tune will play.
That day, poetic-less Lord will sit alone
in the blueless sky
with the logic of personality-less existence
Then in the vast universe
far and far away, among the endless, countless worlds and the next
this sound will not echo anywhere-
‘you are beautiful’,
‘I love’.
Will the Lord sit down again to pray
for eons
reciting in the dissolute-evening
‘please speak, please speak’
uttering, ‘say, you are beautiful’,
uttering, ‘say, I love’?

I Sing in Bengali (Ami Banglay Gaan Gai)

I sing in Bengali, I sing of Bengal
I find my groove forever in this Bengal.
I dream in Bengali, in Bengali I compose
Have walked this far on this Bengal's affectionate roads
Bengal's my life's joy, Bengali soul's tune
I see once, I see many a times, I see Bengal's face.

I speak in Bengali, I speak of Bengal
I float in Bengali, laugh in Bengali, I stay awake in Bengal
I exult in Bengali, grieve in Bengali.
Seeing everything, agitated I scream in Bengali
Bengali is my bold slogan, launched bow 'n arrow
I see once, I see many a times, I see Bengal's face

I love in Bengali, I love Bengal
Holding her hands I come to the whole world's folks.
Anything that's great I've humbly embraced
Water from seven seas and 13 rivers flows into Padma and Ganges
Bengal is my thrist-quencher, satiating last sip
I see once, I see many a times, I see Bengal's face.

I sing in Bengali, I sing of Bengal
I find my groove forever in this Bengal
I dream in Bengali, in Bengali I compose
Have walked this far on this Bengal's affectionate roads.
Bengal's my life's joy, Bengali soul's tune
I see once, I see many a times, I see Bengal's face.
I see once, I see many a times, I see Bengal's face.

Note: translated from Bengali. Original work by poet and singer Protul Mokhopadhyay

Nandikar celebrates 50

It is a momentous occasion that a theatre group is celebrating 50 years of existence. In a time where popular culture and media is replacing traditional forms of performing arts, it is a great achievement for Nandikar. I am personally very happy because I have been fortunate enough to know the creative brain behind this group Mr. Rudraprasad Sengupta and few of the leading characters in the group. On this historic day, on their birthday announcement card was a poem by a very famous Bengali poet Subhas Mukhopadhyay with a translation by Swatilekha Sengupta of Ghare Baire (a film by the Indian filmaker Satyajit Ray) fame. I took a humble attempt at doing my own translation. So here it is -

My precious, my jewel,
my dear child,
What would make you happy,
what would you take
this year?

Feed me
a cupful of milk daily
Buy me two earthen toys.

Rather -
Splash a burst of colors
into the sky
And
erasing all evil, spread on the ground
a peaceful world
for unending dreams.

Abol-Tabol (Weird and Random) Thoughts from a Pink Floyd fan

Alone on a mountain -
Vision obscured by clouds
I face the delicate sound of thunder.
Or is it the division bell that I hear?

Searching for a saucerful of secrets
in the land of relics,
I hit the wall guarded by
the piper at the gates of dawn.
"Ummagumma" is the codeword to
the house of the atom-heart mother,
into the dark side of the moon.

Down in the valley -
We are all animals
waiting for the final cut.

But up here at Zabriskie Point -
a momentary lapse of reason
can't meddle the lunatic in my head.
Not on any interstellar overdrive,
'm just marooned but comfortably numb.

Remembering all the early singles
My pulse beats for more.
First, it's psychedelic and space,
then the progressive rock works.
The Pink Floyd sound echoes
from Shine On to A Nice Pair.

As my trip gets into high gear
I wish you were here!!

© Sanjoy Haldar
Blogger's note:
I am a die-hard Pink Floyd fan - here is an attempt to capture the essence of a "trip" by using the band's album titles. Can you identify them? Marooned gave the band its only Grammy.

I titled it Abol-Tabol, Bengali for weird and random, after a famous "nonsense" rhyme book in Bengali by Sukumar Ray, father of the famous Indian film maker Satyajit Ray.

International Mother Language Day

Till last week, I had no idea that there is something like an International Mother Language Day and the fact that it had something to do with my mother tongue. UN had declared February 21st as the International Mothers Language Day in the early 90's in honor of the language movement that took place on February 21st of 1952 in Dhaka, Bangladesh, then East Pakistan. Facing the threat that Urdu will replace Bangla (English ethnonym Bengali) as the official and only language of the land, the college students protested and sacrificed their lives to defend the honor of their mother tongue. The sacrifices and the blood shed that took place on that day planted the seed for Bangladesh's eventual independence from Pakistan in 1971.

[It is worth noting here that UN proclaimed 2008 as the International Year of Languages. See the proclamation here.]

Today, I'm even more proud that I said my first words in Bengali. I am proud that I predominantly express my joy, sorrow and feelings in Bengali. Even though I can and do dream in English, I find more comfort in my mother tongue. So, when I got a call from one of my Bangladeshi friends in West Memphis to participate in a cultural program in honor of the language martyrs, I gladly accepted the invitation. It gave me immense pleasure to be able to partake in a special celebration of language.

The function started with a recitation from the Holy Quran followed by a passage from the Bhagavad Gita. It was befitting given the religious makeup of the two Bengal.

I recited Achintya Kumar Sengupta's Poob-Paschim (East-West) which I think is very appropriate for this occasion. During India's independence in 1947, Bengal was partioned by imperial forces into West Bengal (now a state in India) and East Bengal (also known as East Pakistan and now Bangladesh) and, over time, the diction and dream of the people from these two parts drifted apart. The poem reminds the reader that the Bangla language remains the common thread, the invisible glue that binds the people from these two countries. The poem reminds that our rivers carry the same water, our trees provide the same shade, our history and geography are one, our prayers are same, our enemy is common but, most importantly, our language is the same. We are the creator of the invisible friendship band, reflection of each others' souls. Despite the external differences, our feelings are the same, our language is the same. We are one.

You can listen to the recitation of Poob-Paschim recited by Kazi Sabyasachi, son of a famous Bengali poet Kazi Nazrul Islam (who coincidentally has been referenced in this poem.)

Sleepless in Memphis

I have an acute sleep problem. I don't have difficulty falling asleep, my problem is maintaining a quality sleep through the night due to a medical condition called sleep apnea. I use a CPAP to deal with it. Modern innovation in sleep therapy helps me go through the night so I can function the next day.

But then, I do have moments when I have difficulty falling asleep. This runs counter to how people close to me know me; I am known to fall asleep whenever and wherever. But it does happen that I'm up.

The poem in Bengali is about one of those nights when I am up.

© 2009 Sanjoy Haldar

Reflecting on Durga Puja 2008

This year's Durga Puja is behind us. It is the biggest celebration among the Bengali people. It has evolved from being a religious festival to a socio-cultural phenomenon - a time for joy, fun, and merriment. A time when gifts are exchanged, people get new clothes, travel (because schools and offices are closed) or make capital purchases for their homes with the bonus from employers.

But Durga Puja to me has always brought in mixed emotions. I am always disturbed by the striking contrast of the affluence and extravaganza with which it is celebrated, particularly in and around the metropolitan Calcutta, now Kolkata [the name changed after I had left the country; I find it difficult to say or write Kolkata. I still prefer Calcutta, my birthplace, the city where I had spent my formative years, the city where I moved from childhood to adulthood] and the stark poverty. So much of pomp and grandeur and yet, right outside the glamour of the mandaps [these are temporary structures put up to house the idols of goddess Durga and her four children] is darkness - both real and symbolic. One has to be blind not to see this or be desensitized not to feel it.

Two days before this year's puja, the Nano project [India's effort to come up with the USD 2000 car] moved out of West Bengal. This could have been Bengal's pride. People associated with the project lost their livelihood; some lost all their savings/investment, and most importantly, hope. Mind it; this happened right before the puja - the day when most factory workers typically get their bonuses and do the last minute shopping for their eagerly waiting kids. That one piece of new cloth brings in so much joy. I cried at the plight of these people. I could empathize with these people. I know suffering, the pain of starvation, the indignity of going home empty handed, the misery of deep loss. I only wish Mamata [the political leader behind the failure. Her name is a misnomer. Mamata in Bengali means kindness] had some kindness.

Continue reading...

My dada (the Bengali word for elder brother) sent me an email greetings for the Puja. He rightly characterized the changes in puja celebration these days. The smell of the "Shiuli" flowers (quintessential autumn flower was so common even in the city during this time of the year when we were growing up) is gone. Pizza and pasta have taken over Moghlai Khana (Bengali for royal dish from the Moghul period!?) that we used to savor during the puja days with our pocket money. Globalization and call centers have increased the divide between the rich and the poor. Competition among the local puja organizers is so intense these days that the organizers spend millions of dollars for a simple plaque, for bragging rights for the entire next year. Traditional mandap set-ups are replaced by novel themes representing current world events and trends. Innovation and creativity in material selection (e.g. rice, caps from Coke, etc.), lighting, and every aspect of the celebration. Yet, right outside the puja premise, there may be a poor kid in his tattered clothes sucking on a Popsicle stick thrown away by someone else. This also must be a theme - my dada sighed in his note. Not that this doesn't happen every day but it doesn't get so strikingly exposed. This is what so tormenting, heart wrenching about Durga Puja.

We celebrated Puja in Memphis in our own way - the "Twenty-Twenty" equivalent of Cricket. Life in the fast lane (or is it so? do we small-towner NRIs love to think) forced us to squeeze five days of puja into one and that too after the actual puja is over. Convenience of weekend rules! Idiosyncrasies (where the priest won't do the puja) and availability of rental space all adds to the planning challenge. Despite that, we had fun. And to allow time for the ladies to show their latest acquisitions (Saree and ornaments) there was a "break" between the daytime puja and the evening event. We even had an evening cultural program for the local Bongs to showcase their talent and to claim that they are still in touch with the Bengali culture, often at the cost of completely alienating the audience. It is high time for some of these long time performers to retire. [By the way, why can't we learn from Bengal's pride Sourav who declared his retirement from International Cricket on the day of the Ashtami (8th day of the puja)?]

Since, Durga puja is a time to spend with your family and friends, a deep void in our lives re-surfaced. Moments like these, times of celebrations like this revive the memory of gifts that are lost forever. One craves for that piece of one's heart that is carved out with no treatment known to mankind to heal.

Top right is my reflection in Bengali of how the puja break this year was spent. Click on the image to get a more legible version.
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© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar

The Eye of a Photographer

This poem is inspired by a series of photographs I saw in a catalog that best exemplifies what the eye of a photographer looks for, who a photographer essentially is. Photography is a passion of mine and I agreed with what the images had to say. This effort is a result of my appreciation of that body of work.

Please click on the image for a larger view.

© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar

Night on the Island

Please click on the image to the left to get a legible copy. [Note: I haven't yet figured out how to over come this one limitation of the site to post work in a foreign language.]

This is a translation of Pablo Neruda's poem Night on the Island from the collection The Captain's Verses. I translated it while relaxing at a local bookstore before Valentine's Day and read it to my wife on Valentine's Day. Later, while I was visiting my parents in India, my dad's friend, poet and professor Sushanta Basu changed few words to make it somewhat palatable.

Some learning happened while he was going through my writing with a professorial touch. He commented that translation is not an easy thing. Then he quoted a very famous Bengali poet Buddhadev Basu as saying that translation is like a French girl - if she is good looking then she isn't following the rules of normal social conduct, if she is, then most likely she isn't attractive enough. The same principle, according to him, applies to translations of poetic work. If the translator is trying to stay too close to the original, s/he may lose its poetic essence and the translated work becomes a prose. The key is to maintain balance.

Later that evening, my uncle Sona Kaku, who is a poet and member of a poetic society in south Calcutta, told me that I should concentrate on writing original than trying to translate. However, Pablo Neruda being one of my favorite poets, I decided to post the translation that I did to kill time even if it may have lost the poetic brilliance that the original Spanish verse may have portrayed.

© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar