Poetry in prose: Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

Translated by Rawnaque Mirashdar

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Majority of the short poems incorporated in this book had been published in Bangadarshan previously. One “Jole Phul” was published in Bhramar; and two other written during my early years, were published in subsequent times.

If there is any lack that Bangla Literature carries, no such shortage of lyrical poetries in our terrain. From the time of Bidyapati until now, our poets have been showering us with lyrics. In such a case, I apprehend reprinting these few lyrical verses would only lead to exasperation among the readers. There was no necessity for this dew to be dropped in such a vast ocean; and so was there no intention from my side; and maybe that was the reason behind not reprinting them all these years.

Then why did I get involved in such a brazen venture now? Once Bangadarshan received a letter mentioning not all poetries published in Bangadarshan have been reprinted yet, and the writer of the letter is willing enough to offer reprinting them. You may think one could rejoice in such mystery! Well, to me it was the calling to forge my own path to avoid any kind of future collision. Which brought about this small nuisance to my readers. Especially, there is no new sin in preaching the ones already preached. If I have been convicted before for reaching the public with my repositories of writing, and if I have been forgiven for such a crime, I believe another such crime can be forgiven one more time.

This anthology accommodates three prose pieces alongside poetry. If I am asked why, I will not be able to clarify this decision well. However, I doubt this tradition we have obeyed until now that poetry must only be written in the form of verses. I have faith that others, too, have realized verses are not the only form of poetry. Sometimes, prose outweighs metrical composition in proper situations. Depending on subject matter verse can be suitable for poetry; however, so many other matters demand the usage of non-rhythmic prose. Verses become meaningful only where the language falls into rhythm with the glory of sentiment willingly by itself. Otherwise, sporting metrics for the sake of becoming a poet is barely a comic. The accommodation of these three proses in a poetry book particularly serves this purpose to exemplify the justified usage of such language. Some may say, there is no poetry in prose – it cannot be called one. I will not refute that argument. I can only say, as much as my prose is devoid of poetry, so are my poems. Hence, there should not be any conflict to compare the two.

Whatever the take on my other poems, the two early poems added here cannot plead for any forgiveness. Those two hold no quality. They are bleak, oblique, and nonsensically childish. They first got publicized when I was in college. One of my professors described them as “enigma” due to their obscurity, not that he said something wrong. That first version cannot be found nowadays; even I myself have destroyed many of the copies. So now, some of my friends, became fondly curious to read my early poetry. These two poems are reprinted to their satisfaction.

Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay
1878

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Clouds.

I shall not shower rain. What pleasure shall it be bringing to me? Treasure in the rain is only for thee. And what does your pleasure necessitate for me?

Behold, don’t I endure enough suffering? This flaming strike that my mighty chest carries invariably, it pleases one’s eyes, and can burn down cities. I, the bearer of flames; who else than me?

Witness, how restless the wind keeps me making! With no sense of its course, the wind is gusting all free. I am water-replete, beyond the push of the wind!

Fear not, I shall be showering rain; the earth will be green. Revere me!

Fear not, if my thunder rumbles too deep! When I thud on a bellowing spree; trembling the leaves, springing the branches, when I thud on a rumbling spree, in Indra’s bosom swayed are the Mandar’s rosary beads, forest then trembles, and caverns howl in glee. Don’t you overhear my thunder, while the beasts are being killed, you will fear me.

Of course, I shall shower rain! Look how the freshly flowers are glancing heavenward, praying for a droplet to be dripped. Who other than me, will water their fair fragrant body?

Of course, I shall shower rain! The withered rivers still need drenching. When rivers brim with blessings and rush to the sea, who wouldn’t want to rain watching this staggering beauty?

Or I shall not shower rain. That sinful woman has sullied my name, saying “This merciless God no longer contains”. No, I shall not shower rain!

Look how this peasant blames me for water dripping through his weary ceiling! How else could he be plowing without rain? I, the bearer of rain, had given life to him. Son, I shall not shower rain.

Then it comes back to me, “Mandang mandang nudati pabanascanukulo jatha twa? Bamshchayang nadati madhurschatakaste sagarbh:” Where Kalidas was my worshiper, how shall I not rain in these plains? As I say, I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers; none other than Shelly knew what those heavy words meant. Like me, his heart flows a fire, electric! His gift, the electric!

I, the Menace! As I enshroud the skies with a blackening haze, and set the blackened skies ablaze, who can bear my frowning grimace? This dooming fire in my heart, then, scorches the earth in every blink of the gaze. Immovables hover, the earth starts to quiver, as I breathe down its neck.

Yet again, how beautiful I am! When I sail through the west skies on red sunsets and spread golds over the golden waves, witnessing me who does not lose oneself! How bewitching my wandering is on the wafting wind, in the crystal skies, moonlit. Listen, oh earthly beings! I am magnificent; call me the same!

One more thing is left; I shall be showering rain once it is said. There is this one fine woman on earth, who has recently stolen my heart. Echo is her name; she lives in a mountain cave. She speaks to me so sweet, to every rumble that I make! It feels like she may be in love with me. With every word of hers, I am well pleased. Can one of you ask her hand for me in marriage?

Rain

Let us descend – the monsoon is here – Let us descend.

Oh, the tiny droplets we are! Alone, neither can we lave the withered face of a tiny flower bud, nor can we fill the petite heart of a Jasmine afar. But take us for the thousands, and millions and countless droplets we are – then we flood the mother earth. Who is tiny now!

Look, frail is the one, alone and weak. One becomes trifling, devoid of unity. Behold my brethren, let none of us go down there by himself – you will be shriveled by the sun midway – so let us, droplets, and bubbles, go down in millions of thousands, and let the astounding earth inundate.

We shall flood the earth. We shall descend onto the land taming the mountain crests, stepping on its mighty chests, we shall downpour as crystals on streaming lakes. Brimming the empty hearts of rivers sullen, and draping the rivers with fine garments, we shall uproar upon the surging waves and drive our thunder carriage. Come, let us pour.

Who will be waging war – Wind? We shall travel the world on its gusty shoulders. In this pouring strife, the wind is here merely the knight; on its aid, we make earth and water wed. With its help we drift the quaint rural manors and ships well anchored away to the shore. On its gusty shoulders, we seep through the windows of the daily commoners. We drench the freshly made beds of the fair maids – and sink into the body of the sleeping beauty. The wind? A slave of ours the wind is.

Yet mate, do not dare go down there alone – strength lies in unity; or else we are none. Come now – tiny droplets of rain – yet the harvest giver, the keeper of life. Float the river boats now, trades will then thrive. Nourish the forest – the wild shall survive. We, the tiny droplets of rain – who else comes equal to us? It is us who keep the world alive.

Then come, come on my mark roaring, the soaring blue clouds! Mother of all thunder! Come Mother, unfurling the horizon, fading the light! Come now, my blood-bound sisters with beaming delight. We will descend onto the earth, rumbling, laughing, and dancing with mirth! And you, the soul piercing thunderbolt, you too now resound, who else can fascinate this joyous roaring fete like you! You too want to land on the ground? Then strike the sierras and burn the palaces where the vain Gods are found. Just spare these giving harvests – we are here to save the rest. Do not hurt the small – we small raindrops – for the small we take great pains.

Look, how the world is at its gaiety, seeing us! Woodside swaying, river streams flowing, harvest-bowing, farmers plowing – only the village wives are running to save their dried pickles. Sinful woman! Leave one or two for us to have! Drench, drench this whore’s dress!

We may be water by nature, but we know the tidbits here. We poke holes in the ceilings of people and peep through the holes to watch the couples. The roads pretty brides take to carry water, we make them muddy and slippery. Washing away the honey from the flowers, we snatch the living from the bee. Finding an open stall, we melt the confectionaries. Drenching the dried clothes, we keep the launderers busy. Seeing ablutions being carried, we ruin the caste of the fake Brahmins. Are we less than any man? You too admit – we are witty!

Well, let it be – witness our strength! Witness how we build new land washing away the mountains, the valleys, the provinces, and the dry terrains. We will overflood the emaciated rivers, turn them into everlasting earth flooding endless wave-bulging water giantesses. We will let some people die and some people live, we will let some ships sink and some ships float adrift; we will make the earth water filled – yet we are so small! Who else is as tiny as we are? Who else is as strong?

Fireflies

Why fireflies are our target of ridicule, it remains beyond my understanding. It feels like since we have the existence of luminary suns and moons, so much scorn has been given to the fireflies. Wherever a man of lacking quality is to be ridiculed, fireflies become refuge. Yet all I see is light in fireflies, luminous or faint; it is there, where we have neither. Whose ally have I lit being born in this darkness? Who assured me through this dark wilderness, through danger, through misery – there, there a light is beaming, walk this path following that light? Darkness! This world is cloaked in darkness, with no paths clear around it! When the moon and sun light up the sky, we can walk, or else we cannot! Even the moon and sun leave the sky in the perilous time of clouds and thunder. They utter as manmade machinations “Hora non numero nisi serences!” Only you, firefly, the trifling, the ridiculed, easily killed, ever injured – who shows up through the darkness of times. You are the light in the darkness. You are whom I rather love.

You are whom I love, as you flutter your scanty light through the deepest nights, somewhat the same as I; you are in the dark; I too, my brother, in deep darkness. Is darkness nothing to be rejoiced? You have wandered enough through the dark; tell me, when the nightly clouds cover the earth; a hesitant monsoon stands affront; flowers forget to blossom, no blue in the skies, and the earth has lost its light; tell me, is there nothing to take joy from? In that pitch black night? Instead of that insufferable screeching life under scorching daylight, it’s you and the quiet. It’s you on the leaven, dormant greens, in the dark; tell me if there is no joy in such!

I say there is! Or else on what faith you kept lighting up those flood-torn nights; what kept me torching through our collective plight, with our slightest light? Yes, joy, there is, the pleasure of gliding in the dark, the pleasure of burning in sufferings, beyond notice, there is. They say it’s hard to understand – the mystery of life, its dreaded enigma – being so small, why do you burn, why do I burn being so small! Does it ever cross your mind? It surely does mine. If not, you are happy. Earthly worms, you and I – you are happy – yet for what sin do I owe is suffering? Does it ever cross your mind, why do you not happen to be the mighty sun, oh, the ocean waves under the gleaming sky so serene, why not the nebula, the stars, the planets, or the comet with a burning trace, but a lowly firefly?

Why does the One who created all, given us light, make one so mighty and one so small? Wandering so long did you find any answer at all? Whether you found it or not, I found my righteous place given by the Gods only for the darkest nights. It’s the same light, you, and the sun, both sent from above, yet you are only meant for the rainy nights; I am only meant for the rainy nights. Let us then mourn.

Let us then mourn – what has bound us with this everpour? Why is there no place for us in springtime, in lunar skies, in heavenly galore? Spring comes for the merry ones; so does the moon, for the secured; – and the downpour for you, for us, for the wretched and poor. My heart wants to mourn, yet I won’t. Blameless is the God who conceals the world, for us; we – not an afterthought! If this, this eternal bond, is at his will, let us treasure this darkness, for the sake of Lord! So come, feel the grasp of the gruesome shadows of the countless universes under these freshly cloud-glooming! Come, hearing the scorn of the foredoomed thunder, remember that time kills all things. A world so treacherous, yet only fleeting. A fleeting you, and a fleeting I, if we were sent for the pour, let us not cry. If we were meant for the pour, let us burn through the sufferings in quiet.

Or else, come, let us die. You die carrying the burden of your flickering lights, and carrying the light of hope, so do I. I threw myself in the flame of hope, I burned so many times; yet I never died. I know hope, the flaming shackles, that I cannot untie! Hope has set us aflame just to shed this darkness some light. But alas, we, the fireflies! Our measly light is no good in front of this darkest swelling tide! Then let it be! Let your fleeting flame be extinguished in a blooming forest deep; let my fleeting flame be extinguished in flood or famine or misery and outcry!

Man-firefly!

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