Monday, April 10, 2023

Reports on stagnancy Yashodhara Ray Chaudhuri



In a small closed room 
there should be an intense 
display of mockery 
and souls shut and steeped 
in jealousy would keep singing 
their own songs in 
high and low pitched voices

such are the clauses of these meetings. 

Around one small pit 
they sit close cremating their own dignity 
watching the person next to them 
with eyes glittering green in envy 
such is the norm in these dark times. 

Who is baiting whom 
and to surge how far ahead
who caught hold of whom
to make a gain… 

is the only data to thirst for, 
to learn in desperation. 

But no one divulges a thing. 

Deeply buried in their own selves
neither do they see, nor do they hear. 

They are frantically in search of 
the touch of Midas. 

At the backstreets each of them 
is looking for an uncrowded road 
and a blue canopy under the sky. 

Inside a small room huddling together 
is a flock of unhappy people,
 imprisoned to the core. 

The blue sky lies scattered 
far, far from them.

 imprisoned to the core. 

The blue sky lies scattered 
far far from them. 

Translated by Amanita Sen

Wednesday, September 7, 2022

baddhata samachar, translated by Amanita Sen

 Reports on stagnancy

Yashodhara Ray Chaudhuri In a small closed room closed souls steeped in jealousy would keep singing their own songs in high and low pitched voices .. such are the clauses of these meetings. Around one small pit they sit close cremating their own honour watching the person next to them with eyes glittering green in envy such is the norm in these dark times. Who is baiting whom and to surge how far who caught hold of whom to make a gain… is the only data to thirst for, to learn in desperation. But no one divulges a thing. Deeply buried in their own selves neither do they see, nor do they hear. They are frantically in search of the touch of Midas. At the backstreets each of them is looking for an uncrowded road and a blue canopy under the sky. Inside a small room huddling together is a flock of unhappy people, imprisoned to the core. The blue sky lies scattered far, far from them. Translated by Amanita Sen


বদ্ধতা সমাচার
যশোধরা রায়চৌধুরী
একটাই ছোট ঘরে
উগরে দিচ্ছে তীব্র তামাশা এবং ঈর্ষাজ্বরে
বদ্ধ আত্মা নিজেদের গান উঁচুনিচু আর সরুমোটা সব স্বরে
… এটাই এসব সম্মেলনের শর্ত।
একটাই ছোট গর্ত
পাশাপাশি বসে প্রত্যেকে নিজ সম্মান সৎকারে
পাশের লোককে দেখছে সবুজ -কালো আলোজ্বলা চোখে
এটাই এখন কৃতকৃত্য ত, অন্ধকারের ঝোঁকে
কে কোথায় কী কী ছেপে ফেলল ও
কতটা এগিয়ে গেল
কে কোথায় কাকে পাকড়াও করে
নিয়ে নিল সব সুধা
এটাই এখন সকলের প্রিয় তৃষ্ণা , জানার ক্ষুধা
কেউ কিছু বলছে না।
প্রত্যেকে আছে নিজের ভেতরে গোঁজা।
নেই কোন দেখা, শোনা।
প্রত্যেকে শুধু খুঁজছে কোথায় আপন মনের সোনা।
প্রত্যেকে শুধু শুঁড়িপথ ঢুঁড়ে ফাঁকা পথ পেতে চাইছে
খোলা আকাশের নিচে বিশাল এক নীলাভ চাঁদোয়া খুঁজছে
একটাই ছোট ঘরে
খুব ঘেঁষাঘেঁষি করে
একদল খুব অসুখী মানুষ বন্দিশালার কেন্দ্রে
আটকে রয়েছে ...। নীলাভ আকাশ কতদূরে আছে ছেতরে।

Tuesday, August 2, 2022

Khato series translated by Chirayata Chakrabarty

 বাড়ি যাব/ যশোধরা রায়চৌধুরী


রাশি রাশি ঢেউ এসে বলে তাকে বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব

আকাশের পেলব নীলের মধ্যে ফুটে ওঠা রোদ্দুরও বলেছে

বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব আমি

একদা নিবিড় দিনে প্রেমিকের উষ্ণতার হাত

সেও ত বাড়ির লোভ দেখিয়েছে তাকে


বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব আমি


ঘুমের ভেতরে যেন ভেঙে পড়ে ঝুপ ঝুপ পাড়

সরু দড়ি ধরে আর বাঁশের সেতুটি ধরে পারাপার হয়

মধ্যে তীক্ষ্ণ নদী ভেসে যাওয়া পাথর পাথর

বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব এই সেতু পার হলে বাড়ি


ঘুমের ভেতরে যেন দিকে দিকে আগুন জ্বলেছে

তুমুল আকাশ থেকে বার বার এল বজ্রপাত

পুরনো হারানো ঘর নব নব ঘর হারানোকে

জাগিয়ে উজিয়ে দিয়ে পথ করে দিয়ে চলে গেছে


এই ত আবার আমি উদবাস্তু হয়েছি , পথে পথে

এই ত আবার আমি কেঁদে কেঁদে ফিরেছি ভিক্ষায়

বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব বাড়ি যাব বলে



I'll go home


Yashodhara Ray Chaudhuri

( Translated by Chirayata Chakrabarty)


 Swarms of waves come, to tell her - let's go home, let's go home

 Slivers of the sun, that peep through the mellow blue sky

Tell her : Let's go home, please, let's go home


 Her lover's warm hands in a tender moment

  They tempted her with the dream of a home

 Let's go home, let's go home, let's go home


 The banks, keeled over, sink in her sleep

 Hold on to the fragile ropes, cross the bamboo pool

an edged river, jagged rocks, washed away

But... cross it, and you're home



In her sleep, flames surround her

The sky splits with lightning

An old homelessness fans and awakens a new one

It parts a way, and leaves

I am a refugee again, on the streets

I return, in tears, to beg

I'll go home, I'll go home, I'll go homel


ক্ষত

যতটা বেদনা তুলতে পার

তত নিচে যাবে কুয়োটির

যত নিচে চলে যাচ্ছে দড়ি

বালতি তত বেদনা তুলেছে

ওঠা আর পড়া আর শেষ অব্দি যাওয়া...

 

এই লেখা বলে দেবে ক্ষত আজ কতটা গভীর

 

The Wound

 

The more agony you lift

The further you slip down the well

The further the rope descends

The more suffering the bucket draws

Rising and falling and moving till the end...

 

This writing will tell the depth of the wound.


 

শব্দ

 

শব্দ, আলোড়ন তুলত, যারা

আজ তারা বেদনা আনে না।

তারা আজ বেদনারহিত

বনেদি বাড়ির নীচে গ্যারাজের মধ্যে পরে আছে।

 

শব্দ ব্যাটারির মতো বসে গেছে। আমি তার সারানো জানি না।

 

আমি শুধু স্টার্ট দেওয়া জানি।

 

শব্দ গাড়ির মতো রয়ে গেছে। বিশাল, প্রাচিন।

পুরনো গাড়ির মতো, অনেক বিষন্ন স্মৃতি বুকে নিয়ে শব্দ বসে আছে।

 

শব্দ সেক্সেস মতো গাছে গাছে ফলে আছে। আর মধ্যবয়সের মতো শব্দ আর শেষই হচ্ছে না।

একদা যে অফুরন্ত ছিল

আজ সে ক্লান্তিকামি, বিষাদী... ও আজও আফুরান।

 

Words

 

Words, which used to stir and arouse

Do not provoke sorrow anymore.

They are sorrow-less

Lying in the garage of a blue-blooded household.

 

Words have broken down like car-battery.

I don't know how to repair them.

 

I only know how to start them up.

 

Words have remained as cars. Immense, ancient.

Like old cars, words sit immobile, with dejected memories in their chests.

 

Words hang like sex on trees. And

Like the middle-ages, words just don't come to an end.

Which used to be limitless

Are now tiresome, insipid... Still interminable.

 

 

ফিরে আসা

 

লেখার কাছে ফিরে আসতে হবে। টুকরো লেখা, আবিল লেখা,

                                                             মারাত্মক লেখা,

ভালোবাসার লেখা।

লেখা কাছে জোর করে নিজেকে ফেরাতে হয়। গরুর লেখা,

                                                             গলির লেখা,

মন্দিরের রাস্তার লেখা। ইঁট পাথরের লেখা। দোকানে সাজানো

                                                              পশরার লেখা।

নিজের কাছে ফিরে আসা যেন। অন্ধকার গেট ক্যাঁচ করে খুলে যায়।

                                                                   ভেতরে

রোদ্দুর ঢোকে না। তারপর এক চিলতে একটা উঠোন, আর সার সার

                                                                     বয়ামে

তেলে চুবনো আম।

এই ফিরে আসা।

এই অন্ধকারের পথ ধরে ধরে আলোর দিকে।

মন খারাপের পথ ধরে ধরে আনন্দের দিকে।

এখন এখন এখনের পথ ধরে ধরে অতীতের দিকে। সেই

                                                    অন্তহীন গতকালের

দিকে, যার ভেতরে পুরে রাখা আছে প্রাণভোমরার মতো আমাদের

                                                              মনের সমস্ত

উপাদান।

কেমিক্যাল ক, কেমিক্যাল খ।

মেশালেই ভুশভুশ ধোঁয়া, মেশালেই হই হই আগুন।

অথচ অন্য সময় দেখ, কেউ নেই কিছু নেই, ভোঁ। শুকনো

                                                           বাজির মশলা

আলাদা আলাদা ব্রাউন পেপারের ঠোঙা ভর্তি করে নিরুদবিগ্ন

                                                              পাশাপাশি রাখা।

 

 

 

Coming Back

 

Come back to the writing. The ones shattered, the ones murky,

                                                 Lethal writings,

writings of love.

 

Forcefully reel back to the writing. The ones of cattle,

                                      The ones of narrow lanes,

Writings of the street to a temple. Writings of brick and mortar. Writings of the assembled

                                                                          items for sale.

 

As if to return to one's own self. The unlit gate opens with a creak.

                                                    The sun isn't allowed

in there. A small yard follows, strewn with

                                 jars

of oily pickles of mango.

 

This kind of a return.

 

This way, blindly being led by the alley of darkness towards the light;

led to joy by the lanes of sorrow;

led to the past by the paths of now, now, now.

Towards that

          endless yesterday,

Which holds, like a thread of life, all the components of our minds.

 

Chemical X, Chemical Y.

Stir them up together,

Thickening smoke, a lively combustion.

Yet, at other times, nothingness, a hole, a vacuum;

or arrays of

         dry gun-powder

in separate brown paper bags,

       in carefree rows


Boudibaji Bishoyok translated by Shivaji Banerjee

Boudibajibishoyok

(the Sis-in-Law affair)  

This is the continent, where no light is ever shed.
Wrapped under light colored printed sharee
Deep within the blouse
where the purse is beholden
and the photo is inside.

"His name is Bablu"
The love, like the dark venom
kept secretly in the core
The love, like the warm dense lactate
kept in the depth of the breasts.
"Doesn't he look handsome?"
Maybe all men are flirtatious and crave for sex
Sucks all the sap, all the joy, peace and fidelity.
A storm in the bed
And he sucks money too
Love incarnated as Brother in law.
Did not want to be an infidel, but her man is incapable
Wasted the waist in an accident.
Wife is the only bread winner...
There is no escape for her
Twined she is in so many turns
No escape for her
"If he tells my man, what a shame
To avoid that, I dole him a lot"

Still, this forbidden story is not merely of destitution
Still, this forbidden story is not only about oppression, but
Something tender. In the train, the wife showed me the photo
drawing the purse out from the softness of the blossoms.
The dusky light on her face told, some amour are inevitable,
Only natural

Virtuous
Scandalous too.

Tuesday, December 14, 2021

three mahabharata series poems

 three mahabharata series poems

by Yasho


 

Translated from Bangla original byJharna Sanyal

Translator’s Note
The three poems herein situate three of the characters of the Mahabharata, Bhisma, Krsna and Kunti in our contemporary political and domestic world. Yashodhara Ray Chaudhury, the poet, demythifies the epic characters in her inimitable style.

Bhisma

That gentleman could understand everything but could do
nothing about anything. That gentleman with thick glasses,
read The Statesman  the whole day and  wrote letters :
Dear Editor
Why this abysmal rate of child mortality in our country…

His wife had a tough time meeting the two ends meet,
the girls had grown up; that gentleman could understand
everything but could do nothing  about anything.
Salt and pepper stubs on sunken cheeks, he was busy writing letters:
Dear Editor
Why this pathetic condition of women in our blasted nation…

He had spent his entire gratuity fund on the ornaments and furniture
for his daughters' wedding; his wife sighed as she had started knitting,
selling pickles and bori1…that gentleman could understand  everything
but could do nothing   about anything.
 
When the grandsons were admitted to English medium schools
and the two sons-in-law were scraping to meet the expenses,
to help the daughters save some money his wife herself
began doing the chores; – got ulcers on her toes, had cataract and 
her neck and hands – bare of ornaments.
 
Skeletal chest, loose dangling vest
even then that gentleman:
Dear Editor
Why is there arsenic in water? Why is the education system
of the third world so faulty, why is our inflation rate so high...
 
1Bori: Sun-dried lentil paste nuggets.
 

Krsna

No one looks forKrsna unless it's an emergency.
I am sound as ever, trustworthy and my own boss.
Such an agency as mine has only one USP: success.

You can't find any fault with that.  I am despondent at times.
I am Krsna, dark beyond any shade. Even if despondent, I carry on
with my karma. A seasoned diplomat. Shrewd and intelligent.
In all conflicts, as an envoy, I am hundred percent successful.
I enter war fields with a microphone in hand.
In the midst of an acute crisis, I initiate conversations.
I know once the conversation stops, dialogue comes to a standstill,
curfew, bombing, riots, blood and feud would follow
as inevitable consequences.
However, with all such efforts I couldn't ever stall any war.
Well, that's your karma. I am just an excuse.  Hari is for the poor.
I let all air their opinions on the flickering screen.
In this agency, karma is supreme.
As and when required, I provide women with attire; at times, I don’t.
Oh! How cool!
Despondent as I am, shattered within,
I look effective, successful, and unbeatable.
Krsnas should not be much involved. 

Kunti Aunty

We have hardly ever talked about Kunti aunty
as we will never write biographies of such
characters who merge with the foundation
of our lives and then may easily  be forgotten.
 
At the time of her marriage, Kunti aunty
was quite accomplished, had a Rabindra sangeet
degree as well. She was quite educated, ‘but didn’t
get the school job because she got  married.’
 
Kunti aunty had a well-shaped nose. A warm heart.
At the right age, she gave birth to five sons and took
good care of all. She played on the rooftop with her brothers’-
and – sisters-in law’s children – ‘touch n’go’, ‘crocodiles’ den’.
 
There were song rehearsals, anniversary Tagore plays,
a makeshift stage on a bed, bedcover screens pulled with string.
She treated us many a times to phuchka at the street crossings.
Whether there was anything else Kunti aunty did not do, – we can’t tell.
 
Who needs anything else? Are there any other human desires?
Children are not aware; they do not know what paleness is,
even we did not have any idea whether uncle loved her at all.
We could not make out anything from her face.
 
We couldn’t ever make out whether she had any anger or sorrow.
However, all these showed up in her breast cancer; and
suppressing all her ailments, she just fizzled out one day.


Friday, November 9, 2018

LOVE

Sadness is the only antiseptic
That makes love survive
What else is the option other than keeping it in a bottle sealed with cotton
Wrapped in a paper wrap
On which a label is glued with the word LOVE written in capitals


( Translated by Srubabati Goswami)

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

pir namaboli, translated by nandini sen

Pir Namaboli:
The Pious Man’s Holy Cloth:

Brain stops working. Adina Mosque,
The white car halts in front at ease.
Have you already seen the cold, the mustard field?
The extreme irritation and an uneven road.

Night sets in the Adina Mosque,
Dense and dark, pitch dark.
The lonely young man walks and walks inside the stones.
The yellow shawl wraps him.
Rising his sharp, intense eyes he asks,
“Shall I narrate the history?’
Climbing the stairwells up,
Once again climbing them down.
Stones only stones.
Hindu temple structure;
Muslim King.
Take a keen look inside.
Handsome guide.

Oh! Happy even without taking his fees.
Yellow cloth with Hindu scriptures.
‘Come back! Visit the nearby cheap restaurant.’
“What’s your name?”
‘Tarique Muhammad.’ Is the shy answer.

(I never translate other's poems without taking their permission...In this case I have fallen in love with the poem of Yashodhara Ray Chaudhuri . I know she would forgive me when she discovers I have translated her poem in a stroke. This is for our international members to depict the current situation-world wide??- Nandini Sen)