Tarapada Roy (1936-2007)
Ghosts and Humans
A common ghost asked another:
“Tell me, do you believe in humans?
Do you think they exist?”
The second ghost, a timorous kind,
Seemed to shudder at the question.
Then, glancing here and there, muttered
“Must you ask such things after nightfall?”
The first ghost prodded,
“This means you do believe in humans,
You are afraid of them, consider them extant”.
The second ghost conceded, saying
“Is there a way not to believe in them?
Just today, hordes of them
Crammed the Maidan for a meeting,
Millions daily throng the roads, shops,
Strolling about, working, looking for work,
Laughing, crying, loving, arguing…”
Before he could finish, the first one,
Stealing his words, probed pointedly,
“But how do you know they are human?
Have you peered inside any of them?
Have you found any trace of their
Human essence, soul, conscience?”
The second ghost said, cautiously,
“Have not been so close, have not dared”.
The first ghost, with a clinch, stated
“Then, in future, don’t rush to
Conclude that there are humans,
And you have seen them.”
Translated from ‘Bhut O Manush’.
**
History of Butterflies
It is not yet time to write the long history of
Friendship between red and green butterflies.
They should be under strict observation all the time
To see if they have stayed pally with each other
Or, if there has been a lapse in their easy bond.
Before one writes the history of butterflies,
One must, if need be, have a precise discussion
With the grass flower and the foliage.
For, they naturally know how butterflies are.
They are in the company of butterflies day in and out.
So, the grass flower and the foliage should
Be consulted before one is to start upon
The history of butterflies.
If required, a request must be made to
The grass flower and the foliage
To write the history of butterflies.
Translated from ‘Projapotir Itihash’
**
At Dawn
The first bird of dawn was yet to sing,
When, from the high leaf of a mango tree
A drop of dew suddenly fell
Softly on a mango leaf lying low.
The low leaf, below a dense foliage,
And the weight of a myna’s nest,
Had never, even in dreams, dreamt
That he would receive a drop of dew.
The mango leaf, hanging low,
Shivered, touched by the dew, and
What a surprise! The first bird
Sang the dawn song, at that very moment.
Translated from ‘Bhorbela’
Evening Star
Our beloved poet hasn’t written
A memorable poem for a long time,
It has been a while that we welled up
Reading a work by our dearest author,
Our endeared team has not won
A single game in the near past,
Our boss has not smiled at us
For many many days now.
Did any of us have the slightest idea
That our days would come to this?
If so, would our gardenia be
So thick with bloom this summer?
If so, would our evening star,
Shine so bright out there?
Translated from ‘Amader Sondhyatara’
**
We, who have eaten our days
We, who have eaten our days
We, who must earn to eat each day,
We, who have eaten up thousands of days,
Days of rain, cloud and those fenced by the fog,
Days of keen waiting on the railway platform,
Days of having to depart, head lowered like a thief,
Days of hollow belly, torn slippers, and sweaty labour,
Days that hang above the sylvan forest beyond the blue hills,
Days mirrored on the river, and among blossoms in boss’ garden,
Days that float with the boat on the tip of white waves,
Days of wandering in blazing, sun-burnt streets,
Days full of gregarious, crackling, noisy laughter,
Days of sudden sunlight on the balcony in the south.
If one probes, or asks, how did
We bring those days; in what way,
We would be stuck for an answer and
Wouldn’t be able to offer a clear reason;
How did we bring about the days,
We, who earn and eat each day,
How we earn and eat each day.
Translated from ‘Din Ani Din Khai’.
******
Tarapada Roy (1936-2007) was born in undivided Bengal before he came to Kolkata in the 1950s, and lived there till his death. He was a prolific writer and his stories and sketches, mostly humorous, including those honouring the art of intoxication, are still read with relish. He also wrote for young adults. Among his non-fiction, his travelogue Neel Digonte Tokhon Majik (It was Magic at the Blue Horizon) is a classic of the genre. He was also a charming raconteur and regaled listeners and fellow writers both in Calcutta and elsewhere. His first collection of poems was published in 1960 but he remained under the shadow of his charismatic peers till late in his life. It would not be an exaggeration to say that for much of his working life, the poet Tarapada got assailed by the humourist Tarapada. In his poems, he is often unencumbered by any need to sound cerebral; he rather sings the song of the banal, finds felicity in the underseen, and flourish in the minor notes of irony that surround us. Sometimes, there is also an unselfconscious longing for the perseverance of nature in the drab and droll life of the city. Tarapada Roy’s poetry is only recently creeping out of the shadow it was pushed into, and he is posthumously emerging as a major modern poet. He has almost never been translated before.
The Translator Sayandeb Chowdhury teaches in the School of Interwoven Arts & Sciences, Krea University, India. His scholarly work has appeared in academic journals and anthologies published by Intellect, Routledge, Springer/Palgrave Macmillan and the university presses of Brussels, Amsterdam, and Manchester. He regularly writes for the cultural press, in both Bangla and English, and is the author of Uttam Kumar: A Life in Cinema (Bloomsbury, 2021). His most recent translations were published in Modern Poetry in Translation (3.2022) and Scroll (11.2023), both of poems by the late Marxist-modernist Bengali poet Birendra Chattopadhyay. More about his work and interests can be found in https://sayandeb.in/
Thanks to The Beacon for introducing readers tothis marvelous poet