Introspective Mind

The song of distant meadows !!

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 29 Aug 2025 10:25:00 +0000

In my sparkling youth, on a delightful day of the college picnic, an ever-smiling teacher said to me "In your stubborn state, you don't seem to allow your eyes to get wet; aren’t you, really?" I don't remember what I said that day. However, when I think back to that old time today, I feel like I would have tears in my eyes if I heard the song on those early days; and, mto ne very candid, even today, my eyes get wet often when I listen to that song.

A decade before I was born, a song was written by Shri Salil Chowdhury, and, with the immaculate rendition of the song by Shrimati Utpala Sen, it had been immortalized in hearts of music lovers. When I heard the song as a child, my heart would feel a pain. Although, it was not age to understand its contents and spirit, but it qould leave a deep imprint of agony in my heart. When I grew up, with countless loss and defeat in life, the melody of the wailing soul and the words signifying such, lead to let open the mind as a strange confluence of a pure urge emerging out from within the pain. It does not speak about the worldly desires and hardships of life, not the stale balance sheet of victory and defeat; it is the source of great human truth. This pain is blended with the decayed vibration of a fainting humanity. Even today, when I listen to the song, I feel the same. I am involuntarily torn into pieces by the rhythmic world of childhood dreams. What a spotless stream of pain in the heart, what a wonderful image of peace in the all-lost sky; This infinite expanse is the inexhaustible dream of life in the core and the selfless sacrifice of memories that weave panels around it.

Such simple expression is possible only in the mother tongue. Yet, I dream about many more to read it, feel the flow of his poetry, the beauty of the other world of his thoughts. So I attempt its transliteration to the best of my ability.

Oh! The songs of those distant meadows!

The ballads of wild pastures!

When in a pensive corner of the day

Do they fade into a smudged horizon?

How do they set the sky aflame?

How do dreams of those moist days

Let my unharvested soul weep in silence?

In wantonly flow of southern breeze

What leafless words do I listen to?

In calm presence of mind

I feel loosing these tunes

In unspoken tale of someone’s pain

As if rustling leaves swirl and cry

In sweeping wind of an autumn dusk

Closing my tired wings

I seek for a nest to rest

I crave for the bank

In endless expanse of a fierce stream

Hours go in futile dreams

Sailing thoughts to drift and far

And, my soul finds solace in

Trifling means of an endless journey

I haven’t aspired anything more

But to string sweet melodies for

To pour in the urn of this world

In lonely corner of my room.

Yet, delusions of such dreams

Lay waste to the feeble nest

And, are swept away

By a dark tempest; forever.

The original song in Bengali is also given below :--

প্রান্তরের ও গান আমার

মেঠো সুরের গান আমার

হারিয়ে গেল কোন বেলায়

আকাশে আগুন জ্বালায়

মেঘলা দিনের স্বপন আমার

ফসলবিহীন মন কাঁদায়

মাঝে মাঝে উদাস হাওয়ায়

এলোমেলো কী যে শুনি

বুঝি কাহার ব্যথার ছোঁয়ায়

হারায় আমার সুরের ধ্বনি

ঝড়ের হাওয়ায় পাতার মতন

ঝরিয়া যায় যায় যায় যায়

ক্লান্ত ডানায় নীড় খুঁজি

অথৈ নদীর তীর খুঁজি

শুধুই আমার যায় বেলা

ভাসায়ে আশার ভেলা

অন্তবিহীন পথের পুঁজি

অন্তরেরই সান্ত্বনায়

আমি তো চাহি নি কিছুই

শুধু আপন নীড়ের ছায়ায়

আপন বীণার সুরে ভুবন

ভরে দিতে প্রেমের মায়ায়

প্রেমের মায়ায় ভাঙিল সে ঘর

ঝড়ের বায় হায় হায় হায়

Emon dine taare bola jay (এমন দিনে তারে বলা যায়)

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sun, 18 Aug 2024 08:30:00 +0000

Incessant rain has been there today since the dawn. This brings a lot delight.

The passage of the seasons has a close connection with the human mind. I did not notice if it follow any particular trend or not. Like many others, monsoon is my favorite season. But, the second season on my list of favorites is summer. In this tropical country, people with such eccentric preferences are not to be found very often. Still, that's truly my preference. Passing through autumn and spring, my last favorite season is winter. Look, how strange is my choice. Leave aside these futile discussions. Let me share uou, which I so earnestly wish to tell. want to say.

Monsoon is truly my favorite season. To be honest, rain is always delightful to me. I love eben raining in other seasons also. However, my obsession with monsoon, the way it binds my mind, my heart, is a refined feeling.

The abundance of sky, quiet flowing of gentle breeze, each piece of nature today is welcoming those dense husky clouds. Sometimes its voice is a sharp cry, sometimes its tune carries a the swings of dirge. Raindrops set musical tone upon the leaves. No rush is here, none has any haste; it has inspired me to pause and quietly gaze on. Those clouds have not brought any letter today. Today let them sing only. From a corner to another, let them cut through the breast of the sky, and in their procession, let them make the surroundings cry with their music of pain. What do they talk about, what is their pain; how have they accumulated so much of tears? Whom they sacrifice all these pains before?

So many secrets inside me are seeking release today. They want to sit in front of the door of the soul even once. As if I shall not have no more secrets in me today. I will no longer be away from my inner self. Everything that exists today is ours only. Emotions drench those newly born branches and embrace them firmly. Only you and I are alone in this darkness; holding hand in hand, sitting face to face, we float through the endless time in utter silence. Only to glrify the confluence of our muted pain.

Gurudev's song “Emon dine taare bola jay” hums on in my empty head…long time back, I translated it in English. Will you like to read?

Veiled in a yasmak of tempestuous streak of raining,

Such is the day,

When I feel ease to confide her;

Such is the moment,

Saturated in thunderous roar of foaming nimbus,

That spreads a blanket of darkness over the sky,

When I can let my soul lay bare before her.

Amidst gentle silence pervading all over

None can eavesdrop on our whispering exchanges;

Only two of us, facing each other,

Engrossed in deep agony,

Shall witness endless raining alone,

As if the world is left with none else around

Futile are the embraces of those worldly bonds

Futile are the dins of the day

It is only for eyes to feel the bliss

In sipping nectar of beholding eyes

And, souls to caress and feel each other,

While the rest evaporates into utter darkness.

Whom would it harm,

If I can shed bits of my pain?

Confined to a corner of the room amidst deep shower,

If I can convey me to her,;

How does it concern anyone else?

In presence of overflowing stream of rain

And, occasional sparkles of lightening

It seems that those emotions,

Which have so long been lying

Secreted within the soul

Can be shared just in these moments,

Along such tempestuous streak of raining.

The original song of Tagore in Bengali:--

এমন দিনে তারে বলা যায়,

এমন ঘনঘোর বরিষায়।

এমন দিনে মন খোলা যায়

এমন মেঘস্বরে বাদল-ঝরঝরে

তপনহীন ঘন তমসায়॥

সে কথা শুনিবে না কেহ আর,

নিভৃত নির্জন চারি ধার।

দুজনে মুখোমুখি গভীর দুখে দুখি,

আকাশে জল ঝরে অনিবার

জগতে কেহ যেন নাহি আর॥

সমাজ সংসার মিছে সব,

মিছে এ জীবনের কলরব।

কেবল আঁখি দিয়ে আঁখির সুধা পিয়ে

হৃদয় দিয়ে হৃদি অনুভব–

আঁধারে মিশে গেছে আর সব॥

তাহাতে এ জগতে ক্ষতি কার

নামাতে পারি যদি মনোভার।

শ্রাবণবরিষনে একদা গৃহকোণে

দু কথা বলি যদি কাছে তার

তাহাতে আসে যাবে কিবা কার॥

ব্যাকুল বেগে আজি বহে বায়,

বিজুলি থেকে থেকে চমকায়।

যে কথা এ জীবনে

রহিয়া গেল মনে

সে কথা আজি যেন বলা যায়–

এমন ঘনঘোর বরিষায়॥

Life

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 23 May 2024 15:31:00 +0000

It stretches the day a little longer

Memories of the Heaven’s blue

Still not died, still not dried up;

The sky is dust of gold

Still alluring

Floating in those vacant eyes

For a few moments left;

The life is a gem,

Spoilt by a failed palmist,

The band of clouds

Over the wings of horizon

Crimson—a stream of blood—

Through the darkness of Hell

Whispering tale of death-eaters;

A dream yet survives

To be there, to be there,

Carrying wounds,

Scars on the path

On those weary feet;

Still a dream survives,

To be there, to be there,

Miles away the home is peace.

Patience !

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 05 Nov 2021 06:52:00 +0000

The beginning is mysterious

The end fascinates

I see its flight

The projectile of life….

The own dreams, follies and a few deeds…

It lifts, soars high and touches the top

And descends….doesn’t fall…

A gradual descent…almost flat now

Like the pebble dancing upon

The smooth face of pool

Kissing and flying, both transient…

The end is beautiful..

Learning the best of it….

The silence of life

The silence is signature of patience

Drawing, designing, painting it

In the best for a final go.

Awakening....

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 26 Dec 2020 06:22:00 +0000

This is an attempt to translate a beautiful poem written in Bengali by my childhood friend and life partner, Lopamudra...

Candles walk in…arrayed in the darkness

Dumb, deadened, yet aflame in dull habit;

Defeat is not the fire, a social identity,

Yet, the faith is not a piece for all.

The nature is all set to be bankrupt,

Why still is such intense search for lies?

The debt has outgrown repaying strength of life.

In this yellow wilted ancient age,

Sins appear, one by one…candles in hand

Alike baby snakes; venom trickles down the wretched spine,

The mighty curled snake of revelation

Wakes up from a deep slumber in faint light of candles.

The Fall !

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 31 Oct 2020 16:02:00 +0000

I can hear the sacred hymns of life

In rustles of those fallen leaves

Curled into uneven memories

I can hear the whispers of the Fall

Of the end…the end not so far

Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Mon, 03 Aug 2020 04:58:00 +0000

Have we crossed the path?

In the realm of my noon

Beside the placid pool

Shadowed in the embrace of trees

Where water spiders dream

In leisure of sleeping leaves

Did I meet you there?

Sailing in my slender boat

Through a silver stream

Bathing in moonshine

Have I seen you alone beneath

A lonely branch on the bank?

Was it you, in whiteness of black?

The gentle stroke of my oars

Echo the wailing of ripples

Following each other never to meet

Have I touched you ever

On the alluring shore

Between the fading footprints?

The waves kiss the sky

Wings of little gull scoop the mist

For wishes to creep into

Did I see you on the beach?

The path soaked in crimson blood

Believing in colours of love

The dust tells the tale of the last traveller

Who vanished behind the bend unknown

Did I lose into your shadow there?

The night is aging, so is time

So am I, are you too?

Amidst the brown leaves

Some wilted emotions die

Amidst rustles somewhere

Have I heard your footsteps?

Soulcage

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 30 Jul 2020 04:56:00 +0000

Why to confine you more?

It has lasted for moments

And hours, for days and years

Justice never meted

Reasons never assigned

Purpose never had mission

The learned raven goes on

Chanting the sacred name

Knowing neither ends of the tale

The path has too many bends

Shrouded by mist,

Pebbles are nostalgic

Inert is the cage

Passion does no more bind you

Find you behind those bloody veins

Why to confine you more?

They move from space to space

Delight flourishes in flight

Burn the wings of wishes

The ashes shall have no remorse

Between cells, why to shuttle in and out?

The divine gift lies unconscious

In forlorn corner of sky

The golden moon weeps

Her face loses shine in the wane

Still shining? Still revolving in

A passion to come closer one night?

The celestial flight leaves a signature

Upon the universe; who knows how

Shall it make me bankrupt soon?

Is it securing a place on the page

Or a dot is just a dot—an aberration

Of thought or pursuit of some dream

Suddenly interrupted by an exclamation?

Why to confine you more?

The night is living

So is the day

Alive is the worm or the rose

The faint broom of light

Reminds that the dying comet is still alive

Alive is the sun

Burning till the end

A dwarf shall be dark and heavy

With void attracting

Devouring all in a moment

Will it confine you too

As I do now?

Will there be justice

That you deserve

The liberty that you seek for?

How does it matter for me?

I have only loved you

Encaged, chained to a distant dream

Lying naked, abandoned

I love to see you there

I envy your purity

Like then, I used to hold you close

Loving, caring, like a bud of a rose

It is all a forgotten tale

There is nothing left but the wings

Heavy, unable to flutter it more

I love lying motionless beside you

Folded those wretched wings

I love seeing them idle

Never wished to fly

I love seeing them confined

Purposelessly honouring my company

As you do, unloved in the cage

Only it pricks so often

Why to confine you more?

Alien

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 28 Jul 2020 05:05:00 +0000

I live in a sepia world
Where the Sun is not a star
And, the Moon in not a satellite

Maybe

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 24 Jul 2020 07:44:00 +0000

Some faces never fade,
Some moments never die;
For a war-torn life,
Those remain a symbol of peace.

They sat—the man and the woman, side by side;
Silently glow twenty five candles
To burn a few pages of memories
Of a little girl whom the angels brought for them
On one such day to shine on their eyes.

She would lie on his lap
Gently holding her mom’s hand,
With eyes broadened would endlessly tell
What amazing things she had discovered.
Every day, he would dream of a new tale
To tell her, else how would she sleep?

The candles burn
The pages burn
Burns the last glimpse of those innocuous eyes
Burn colourful wings of the butterfly
Burns a new school tunic.

The man dreamt of a new tale,
But the evening dug the grave for it.
The tiny bird was snatched away
From a tiny nest that her parents built,
Not even knowing, why...why?

None could see her again;
Maybe, she was killed
Maybe, she was sold
Maybe, she was rescued
Maybe, she grew up
Somewhere, in another distant moon.

The father still dreams of her,
The mother still sobs alone,
Maybe, she still too weeps
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Maybe, she needs to dance
Amidst smoke and stench
For to carry her father’s dream
Of feeling how precious is life;
Maybe, sleep evades her eyes
For a tale to be told by her papa,
Maybe, she is too tired of tales of life,
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Her papa roams in and searches for
Within faces of every girl of her age,
Ceaselessly guessing, “Isn’t she my doll?”
Maybe, if she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

The dream story lies hidden
Within moaning soul of an old father,
Maybe, to remain forever untold;
Maybe, destiny does not permit
Some promises to be kept...maybe!

(A repost )

Hate !

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 21 Jul 2020 07:08:00 +0000

In war it shines in burning hope

In peace it pines for a faster lope

Hatred breeds in love and awe

In a sunken space of blunted flaw

The beauty of the mountains

In sunshine or twilight

A verdant meadow

The peasants’ plight

The swearing by a golden moon

The pride sparkles in serpent’s tooth

Always there to find a foe

For glory of an endless show

A fall or a rise, a leap or a pain

Taming lips as soul is slain

Thoughts sweep in dust and glow

Failings succeed in heartless blow

Be a coward, in power and wealth

Be fairer in a handsome filth

Once they know that you are there

What to do with love and care?

Smile hides the venom’s greed

Margin stretches in faith and creed

Hatred has its mission of love

Patient peace in tears of dove

Hate reigns in soul and mind

In land or ocean or sky or wind

Walk no more to find it more

Flee fast to an unknown door

That opens up a thousand more

To lose the sense and tragic core

The laughter lounges on a slouching tree

On the bend of a silvery stream

A summer holiday or an autumn dream

Moment arrows down in a joyous spree

Such were the days and I and you

Unripe, unwise, humble few

Walking on the lovers' lane

Nothing to lose or none to gain

A dream that died

So soon that lied

For reasons applied

For success tied

To empty life in endless game

Securing hate in love and fame.

Me

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 10 Jul 2020 05:18:00 +0000

Don’t dig me up

Roots are still wet

Fresh leaves of Spring

Had enough sunshine

Rain I love, the weeping tales

Of dove beneath grey eyebrows.

Don’t dig me up

The pearl is yet to shine

Moments to walk long

Rustles of brown leaves

Strewn on pavement of life

Undusted for so many years

Don’t dig me up

Down to the stairs still

Childhood gestures

An inseparable illusion

Of me, my tree, my seed

Of memories neatly painted.

Untimely...

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 07 Jul 2020 05:33:00 +0000

Racers see only the racers
Count who is ahead or at heels
Crowd cheers, money flies
Floats the craze, rises the rage
But, racers count only racers
Life and death race together
Collars and shoulders up
Who knows which is ahead of whom
Races go on racing

The country soul !!

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 03 Jul 2020 12:17:00 +0000

I listen to the music of my mind

Eternally mirroring those moments unkind

The words that fail

In blows of gale

Of yes or no of doubts unsigned.

I walk so far from country soul

Judging the road or a rapid roll

The steps that haste

In sleepless rest

Of stony heart of a racing droll.

I sing a song of a lonely bird

Whistling pain of an erring nerd

The tune that splits

In lighted streets

Of grieving notes of a rural bard.

I whisper tales to rains and spring

Passions tied to cluttered string

The dreams that weep

In gallows strip

Of losing nativity in urban bling.

Life traverses the time's way

Living needs to earn and pay

It runs and flees

From inner peace

Through shining black to a boring grey.

(I wrote this decades back...nice to find it back from an old diary)

O sweet black bee !!

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 23 Jun 2020 04:44:00 +0000

Poet Jasimuddin, born in British India in 1903, was one of the most renowned poets of Bengal. He is more often referred as the Pastoral Poet. He was a profoundly learned man and devoted his life to research on rural ballads and songs of Bengal apart from his marvellous work of literature. His contributions towards identifying the origins of rural songs of Bengal and collecting and archiving those in a very systematic manner have truly presented us a wonderful treasure of country songs in current era.

He himself directed music to many of his country songs, which have not been only popular to Bengali audience but also its different versions were also very popular in Indian subcontinent.

I am always amazed by the sweetness of the song, "Nisithe Jaio phulobone". The poet himself was the music director of the song, which was subsequently used in other languages in India by legendary S D Burman, the poet's friend. Here I have tried to translate the song.

O cute black bee! Come to my garden in night;

Lighting the moonlight

I shall stay awake, and

Converse with dews through night

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.

If I fall asleep

If I run into dreams

Then you walk quietly, dear,

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.

Keep my branches unbroken

Keep my flowers unhurt

Keep the slumbering flowers in peace

Keep the footsteps silent in your walk

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.

Axioms in life !

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 20 Jun 2020 09:09:00 +0000

Some two thousand four hundred years ago, in the city of Athens, the first democratic court of this world brought two charges against a septuagenarian man; one for corrupting the young generations with malice of thoughts and secondly for showing disrespect to the city Gods. The guilt was proved and the accused was sentenced to death. The man had brought the philosophy to the streets of the city…the scholars, peasants, artisans, masters, servants, pimps, ladies, noblemen and even the beggars used to listen to his words that simplified the purpose of life and living through it.

On the dock, he stood up and explained before the judges in the Athenian Agora, about the greatest fallibility of human life. “It is not my crime that convicts me, but the rumour and gossip that by whispering together you are persuading yourselves to convict me; to prove that I am guilty. By nature, rumour is very light to lift up, but heavy to carry and hard to put down and it doesn’t disappear once one indulges her in life.”

The city of Athens was in trouble to accommodate a new form of democracy and people were anxious to know about the new form of governance; these complexities had a confluent influence of both in risking the conviction of the man, who raised a few fundamental questions about life and expressed his thoughts to settle those too. A nation can take questions when it is stable with ideas and confident with knowledge, but it fears the same questions when it is split and vulnerable, both in ideas and knowledge. The time was wrong for the Greece and the world and the death of the man was not untimely, but unjust—as cruel as the thoughts so precisely killed some two millennia ahead.

The man was Socrates, the ancient Greek philosopher, who brought the fundamental questions of life on public discussions. It was not a disturbing note for to start even at that time, but as he always cautioned that “written words” had tremendous power to influence mind of people and it could be good or bad, but would have merciless impact to add virtue or vice to human soul, in days to ensue. It was that stage of early age of pursuing knowledge that took refuge to written scriptures instead of the earlier form of oral pool of knowledge.

His death did neither stop rumour to make more men as her slave nor did his ideas die as the democratic court had thought. It could only happen for a simple reason that his questioning on life was simple and everyone in the streets could connect to such questions. What is worth in living; what is beauty, what is honesty, why love is precious and so long “whats” and “whys” in the flow. And, in essence, it all spoke about a simple string that these were all the axioms in life along which the life prospers. These are the primary pillars upon which life rests. There is nothing to hide; the love, the hatred, the agony, the pleasure, the warring roar of people, the merciless torture of powerful, all so relevant and true, but nothing to hide, but to confine to a single objective, whatever harsher and harder it might be, to be award goodness to it. It is all to know yourself, the world being a mirror to know what you are, what is fear, what are your thoughts, what are your virtues and what are your vices. Explore your deceit and integrity, truth and lie, love and hate; all so within you and rectify. “The unexamined life is not worth living, what is the reason for living life, other than to love it”, he said.

The tragedy of life lies in defining the objective only. The source of happiness, if remain unidentified, makes the happiness illusive. Every facet of human expressions is role specific. The love for the children cannot be and should not be expressed in similar manner to the parents. Aiming life depends on identifying roles and shaping up goals to such roles in such a manner that it brings happiness to whatever one does to honour those goals and roles in life. And, there breeds the discontent. I wanted to be a doctor, but have become a teacher; you wanted to an artist, but have become a technician. The dreams and destiny are pulling the life from two directions, sacrificing the happiness in between. Now, the essential questions that the great philosopher raised have become so relevant. Is it the happiness anyway affecting either of the faces; my dreaming to be a doctor and becoming a teacher. A little deeper thought takes us to a simple answer, “NO”, at the end. The dream of being a doctor and living a life of a doctor has nothing to interfere with not becoming it so long the principles of life are concerned. The principles are the axioms in life, which cannot be broken; we simply break ourselves against it.

It brings my soul to wail whenever I read the last part of the great epic, Ramayana. Mahakal has come to meet Rama and got Rama to promise that he would kill anyone interrupting their discussions. The beloved brother, Lakshmana, had to meet Rama and he knew that he should not enter as it would compel Rama to kill him, yet he had to. Lakshmana had to die as Rama had never desisted from adhering to his promises. Sages opined if Rama disowned Lakshmana that would be similar to killing him as Lakshmana would not live once being disowned by his revered brother. Lakshmana moved slowly, alone, toward river Sarayu. None accompanying, none bidding farewell. His feet were steady while his soul was delightful as he perceived his happiness has been fulfilled in that mortal life in company of such a wonderful experience of life; in love, hatred, faith and misfortune. Silently he dipped into the water never to reappear. What was a life for Rama to live through? He was to be king of the largest nation. He had to sacrifice it and he did it happily. He had acquired immense knowledge; had the purity of love in experience. He had to fight with a great man only to recover his wife, Sita, whom Ravana had abducted but never touched. Sita had to prove her chastity as the rumours in democracy put down Rama to oblige. Did Rama have any doubt over her chastity? The wisdom of Rama never justifies it that he had any doubt, yet he had to dishonour the respect that Sita deserved. The role specific departure in pursuit, perhaps, made him more unhappy than Lakshmana and Sita, who never deviated from the paths of happiness in defining roles and goals, at least in the epic. Rama too took the path of self-sacrifice. He was too moving slowly towards river Sarayu; but thousands of people accompanying—some crying in sorrow, some in pleasure of accompanying Rama. He too dipped into the water never to reappear, but was it full of delight for him as was for his beloved brother? Never know, if so; perhaps, not.

Almost contemporary to Socrates, lived a prince in the cradle of the Himalayas. He left his royal home to seek for the ultimate truth in life. His journey was strenuous, yet meaningful; it offered only enlightenment—the sacred truth of life. He professed four noble truths in life; the life is full of sufferings, craving is the source of sufferings, the cessation of suffering is the pursuit and the path of cessation leads to enlightenment. People raised questions, “What is worth in living when it is only full of sufferings?” The answer offered was much simpler than wheat people expected. Unless the life undergoes through sufferings, it cannot find it source, and unless one finds the source of sufferings, the cessation of sufferings can never happen and the path shall never lead to enlightenment. These are the axioms in life. One needs to experience pain to learn the meaning of pleasure and value it. The endless battles of cravings within mind shall end in valuing profound peace, if the battles are to secure the honest, righteous and principled choices of life. Love is material so long it breeds upon desire. The desire leads to own up the loveable. The possession leads to desire to control it. And the control over the loveable leads to death of love. The illusions in life are those passions that breed upon desire, whatever sacred and pure they might be. The joy in life is only attainable in compassion and peace. The selfless man was Siddhartha, the Buddha.

I love my daughter. I want her to be disciplined, educated and joyous. In pursuit of such dreams, my love generates a sense of desire; the craving to see my daughter succeed in the way I perceive the world. I want to secure her in life; forfeiting her own wisdom, own values. I dictate but do not let her learnt what is truth as I fear that truth is hard and I never want her to face such harsh truth. That craving guides her to take a wrong path that never leads to anywhere, however fast she runs, whatever attainments she has, whichever tiers of successes she reaches. She learns to belief in wrong pedestals that my perceptions persuaded to have trust in. The bond—the sacred bond—has been shattered by me in pursuing my cravings in guise of my love. Such love is worse than hatred. It erases both the divinity of love and trust from her mind.

Wise men have so generously shared their wisdom. The history, the religion, the philosophy and the creative art are often touched by lights of their wisdom too. But, it all had fallen prey to our perceptions, our own manipulations and social voids. The essence of life has not succeeded to retain true meaning beyond those few people who felt it, valued it and lived it to the fullest.

Why should I be honest? The most common question wanders through the corridors of the life. Why should I love when someone ignores me? Why should I not fight to secure my possessions? So many questions. One wise man says, “Okay, you don’t be honest, if that pleases you. But, will you say it so to your children? Would you suggest them that they need not be honest, truthful, trustworthy, loving, caring, concerned? Tell me, if you agree.” There ends the tale. Yes, there is no answer as to why should one be honest. It is one of the axioms in life. Life evolves with some fundamental truths. Such truths hold life to secure itself as an opportunity to suffer, through sufferings learn the value in it, find true love that inspires life to offer itself in loving—to do, to be and to aid—and to explore the path that will lead to profound peace of mind—without any desire, any greed, any fear and any bond.

I want to be good and my goodness tells me to be compassionate, to be generous, to be faithful, to be helpful to others. The compassion if brings joy in mind is the true; if it tempts to raise desire to be recognized as generous even within the confine of own mind, it is illusion. It lacks the fundamental truth in its offering. You sincerely want to address many inconveniences of people around you; you are selfless and the people have no transactional relationships with you too. But you have neither adequate resource, enough strength and required access to reach them all. Does it generate discontent in your mind? One needs to value what is the circle of concerns; I may have concerns over many aspects of life. One needs to value the circle of influence also. I cannot do something or my resources do not permit me to do something. One can stretch the circle of influences by learning, assimilating, cooperating, and socializing; only if there is no craving for recognition in doing so. It is only to enhance own character strength, own assessment of pain and pleasure in life. So more stretched it is, closer it would be to the circle of concern; only if one wants to offer the life to merge both the circles in oneness; else the consequence would be disastrous. The discontent rises when they mismatch. The influence works where concerns do not reside and concerns breed where influence never dreams to reach. Mostly, we are victim of this mismatch. Our dreams are illusions; without any logic, any sincerity and any devotion. We dream whatever suits us; I want to be as smart as Mr X or as beautiful as Ms Y. The dreams have no meaning except generating a wild chase. The colour, race, caste, religion, gender and many other sources of inequality have been in the world only through generation of such misplaced perception and opportunism. There is neither pride nor glory in being a patriot if one fails to adhere to basic values of life. The efficiency without ethics help us reaching a wrong place faster. I wanted to be a doctor but become a teacher. What is frustrating in it? Did it anyway ruin my purpose of living; living a life with all fundamental values of life; any hindrance to even seek for the ultimate truth? I am denied a lift in my career; and blame my misfortune, the bias in the political system or the whims of the selection board. Does it really matter in interfering with the life’s pursuit? Have I ever thought in an unbiased manner that Mrs Z may really be more knowledgeable or has proven her acumen in the field that is primarily the job to be done on the lift in office? Or, even when the system chooses a less qualified person above me, do I think it is unjust as I am more qualified for the post in any unbiased assessment and I should seek the justice in appropriate office? Does it reflect my ambitions in life have hindered the goals of life to attained? Does this pain of betrayal have no other value except the betrayal of lack of justice? In any manner, does it interfere with my pursuit to seek for the truth in life—the happiness, the peace and the enlightenment? One needs to ponder sincerely.

Life has no shortcut. One has to undergo pain, yet seek for the divine truth through loving life, loving living, loving the pains and the pleasures, loving doing any act of goodness, loving to be honest, loving to be faithful, loving to be truthful, loving to be life in prosperity of love only. These are the axioms in life and they need never to be proved or challenged. Once one challenges honesty, integrity, love, peace, compassion, cooperation, appreciation, pain and pleasure, the basic foundation of life gets challenged. The life bears absolute nothingness once it deviates from such pillars of life. Whatever material successes it may seem to have attained are only tragic art of betrayal of life. It is the death in disguise of a life.

Now I am

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 18 Jun 2020 10:15:00 +0000

Poet, Shamsur Rahaman, is one of my dearest poets of post-Tagore era. He is one of the most revered poets, not only in his own country, Bangladesh, but in every corner of the world, for his rich poetic creations saturated with righteousness, boldness and passion. His contributions to Bengali literature have brought a new dimension to the style and structure of Bengali poems and touched almost every aspect of human emotions.
Here is one of my favourite poem of Shamsur Rahaman, "Ekhon Ami", that I have attempted to transliterate.

I get startled, now and then,

Hearing someone’s going to somewhere,

In transience of a moment

The pool of my soul splashes,

“Going to where and why?”

Leaving numerous questions,

Like this or that, tremble upon

The lines over my lips and iris.

Hands sheath into the veil of

Those clouds, sodden in sorrows,

If ever I offer it to anyone;

The deepest core of my heart

Fervidly quivers, now and then;

I am easily startled now

Hearing someone’s going to somewhere.

My heart breaks, very often,

Seeing something is broken somewhere,

Am scared to see the little sapling

Of rose losing the sparkle;

The boyhood scene of a free kite,

Falling and floating, in a noontide sky,

Often reappears in my eyes now;

Quite a few dead horses,

In the realms of my childhood

Are lying dispersed over the grassland;

These thoughts infuse me

With a terrible fright, nowadays.

Fine I remain, sometimes,

In a dimly lighted corner of my room,

Absorbed between the leaves of the book;

Amidst the rustles of fallen leaves

It brings a solemn news of growing age,

When some elders disappears

Just like the setting of the sun,

I spend the draining time playing hopscotch

With my mind in sheer darkness.

Sadness just keeps on shedding

Long shadows of sorrows—

Upon the lines of the face;

It pours loneliness into my soul,

Forlorn I am, so often, nowadays,

Feel so lonely, so often, nowadays.

Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hain....

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sun, 14 Jun 2020 10:11:00 +0000

Sahir Ludhianvi was a different kind of Urdu poet, who contributed majorly in enriching the film world of our country with new wave of thoughts. His poetry infused words with a sense of rebellion, a rare appreciation of human values. I would always carry a different message, even when understanding his poetry, particularly being rich in Urdu, for its intrinsic values ingrained within.

I have long thought of attempting his work for transliteration, but always avoided as I am very weak getting correct expression of words written in Urdu, one of finest and purest languages in the world; yet I shamelessly did it and bear the courage even to share it...

The world of these mansions, thrones and the crowns,

The world of those societies, hostile to the mankind,

The world, infected with an endless greed for wealth;

What matters if such a world is bequeathed to us?

Each one is wounded, every soul is thirsty,

Eyes bear only confused glances, and souls are dampened;

Is it a world or a formless expanse of an unconscious whole?

So, what if such a world is bestowed upon us?

Where human attainment is just a piece of plaything,

It is nothing but the land of the worshippers of death,

Death still comes cheaper here than life;

What if such a world is bequeathed to the mankind?

The prime of youth gets distracted by misperceived growth,

The blooming beauties are saleable pieces on the floor,

Where love is a nothing but a trading deal;

Does it matter even if such a world is conferred upon?

It is such a world, where mankind is never valued,

Neither commitment is respected nor a friendship,

Where love doesn’t get the honour of love even;

If such a world is gifted, does it matter even?

Ignite the flame, burn down this world, blow it up!

Remove this world from the frame of my sight,

It is all yours and you take care of it, if you like;

So, what if such a world is even given away to me?

Dots....

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 13 Jun 2020 16:07:00 +0000

Dots….dots…dots
Lying here and there
The space is benevolent
Giving home unwantedly
Playing with them
A child would be doing alike
Arrange, one following the other
In a line, or sometimes, scattered
But, as wishes flow, more orderly
Giving a shape, sketching a face
Upon the wide canvas of space
A few dots…dots that were words,
Spoken, yet never heard
A few more that had bubbled
Yet never burst
A few dots….dots that were thoughts
Conceived, yet never shared
A few more that had grown enough
Yet, never saw the life sheltering
Gathering once again; picking up
One by one, laying one after the other
In a last attempt to sketch a face
Longed for so long
But, never emerged out of a life
Full of dots…dots…and dots.

Is mod se jaate hain....

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 12 Jun 2020 09:09:00 +0000

"Is mod se jaate hain" is another Gulzar poem, which carries intense feelings saturated with rich philosophy and I attempted its transliteration some two decades back and am uploading without any further editing to keep the emotions of my youth uninterrupted by an intrusion of my old mind now.....

This is the bend, where it leaves from;

The path tracing a few leisurely steps

The traveller pacing a few agile strides,

To a marble palace

To a glass house

To a nest of straw;

It reaches there from just this bend.

Gliding like a gale, the path sweeps past

Coyly slides down from some footstep;

Of those myriad flowing walkways

There must be one such path,

Which takes to your doorstep;

It is this bend where it leaves from.

From afar one comes

And flips once nearer,

And a solitary forlorn path

That neither treads nor pauses,

Amidst all random thoughts

I await, with a feeble trust,

There must be one such path,

Which takes to your doorstep;

It is just this bend, where it leaves from.

The day I was born

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Fri, 05 Jun 2020 09:46:00 +0000

Long nights and days sped by

To yearn and earn and count and die,
In loving spree and dreams and cry,
In heaps of petals fallen and dry.

Swirling serpents—smoky dread

Invading sky to paint and spread,
Erasing signs of innocent myths—

Cradled so long in cerebral piths.

Promises faded, one by one,

Nothing was lost and none has won;

Reaped not harvest, seeds not sown,

The last wish awaits the last ribbon.

Moments flee, pages burn,

And ashes fill the memories’ urn;

Yet the sojourn shines in glee

When life recounts its first turn.

(A repost)

Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 04 Jun 2020 04:00:00 +0000

"Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai ..." is one of my favourite poems written by Gulzar....I tried my best to let it carry the deep emotions and wonderfully woven words while translating it into English....never mind my shortcomings in getting near to the original....

A part of me is still lying around you,
A few moist days of a long-parted monsoon,
And a night wrapped in a sodden veil of fuzzy scribbles;
Let all images of that night fade into vacuity,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Heard the rustles of leaves….aren’t there?
And those gentle tunes of falling leaves that
Slipped off my ears casting a fleeting kiss once and reappeared.
Somewhere the forsaken twig in the Fall is still trembling;
Let the wailing branch be wished adieu too,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Sharing beneath a sole dripping umbrella, you and I—
Half-drenched and a bit dry—
And the warmth in me that we shared too;
Those a few wet thoughts, perhaps, still be lying around the bed.
Let it all be set free; let all be just mine,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

The sweet memories of a string of moonlit nights,
And of the beauty spot prettifying your shoulder;
The intoxicating fragrance of soggy paste of henna
And a few freaks of silly play of blame and regret;
And a few weird promises never kept.
Let it all fill me to the deepest down in me,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Just grant me the parting acquiescence of the self,
For my lone walk to the grave,
For me to sleep forever….beside you.

(A repost)

Tolerance in life

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 30 May 2020 15:40:00 +0000

When I wrote my Civil Services exams, “Tolerance in life”, was the essay that I opted for without much bargaining. After thirty-four years in service, neither “tolerance” nor “life” bears any discernible evidence of existence in me, perhaps. It is not an obituary of my life or my tolerance that has prompted me to write a few lines here. I have almost a different influencer to seduce my thoughts and pen to express which I have never felt worthy enough to be expressed before.

The tolerance, as I grew up and learnt, does not bear the meaning nowadays except in those dull dictionaries. It is a concept that sleeps silently as a sepia photograph inside an ancestral album. It’s a loss of inheritance! And, it has so far been so intense a belief for me that I started really doubting if it ever existed. When Professor Hilbert, a great mathematician in Gottingen University was once asked by the then Nazi Minister of Education, “Is it really true, Professor, that your institution suffered so much from the departure of the Jews and their friends?” to which Professor responded in a surprisingly calmness, “Suffered? No, not at all. It didn’t suffer, Herr Minister. It just doesn’t exist anymore!” Similar had been my feelings about the existence of tolerance in life.

I was fortunate to have grown in a home, where I had had enough—voluntary or compulsive—exposure to the presence of some renowned people in the field of academics, and, knowingly or unknowingly, my childhood learning was grossly influenced by the humility, wisdom and expression of tolerance of those stalwarts. When the smell of the Jesuit fathers was yet to evaporate from my cheeks, my exposure to a new world of rebellion left quite a substantial dint onto that innocent growth of tolerance in me and it died pretty swiftly as I entered into the prime of my youth. Yet, the myth surrounding the Bengali intelligentsia has its crafted veil to be neatly draped around me and I remained tolerant without being one in the core. The life has also learnt to be lifeless in the meanwhile. So, the game was a pact, and the pact was the essence of the game. Collaborating together to defraud the other over a bet who gets bankrupt early.

As I was saying about my childhood; the phase one never forgets even in the worst departure from life. I continued to see those learned men discussing in ever smiling face—sitting upon the open balcony facing the road and the public—over a cup of tea. People used to gather and listen to them. Whenever any question or a contrary view would come even from any naïve source, they used to explain what they had so far learnt, where it would be found as a reference and would patiently express eagerness to know where the new knowledge came from. I never found them agitated on any occasion.

Over the years, the wise men faded, one by one, and once I realized that time has silently put out the last lamp too. And, my entire life of tolerance has had its silent death in such an inauspicious manner that I don’t even remember when and where I last found it alive. The life continued to thrive in its proud vest carrying a dead soul inside. And, I never felt it an unenjoyable situation in my pursuit of illusory knowledge and peace. It’s been a win-win case, with both winning, in failing to live through, with utter serenity and fulfilment.

A few days ago, my wife received a link from a friend in Bangladesh, which provided us an opportunity to listen to her octogenarian father, a renowned academician in the neighbouring country and the world, delivering an address to the Alumni of a famous university at its Reunion meet. I floated through his lecture. Such humility, such patience, those chosen words that never hurt but inspire only, and those fluent waves of thoughts intermingled with the innocence of a child and the awe in experiencing the grand texture of knowledge; it all surrounded me and carried me to my lost childhood. I could see my transformed belief of a non-existent tolerance evaporating into a shapeless sky while fresh air of innocence began to fill in. My thoughts began to liberate a whole new wave of vitality; a lost feeling of reassuring the self that nothing can rob your innocence so long tolerance allows your life to pursue what it aspires truly at the end—the truth. The seeds of wisdom lie only in tolerance. The tolerance is not a compromise, not an adjustment, not a bargain; it is to withstand all illusions that life presents in its trial, to keep life unperturbed by comfort and luxury of thoughts, to steer away life from the traps of unlearning the pure knowledge, to keep the innocent lamp of childhood aflame forever in the midst of strong winds of misleading opinions and manufactured doctrines. It is a strong yes to say a strong no even sacrificing the life in enduring utter humiliations that the mankind has ever experienced. It is what that keeps the life alive.

The innocence of the soul of a child of eighty years has so gracefully inspired me to disinter the hidden gems in the deepest of my treasures of life—the essence of tolerance in life—that I start believing again, “Yes, the life still bears the prospect of resurrection.”

Such is the path of your creations...

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 28 May 2020 09:26:00 +0000

"Tomar Srishtir Path" was the last poem of Rabindranath Tagore....he dictated his last two poems lying in the hospital bed...he could find time to edit the earlier one, but this last one remained unedited....he died a week later.
I transliterated the earlier one, "Dukher Andhar Ratri" a few years back, but found it extremely difficult to get right words to convey right feelings of the original one, yet have just attempted it finally...

O the Supreme Charmer! Such is the path of your creations,

Tangled In a bizarre web of deceptions,

You have laid traps of your illusory faith

Slyly in a simple life;

Such treachery has only crowned you with

The glory of your avowed greatness.

Denying even a secluded night for an innocent soul,

The path that your constellations lead to

It is his insight—the conscience—forever unblemished;

His unfaltering faith has gleamed it eternally radiant.

May he seem outwardly devious

Yet resolute he is in the core,

It is his precious piece of pride.

May he seem distressed,

May he appear harried,

But he seeks for the truth

In innermost cells of a self-illuminated soul.

Nothing lures him away,

He leaves only in treasuring the final reward.

He who bears through ceaseless assault of your deceit,

Blessed he is with the bliss of peace forever.

Amidst trammels in life there still floats a promise of renaissance !

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sun, 24 May 2020 04:30:00 +0000

Death—premature or likely, accidental or natural—always leaves an impervious void in souls of those near ones where gentle tunes of life resonate in strings of togetherness. Even memories of sweeter moments fail to replenish such vacuity. It remains secreted somewhere deeper forever in only a few weeping souls. Yet, such death does not offer ripples beyond a limited pool of human relationship. At times, it may infuse a greater collection in society with inspiration, or courage; but it does not leave deeper impact of sense of losing within. The martyr remains honoured as a social hero—a dedicated soul sacrificed at social cause—but not as a soul whose absence is felt deeply only for being no more.
But, when a death transcends beyond a thin horizon of kinsfolk to create an indiscernible hollow in broader ocean of people that gets instantaneously filled in with a dread of losing confidence, a fear of subjunctive sense of calamity, a fright of apprehension and a panicky state of insecurity; then it a terror. It cripples the society as a whole with a collective sense of vulnerability. With such psychosis prevailing, the society often rebuilds itself on more compatriotic sense, reconnects itself with more reasons and human values; but it may also fall prey to imprudent comprehension of reality that eventually leads to impregnate social mindset with a sense of retribution, hatred and ruses of crafty enemy of humanism. It often leads to war. It only travels from one form of war to another form. And, in every war, the victims are innocent people and the values of human civilisation that again take years to revitalise and bloom.
If there descends an eerie darkness, only flicker of hope still shines in peace. Camaraderie of conscious people can only prevent the peace from being at ransom. Let us not leave another page of history of bargaining peace at the cost of vengeance. Let us rekindle deep spiritual consciousness embedded in our culture, heritage, art, philosophy and all other creative forms of human civilisation through solidarity of respecting souls.
In concluding I would only wish to share those beautiful lines of great Bengali poet, Jibananda Das, written some forty years back, but are still relevant (Never mind my poor transliteration) to this present world.

The earth is now sheathed in an eerie darkness;
Those who are blind now see the most,
Whose hearts bear no love or affection,
Where ripples of compassion do never surface,
The world now sways not without their counsel.
Those who still have deep reliance in humanity,
Who still find intrinsic values in great truth,
Or in culture, or art or its fondly pursuit,
Their souls now lay offered at vultures’ feast!

(A repost)