The Golden Kabin by MozammelHaque

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      Name: Sayeed Abubakar
     Address: Deptt. Of English
     Govt. Lalon Shah College
       Jhenidah, Bangladesh
       Phone : 01919455479


  The name of my book is The Golden Kabin. Its Bengali
name is Sonali Kabin. It is one of the most famous modern
 Bengali poetry book. I have translated this very book into
   English having permission from the poet. It is said in
Bangladesh that Al Mahmud may get the Nobel prize if its
  English version is published. However the theme of the
    book is discussed in the Preface. You are earnestly
requested to go through the preface to have a concrete idea
                       about this book


   Translated by

 The Golden
  Al Mahmud

  Translated By
Sayeed Abubakar


            Alimun Nahar Fatema
Mother of Humaira Tasnim , Nusaiba Tasnim & Shish Mohammed

The Golden Kabin
A Collection of Poems by Al Mahmud
Translated by Sayeed Abubakar

Copyright: Translator

Cover design:


Al Mahmud(1936) is one of the most important
poets in Bengali literature. In his early youth he
entered Dhaka city having a broken suitcase under
his armpit, from which, like a magician, he showed
us all the rivers of Bangladesh. The conscious
readers of poetry have watched his magic spell-
bound and become his fan. Al Mahmud is one of
those new poets who have contributed a lot to the
progress of modern Bengali poetry. He is a very
popular poet in Bangladesh. He has innumerable
admirers at home and abroad. But it is a matter of
sorrow that very few of his poems have been
translated into English, for which the non-Bengali
readers are yet deprived of having the taste of his
A good number of poetry books of Al Mahmud
have been published.     Lok Lokantor, Kaler Kolos,
Sonali Kabin, Mayabi Porda Duley Otho,
Adristabadider Rannabanna, Bokhtiarer Ghora,
Arabya Rojonir Rajhas, MithyabadRakhal,Doel
o Doyita etc are remarkable ones. But the book
which has been accepted by the Bengali poetry-
readers as a classic piece is his   Sonali Kabin. The
Golden Kabin is an English version of this very

book.`Kabin' means a matrimonial contract in
Bengali Muslim society. Al Mahmud has picked
up this very word ever-known to all but never
allowed in poetry and used so successfully that it
has got a symbolic meaning and has drawn the
attention of scholars, both in Bangladesh and
West Bengal.
Al Mahmud entered into the realm of poetry
following the paths of Jasimuddin and
Gibananando Das, his two preceding poets.
Jasimuddin uniquely depicted the picture of rustic
Bengal in his poems. People of the agro-based
Bengali Muslim society first got their identity in
literature. Their sorrow, sufferings, poverty,
hunger and love, depicted vividly in his poems,
attracted not only the Bengali educated society but
also the whole world. Unlike Jasimuddin,
Gibananando Das depicted the scenic and the
spiritual beauty of Bangladesh. Another difference
between them is that Jasimuddin followed the
language of rustic people in poetry, whereas
Gibananando Das was very sophosticated in using
poetic dictions. Walking the paths of his two great
forerunners, Al Mahmud had to struggle a lot to
find out his own identity. At last he reached his
goal; his distinction as a poet became obvious in
his third book the Sonali Kabin.
It was a very slippery path, though, but Al
Mahmud successfully passed through it and
entered into a new world which belongs to him
only. What he voiced and the way he voiced his
feelings and sensibility in the      Sonali Kabin was
unique in Bengali poetry. The Bangladesh depicted
by him and that of Jasimuddin or Gibananando
Das are quite different, not only in lyrical sense but
also in realistic perspective. In spite of being a
modern poet living permanently in the capital city,
themes of all his poems are spontaneously derived
from village. He never forgets his root. When
readers go through his poetry, they not only see the
face of Bangladesh but also feel the presence of its
broken heart there. Here lies the difference
between him and his other contemporary poets.
In his other books Al Mahmud has tried to bring
newness in order to give the readers a different
taste of poetry. In this regard, different critics have
opined differently. Some critics say, his one book
is different from another one. Other critics opine
that the same flow of emotion and poetic view in
his Sonali Kabin is present in all his books. But
there is no denying the fact that   Sonali Kabin is the
master-piece of Al Mahmud. He who wants to
know about him must go through this book.
Although it is often said that the very thing which
remains absent in translation is poetry, yet there is
no substitute for translation to enjoy the poetry
written in a foreign language. Therefore, despite
the risk of losing the floral scent of originality,
translation is playing a vital role in making the
foreign readers familiar with the unknown.
Al Mahmud is not an obscure poet. His language is
very lucid but full of poetic sound. If this very
sound of his poetry reaches the heart of poetry-
readers through this translation, I will feel happy.

                                    Sayeed Abubakar
                                   Deptt. of English
                Govt. Lalon Shah College, Jhenidah.
       E-mail : / Mobile : 01919455479


The Foam of Wind
Partition of Heritage
Poetry Such As
Comes More Not
The Sound of Bathing
By Your Hand
In This Fascination
The Shame of Return
In the New Year
Heart-penetrating Sight
Bent on the Ground
In the Valley of Dreams
Protest for Plucking the Feathers
In Whose Remembrance
Under Only My Feet
A River
Remembrance of the Former Birth
When Eyes Get Nostalgic
The Face of a Relative
Behind Your Back
The Palmline
Sweet Odour in Blood
The Message of Bravery
His lips stir in the Grave-like Silence
The Overturned Eyes
As I Won't Return Again
You, O River
Where the Source of Perception
By Prowess of Truth
Into the Depth of My Eyes
My Absence
The Dome of Straw
In My Break fast
I'm too on the Street
Undulatory Temptation
The Golden Kabin


How far Man has advanced !
Hypnotised by ceaseless shower
I am sitting on my own heels
even today.

While planting the tender paddy seedlings
into the soil, thick and soft like khir   1,   I thought
the soil to be my beloved wife who
like a piece of boggy land, uncovers all her fertility
with her pleasant watery shyness.

Fields getting wet in rain.
I feel a hand soaked in water on my back.
And losing all the feeling-marks of sense
I've made my benumbed sight remain vigilant.

All day long it rains incessantly everywhere
like the spell of khana .2 Silently I observe
the water-snakes running after fishes
fleeing away beside the edge of fields;
the green grasshoppers leaping in fright on my

It seems that the graph of fields tied with ridges
having the touch of rain's fog has changed
in trance of my dreams by an unbelievable magic-
and the beautiful earth has been divided
in the shape of a triangle.
From that geometry
the flocks of fishes, birds, animals and human
come out successively
and surrounding my sensation, start eating
picking up the contradictory foods.
1. Porridge-like food , sweet and tasty . 2.Astrological predictions

The Foam of Wind

Nothing lasts, behold.
Behold how the leaves, the flowers, the old
the pose of rivers' dancing, the brazen pitchers and
the fire of hookah
and the flock of grown up girls gradually diminish
like the monsoon of Hilsa fish !
The yellow leaves, sounding in the wind,
fall down on the droughty desolate land.
The foreign ducks too,
on whose bodies there are millions of bubbles, fly
into the shallow blue cup of the sky.

Why doesn't anything last long?
The corrugated iron sheet, the hay or the muddy
and the undecaying banyan tree of village
get uprooted by the terrible typhoon of Chittagong.
The plaster splits and in the long run the mosque
of our village,
like our Faith, collapses down with a heavy crash.

The nests of sparrows, the love, the twigs and
and the covers of books fall off twisted.
By the water's bite of the Meghna,
the crops' green scream of the horizon starts
The houses float, float the pitchers and the
Like the affection of my elder sister, the old
embroidered pillow gets also sunk.
After the decay of dwelling-houses, nothing exists
Only the birds, fond of water, flying in the sky
wipe off the foam of wind from their beaks.

Partition of Heritage

Why don't forget if you can?
Forget our walking nights accompanied by the
Forget the dewy grasses in the Niaz 1 field.
Setting cold fingers into my pocket
you used to say, "Don't mind, dear, I can't help
doing it.",
The nightingale on the bough of Bakul 2 tree
burst into laughter.

Why don't wipe off if you can ?
Wipe off the black marks of coal from the wall.
Once you used to redden my face with joke,
and suddenly got anxious thinking of my hidden
your thin necklace used to tremble on your throat;
Is there allowed any partition, darling, in that
happy game?

The full Moon rises now over your roof;
If you have courage enough, conceal the

Behold, how the sports of ducks cause flood into
the river!
Divide the water if there lies any sin.
O my Love, tear the blood-thirsty trap of light and
why don't tear if you can?

1. The name of a field. 2. A kind of flower.

Poetry Such As

Poetry is nothing but the memory of adolescence;
The melancholic face of my mother often
remembered by me;
Poetry, the yellow bird sitting alone on a bough of
Nim1 tree;
Poetry, my younger brothers and sisters, sitting
surrounding the fire of leaves; and the return of our
ringing bell of his bicycle and his call 'Rabeya!
Rabeya !'
Poetry is the southern door kept ajar which got
by the name of my mother.

Poetry is nothing but going back crossing the
foggy way
across the knee-water river . Poetry, the Azan   2   of
or the burning of stubble; it's the expanded smell
of sesame
on the belly of cake, the acute smell of fish,

the net spread on the yard and the grassy grave of
my grandfather
in the cluster of bamboo.

Poetry, an unhappy teenager growing up in the
forty six;
Poetry, the meeting, freedom, procession and the
flag of a truant school boy,
and the plaintive description of the elder coming
losing all in the flame of tumult.

Poetry, the birds of pastureland, the collected eggs of
ducks and the fragrant grass ;
Poetry , the lost calf belonging to the sad faced wife that
fled away snapping the rope;
Poetry, the decorated letters in a secret pad within
a blue envelope;
Poetry means Ayesha Akter, the girl of unfolded
hair at a village Maktab 3 .

1. A medicinal tree; taste of its leaves and bark is sour; it is seen
on the south of a Bengali house because it is believed that its

wind during Spring is healthy. 2. Call for a prayer of the
Muslims . 3. A mosque-cum-school.

Comes More Not

Keeping the stone of Paharpur on the left ,
crossing the canal if anyone approaches the moat,
never he comes back --- you knew it well,
nevertheless why did you allow him
to enter the heart of the hut?

They who used to dye your Shika;
They who used to bring you cock-flowers
if you once reject their hands, they won't return
in the village -- you knew it well, nevertheless you
made them float
on the water of deluge.

They who used to call you witch;
They who used to address you cobra;
Seeing whom, the pitcher on your waist
got broken into pieces; seeing whom,
you used to hide your face
why did you allow them, then, to laugh
into the black clamour of the bank of your tank ?

The Sound of Bathing

I don't know how I, at this midnight, have become
two eyes
having all my existence within me, as if they were
a pair of twin bees
sitting abreast on the tepid flesh.

Darkness walks both on my consciousness and
Quick-shivering feelings of mine like the tongue of
a snake
run away touching the shed of my blood. It seems
melancholic parting moment of a boy has been
attached to all my senses. Affection of my mother
being the warm fragrant vapour
of my last food-plate collides with my nose.

Adieu, O Sight .O the born blind Past, don't come
near me.
O the trees, my dwelling house and river, be dark
and disappear like the songs of birds into the deep
ever-bright green.
While walking ashore, suddenly I notice on the
opposite bank
the body of Day turning into a globe of light.
Making sonorous sound of bathing at the staircase
of wharf,
someone says to her companion,'See yonder a little
boy walking
penetrating the deep fog.How can a mother send
her child outside
in a morning of Magha 1 cold such as? Walking
alone into fog---
what a sight ! '

My observation of birds' flying and the day behind
the river
turns to be something more than play. Sweat grows
on my smooth forehead .Dust gathers on knees.
By raising hands, it's not possible now to hide the
Being lofty, the god of Day has ascended the
flaming sky.
The sound of water makes me realise that it's the
sport of bathing.
The village girls, surrounding the wharf, say to one
showing me, `Who's that guy? Which vllage is he
going to?
To some beautiful lady perhaps!'
When thirst dies, sweat becomes dry by the wind.
At last the birds of pastureland, exchanging eyes
with one another,
fly away with their ruddy wings.

I feel tired. No sorrow, no solicitation, no thirst
drives me more.
Even I don't know which wharf I have reached
Having eighteen pitchers on waists, the village
wives go back home.
Someone of them says in intense tune,
'Who knows where this old passer-by will go
crossing the dark bog?'

1. A Bengali month of Winter.

By Your Hand
I wish I ate the ancient koi 1of Kurulia
fried especially by your own hand.
I wish sitting like a crow in the veranda of Munsi
I enjoyed your scrubbing.

Would you say then, 'Who the bull there?'

Nobody realises more than me
the beauty of waves of your black hair
broken down on back.

Yet you waiving your hands
showed me the way to the city.

1. A kind of fish

In this Fascination
Wandering over the whole world,
I come back for you
to knock at your door . For you
I defeat the maddened sword of poverty.

You are mine in this fascination
I go to unlock the darkness of death.
With unbarred kissing and humming
I embrace you and remain benumbed.

I stand as if I were a tree of green smell
or a crystal house where in the glassy darkness
black fishes take the golden stones
into their mouth.

My household is clean, white and small
like an aquarium;
who are you the sweet fish getting enlightened
into the blue water-house?

Lifting up the hungry mouth
how many drops of wind are possible to be
collected --
would anyone ever protect these precious bubbles
on the body of moss?

Such a motion of soundless bubbles
turns into a flower of joy;
Behold, how nicely a beautiful mermaid
nibbles at my finger.

The Shame of Return

To catch the last train I reached the station
I noticed the signal of blue light on.
The train, like Despair, suddenly left the station
playing on its cruel whistle.
They, with whom I was promised to go to city, got
and started staring at me through the windows.
They only consoled me by shaking their hands.

While coming from home, I was goaded by my
into hurrying off lest I should miss the train.
Mother said, 'Don't sleep tonight. Pass time
by reading books as you often do .'
But I fell asleep.
In a dreamless sleep I remained dead
on my bed.

But Jahanara never misses her train .
Forhad always reaches station
half an hour ago. Laily sends her servant

with all her luggage to book ticket.
Nahar never touches rice in excitement
before going anywhere.
But I'm one of their brothers, having walked seven
miles at a stretch,
trembling into fog at a dirty station at the late

I have to go back home penetrating the white
curtain of fog.
My trouser will get wet with dews.
And suddenly the red sun,diminishing the winter-
gathered on my eyelids, will rise in the sky.
The sunrays will descend on my face and I, like a
defeated man,
will notice my ever known river in front of mine.
I will notice the scattered houses of my village.
The flock of cranes will fly away towards the bog.
Finally, like a horror, our old utchala   1   will float
into my view ,
will float the small plantain garden .
Long leaves of the trees
will tremble saying, 'Come not! Come not!'
My father, having noticed me, will set his eyes at
the holy Quran
and will recite-- Fabi Aiyee Ala-ee-Rabbikuma
Tukazziban 2

Seeing me at the yard ,my mother will smile
having unwashed plates in hands .
She will say, 'It's fine you have come back.
In your absence the whole house seems very
Go to the pond and wash your face.
Your breakfast ready.'

I will then, embracing my mother, wipe off
the shame of my return, rubbing again and again,
from my whole face.

1. An ancient Bengali house not seen now. It had eight thatched
roofs. 2. A verse of the holy Quran : `Which grace of your Lord
will you deny?'

In the New Year

The smell of rice hurts my nostril.
As soon as I get back my conscience,
I notice all the doors closed.
When I dare open them all,
the capitalists frown at me addressing as blind.

Blood within by breast gets silently injured.

My eyes are full of dreams for rice.
When I demand to have my dreams fulfilled,
the capitalists shout saying, "Wild ! Wild !"
When I pick up scythe at hand to harvest paddy,
they cry, 'it's the most vile work!'

Yet the sun rises in the sky in the new year.

A bird of eternal peace calls to me in my dreams.
Getting up from bed, I now on the way
to look for that blue bird.
I don't know where and how far she is.
I wish I were all day long a body-gourd of her .

Had I surrendered my body to her in a solitary
place !


People call me fugitive my heart aches .
Still I want to be a fierce salmon-trout into the tank
of life.
Where will I flee when every night I feel
my beloved wife's breath on my face and eyes?
Where and how will I hurry away
when I feel the wearied body of my baby on

So I stand by the door all day long in favour of

When chickens coming out from henroost in the
move to the mire crowing feebly, I quickly get up
from my bed
and cover the face of fire with my hands.

Didn't I fearlessly jump into the water of the Bay
of Bengal
when a tiny girl of the water-slaves suddenly got

to the waves going to search for the golden conch?

When my better-half embittered by the oppression
of cockroaches
goes smashing the whole race of insects,
don't I then make her delighted by praising her

Heart-penetrating Sight

Last night Death drove its hand into my room.
Through the gap of window
that long hand, like the feeling-power of a blind
advanced a bit towards my bed.
My wife was pouring water on the head of our
Her eyes were winkless as if they had been two
pieces of stone.
Her two breasts were swinging in weight of milk
as if they had been two ripe fruits.
The shower of wate, like the sound of cascade,
spread shivers within everything.
The light of lantern started shivering just like the
feathers of a peacock.

And that hand, I noticed, came near the pillow
its pulse swollen, nails uncut and fur shaggy.
I wished I had shouted.
But in front of Death I can never make any sound.
My anger tempted me to grasp that hand.
But I knew well about the energy of Death.
Would I then pray to Him? No.
Death is deaf and fast like the horse of Chengiz
Khan ..
- Who ? Who ?

The shower of water suddenly stopped.
My wife stared at it.
There was only the waterless pot into her naked
Buttons of her blouse set free.
In her tearless eyes, there was nothing
but a heart-penetrating sight.
I looked at Death and noticed
it's retreating towards the window, rolled up like
the tail of a dog
its nails uncut, pulse swollen and fur shaggy.

Bent on the Ground

It's not mere turning off
but keeping the genius of eyes closed
from the attack of sight bent on the ground.
Eyes touch severely the edge of deadly blood.
Binding the Nature, it observes the depth both of
women and rivers;
absorbs all the contexts of fishes, birds, animals
and insects ;
penetrating all the correlative theories, brings out
strong witness.

Not within my brain, actually my adolescence is
sitting within my eyes
as if it were a tired green boy having a big bow at
his hand.

Yet in the boundary of my eye-sight,
I see my son dressing his hair in front of a whirling
Who knows whether it's myself or not?
Perhaps it's I who am parting the hair and setting it
on the palate.
I have worn socks and rubbing the buttons of
brushed the shirt. Perhaps the steady glasskid
would uproot his father's age from the forty year.

In the Valley of Dreams

Once we went on a journey
through a dense opaque fog.
Suddenly our path became illuminated
by the flash of light in horizon.
The smell of paddy floated in wind.
Forests got sonorous with the songs of birds.
Our hearts started floating
being altogether a wonderful picture of Nature.

River! River!

The clean flow of water, which our offspring
showed us
raising their fingers with joy, is our soul.
It's the stream
which design our women weave their saris in.
It's the turn which inspires our sisters
to envelope their bodies with tortuous lines.
Behold the flow of holy water
whose sweet murmur immerse us in songs.
Lo and behold!

It's the picture of the valley where we will go .
It has utterly devoured our hearts.
Wind of fairy tale is blowing on our flag ;
Future frequently oscillating our hope
like a golden pendulum.
Overflowed with joy, we have set out
towards our dreams.
Sorrow never fatigues us.
On a stormy night we have turned our face
towards a bright day.
Troubles have not paralysed us.
We will go out
escaping the riddle of shout, cry and despair.
May Death touch not us.

We will sow the grain seeds in the valley of
The water of silver river will flow on the left .
The sharp husky mountain will remain on the

Protest for Plucking the Feathers

I'm such a bird bewailing like a black flag for its
that fills up the vacuum of all residence with the
cry caw-caw
and laments making the sky tremble in helpless
protest for plucking the feathers
and flying dispersed, flaps its wings like its
victimized fellow-bird.

Why does such a bewailing blow now?
Just only few days ago, I wished I had been a
into the turbid dirty water of Bostami's 1 tank;
and my greed, like the purple coloured pulp of
used to be splashed on the steps of its stair.

Today, as it were, I have sloughed off my musk
and my hard soul have opened clearly.
Touching hesitatingly innumerable white alum
in dirty black water of mystery, someone has made
me catch
the image of my face broken by waves
in the shivering nether world of water.

As often as I tremble saying 'It's not my face, it's
not mine'
I notice my motherland stand beside me as a
My breast starts stirring like a big vessel full of
in fearlessness and aspiration.
The series of anxious faces, having the perfume of
have suddenly caused to bloom today a blood-red
hundred-faced flower.

Who calls me by name in the queue?
The sound of my name in a solemn roar of
surrounding my body entered the depth of villages
as if it were the sound of crickets.

It seems that all the people of river will gather if I
call them;
If I call them, they will gather on this bar closing
the sails of their boats.
The flow of black people, coming out from behind
the fields, ask me angrily
how they will proceed towards the impenetrable
gateway of city.
1. Bayezid Bostami, a Muslim saint . His shrine is at Bayezid
Bostami in Chittagong.

In whose Remembrance

She, in whose remembrance the nettle of water
bites me on my breast, never kept her feet at my

I don't know what the green of paddy did, hiding
Parrots of the forest uttered a spell, saying, "Go
not, O lass!"

Sails of all boats called her; and caressing her
the soil of bar spread out a Shitolpati 1 .

The Hutom 2 started crying on Chhatim 3 tree in
order to frighten her.
The wild wind shivered coming near her breast.

When night came down well-dressed in the gap of
the bangle of that girl rang on her hands.

All on a sudden, the river raised the hood of
serpent ;
and the blow of wind made her absent-minded.

When the binding of her carefully made chignon
got unloosed,
uttering all my spells went utterly futile.

1. A kind of mat, soft and comfortable. 2. A big owl. 3. A kind
of tree.

Under Only My Feet

Now I embarrass none throwing the arrows of
My questions are decreasing gradually.
Now a-days I don't want to know from anyone
why the soil quakes under only my feet.
No earthquake exists anywhere. Yet why, I don't
why does the whole city quake unceasingly within
my veins ?

I don't ask, 'O my friends, how do you stand
when all the houses are shaking, all the buildings
are sinking into soil
and cracks in walls, having opened like a huge
disappear behind the sight?'
I don't want to know whether there lies any seed of
Ashwath 1
sanctified by mantras 2 under the urban influence.
Only, O my Lord, I want to remain sleepless like
at the portal of Sadom.

1. A kind of tree. 2. Spell. 3. A prophet.

A River
When I recollect your face,
a river with tidal surge flows through my heart .
In front, I see a plate of rice
and a bowl of chilly over-flowing with soup.

The Moon looks as yellow as a cake
as if it were wrapped with plantain-leaves;
O my Love, can memory join an earthen vessel
broken once into pieces?

Every night two blue Buicha 1 fish-eyes
ask me penetrating into my dreams,
`How do you do now ?' Alas, my goodness!
Who wants to enquire after one in a city?

I want to return, but would I be able
to get that path again? Would I get that hut
beside the water-melon field where a shameless
wanton girl,
awefully black, used to come and burst into
laughter ?

That night-coloured beautiful Fay, dark more than
the darkness
of eternity, wearing a wet blue sari and causing quake
to the waterful pitcher set upon her waist,

used to walk on the bank of my river.

What a black moment I saw her go
shaking her limbs !
She looked like a black Baush 2 fish
in a bindweed bog.

If I return, will I have that river
and that village broken by the rush of stream?
Alas! that river has devoured everything;
the waves of water have concealed both my name
and address.

1. A kind of fish. 2. A kind of fish.

Remembrance of the Former Birth

As often as I come,
it seems I come reborn with the same blood and
from within the same womb of mother to my old
The lamentation of an afflicted soul with sound
wua wua
makes a poor father shrunken.
And the watery eyes of a mother get closed
in a tired tension-free ease.
I don't know when and how I grew up
beside the slow-flowing river of my former birth.

Who recollects his former birth?
Among all living beings, am I the only man
bearing clearly in mind which village I was born
in ?
But the Tripitak says, man for his unpardonable
reborn in the womb of a beast.

For what error and sin
do I come back again and again
in the same language
through the same womb of mother
in an ever-known defeated country?
For plucking up the fragrance of language
from the abnormality of sentence
if I am treated guilty,
for my that guilt I wish I were reborn as a beast.
Only then keeping my neck
under the knives of religion like the deer of
I will be able to see how Banlgadesh, red with the
spark of blood,
is being washed by both fearlessness and complete

When Eyes Get Nostalgic

When eyes get nostaligic, I get freghtened.
It seems my eyes are moving on towards my ears
or my ears entering into my eyes have raised the
sceptre of sound.
Where-ever I stare, I only hear---hear the sound of
coming from a distance, as if a huge lump of soil
breaking down somewhere.
I can't open my eyes in front of the sprinkling of

Our village was near the wrath of a fierce river.
When the borken lines continually advanced in
slow motion
to destroy the whole village, I used to carry the
of every day's breakage to my mother.
I came to her running and said, 'O Mother,
Idris's cow- house has collapsed down today.'

My father was a patient of insomnia.
Whole night he basked in the sound of breakage.
Sometimes I saw him go
towards the river, taking spear in hand.
If I followed him, he would say,
"Come, let us see
where the bar has risen up."
None of the boatmen knew the news of bar rising
within ten miles.
When they sailed away towards a distant mart
shaking their hands
from the stern of boat, we returned home.

The breakage advanced within forty yards .
My father was then
severely ill.
I didn't know what his disease was.
He only told me to go towards the river to see
where the bar had risen up.
His words inspired me to run fast.
But coming back I only informed him,
'Father, Nolini's himestead has collapsed down
into river .'
My mother warned me by eyes not to say so.
But I was a very small boy
who had not yet learnt to tell a lie.
This way every thing came to an end oneday .

The very day river grasped our homestead utterly
is yet fixed on my eyes.
We went bag and baggage
near the grave of my father behind the village.
That place was high and safe.
It looked like a bar.
My mother sat down there panting.
She cried in such a manner I haven't heard ever .
Then we were ousted from our village
and scattered into villages
keeping the breakage-line behind.
Someone took shelter at maternal uncle's home,
someone at aunt's , which way the flow of men had
everywhere in the world coming out from

The Face of a Relative
In remembrance of Ahmedur Rahman

Someone, as it were, a face of my relative
bursts into laughter within my heart
and silently inquiries about my well-being.
I, leaving my chair, walk into silence
and offering him a new packet of cigarettes ask,
'Is there the end of all things where you've gone ---
things which have made a kind Kalapa 1
on our poor small earth with cells and some
fictitious words
of human language ?

`If no shop of books found, why have you gone
Newspapers in the morning, politics, agitated
poking repeatedly
which our panic-stricken century has put on like a
bloody shirt
how do you pass your days there beyond all these
without spending any words?

`Do you get any information about our motherland
After your departure debating on what will happen

the jewesh girls have sent all the white pigeons of
the world cooking nicely
to the American ship.'

1. The title of a Sanskrit grammar.

Behind your Back

Pardon lies somewhere;
your face more than that pardon
lying now just on my hidden soul.
If blood of my nails washed,
I fear water of all the rivers becomes red;
Today the current of that water flows twisted
in corner of my eye close to the side of my breast.

Behind your back
my dwelling-house becomes obscure;
become obscure my body, radiance of my health
and some marks
of my manliness;
become obscure plants and herbs, insects and trees,
even the face of woman the door of lovely flesh.

Malice for poetry, partiality and seat of art
all go behind your back.
Behind your back
there lie the fear of death and all the wealth of an

The Palmline

I notice a hole gaping towards me with a hidden
Life, as it were, a fly lying on net
pulled by a spider
whom nothing can awaken ever.
I have come to know it
and seen all the touches of the gush of my life
examining them well.
My age chases after me for a moment:
I come fleeing
from one city to another one.

My life surrendered to Love, a poor unchaste
smoking bidi 1 carelessly.
She was a barren woman dwelling under a trunk;
I took shelter at the stair of her shrine.

No creeper of greed grew in my mind.
So I didn't till the land
that could give me the palmline shaken.
I wish to return to my past where I came from;
Would I get my beloved again
standing nude
untying her chemise?

1. A kind of cigarette rolled in a tree-leaf.

Sweet Odour in Blood

It is your face protrayed on zinc, for which
I can forsake easily and cheaply
the sword of my father,
my garden and all landed property.
Who repents for getting coins of fairy?
Anybody may come to take from me
whatever he needs.
It is your face portrayed on zinc, for which
I can give away the sword of my father.

The warm Ata 1 fruit of your flesh
has mixed a sweet odour with my blood.
My days pass wounded and futile
wishing the warm Ata fruit of your flesh
Be unsteady, O Love, like Eve,
and give me that pride at my right hand.
What a sweet odour your warm Ata fruit
has mixed with my blood!

Following your navel I'm walking alone.
Would you offer me the black valley of shrub
having no bird but only the fast flowing blood?
Following your nevel I'm walking alone.
A medieval young Goswami

wants to get the direction of path only in your
I have seen alone at the root of your nevel
a black valley of soft shrub.

The passionate magician of the secret night
has kept fire on my palm.
With that fire I have burnt all valuable of mine.
The passionate magician of the secret night
has shown me that face extremely nice.
Then I have come to know
which sister of mine so much miser.
The passionate magician of the secret night
has kindled fire on my palm.

What a pride, O my superior, have you composed
in the huge middle of your two golden thighs?
Leaving home, goaded by erotic excitation,
with the intoxicated tune of agitated flute
I'm now like a wounded snake raising blue hood
in the huge middle of your two golden thighs.

In the huge middle of your two golden thighs
what a pride you have opened, O Love!

1. A kind of sweet fruit.

The Message of Bravery
To Kazi Nazrul Islam

Gradually the messages of bravery are going to be
Once, O Poet, the clouds, as black as your
legendary hair,
while floating in the sky, instigated us
with humbly request to go beyond the blood;
the sentenced stood up piercing through the prison;
saying "Come on the royal road", the elernal songs
of destruction
were sung in an old radical tune

Saying "Revolution! Revolution!", O the
fascinating Cuckoo of Lie,
raising the bad buzzing sound into the cold blood
of Bengal,
you have become a black mole on the breast of

So, the Great Poet, take this punishment;
Receive the heap of this yellow dry flesh;
Cover your love with a pale scarf
so that worthlessness of contagious mercury
can't spread any flavour.

Or be deaf, O poet, so that not a single drop of
sweat of songs
can assemble on your forehead.
Now, O the destiny's arrow-penetrated mad
lie down for ever at full length.


Now all my problems are with my eyes.
It seems I've been carrying excessive observing
since my very birth .

Splendor of all things' colours is being radiated
within my eyes.When a man narrates a colour,
I try to realise it.
I can't realise how you all fix name of a colourful
or how you,overwhelmed seeing the cornfield, say
Green! Green!
When I stare at green, it does't remain green more;
I see myself green too, beside the green, molten
and churned.

My wife becomes green.
My sons seem to be green too.
The girl playing in veranda wearing a frock
looks like a green butterfly..

Then the oppression of green starts.
The green sounds within my eyes like a hurt.
Then green into my eyes seems to be red.
That red turns into blue. The blue into black.
Such way transformed into hundred colours,
at last white comes to conceal all.
My eyes get satisfied.
Then I don't see my wife, my sons and daughters
I ain't telling about my hallucination.
No disease I have in eyes.
Doctor Odud doesn't think I need any spectacles.
I can clearly read every letter from likely distance.
Once I was a proof-reader in a newspaper.
Yet my eyes can realise the absence of each 'I-kar'                   1

and 'U-kar' 2 .
Nevertheless, why does it happen so?
Why do I see a different colour within each one?

1. ' w ' __ this sign in Bengali language. 2 ' v ' ___ this sign in
Bengali language.

His Lips Stir in the Grave-like

I knew every conqueror deserves a reward;
Every tired warrior retiring from battlefield
deserves a reward .
It's like a fountain of pleasure to him.
Even a wounded cripple hopes to have a medal of
And who doesn't know it's the custom?
Reward for heroism a great vogue for ever.

But what will you give a poet the poet who
turns his melancholic face towards future;
by whose finger's inclination, Nature cracks and
rivers created;
by whose utterance fields tremble, dispersed
procession and its men
being twisted become again alright?

When he returns, he notices the over-whelmed
the corpse of babies in indifferent fascination;
the saris of seduced women, torn and coloured
with murder.

His lips stir amidst the grave-like silence;
all the annals break down in the flow of blood-red

The Overturned Eyes.

It's that leisure when no sight is to be approved.
The winkless eyes are getting overturned,
where the flash of lightning or incidents
arranged in rows.
No, I don't want to scold anyone.
I ain't fit for any job.
Rather may the globe of the universe set within my
turn around frequently.
Enemies are bombing in Vietnam;
I protest against it.

My overturned eyes are eager to loiter
wherever they wish.

Even when women change their saris at kaltala        1   ,
my eyes like a shameless guy hurriedly observe
When the satpat 2 saris are as transparent as glass,
who will be able to blind me more?

My eyes are set on the opposite direction of all
where the real comes out penetrating the lid.

Suppose someone is delivering a lecture.
I can't hear his speech.
Instead I only see his soul on his tongue.
If anyone bends down in sejda     3   ,
I notice a basinful greed has fallen prostrate.

Let not any known or unknown girl come to me,
for they love so much to be concealed,
but there is no existence of covering
into my eyes now.

Now within my mind there's a solo show of an
Let all gossip about the excellence of his art.
But here I penetrating all embodiment observe
an unemployed innocent licentious weeping
keeping his head over the breast of a whore,
the whore who used to scold her clients
if touched her breasts with hands.

There's a portrait of a national leader in my room.

I dare not look at him.
If ever I set my eyes, suddenly that portrait
becomes the night of 25th March.
Even I try my best not to stare at my own portrait.
It's such a portrait, full of ugly stripes, which
trembling with fear
suddenly becomes a big size village
a village; dark and blind pond; purple coloured
flowers over the water-hyacinth;
the fleeting wind through the lemon-leaves;
the acute smell of cow-dung; cuckoo;
kissing the most beautiful girl of Mulla-house
in the jute-field within the heat of dog days.

It is my face, o brethren, it is my face.
Just so, four young men have entered the picture of
my face :
their beards as black as the roots of water-
their dresses folded.
For the last call, they have collected weapons
within their hearts. Now within my face
there's their secret sitting.
My face has become that blood shedding plan
which way all the cities will be occupied by a
surprise attack.

1. The ground of tubewell. 2. Seven folds. 3. The very place
where the person who prays sets his/her forehead.

As I won't Return Again

Having wrung out the floating cream on milk
by a spoon, I stare at it
as I won't return again.
The smoke of rain is noticed outside as if it spread
a white sheet of dream all over the world.
Why does my heart oscillate so much?
As I won't come back more?

Though my hand is trembling,
I'm habitually writing innumerable names
of all things known and unknown.

At the end of all names, I write--` I won't return '.
Birds, I won't return.
Rivers, I won't return.
Women, I won't return, O sisters.

As I won't return again,
I pick up the first flag of procession into my hand.
As I won't return,
I organize a man within a man.
I wreathe a speech within a speech, why?
for I won't return.
I hold the breast within the breast, why?
for I won't return.
But the vague water of sorrow has assembled
in every layer of my memory.
It seems my known river isn't a river at all,
it has the hint of some water only.
The woman who opened her girdle to me----
have I noticed the nudity of her whole back
while pressing and licking her ?
Perhaps there lay her dark-brown birth-mark
beside the shank, which my lolling tongue,
maddened with the game of licking,
does not notice at all.

Today beside my dissatisfaction
who embroiders the black letters --"I won't return"
on the melancholic handkerchief of parting?
O Sun, I won't return.
O Sorrow, I won't return.
O Love, O Lust, O poetry mine,
are you all the milestones on the way of my not-

You, O River

Who are you the refusing bird flapping wings
within me,
for whose obstinate whistle the flow of blood
becomes speedy?
The river, that once used to carry water for all
dutiful families
boring the map of Nature, is not a river now,
rather it's a cobra as if it were a secret broker of a
cunning merchant.

Launch here your boat, full of export jute, with a
heavy speed
and, O the treacherous blue water, break down on
the deck
tearing the sail hearing the sound of laughter.

One day it will be ours.
This python-river will be a watchful luminous
turbid one
that will become perturbed and tremulous, that will
the oar with its muscle
and lightning will flash both on sail and rope.

Today you are not ours.
O River, the black-line by exploitation and
the poet suspects you assist the theif:
you are not like our sister's sari ,
you are not like our mother's body.

Where the Source of Perception

I suddenly hear the sound of a sewing machine
into the tranquility within my over-whelmed
My next-door woman is making a dress
for her newly born boby.

All on a sudden, there's the sound of shooting and
'Hold! Hold! Hold!'
But whom will I hold? 1973 goes away on foot
carrying sten gun upon its shoulder.
A jeep runs away threshing the flower-garden.
Again I hear the sound of shooting.
'Mother mother shut the windows receive
telephone, telephone '
The sound of shooting comes again. 'Help! Help!'
'Teach the shala 1 , tear him up---'
'O shali 2 , put off your sari, you the bastard whore!'
'Don't kill me, you're my son, my god-father'

The sewing machine has stopped.
Closing all the doors
I remain here sleepless and silent against the wind.
What a shivering it is, which transforms
summer into winter, winter into summer!
Do I feel cold?
or has my body been wet with sweat?

Where's the source of perception?
Let me keep my hands.
I want to touch my penis, the virtue of
perseverance and love.
I want to go through blood and then want to peep
so that I can see the huge minaret people say
Purusarthha 3 .

1. Younger brother of wife, used as abusive language in Bengali.
2. Younger sister of wife, used as abusive language in Bengali.
3. Four objects of human pursuit : piety, wealth, desire and

By Prowess of Truth
Does our domestic life become true ever?
Why do we say then 'True! True!'?
Be cautious so that the wall of this house
may not collapse down by the prowess of truth.

Behold, how nicely Beauty herself has slept on
Her two breasts are shivering by respiration.
Sweat has gathered on arms.
Wind has flown the border of her Katan 1 .
Accidentally the grace of a mole has been
Do you want to awaken her now
by a noble true message?

So awaken her and see
how she gets up having rivers within her eyes.
The wall of house will be burnt by truth;
only by a mere baby's cry
the telephone will be torn;
the rotatory movement of the fan
will be fast instantly and will overturn the metal
along with the grove-like head of Buddhist.
And the people of village
suddenly seeing the beauty of truth at their
neighbor's house
will run along the street saying 'Fire! Fire!'

1. One type of sari.

Into the Depth of My Eyes
Once my eyes were the source of all sorrow.
Even I could not go through a tragic novel.
Crossing the breast,
weeping used to come to take shelter into my eyes.
Shower of tears used to fall touching my cheek.
With my overflowed eyes I hid my face in shame.
Seeing my such a state with a mere simple book,
my sisters at their reading table became stones.
Mother halted abruptly.
And my father straightly stared at me
with overwhelmed eyes and thinking something
moved to the mosque.

Their eyes were nothing but absolute stones.

It doesn't mean they didn't weep ever in their
They wept too when they got shocked or lost their
Their eyes also cracked in sadness.
Once when my younger sister died of pneumonia,
my mother wept for years.
I can never forget that weeping
When I recollect my mother's face,
that scene comes to stand upon my eyes.
But from time immemorial
they were vapourless, waterless and cloudless as well.

My boyhood moistened me.
And my eyes were like the grain of Ichhabgul         1

wet into a glass full of water.

Everything has utterly changed.
Now into the depth of my eyes, which were like
the risen flow
of water into a swamp, there are only the glittering
Now a-days I seldom get chance to meet my
Now and then she comes from village
carrying fine rice, gaoan 2 ghee, pure mustard oil
and an unadulterated remorseful cry.
She thinks, in the adulteration of city I'm losing
my health
and my sons are not growing properly

as I think, one day the current of pure people
coming from villages will occupy all cities.

From two sides we observe each other.
Her complaints are sometimes against my brother,
sometimes against my sister,
against the flowing age.
Then her incessant cry starts.
My father is no more on the earth. If he were alive,
would he also cry like her?

Yet my mother weeps.
Why does she weep and stare at me with tears?
Sometimes I console her
with the language of scolding and threatening.
But her weeping doesn't stop.
I give her money
needed for meeting the household expense.
But my eyes remain dry
as if they were two flaming international headlines
on newspaper in the morning.

1. A kind of food also used as medicine. 2. Made of cow-milk.


To protect yourself, wear the green dress.
Wear the green sari which way butterflies born
like the leaves of trees.
You have to save your stunned daughters
keeping twigs and tendrils over their souls.

Have the shields of Nature on your breast
so that the murderers think you are a tree ,
the tree which incessantly swings the beauty of

Keep in mind, enemies also have worn green
twigs and tendrils on their helmets and green
leaves on their cannons;
Hiding their nails
and pipes of guns

they have become a small bush of bishkatali   1


Hearing your pathetic cry 'Save! Save!'
on the map of Asia,
behold, all the woods oscillate,
oscillate the Nature, its rules.

1. A kind of poisonous tree.

My Absence

My absence yawns in the sultry wind of March.
Who thought last Sunday would go
companionless this way?
Yet I don't get back, flowers of your chignon
and fall down on your back.
Closing your arrangement of tea,
you think whether you will go to bed in southern
changing your sari.
And I wearing the dress of a promise-breaker have
forgot all,
as though never I promised any body, saying,
`Remain at home and wait for me,
I'll come back; we'll sit abreast at your veranda.'

Yet I can clearly recollect,
once a woman put on sari after my choice;
I love rivers, so all on a sudden she also became
a river, laughing.
When I made her realise the rules of Nature
saying 'O my Love, had you been a tree! '
Listening to my words, only saying 'Behold '
she opened all her branches and twigs within a
Now I have worm the dress of a promise-breaker.
My absence yawns in the sultry wind of March.

The Dome of Straw

Nobody knew why he had returned.
Seeing him, all the peasants got surprised.
Quickly keeping aside the heap-like rubbish of
weeding hooks,
the artists of crops started preparing their narcotic
sitting on the ridges of field.
Spreading straw on soil, someone called him by
and said in affectionate tone, "Get seated, O boy.
Why do you feel ashamed? You're none but a child
of our village,
our own man. Once the wind went senseless
listening to the melody of your father's Maraphati      1

All the villagers even now, when that memory of
your father recollected,
listen soft silently sitting in the Dahliz 2 '

Going to get seated on the heap of golden straws,
the returned man noticed that sitting became a
problem for him,
the dress of city without a wrinkle gripped his two
as though, from the muscle of thigh to the waist
he had been thoroughly arrested in a cruel
that would not let him sit on the heart of his
country's soil
accompanied by his kinsmen.

You must sit here beside the paddy-field full of
cool wind.
Happily tasting the hookah offered by the peasants,
you have to inform them how far you went
running after the mysterious bird
crossing the betel-field.

Where's the bird now?
Hankering all day long after the illusive bird
you've come back losing its bill-like green creeper.
But, in return, you have got nothing
no shadow, no odour of leaves;
Only you have seen
under the cover with symbolic leaves designed by
Kaiyum 3
the urban vultures, in disguise of cuckoo, shedding
their feathers
fly over the municipal corpse-land.

1. Religious, spiritual. 2. Drawing room in modern term. 3.
Kaiyum Chowdhury, a famous Bengali artist.


Today in this watery wind of Hemanta     1

my heart has been filled up with smell of a woman.
Affected by her love and salt-smell,
my ego sets spots of rust, red-black, harsh and
on its vain self-satisfaction.

Everywhere in every thing
I notice the presence of a woman.
Smell of a woman, charming and epoch-making,
is blowing in wind,

blowing in waves of water
and in bunches of shrub.

Whose face floats
on the tremulous water into my hand?
It's you, an adolescent girl,
who descended into this river in my boyhood.
Your attar 2 is yet stuck to my nose.

O Wind, O Barun,
O Indra, the God of thunder-cloud,
by your incessant rain and friction
even the mountains tremble, the earth casts her
yet why do I get natural smell of a woman's salt,
her lust and fog?

O Barun, the God of rain !

1. A Bengali month. 2. A kind of perfume.

In My Breakfast

Opening door in the morning everyday
hands of this royal beggar want to have
the crystal-white clean taste
on the transient leaves of newspapers
like those of arum.
Alas! into that pot, today
there is nothing
but the tremulous turbid water of ocean.
Behold, how nicely
the noble, wise journalists have sent
folding the whole Bay of Bengal!

Innumerable corpse of tender-aged boys of Bhola   1

lay down incautiously in the gaps of yellow
Tatkini2 fish
on the plate of my breakfast.
And water, washing the swollen bellies
of dead young women of Sandwip          3

started dropping spattered on the cup of bright
smoky tea
made by my better-half.
Why do I get so frightened

hearing the knock of wind at my windows?

It seems
millions of dead cows will enter my room
thinking it a spacious cowshed;
Or the god Bell-Enlil, by his obedient water,
driving away a herd of robust cows,
beat a huge Pajon 4 full of twigs within my heart.

A district of Bangladesh. 2. A kind of fish. 3. A district of
Bangladesh. 4. A demon-size.

I'm too on the Street

It seems innumerable eyes will besiege me at once;
the groaning, full of wrath, coming out
from the green of crops
will mercilessly lash me
raising waves on the corrugated roads'
rummaging all household utensils
and throwing all arround the divested books and
opening the Pila of Shika 1 it will see
there's no rice nor salun 2 ,

'Where are you the bastard?
I'll teach you a lesson today
for your precocity.
O the great liar,
where do you lay the golden eggs?'
saying it, it will pull my quilt,
and then unclothing me
will astonishingly see
a shameless naked body of a crow.

My yard over-flooded with waves of abuses
floats me in the row of food-greedy wrath;
it dances like a snake in procession on the street.
"Behold, O gentlemen,
the uncultured rustic boys come to burn the town!
They've blocked all roads
and stopped the movement of all cars
and shut the shops.
The workmen of tumult throw bricks
towards the patrons.
See their courage,
the illegitimate sons of the maid-servants
fly the flags of affray now on the street!'

1. Hanging rope-shelf. 2. Soup made of meat and fish.

Undulatory Temptation

As a group of minstrels, sitting in the shrine of a
Pir1 ,
suddenly start reciting the Zikir 2
of love with the sound hoo-hoo; my poetry is
but songs sung by those mad.
Let it give the darkness of words into your hearing
penetrating your heart, making it broken and sad.

If the worshipper of vacuum gets the honour of a
why will an idolater be contemptible like a beast?
O the learned Drabir 3 virgin, set your fine
deep great black beauty free in front of mine.

How long, thinking me a tout, from within the
depth of river
a hungry harlot desired my body to devour!
Her undulatory temptation falls down one after one
on my breast, so
I get ready to protect myself with my string and

Who are you,the rebellious, lighting lamp among
the dark-sunken race?
In danger of such a dark night, kindly show me
sweet your face.

1. A learned religious leader. 2. Remembrance of the name of
Allah. 3. Ancient name of Bengal.

The Golden Kabin

No gold coin I have; Don't demand any dower, O
my Doe;
If you take, I can give my dowerless two hands.
I haven't stored any self-selling gold,
for the cunning frown wounds and hurts me all
around everywhere.

If you love me, in return I'll give my kiss
It's my only business, for I haven't learnt how to
deceive a lady.
If you give your body, you'll get mine, too. O my
no capital but body I have, by which I can
purchase ornaments for you.

If you get nude, you'll find me simple;
Even no olive-leaves will remain there, which may
envelop my virility;
If you start tasting, please give me a share of those
fruits, too;
In consciousness and unconsciousness we'll remain
ever-known to each other.

Although all my distressed veins and arteries
wounded severely,
I ain't defeated, O Love, poets don't know how to
give in.

Supporting my hands, O my venomous snake,
ascend on my Pati 1 ;
Fold up your hood now, don't compose any black
verse within my heart.
Whatever darkness you can pour out by each of
your snaps,
every moment I become bluer than that darkness in
fear of your bite.

In which tricks and artifices have you worn the
Nilambor 2 sari?
Flowing in drops, the color of night becomes more
I think I can jump into that deep darkness
if you pick up my death spreading out the edge of
your sari.

Would you permit me to write down my name
without any title and shine,
with the scratch of slow trembling nails on your
chest? If you get shy,

I'll wipe off the first letter, the blood-alphabet, not
Aryan and ancient,
with my untiring wet kisses.

O Kalabati 3 mine, make the sport of Bangali race
the sport which Batsayan did not know and knew
no girls of the Aryan.
Turning round the curve of your neck, come near,
O my wild duck;
Uncovering your feathers, give me the ease of your
warm body.
I pass my days bowing down to Nature. Today the
name of this man,
skillful in words, will open the door of ecstasy.

The arrow of Kakka's 4 words, the command of
sylvan soul,
summons you eighteen times, hear attentively, O
my eighteenth.
Untie your closed serpent-like plait with your own
fingers then ascend on
dark-blue bed-sheet and get seated nude with me to
quench our two thirsts.

Let's go to an uncultivated valley
having the sound of two violent waters with us,
like that of a hungry river.
Untie all the folds of your body like the soil of a
May the flesh of Ugol 5 fish be happy in your mud;

Moistening all the artistry of pleasure with the lake
dye of lips,
let us sink fast, O Love, into the revolving riddle of

If you want to visit my shrine, walk slowly, O my
sweet Love.
The blood of Mukundaram 6 is mixed with this soil.
Catching the torn palm-leaves, let us recite his
We don't know how many drops of tear there are
on this torn palm-leaves .

Would you come, O wild lass, being the desire of a
Then be aware that python is my totem in poverty.

Like a fresh murder, I'll draw the vaccine of
and the love of a poor man on your red forehead.

How can I win you, my Love,
by which Mantra of what clan, can I take you at
my home ?
I've my belief in Kapila 7 only. Has Love ever taken
refuge in religion or
in any Sanghha 8 ? Remember, only the grass of
grave remains after all deaths.

As long as you've the form of copper-colored
body, you've value;
If you lose it ever, nothing exists more; then it is history
which bursts alone into laughter

Have the fruits of cotton-plant exploded beside my
Wear the garland of Gunja 9 , O girl, the fowler of
my heart;
Where have you kept the earthen bottle of
Mahua10 ?

Please carry it here in this moonbeam and let us rinse it
down together with pleasure.

Who says that I won't recognize you in the
aboriginal dress of a fowler?
Does a hunter ever mistake to recognize the clan of
In whatever Mantras Khona 11 is opened to unravel
the mystery of Nature,
remember, that same magic lies within the souls of

I've learnt from the book of Nature from my
childhood that
all-piercing root of Green pierces even love; No
society has ever been built anywhere; The fingers
of all artists
of Egypt, Greece and Serasine have failed to do

By the strike of Age's plane, all the arts tremble in
O Girl, the lips of a poet are not more painful than

I've no faith in Pisces, Girl; I'm a man of Kauma
who only create the sound of simple equality in
your town.
I've never composed a single verse after the name
of any chieftain;
I'm the poet on whose baldhead always hangs the
law of oppressor.

Long long ago my ancestors were slaves of some
They used to compose the pound of sentences
selling their conscience;
That scandal, yet now, hisses in the wind of
Alaul12 , the rider of the horse of Rosang, hides his
face in shame.

Isn't it better to be a poor minstrel, who is looking
the neighbour living in Arshi nagar    13   ?
Braid my hair today making diadem over my head;

Become my Aktara 14 , O Love, I would be your
young Lalon 15 .

All the mistakes I've made due to the undesired
sentiment of devotion,
Today I'll rectify them all and create the warbling
of new words.

Having lost your gold ear-ring are you crying, my
The boughs of Anaj    16   bend down outside in terrible
Is it possible to get back the Jeor    17   from the hands
of a thief?
Perhaps the coquette of the thief has worn that ring

All the elegant conscience of this country has been
eaten into by worms;
Selling the brain, the learned society is happy very
How long can the truth be concealed under the lid
of civility
when the art of a rebellious poem cries loudly
within the soul?

Don't break your bracelet; yet there are some lath
of sandalwood
at my home, by which I'll fill up the holes of your
In the discourse of Dhrupada         18   , suddenly I have
sung the Kheur 19 ;
Pardon me, O virgin, forgive the songs of this
upset cuckoo.

The gold cat will drink all the milk of your
bowl how long would you
tolerate, O unsteady girl, pretending that you've
noticed nothing at all?

The age of Monosa         20   has touched me in my
profound sleep.
A serpent has entered, O Chaste, into the bridal
chamber of iron;
Will we notice ever a new morning after this very

and the sun, the emperor of warmth, which rises

My whole body, getting blue by the rage of
venom, trembles in fear;
O my Behula 21 , lift me up now over your body;
Embrace me, O my chaste Love,
binding me by your two hands; Today the son of
Ebb, who always blasphemes
gods and goddesses, will lie down on your

If my life comes to an end for the fraud venom of
start bewailing with your disheveled hair.
Hearing your cry, the life-bird will return breaking
the cage of death.
Viewing the audacity of life, may the life-eater
Zam22 bow down its head.

Rending your dress, start dancing, O Love, beside
my death;
May the chubby coin of you reverse the system of
our living.

Through the current of ancestry, O my proud Love,
you've got this verdant
splendor in your body; Remember, those ancestors
had once built
the city of Pundra. They all have been the food of
soil. But I didn't know
the roots of Banyan trees always drink the blood of
a black nation.

My dwelling is also in the country of red-colored
My forefathers were pride of Pattikera   23   city.
The waves of monstrous bush have devoured all.
The praise of Amitava Gautama collides now with
the screech of crickets.

In the Past, of whose fear, the Vedic fire of
dividing men into classes
dared not advance one inch crossing the Karatoa       24   ;
Have the foundations
of their dwellings been eaten into by the worms of
The sound of elegant equality frequently goes
The Borgis are looting our paddy, the whole country is

being filled with blood and death;
O my dark-complexioned Love, the danger of crops is here
more serious than your beauty.

The savage have raised their hands by the Mantra
of laborer-equality;
Behold, O Love, peace has set in the country of
Let us stick the badge of a hero on the dresses of
who carry the invitation of equality for the
working class people in Asia.

May the equal distribution of crops be our only
Start singing the song of extirpation of class,
motivated by the Mantra
of utmost relief. Pronounce such a speech of love
with courage
so that no class-distinction can ever enter into the

Then if you want to refer to the context of lust,
come behind
the concealment of corn-field and uncover the
yellow of your youth;
From the side of crops how much love I can give,
I'll give you more than that, the cordial affection of

I've caught your silk-sari with much bashful
O my sweet-voiced Love, don't delay,
acknowledge me your hero.

I've heard from my boyhood, O Girl, Bangladesh is the
lying-in-room for wise men;
All our past wisdom-trees were born here during
the incessant rain;
See now into that room of knowledge, there hang
only some depressed bats.
O my amiable Love, how difficult it has been
today to have faith in the Past!

How would I accept it's the birthplace of Srigyan        26

and Shilbhadra 27 had inhaled the first air from
If we exclude its part, it loses its everything
only a few sinanthropous cough in our schools.

Within the last exaltation of this stone-age, where
would you flee,
O Girl upset, in which bush would you hide
In your body the color of an independent deer
remains, too.
When the blades of stones are thrown from behind
the curtain,

the existentialist-giraffes have lengthened their
individual necks
into our art-centre and all our workmanship.

Suddenly hearing the sound of high tide at
from the village adjacent to the river, a farmer
for his beloved wife whether she is beside him or
who opens the door of wealth and corn;

Likewise, grasp my hand, O Love, at this blind
night, full of fear.
If the smell of crops remains in your body,
the enemy of food may bring the ferocious attack
of greed;
we'll return that panic created by food-greedy
Rahu28 .

As a peasant of upland, who eats his food standing
in water,
establishes his utmost right on the newly risen bar,
that way I've hoisted the flag of justice over your
The flag of mine, bright colored, is firm both in
kindness and right.

Behold, the northeast is trembling in fear by the
ear-splitting thunder;
Swearing by the name of storm, tell me, O Girl,
whom are you of?

Open your two eyes, O my beautiful Love,
reddened by the odor of Loban 29 ,
the two designed borders of your sari tremble by
my breath;
Had you been the sylvan pigeon bent down to
You're trembling as if you were the root of a cane
fallen in storm.
Your chignon has been unloosed in wind, O my
smiling girl; look at me,
crossing your Tikli 30 , my heart palpitates in fear.
All the villagers waiting
for you, having paddy in their auspicious winnowing
platters; the Khai31of Binni 32
are spread on the yard;      33    Attar and Aguru    34   on
your bed.

Having accepted this lucky Dhan-durba            35   with
loosening your Purdah   36   , O my noble Love, put up
again your hair into a bun.
Your sisters-in-law of the same age have caught
the threshold, coming to you;
Be simple like them and listen to the first Sabak            37

of your family.

All the women from my mother's side have gathered to
welcome you as a bridegroom;
O Girl, say spontaneously like the waves of a
river 'Kobul! Kobul!'
For Rain's sake, O Bibi, for sesame-colored
paddy's sake,
For the sake of fish and meat and for the sacred
milch animals';
For plough, yoke and scythe's sake, for the sake of
windy sail,
Believe, no poet neglects the religion of heart.

If I ever profane my tongue breaking my promise,
may you turn into the blade of lightning;
and rending my heart, may your divorce fall down
upon my head.
Then, O my Love, give me no piece of fish for my

Which way the innocent waves break down
on the body of a water-bird floating in the night's
likewise I'll incessantly pour out all my kisses
on your body setting you free from the chain of





        If it happens otherwise, O Banu,          38   for the mother
        tongue's and the love-poetry's sake, may your

        curse fall down upon my head like a thunderbolt.



        1. A kind of Mat. 2. Like the color of blue sky. 3. Well-versed
        classical female musician. 4. A small re ptile. It is believed that it
        calls according to its age. That means, if it is eight years old, it
        will make eight sounds. 5. A kind of fish. 6. A medieval Bengali
        poet. 7. Kamdhenu (the fabulous cow that grants all wishes) 8. A
        group or community. 9. Bunch or cluster of flowers. 10. A
        flower-tree. 11. Astrological predictions. 12. A great Bengali
        poet. 13. A mystical city mentioned in the songs of Lalon Shah.
        14. A musical instrument used by Baul singers. 15. A great
        Bengali composer, singer and spiritual leader. Rabindranath was
        influenced by his songs. 16. A kind of vegetable. 17. A kind of
        ornament. 18. Classic. 19. Scurrilous poem. 20. The Goddess of
        snake. 21. Beloved of Lakhinder whom the snake bit at the bridal
        chamber. 22. Yama who is responsible for death. 23. An ancient
        Bengali city. 24. A river in Bangladesh. 25. Robbers. 26. Atish
        Dipanker, an Bengali Buddhist who visited Tibet getting an
        invitation from the king of Tibet. 27. The Chancellor of Nalanda
        University in ancient India, a Buddhist scholar. 28. A demon
        said to be the cause of eclipses. 29. Benzene. 30. One kind of
        ornament used on the forehead of a woman. 31. Food made of
        rice frying on the oven. 32. A kind of paddy. 33. A kind of
        perfume. 34. A kind of fragrant wood. 35. A kind of grass. 36.
        Borkha. 37. Lesson. 38. Virgin.


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