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June  2000

INDEX

 ARTS AND LITERATURE

 

       

 

  

 


Editor
Syed Badiuzzaman
  
Consultant
LaRue W. Gilleland
  
Arts & Literature Editor
    Sajad Kamal    
  
Community News Editor
   Nazli Siddiqui
  
Correspondents
Nazmul Ashraf
(Dhaka)
   
Manju Biswas
(Newark)
  
Omar Faruk
(Toronto)
  
Poonam Kaushish
(New Delhi)
  
Fahim Reza Nur
(New York)
  
Nanda Wanasundera
(Colombo)
  
Bhagirath Yogi
(Kathmandu)
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
Nazrul: A Great Poet of the East

  

 

 

      Kazi Nazrul Islam, better known as the “Rebel Poet” of Bengal for his famous poem “The Rebel” that shook the entire Indian subcontinent in 1920s, is still barely known to the West. In a remarkably short period of time (1919-1943), Nazrul wrote numerous poems, songs and ghazals—many of which are timeless. At the prime time of his life, an incurable neurological illness struck him seizing his ability to talk, walk, and write. SAJED KAMAL, who recently wrote a book on Nazrul, takes a look at his life and works.

 

 Nazrul-- A rare genius of enormous versatilities.

Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976), the "Rebel Poet" of Bengal, though little known internationally, is among the greatest contributors to Bengali cultural heritage of all times.  Equally astounding is the fact that he accomplished what he  did  within  such a  brief  period of  time.  Out of his 77 years, Nazrul had a creative career of less than twenty-four  years (1919-1943), ending  due  to  his yet mysterious neurological illness debilitating his functional capacities,  including speech.  Even  that  brief period  was ridden with poverty, personal tragedies and constant harassment  by  the  British  colonial government—which  both threw him in jail on charges of sedition as well as proscribed several of his works. Yet during the same period, Nazrul produced at least 25 books of poetry, 4000 songs  and  ghazals (the  latter  being composed in a Persian and Arabic mode), 3 books of stories, 3 novels, 3 books  of  translations, 29  plays  and  operas, 2 movie scripts, and 5 books of essays and other writings. Nazrul holds the world record of recorded songs, many of which he himself composed the music for as well as sang.  The Bengali  Nobel  Laureate  Rabindranath  Tagore was a great admirer of Nazrul, calling him a "comet."  An ardent voice of humanity, equality, freedom, justice, unity, co-existence and peace, Nazrul was a phenomenal synthesis of the rebel spirit and creativity.  

       In the following SAJED KAMAL presents a selection of Nazrul's poems.  All of these have been freshly translated from the original Bengali, including some works which have thus far not been translated.  Very few books of Nazrul's works in English have been published so far and none outside of India and Bangladesh.  Even fewer are currently available.  In fact, the true stature of the depth and breadth of Nazrul's versatile genius is still in the stage of fuller discovery.  His poems or songs alone demonstrate his incredible versatility and skill in rendering a wide range of concerns, themes, topics, styles, forms, lengths, techniques and structures.  This is the discovery of Nazrul as a modern, visionary, holistic, revolutionary and universal poet, songwriter, composer, writer and philosopher—in the very best sense of the words.  For the extraordinary universal appeal of Nazrul's works, their popularity around the world is bound to flourish, as evidenced by the growing number of languages—at least twenty to this date, varying in number from just a single poem to more—into which his poems have been translated.  The multicultural, diverse world literature deserves it and would be enriched by it.  Additionally, Nazrul Conferences and other events celebrating Nazrul's life and works are being held in a growing number of countries around the world.  In 1999 many centennial birthday celebrations were held in both sides of Bengal, Bangladesh (East Bengal) and West Bengal (in India) as well as in many countries around the world.  On December 15, 1929, at the National Civic Reception for Nazrul, Nazrul said: "Just because I was born in this country and in this society, don't think I only belong to this country and this society.  I belong to all climes, to all men.  It is my religion to worship beauty and to sing in praise of her.  The clan, the society and the religion I was born in had been my fate.  It is because I have been able to rise above them that I am a poet."  Let his voice be heard, and his presence felt, around the world.

 

I Sing of Equality

 

 

I sing of equality

in which dissolves

all the barriers and estrangements,

in which are united

Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, Christians.

I sing of equality.

 

Who are you?—A Parsee?  A Jain?  A Jew?

A Santal, a Bheel or a Garo?

A Confucian?  A disciple of Charbak?           

Go on—tell me what else!

Whoever you are, my friend,

whatever holy books or scriptures

you stomach or carry on your shoulder

or stuff your brains with—the Quran, the Puranas,

the Vedas, the Bible, the Tripitaka, the Zend-Avesta,

the Grantha Saheb—why do you waste your labor?

Why inject all this into your brain?

Why all this—like petty bargaining in a shop

when the roads are adorned with blossoming flowers?

Open your heart—within you lie

all the scriptures,

all the wisdom of all ages.

Within you lie all the religions,

all the prophets—your heart

is the universal temple

of all the gods and goddesses.

Why do you search for God in vain

within the skeletons of dead scriptures

when he smilingly resides in the privacy

of your immortal heart?

I'm not lying to you, my friend.

Before this heart

all the crowns and royalties surrender.

This heart is Neelachal, Kashi, Mathura,

Brindaban, Budh-Gaya, Jerusalem, Medina, Ka'aba.

This heart is the mosque, the temple, the church.

This is where Jesus and Moses found the truth.

In this battlefield

the young flute player sang the divine Geeta.

In this pasture

the shepherds became prophets.

In this meditation chamber

Shakya Muni heard the call of the suffering humanity

and decried his throne.

In this voice

the Darling of Arabia heard his call,

from here he sang the Quran's message of equality.

What I've heard, my friend, is not a lie:

there's no temple or Ka'aba

greater than this heart!

 

 

 

Poverty

 

 

O Poverty!  You've made me great.

You've bestowed upon me honor

like Christ was honored by his crown of thorns.

O Saint!  You have given me

the irrepressible courage to speak freely,

formidable naked eyes, a razor-sharp tongue!

Your curse has turned my lyre into a sword!

 

O Arrogant Saint!  Your intolerable flame

has tarnished my radiant gold,

it has prematurely dried up

my beauty, flavor, life.

Whenever I reach out with my lean cupped hands

to receive an offering of beauty,

O Hungry One, you step ahead

and drink it all up.

My idyllic dreamland

turns into a dreary desert.

My eyes cast showers of fire

on my own beauty!

 

My pain-laden, yellow-stemmed desires

want to blossom like fragrant shefali.

O Cruel, you chop them off like a woodcutter!

My heart begins to glitter

like dew drops of an autumn morning

from the dew-laden earth's crystalline drops of mercy.

O Sun, your scorching heat

dries up every drop of it!

I pale even under the earth's soothing shadow!

My dream of beauty and bliss shatters!

You pour liquid poison down my throat

and tell me:  "What good is nectar?—

No burning, no intoxication, no madness!

O you weak mortal—it's not for you

to strive for immortality

in this world of sorrow!

You're like a serpent—born of burning pain!

You're to stay inside thickets of thorns

weaving garlands of flowers.

I stamp on your forehead

this mark of pain!"

 

So I sing, weave garlands, with my throat burning,

my entire body stricken with serpent bites!...

 

Like the unforgiving Durbasa,

you go from door to door with your begging sack.

Sometimes you appear at night

before a happily married couple

telling them in your harsh voice:  "Listen,

you fools—this earth is not a pleasure garden!

There are wants, separation, sadness,

hurtful lovers, beds of thorns—taste those now!"

Instantly, the paradise is overtaken by grief,

the light goes off, and the deadly night

feels too long!

 

Starved, thin, you walk the street,

suddenly knitting your eyebrows at some sight.

Your angry eyes cast arrows of fire—pestilence,

famine, cyclones strike the land!

Pleasure gardens burn, palaces explode!

Your rule of law has only one sentence—death!

 

You don't transgress to modesty.

What you want is the blunt expression

of stark nakedness!

You don't even know what it is

to be hesitant or ashamed.

You raise high the heads that are bent low.

Those on their march of death

wear ropes around their necks

with smiling faces!

With the fire of want burning inside them everyday,

you practice death-sacrifice

in diabolical pleasure!

 

You pull Lakshmi's crown down to dust.

Striking on Sarada's lyre-strings—what tune

do you want to play, O Virtuoso?

All the tunes turn into cries of pain!

 

Yesterday at dawn I heard a shehnai

playing a mournful tune.

As if the shehnai player was weeping,

calling for someone to return home.

The tune was carrying with it

the hearts of the brides to their beloved

faraway waiting anxiously to return home.

Friends ask:  "Why are you wiping your eyes,

your mascara?"...

 

I hear the shehnai again this morning

playing the same mournful call.

The pale shefalikas are falling to the ground

like a smile on a widow's face—spreading

a soft fragrance in the air.

The butterflies are dancing restlessly

on their wings, intoxicated,

numbing the flowers with their kisses.

The bees' wings are yellow from pollen,

their bodies smeared with honey.

 

Suddenly, new life

seems to spring up everywhere!

Unconsciously, I sing a welcoming song of joy!

My eyes are filled with tears!

As if someone has tied a Rakhi

of my union with the earth!

The earth offers me a gift of flowers

with her dirt-covered hands—as if

she's my youngest darling daughter!

Then I startle!—

It's you, O Cruel Saint!  You have appeared

in my child—crying at home, who hasn't had

anything to eat since yesterday.

Hungry—you cry in my home everyday!

 

My darling child, I haven't been able

to feed you even a few drops of milk!

I have no right to be joyful.

Poverty is intolerable—yet

it appears in my home everyday

as my child and my wife!

Who will play the lyre?

Where will I see the happy smile of the Beautiful?

Where will I find the honey drink?

I've drunk, instead, a glass of dhutura poison—

flowing out as my tears!

 

Even today I hear the shehnai again—

playing the same mournful tune.

 

 

 

Woman

 

 

I sing of equality.

I don't see any difference

between a man and a woman.

Whatever great or benevolent achievements

there are in this world,

half of that was by woman,

the other half by man.

Whatever sin, grief, pain, tears—

half of that was brought by man

the other half by woman.

Who calls you a hell-pit, woman?

Tell him—the Original Sin

wasn't a woman—

it was the male Satan!

Or, the Sin or Satan

is neither a man nor a woman

but neuter, equally

mixed with man and woman.

To all the flowers and fruits of the world

woman has given to them their beauty,

juice, sweetness, fragrance.

You've seen the Taj Mahal from the outside,

but have you seen what's inside it?

Inside it is Momtaz—the woman,

outside it is Shah Jahan!

Woman is the goddess of wisdom,

music and harvest.

Also the goddess of beauty—

woman returns again and again

in a variety of beautiful appearances.

Man has brought the burning, scorching

heat of the sunny day,

woman has brought the peaceful night,

soothing breeze and cloud.

She has given strength and courage

during the day, as a bride at night.

Man comes with desert-thirst,

woman provides the drink of honey.

Man ploughs the fertile land,

woman sows crops in it, turning it green.

Man ploughs, woman waters—

that earth and water mixed together

bring about a harvest of golden paddy!

Gold and silver acquire their worth as ornaments

from the touch of woman's body.

Separation from—and union with—woman

has turned a man into a poet!

His words become his poetry,

his sounds his music!

Man brought hunger, woman brought honey—

out of their union

is born the great child of humanity!

Every great victory, every great adventure

has been ennobled by sacrifices

made by mothers, sisters and wives.

History records the names of men

who have been killed in wars,

but not the women who have been widowed.

Does anybody inscribe on a hero's monument

all the mothers who sacrificed their hearts,

all the sisters who offered their services?

Never in history has man's sword

earned victory all by itself.

Inspiration and strength

have come from the goddess of victory—a woman!

The king rules the kingdom,

the queen rules the king.

The queen's compassion washes away

the kingdom's disrepute.

Man is heartless—

woman humanizes him

by lending him a half of her heart.

Those immortal, great human beings