(Transcreation)
These four poems in Bengali by noted poets Sunil Gangopadhyay, Nabarun Bhattacharya, Birendra Chattopadhyay, Amitava Dasgupta are transcreated by Debayudh Chatterjee.
Discerning the Human Face
Sunil Gangopadhyay (1934-2012)
Translated from the original Bengali by Debayudh Chatterjee
The swine have won in the name of civilization
They own the roads, it is their rat race
The ambassadors will wear their masks and run to countries far and wide
None of them will ever slip on the airstair and fall
The guffaws of their false teeth advertise civilization.
The archives are stacked with parables of the swine
They build bridges over rivers only to toss in their beds
And choose ammunition to blow up those concrete phalli to bits!
Meanwhile, the corpse of a fair damsel floats on a river of blood
Where music is an intoxicant, the priest gambles with skeletons
Let’s piss on this civilization for, of, and by the swine!
You and I will go back. We will stay savage.
We still have forests. Perhaps, somewhere, even now, under the dewy sky,
Fragrant flowers bloom, the night birds sing
We will strip naked beside a secret fountain, in the magical moonlight
Discerning the human face, a dancing humane carnival will begin. (Transcreation)
Also Read: Firefly or Minuku Hulu by ManjuNayak Challuru
Nation of the Uncouth
Nabarun Bhattacharya (1948-2014)
Translated from the original Bengali by Debayudh Chatterjee
I live in a nation of the uncouth.
Here, devious merchants nurture writers,
And the writers gladly approve of it.
I live in a nation of the uncouth,
Where the state apparatus, endorsed by intellectuals,
Demolish impoverished homes
In the dead of a cold, sordid night,
Where poets chew the cud of expired, senseless words
And turn into cows
Although I cannot guarantee that
It does not happen the other way around.
I have destroyed my future with my own hands.
Therefore, I sit beside a steamroller.
I sit and listen to stories of carving new paths.(Transcreation)
Also Read: At the Altar of the Sea
My India
Birendra Chattopadhyay (1920-1985)
Translated from the original Bengali by Debayudh Chatterjee
My India belongs to five hundred million naked people
Who toil all day in the blazing sun and cannot sleep all night
Due to starvation and cold.
So many kings come and go, histories of greed and envy
Contaminate the sky
And taint the water, the smog and smoke darken the air
Murk befalls us.
With subterfuge all around, all around the loud ramblings of the lusty
War and famine arrive, snogging each other’s lips
The fangs of snakes and the claws of tigers make the land quiver
My India does not recognize them
Nor does she abide by their commands.
Her children, despite the starvation
And the cold-blooded violence,
Are still the children of God, united by a fraternal bond! (Transcreation)
Also Read: The Bus Stop at Kandanassery and Other Poems
My Name is India
Amitava Dasgupta (1935-2007)
Translated from the original Bengali by Debayudh Chatterjee
The map that comes alive,
on my chest, hollowed by a Sten gun’s bullets,
is called India.
The love that is composed with each drop of my blood
in tea gardens and coffee plantations
in coal mines and mountains and forests
is called India.
The dream of endless bounty and music
weaved out of my irrigating tears and the phosphate of my bones
against a soil more ruthless than the assassin can ever be
is called India.
The somber shadow of the stony Bhakra Nangal
still weighs on my cold face
Every inch of my body is flooded with the oil
mined at the refinery in Digboi
like my mother’s pristine milk.
The militant workers of the textile factories in Ahmedabad
have arrived to wipe the riot blood off my forehead
and salvage me.
My corpse is guarded by the deities that till the soil with their scythes.
The fire of anger, not grief, of every tribal woman ever raped
sets my pyre ablaze.
The clouds have impregnated the sky.
It will rain soon.
The glaciers of Gangotri will melt
and flow between the killer’s Sten gun and me.
Soon, every bone-dry pond, lake, and creek
will be filled to the brim like my mother’s eyes.
Every stone will be shrouded by
the green, tender kisses of flora.
In the rhythm of Odissi, with the gestures of Bharatnatyam,
at the beat of Santal drums, and the bonhomie of Bhangra
a night of immense festivities will arise.
And, on that fateful night,
On that night, shining with the spirit of a million stars
Don’t you dare forget me,
I, whose tattered limbs, pierced torso, and ripped apart heart
And whose drops of tears, blood, and sweat
And whose love and disappointment stretching mile after mile
goes by the name of
Sovereignty
Independence
India. (Transcreation)
Cover Illustration : Akash Ganguly
Debayudh Chatterjee (he/they) is a PhD candidate in the Department of English at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. His dissertation explores how progressive Indian literature and cinema have reimagined forms of resistance under neoliberalism. Chatterjee is also a published poet and an active translator of Bengali literature into English.
