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Jibanananda Das

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Banalata Sen

Sudeep Sen reading Banalata Sen 2527.1 KB
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For thousand years I have walked this earth’s passage
  by day and night—from Lanka’s shores to Malay’s vast seas.
I’ve travelled much—been a guest at Bimbhishar and at Ashok’s courts,
  stayed in the distant nights, in the town of Bidharba.
I’m long worn-out; around me waters of sea and life have endlessly swirled.
  My only peace—a fleeting moment snatched with her—
      Natore’r Banalata Sen.

Like the dense ink-night of Bidhisha, her hair—black, deep black;
  her face—like the delicate-weave of Shrabasti’s filigree-frieze.
Just as a lost boatman, rudderless, tossing in the far seas
  chances upon a lush-green Isle of Spice,
I too caught a sight—saw her, a mere glimpse in the dark. Gently, raising
  her eyes like bird’s nest, she whispered: “Where were you, all this while?”
     [And there she stands at my dream’s end—my own Banalata Sen].

With soft-settling hiss of dew, evening closes the day’s end;
  kites erase from their wings, sun-stain smell of flight.
When colours of the earth gently fade, fireflies light up their palette,
  and old songs find new lyric, old stories new score.
Birds return home, so do the rivers; as life’s trade—its give-and-take—cease.
   Only the dark stays. And just as it remains, so does sitting by my
      side, face to face, my own Banalata Sen.

 

Translated by Sudeep Sen

Page(s) 27

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