Some Poems

Faith and Hope

Faith and Hope

Don't look up to them-those
who have lost faith and hope.
They move-yet they're dead-the living dead,
the devil has finished them, robbed them
of their integrity.
Out of fear, their souls have escaped
to the land of Death.


If there are wants, poverty, debt, disease,
suffering, humiliation-don't just succumb
to hopelessness-fight them!
The real enemy is within-fear; and
only the ones who will accept defeat out of confusion,
lies and unnecessary fear will go on suffering every day.


'Oh, what is going to happen? '-those who just sit at home
trembling in fear, are the ones already defeated
in the battle of life.
They are the captives in the prison
of humiliation and subjugation.


They are repuIsive-allowing the helpIess
to be treated with injustice.
They are afraid for no reason, weak and ignorant.
More than pity, I feel infuriated by them.
They lie dead with their tongues stuck out.
Flowers blossom in burial grounds, but
in these dead trees, blossoms nothing.


They are fatalists-sitting alone they think,
'This is my fate, you can't change that! '
They deny their own power,
accepting defeat without a fight.
They are senile, morbid-.don't mix with them.
They are the death's leftover garbage in this world.
They are diseased from the inside,
they see only darkness around them.
With eyes closed, even when they see light,
they say, 'This is not light.'


For those with intense, unshakeable confidence,
waves of youth and life flow melodiously.
They enliven the dead earth-bountiful
with crops, flowers and fruits.
Nothing can block their way.


Fearless-any defeat is their ladder to heaven.
The darker the days, the more they see the light of hope.
Go to them-they wear the amulets
of fearlessness and victory over death.


Those who can imagine loftily, dream nobly,



they are the ones who bring welfare to the earth.
They show the paths of exploring the impossible,
even angels abide by them.


Possessing soul, yet allowing themselves
to suffer bodily pain,
not vowing their lives against the oppressorthey
are like caged animals, not human beings,
their hopelessness leads all human hopes and faith
to dissolution.


Possessing hands and feet, yet sitting inert
hiding faces in a dark muddy hole out of fearthey
have disavowed their humanity.
They belong to burial and cremation groundsnot
amongst us.


I say, listen people, lead a life of fulfillment.
You'll see, the earth is shaken by its power!
This is the message of God: 'Human beings get
what they wish for.'
Their hands, feet, eyes become God's own.


If hopes are lofty, and so are the efforts to achieve them,
then victory awaits at the door.
Impatience never overtakes that soldier
even at times of great difficulties.
Determined, calm, engrossed is the pioneer hero.


He replaces gloom with divine joy.
Like the moon, his love moves the sea of humanity.
His heart is filled with courage.
March along with him on that path of victory!


Have faith- you will get what you hope for!
And don't touch him-he's dead-one
who has lost faith.


[Original: Bishshash o Asha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]

Human Being

Human Being

I sing of equality.
There's nothing greater than a human being,
nothing nobler!
Caste, creed, religion-there's no difference.
Throughout all ages, all places,
we're all a manifestation
of our common humanity.


'O Priest, please open the door!
A hungry god is at your doorstep
it's time for worship.'
Awakened by this dream
the priest rushes to open the temple door
with eager anticipation: His day might have
finally arrive! ! to get rich as a king
from the blessings that this god may bestow upon him.
Instead, there's this traveler-clad in rags, thin,
with a feeble voice, saying: 'Please,
open the door, Father-1 haven't eaten anything
for seven days! '


The priest slams the door on his face!
Turning around to continue on his journey
through the dark night
the hungry traveler says: 'This temple
belongs to the priest, 0 God, not to you! '
At the mosque, the mollah is overjoyed,
by the huge amount of leftovers of,meat and bread
from yesterday's offerings.


Just then a sickly traveler arrives at the door,
saying: 'Father, I have been hungry
for the last seven days! '
The mollah reacts: 'What a botheration!
You're starving? -Just go and dropp dead
in some cattle graveyard!
Besides-do you say your prayers? '
'No, Father,' replied the hungry man.
'That does it-out! ' shouts the mollah
shutting the door on his face,
holding on to the meat and bread.


The hungry man continues on his journey,
saying: 'I have lived for eighty years
without saying a prayer, yet you've never
deprived me of my food. But the mosques
and temples, O Lord-human beings have
no claim on them. Mollahs and priests
have locked all their doors! '


Where are you Chengis, Ghazni Mahmood, Kalapahar?
Smash the locked doors of these houses of worship!



Who dares shutting\the doors of the house of God,
who dares to put locks on them?
Open those doors-strike with your hammers & crowbars!
Oh, the house of worship-selfish, hypocrites
occupy their towers! -


Who are they-hating human beings
yet kissing the Quran, the Vedas, the Bible?
Snatch away those books from them.
The hypocrites pretend worshipping those books
by killing the human beings who have, in fact,
brought those books into existence.


Listen, you ignorants: Human beings
have brought the books,
the books never brought human beings!
Adam, David, Isiah, Moses, Abraham, Mohammad,
Krishna, Buddha, Nanak, Kabir-the treasures
of the world-they are our ancestors.
It's their blood that runs through our veins.
We're their children, kin-we're of the same body.
Who can tell? -Someone among us
may turn out to be like one of them.


Don't laugh, my friend-the self within us
is fathomless and infinite.
Do I-does anyone-know what greatness
may lie within that self?
Perhaps in me lies the Kalki,
and in you, Mehdi or Isiah.
Who knows what is one's limit or the origin!
Who finds what path to follow?
Whom do you hate, brother, whom do you kick?
Perhaps within his heart
resides the ever-awakened God!
Or pernaps he's nobody that important,
great, or of high esteem-but just someone
who's covered with filth, badly wounded and battered,
and burning with sorrow.


Yet, all the holy scriptures and houses of worship
are not as sacred as that one tiny human body!
Perhaps he'll father-in his house will be born
someone yet unmatched in the history of the world,
who'll deliver a message never heard before,
whose great power the world has yet to witness!


Who's he? An untouchable?
Why do you startle? He's not to be despised!
He may turn out to be Harishchandra or Lord Shiva.
Today an untouchable-tomorrow he may become
a supremely revered yogi-emperor.



You'll come to him with offerings, sing his eulogy.
Why do you look down upon a shepherd?
Perhaps he's Krishna in shepherd's disguise!
Don't hate him for being a peasant
he maybe Lord Balaram!
They're all bearers of eternal messages.
Everyday begging men and women
are turned away from the door.
How would I recognize
if Lord Bholanath and Girijaya were among them?


Just to avoid sharing a little of your sumptuous meal
with a beggar, you resort to your doorman-beating up
and chasing away a god!
But all that gets recorded-who knows if you're
ever forgiven by the humiliated goddess.
Friend, you're full of greed
with a blinder of selfishness over your eyes.
Otherwise you'd recognize the god
serving you as a coolie.


You, beast! To appease your hunger, do you want
to go on plundering the god within the human heart,
the nectar churned out of human pain?
Your evil gorge knows what appeases your hunger,
where in your palace is concealed your death-arrow.
Through the ages, your own desires
have dragged you into your death-holes.


[Translation: Sajed Kamal]

The Rebel

The Rebel

Say, Valiant,
Say: High is my head!


Looking at my head
Is cast down the great Himalayan peak!
Say, Valiant,
Say: Ripping apart the wide sky of the universe,
Leaving behind the moon, the sun, the planets
and the stars
Piercing the earth and the heavens,
Pushing through Almighty's sacred seat
Have I risen,
I, the perennial wonder of mother-earth!
The angry God shines on my forehead
Like some royal victory's gorgeous emblem.
Say, Valiant,
Ever high is my head!


I am irresponsible, cruel and arrogant,
I an the king of the great upheaval,
I am cyclone, I am destruction,
I am the great fear, the curse of the universe.
I have no mercy,
I grind all to pieces.
I am disorderly and lawless,
I trample under my feet all rules and discipline!
I am Durjati, I am the sudden tempest of ultimate summer,
I am the rebel, the rebel-son of mother-earth!
Say, Valiant,
Ever high is my head!


I am the hurricane, I am the cyclone
I destroy all that I found in the path!
I am the dance-intoxicated rhythm,
I dance at my own pleasure,
I am the unfettered joy of life!
I am Hambeer, I am Chhayanata, I am Hindole,
I am ever restless,
I caper and dance as I move!
I do whatever appeals to me, whenever I like,
I embrace the enemy and wrestle with death,
I am mad. I am the tornado!
I am pestilence, the great fear,
I am the death of all reigns of terror,
I am full of a warm restlessness for ever!
Say, Valiant,
Ever high is my head!


I am creation, I am destruction,
I am habitation, I am the grave-yard,
I am the end, the end of night!
I am the son of Indrani



With the moon in my head
And the sun on my temple
In one hand of mine is the tender flute
While in the other I hold the war bugle!
I am the Bedouin, I am the Chengis,
I salute none but me!
I am thunder,
I am Brahma's sound in the sky and on the earth,
I am the mighty roar of Israfil's bugle,
I am the great trident of Pinakpani,
I am the staff of the king of truth,
I am the Chakra and the great Shanka,
I am the mighty primordial shout!
I am Bishyamitra's pupil, Durbasha the furious,
I am the fury of the wild fire,
I burn to ashes this universe!
I am the gay laughter of the generous heart,
I am the enemy of creation, the mighty terror!
I am the eclipse of the twelve suns,
I herald the final destruction!
Sometimes I am quiet and serene,
I am in a frenzy at other times,
I am the new youth of dawn,
I crush under my feet the vain glory of the Almighty!


I am the fury of typhoon,
I am the tumultuous roar of the ocean,
I am ever effluent and bright,
I trippingly flow like the gaily warbling brook.
I am the maiden's dark glassy hair,
I am the spark of fire in her blazing eyes.
I am the tender love that lies
In the sixteen year old's heart,
I am the happy beyond measure!
I am the pining soul of the lovesick,
I am the bitter tears in the widow's heart,
i am the piteous sighs of the unlucky!
I am the pain and sorrow of all homeless sufferers,
i am the anguish of the insulted heart,
I am the burning pain and the madness of the jilted lover!


I am the unutterable grief,
I am the trembling first touch of the virgin,
I am the throbbing tenderness of her first stolen kiss.
I am the fleeting glace of the veiled beloved,
I am her constant surreptitious gaze.
I am the gay gripping young girl's love,
I am the jingling music of her bangles!
I am the eternal-child, the adolescent of all times,
I am the shy village maiden frightened by her own budding youth.
I am the soothing breeze of the south,
I am the pensive gale of the east.



I am the deep solemn song sung by the wondering bard,
I am the soft music played on his lyre!
I am the harsh unquenched mid-day thirst,
I am the fierce blazing sun,
I am the softly trilling desert spring,
I am the cool shadowy greenery!
Maddened with an intense joy I rush onward,
I am insane! I am insane!
Suddenly I have come to know myself,
All the false barriers have crumbled today!
I am the rising, I am the fall,
I am consciousness in the unconscious soul,
I am the flag of triumph at the gate of the world,
I am the glorious sign of man's victory,
Clapping my hands in exultation I rush like the hurricane,
Traversing the earth and the sky.
The mighty Borrak is the horse I ride.
It neighs impatiently, drunk with delight!
I am the burning volcano in the bosom of the earth,
I am the wild fire of the woods,
I am Hell's mad terrific sea of wrath!
I ride on the wings of the lightning with joy and profound,
I scatter misery and fear all around,
I bring earth-quakes on this world!


I am Orpheus's flute,
I bring sleep to the fevered world,
I make the heaving hells temple in fear and die.
I carry the message of revolt to the earth and the sky!
I am the mighty flood,
Sometimes I make the earth rich and fertile,
At another times I cause colossal damage.
I snatch from Bishnu's bosom the two girls!
I am injustice, I am the shooting star,
I am Saturn, I am the fire of the comet,
I am the poisonous asp!
I am Chandi the headless, I am ruinous Warlord,
Sitting in the burning pit of Hell
I smile as the innocent flower!
I am the cruel axe of Parsurama,
I shall kill warriors
And bring peace and harmony in the universe!
I am the plough on the shoulders of Balarama,
I shall uproot this miserable earth effortlessly and with ease,
And create a new universe of joy and peace.
Weary of struggles, I, the great rebel,
Shall rest in quiet only when I find
The sky and the air free of the piteous groans of the oppressed.
Only when the battle fields are cleared of jingling bloody sabres
Shall I, weary of struggles, rest in quiet,
I the great rebel.



I am the rebel eternal,
I raise my head beyond this world,
High, ever erect and alone!


[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]

The Worshipper

The Worshipper

After all, at this late hour,
Beloved!

Like a whirlwind blind with dust
Day and Night
When I

Dance about in a blood-red Death-game
At long last, at this eleventh hour
It is revealed to me that! know thee through

all Eternity.
Worshipper!

Thy voice, thy tune shaming the dove,
Thy eye, thy face,
Thy eye-brow, forehead, cheek,

Thy beauty that knows no equal,

Thy wanton ear-ring swinging to and fro
in dance surpassing a swan
I know, I know all!
Hence, after all, I

Standing on the one, weary, hopeless

and dreary beach of life
From the depths of my fainting heart
Cry for thee and thee alone,

Beloved!

Calling by the sweetest name which is constantly
on my lips as a sacred name on the rosary.
I weep with it -

In my broken voice do I cry, I know thee,
I do, do, do know,
Thou art not one with laurels of victory - nor
art thou a beggar-maid,
Thou art virgin nymph, daughter of an

eremite, thou art my eternal worshipper!
Through ages, thou hast loved this hard-hearted one,
Burning thy own self, thou hast kindled light

in my breast,
Many a time thou hast made me a debtor
to thy worship.
I know thee, Beloved, I do, do, do know through
Eternity.

I oft recognize thee in the sun-set
of life, at the hour of death,
Then after recognition

Thou dost go elsewhere.
Leaving me on the lone, deserted

Farewell-raft.
Sitting at the end of the day, bathed in tears,
I recall her far-off, distant memory
I remember the sad, silent welcome night

of mine that came at the close of spring
When my eyes feasted upon thine and were blessed,

Till then a simple, happy boy - my


youth did not put forth blossoms,
Like approaching, aching, eager Dawn
Half-asleep, half-awake was my boyhood,
My rosy nights went blooming

Free of all barriers, ,
Like a whirlwind spontaneously moving
Or the speed of fiery lyrics, or

laughter that knows no end

A wandering traveller from far afar,
I took thee
And along with thee

Came tearful eyes and pangs of homeless forlorn

heart-
Thou didst come at night, at peep of Dawn,
I sang 'Awake, Beloved, Awake! '
Thou didst rise from sleep, thou didst come to me,
And looking at my face didst smile a

melancholy smile -
At thy smile I wept - whose tame bird distressed
art thou, now deprived of thy forest
home?

O the message of thine eyes! methought
That voice, that tune of mine
Laden with sadness of separation,
And reverberating in the forest,
Which invites the south wind, causes

the flower to blossom and charms the wild doe,
Thou hast known all of myself since the dawn of
creation!

Then, that midnight I did sing
plaintive notes choked with tears of that
unhonoured send-off and wounded feelings.

I did not know whom by the incantation of a song
I wanted then to imprison in my
ever-desolate forlorn heart
Only this I do know that the shade of
thy love-enkindled eyes untimely roused from sleep

Fell upon my eyes.
I saw, too, in the expression of those eyes,
A flood of light mixed with surprise and delight,
A flow of fascination born of profound pain,
With silent sympathy was trembling the love-lorn heart

In the likeness of the dark night
To my thirsty eyes was expectantly welcome,
Worshipper! that sweet, tender light

kindled in the lamp of thy eyes!
Then, at the close of singing .
With a smile I think I called thee near, by the

name
Suddenly didst thon storm with a pent up
feeling of self-respect offended
(Who knoweth why) .


Like a canoe trembled thy serene eyes
Secured with eye brows,
The swelling water through the mouth


of the fount of agony
Fell in torrents!


Such flood of tears gushing out of thy
depths on a little caress
Where didst thou get, O Neglected!
my wandering Beloved?
Tell me, O tell!
On this broken bosom,

Pillow thy bright face bathed in tears
With a thrill of bashful joy
And tell me, a tell!

Why seeing me art thou overwhelmed with
an undefined feeling?
Why at my call such abundance of tears

overflows thy eyes?
An unknown vagrant wayfarer am I,
Seeing me why tears start to thy

virgin eyes serene?
Others laugh at me;
A happy, secure nest is burnt at .
the very touch of my accursed hot breath,
Taking it to be a jewel some people
wear it as a garland,
But when it turns to be a venomous serpent

And bites them in the breast,
Forthwith they trample it under foot!
With one who is disliked, hated and

disregarded by the world,
Forlorn Beloved! Why dost thou
play this sad game
For one why this secret sensibility?

On what right
The mere calling by name doth cause pain to thee?
Art thou loved by nobody? Art thou

tenderly taken by nobody? Art thou
tenderly taken by none?
From birth art thou neglected as

a Beggar maid? And for that
Such abundant flow of tears and
Such offended spirit exciting compassion?

No, not even that
In a forlorn voice while resting on the breast
Who doth in forlorn sensitiveness Say

'No, not even that'!
I saw hundreds come to this house,
Many of their own accord take thee on their breast,
Still yet in thy eyes and face is writ

large a deep discontent and a profound


Pining for love!
Why at my sight doth so much nectar

of love overflow thy breast?
O Mystry! My Queen!
Nobody doth know
Thou knowest not
Nor do I know.


Love alone knoweth, heart alone doth feel
From whence cometh such poignancy of
Spontaneous attraction of heart to heart.
Even without understanding it, I understood
That day, O unknown! that thou

art eternally know to me, thou my

neglected Sita in every successive birth!
Thou hermit's daughter deserting thy forest home,
Eternal virginity; thy tray of offerings to Gods
I broke in every age, thy garland I tore
In mere sport; ever-silent, ever languishing

under a curse, O heavenly damsel!
In silence didst thou suffer
O thou Simple! Simply hast thou
Known thou art my-Queen of

Victory, myself thy Poet.
Then, towards the end of night

Sitting by thy side
I heard thy melodious song,
Half-interrupted by bashfulness,

tremblingly pathetic
Oft the voice reminded me
Of some dim, half-remembered,

half-forgotten, long-lost thing,
Singing in choked voice 'O thou'!
When krishna went to Mathura and forgot

his beloved Radhika,
Methink, she wept out her forlorn

heart singing such sweetest saddest song.
With a breast afflicted by neglect,
it was much like Lalita's lamentation

in secret hour!
Perhaps in lonely forest, alone, wandering,
Damayanti sang in such tired voice
Calling her husband woo was left behind!
Perhaps sad sakuntala remembering her husband
Wept with the forest creepers singing

in such tune, in secret leafy nook!
Perhaps on the peak of the Hem-giri mountain
The long-lost Sati in the person of Uma
Addressed Bholanath in such ever known voice!
Wept she, ever-faithful, beloved of her

husband, to get again her eternal lover!
I see and understand everything,
My youth did not awake, so thy fair face


made no deep impress on my inward eye;
Yet in thy familiar voice my own
I left and went afar in some unremembered

moment along a nameless village path
Scarcely a day or two passed when

on the bank of the same holy Gomati
My heart ached for the first time and a
Strange, fragrant pain I felt in

the lotus of my navel region.
I wandered to-and fro in search of
the source of this pain-laden smell of wine
At the mere touch of my hot, heavy

sighs, trembled the sky, air and earth,
Bewailed leaves and creepers,
Flowers and birds and rivers,.
Bewailed clouds and winds and all,
And bewailed in the breast in fierce

pleasure the insatiate divinity awakened

by youth's tyranny: .
Wretched as I was, I knew not whom I wanted,
So I cried hoarse, 'Where should .

I go, where may I find my Beloved? '
My heart feels a burning passion,
my mind runs riot,
Methink, it is the sad lamentation
of a lover under the load of eternal youth!
Visions float in quick success on

before the eyes of many a color,
red, blue, pink
From whose breast

To my heart of hearts
Doth come and why this painful ecstasy
redolent of musk?

My mind like the musk deer runs a-field.
the air trembles with fear engendered by
my frantic wailings! .
Like the musk of deer

My mind blind with scent roams in
Search of the odour of my own navel!
Mine own love

By drinking itself wants to appease
its own thirst!

My youth under an eternal thirst for
the whole world of love
After emptying an ocean like a drop

longs for another!
Good Heaven! What thirst eternal,

illimitable is this!
Where is contentment? O where?
Where is the Eternal Ocean of Love that

can appease my thirst?
More self-willed, tyrannical, and irresistible than I


Where might I find her
In absence of whom I know no peace
in this wide world!
Thinking like this I go abroad, I only

walk my way,
And meet many a girl on the path,
After them, alas! runs with blind impetuosity
My mind hungering for Love,
If one of them looks back, my
offended sentiment brings a flood

of tears to my eyes!
They laugh at my predicament, .
Some one ignores me, some one

approaches with an offer of favour!
It doth aggravate my grief,
With the deep naked agony of a wretched one,
Like the loud roar of the ocean of

universal cataclysm
Under pain and wounded self-respect
. doth swell in fierce volume
The flame of my heart agitated with distress!
A street girl doth offer favour!
Under my foot I smash her vanity .

with her presumptuous offer!
In tears she goes back, afraid of coming near;
Like Anath Pindada, disciple of Buddha,
My mendicant heart
Hegs from door to door no common alms
For my love-Buddha,
Give me alms, O citizens!
I beg for Buddha, see my master

goes back hungry from the door!
Many came, many went away, .
Some in fright, some in surprise,
Some with a broken heart,
Some bathed in tears
Thus many a nymph came and went,
I beseech complete surrender,
But it is not understood by the happy damsels

of the city
They carne with a smile,
Then at the end of the smile

In tears they go back

To the shady nook of their living home
They say, 'O way-farer! Tell us, O tell
What Treasure doth thy heart hanker after? .
Why is this pathos in thy voice, for whom

is there so much hunger in 'thy breast? '
No body understands what I want
Some 'rings mind and heart, some brings

Youth and wealth,
While a third offers beauty and body.


A proud princess maddened by her riches

Wants to imprison me in the trap of her
beauty and youth...
All in vain! Loaded with despondency ,
my heart goes abroad


As a vagrant warbler
Singing 'where is my love-loran Beloved
my worshipper, Oh, where? '

She who will say, 'I have turned
an anchorite for the sake of love,
O thou my Lord! '

Forlorn am I and not

thy pride and glory
In vain I roam in the wilderness
My thirst rages fiercely
In such moments my thirst-stricken heart
Loses itself for a moment
At a distant, unknown beckoning with the hand
As if she were weeping aloud-,
Saying 'My Love, I am thy heart's wandering maid,

I know thee
Thou, too, knowest me!
I knew not, it was a she-devil,
It was but an illusion,
No water, but a snare, it was a
deceptive image of a lake in the desert! '
'I am at thy mercy', so saying I

called at her door,
Alas, where was she? Verily it was a witch
Alluring me to my doom!
It was a cruel Fowler's net,
It was a device to win the grace

. of a Beggar's bowel,
No, the trap did defeat itself, .
Entangled in her own snare was

finished the witch
To thy door came I with my heart
bleeding from thorns,
Knew not, even then, thou didst feel

a keen sympathy for my afflictions.
Yet from time to time it struck me
that thy sweet, balmy touch could efface

All my bums and pangs,
That to my heart spoke thy heart ever in tears

O way-farer! Give me those thorns;
Where do they prick thee,
Tell mc, pray!

Thou art a silent eremite, keeping in

thy lone privacy,
Hence thy speechless message
I seldom minded, and little understood


that and thy little reserved bosom
There was so much room for love and hope.
Meanwhile I knew not from where

came my mother floating as it were
like a free stream,
In that stormy night.


She took me in her lap, printed a

thousand kisses on my eyes bathed in tears.
The thoroughfare vanished
The chariot disappeared
Drowned was all sorrow and pain,


A mother's love illumined my dilapidate
temple like the festival of Dewali!
My past history like the previous birth
I seemed to forget on getting back

my lost Mother!
A homeless one was restored to his

home, in tranquil happiness and felicity.
After many an age as it were, I slept a
deep sleep pillowed on my Mother's breast.
There was an end of vagrant minstrelsy,
Disappeared in a piteous
lone my companion the tempestuous wind.

0 0 0

Again, again was I benighted
Perhaps at the door of some all-conquering

nymph, Arjun's chariot came to a stand-still.
I forgot the object of my peregrination,
I forgot. my heart had been eternally wandering
and longing for my Beloved, Beloved and Beloved

alone.
I forgot every bit of pain and grief,
The flood of new felicity melted my heart,
And over-flowed my tearless eyes.
It seemed as it were in some lotus of

beauty were imprisoned my eyes,
Its fragrance enraptured my bosom,
And a thrill danced through
some sweetest, saddest sensation.
Life regained and forfeited again
The greedy bird pierced by an arrow
Besmeared with blood the altar of my temple
It could not wake up the stone-image,
Being thus disgraced, I leapt up like a

forest conflagration.
My poignant, blood-red griefs raised their heads,
With a thundering voice I rushed forth

on the blood-horse of Rebellion,
Against the Original Cause of my
Sorrow the Creator - across the clouds of the sky


Holding aloft the meteor flag of Destruction,
Kindling the sacrificial fire of animosity

and creating terror in a barren dreary desert!
What illusion is this! At intervals
Methought I heard a distant melody

of thy flute singing my name, Dear!
Peering into that far-off privacy
My eyes red with enmity became
Softened with tears of silent Sympathy.
Remembering that melody, remembering that call

discarded all my grief
I threw my grief into oblivion,
I do realize, thou art real-thou dost exist,
Neglected by me, thou dost still desire me,

heart and soul,
Alone, wood-nymph,
Thou art wreathing a garland for me

All by thyself,
In bashful privacy.
Thou art my wandering maid, my Queen,
Whom I wood in all my previous births!
The ocean of fire in me becomes a flower

in bloom and says with a smile
'I know, I know'.
Let life return to my dead soul.
From a-far am I summoned by her,
Without whom I know no peace and joy
in the wide world.

But hearken!
Who wails and laments like that?
Some body must have cried from behind
'Friend, thou art behind time' Poor fellow,

it is too late!
I didn't listen, I didn't mind obstruction,
To me alone came floating as it were
across the barriers of the previous
Birth the sad wailings of a forsaken Lalita.
I came running to thee

Breathlessly,
Martyrdom, the chariot of fire, all went
a-begging, the blood-red flag cried'

in the wilderness,
I indulged in a world of luxury and felicity
in secretly worshipping thee in my bosom.
To narrate the sequel I lack language today,
Today I have no heart, no tears, no strength,

no hope.
What I say today is no song, it is but
a blood-red message of a bleeding
heart embalmed in tears.

Yet keep this little bit in mind, Dear,


that from door to door
Baffled I returned
And came to thee for thyself as the Summumbonum.
of my life,
In return for the whole world of my hope and
love and affection.
I worshipped thee, O my unkind Beloved.
thou worshipper!
Methought thou wouldst smilingly take

charge of one who was too wild for the world.
Thou wouldst tame the rebel of the universe
Quite easily by dint of love alone.
Methought for the glory of conquering the
unruly and unconquerable
the heart would be illumined with an

uncommon lustre, and then one day
Thou wouldst infuse celestial fire

into my arms
And become the embodied victory of this Rebel.
I harboured a hope, I had power, too,

to tear asunder the universe
And place the same under thy rosy feet
as a culled red lotus for an offering
But alas! Where art that 'thou'? Where
is that heart?
Where's that inalienable bond of attachment

between two hearts?
This 'thou' of today art not that 'thou' to be sure;
Today I find thou too art deceitful,
Thou too clammiest to be victorious by

means of falsehood!
Thou dost want to give me something,

retaining the remainder for another,
Unfortunate woman! I laugh out my soul!
Whom dost thou want to deceive?
In my bosom is ever awake the true Divinity,
His eyes are penetrating, they can see

into the heart of things,
And most minutely search its inmost recesses.
Infidelity fouls thy offering today, Dear,
Today thou dost try to deceive him
Whom one day didst thou give all thy heart and soul.
Thus I ponder, whose fault it was
That in thy spotless heart
Was kindled this death-provoking light
Yet I wonder is it true?

Thou too, a deceiving self?
If it were so, then O witch!
Let it be true, O wicked one!
Let full light show thy false world in bold relief.
Myself, thyself, the sun, moon, stars,

Let all be false,


Then, then, O alluring Phantom,
Give to thy contrived world a false gleam
As I look at thy face today,
Shame strikes me like a thunderbolt
As I remember how didst thou disregard

and neglect me, I do remember my shameless ness, too
Today I die before my death,
I feel, I must cry aloud, 'Open thy womb, Mother

Earth!

And take into darkness thy neglected.
and dust-covered son from the light
of the day that throws his shame into

prominence
Yet many a time I came with hope
But alas! whenever I look at that face
Ah me! where's that worshipping damsel,

Where's that forlorn anchorite?

The same accustomed disregard I see,
And the same face devoid of expression.
There's no love lost, but a game

. to ride rough-shod over a heart
My bosom bursts under the load of disgrace!
Alas! What cruel game is this, between hearts!
These girls tread a bleeding rosy breast
Under their feet which seem dyed with lace.
They claim to be goddesses, they are greedy

and want to usurp the worship of all!
For them is not the single-minded devotion
of a lover, nor the complete surrender
of a worshipper
Hence, in the name of true devotion,
their timid heart is so awfully frightened,
Frailty, thy name is Woman! She does
Not like to nestle round one bosom.
She is a goddess, she is greedy, the
more she is worshipped, the more she
wants worshippers.
Her voracious mind

Is not gratified with one, one is
not sufficient for her,
She seeks many

My creator-Lord received from me not such
worship as was offered to her, yet she
deceived me!
I do realize, in the end, that there comes
encircling darkness as deep as death
as my companion,
So my forlorn heart out of the agony
of bitter pleasure thunders out:
Why then, O my mind, for whom shouldst
thou go lamenting abroad?


Blaze forth now, burning like the
terrible eyes of the god of Destruction,

Clap thy hands striking terror! Fan
the bloody flames of the eternal fire
of thy Rebellion!

Let the fiery Chariot beat thy
all-destroying trumpet!
Hurl thy battle-axe and trident!
Storm this citadel of Falsehood!
Bring poison made of blood and .
nectar, seize death by the throat!
Let this false world under thy accursed
heavy agonizing wheel be crushed to powder.

In my throat there's today so much venom;
so much wrath
Yet, Nymph!
At intervals I recall

I did not love thee
Till I saw thy light red with passion
and embosomed in thy breast,
Thou hadst all the time
Sought my love and played the
Begga-maid at my door,

Till then a small neglect resulting in thy
outraged feelings of rebellion would
have caused a flood of tears to
arise in thine eyes, and agonized

thy soft and sweet heart.
For a small bit of affection, for a tiny caress
Thou didst many a night and many

a day keep by my side on sleepless pillow
I did not vouchsafe to look at thee.
Is this, then, by way of revenge? .
After conquering me by means of falsehood.
Thou hast heaped disgrace and deceit

upon my head and stopped my breath.
Today I wail from the lap of death
O Heartless! What false cruel game

is this with regard to a heart?
After a world of love, how canst
thou hurl so much disregard,

O women?
Such a blow is man's job,
I knew, we, men, alone could inflict such injuries
Methought, the gift of a spotless fair Nymph
Finds itself in a single delicious
Moment irrevocably in the bosom of her lover,
And thus she loses her separate entity.

for all Eternity,

It is a vain belief!
Zephyr only makes the flower blossom,
The honey-making bee comes and deflowers it


The former is a type of chivalry;
Love and not the body of the beloved
. is all-in-all to him!

The latter goes by Aromatic and knows
how to ravish the blooming tender
heart of the flower

Myself, the sound Wind a traveler
the end of at spring I depart
For that deathless undiscovered country'
.. of Eternal Night!
On this even of departure my eyes are

filled with tears of joy.
As I feel how happy am I today.
Thou hadst loved me before I loved thee
The soft crimson light of thy maiden heart
From kissed my breast and Jace.
From recollections today of that ardent

happiness a deluge of sensations sweet
inundates the broken heart of this hungry one!
Remembering that love and felicity of

those golden days
I feel my life is full - I sink in the

grave contented and blessed
Unsolicited, thou alone didst love me.
In happy remembrance of that piece of joy,
I with my death-black lips

print now a thousand full kisses upon thy
dear name!

Remembering me,
If one night, Dear,
While in sleep pillowed upon one's breast
Thou dost feel a pain in thy bosom without cause,
Take it that dear and gone the impediment!
None else shall come back
In wild ecstasy to kiss thy lotus-feet
Dead is he- the self-willed, discontented


ever-selfish, greedy
But he is immortal - thy love hath

bestowed immortality upon the poet
Who like the deathless Nilkantha hath
Swallowed the ocean of pain.

[Translation: Abdul Hakim] .

Day-Labourer

Day-Labourer


Your luxury cars are plying through the streets
And your big ships are cruising Over the Oceans.
The fast steam engines are running on railways,
The country is filled with plants and machinery:
Can you tell me whose contributions are all these?
With whose blood are your buildings
Painted red? Dismantle them and you'll find
On each piece of brick vividly written the names.
You may not know; but each and
Every grain of dust is aware of it,
The meaning of those roads, vessels, trains,
And of those decorative palaces.
The good days are coming soon:
Day after day your debts are being inflated
You must pay back those heavy debts.
Those who with hard labour broke the rugged hills
With hammer, shovel and pick-axe,
Their bones today are strewn 'on either side
Of those very roads. Those who, in order to render
You service, became day-labourers.
Those who covered their cherished body with dust
Only to carry you and your belongings,
They are indeed the real human beings,
they are the saints.
I sing their 'inner voice' through my songs.
Marching over their painful suffering breasts
The New Revolution will raise its new head.
You are reclining at ease
On the top of the third floor,
While we are rotting at the bottom;
Still you love to be
Addressed as 'My Lord'?
Absurd! That cannot be! !
The helm of this world must remain under
Those, whose mind and soul are soaked with
Sweet love for the motherland;
Those who journeyed with others through
The tiresome roads and covered their
Feet with dust; I shall pick up
That very dust from their feet and put it
on my head as a holy sacred offering.
Smeared with the blood of the pain stricken
Suffering humanity of the world
the new sun of the new Dawn is rising
above the horizon.
Break open today those ugly rusty doors
Of your narrow congested heart;
Take off those artificial garments of yours
Which look unnatural like coloured leather.
Look at the concentrated condensed air
Appearing deep blue in the sky,
Let them enter free in a frolicsome way



direct into your inner hearts -
Unlock all those obstructing clutches!
Let the entire blue Heaven fall down in our midst,
Let the moon, the sun and the stars shower on us.
Let all people of all times
and all climes come together
And stand up at the same confluence to listen to
The anthem of great unity under one flag-
If you torment here a single soul
The pain resounds in a crescendo
In the aggrieved hearts of all others.
Insult to a single person here means
Humiliating the whole of humanity
An insult to all of us.
Today is the day of upheaval
Against the heart-rending agony and pain
Of the great Human-beings of the world.

[Translation: Amir Hossain Chowdhury]

Pain of the Poor

Pain of the Poor

These children-suffering
from a lack of mother's care,
in rags, their bodies covered with dirt,
faces dried up from starving all day, scornful,
their bodies feverish, skin chapped all over.
They can't even get a meager meal
from laboring all day.
Ignoring them-O Rich, O Ruler,
how can you stand the taste of monda, mithai, khaja?
Starving, when they see you-eating,
they beg silently with their pathetic eyes.
Shame on you!-How do you still go on gorging?
All that rice you store in your binsjust
a portion of it could save them.
You have such a wide variety of clothing;
these children do not have even as much
as the rag you polish your shoes with.
You've trunk loads of clothing,
while these children freeze to death all night long
with their mothers lying in corridors and lanes.


You feel so happy from hugs and kisses
from your children,
their mothers weep holding them in their bosoms.
Your children have no dearth of toys,
their toys are what's been thrown outan
embarrassment for their mothers.
Their unkempt hair, turning brownish and matted,
their skin blackened from roaming about in the sun,
for no reason they get beaten and scolded by people.
Your children cry 'bloody murder' for minor incidents,
whereas they have at most a sombre face
even when their hearts break from sadness.
The mothers of these unfortunate childrenstanding
aloof-who understands how much pain there is
in their tearful eyes?
If there's a slight touch of fever
in your children, ten doctors come rushing to check them.
But for these children-even when they have a high temperature,
there's none to offer them even a sip of water;
reduced to skeletons, they die in their mothers' arms.
They don't eat pomegranates or grapes when they are sick;
they think they have the world
by getting just a piece of sugar candy.
Your children go to sleep in rocking cradles,
these children sleep under the tamarind tree;
even the most stone-hearted aught to be moved to see this.


Nobody understands their misery,
everybody despises them
and thinks, 'Why do they litter the streets?'
So take heed, a burning stomach needs to complain;



I don't wish that even on my enemies. .
Even in such misery,
God will supposedly grant them welfare-that's
the only consolation for the poor.


[Original: Goriber baytha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]
Kazi Nazrul Islam (24 May 1899 - 29 August 1976) Kazi Nazrul Islam was a Bengali poet, musician and revolutionary who pioneered poetic works espousing intense spiritual rebellion against fascism and oppression. His poetry and nationalist activism earned him the popular title of Bidrohi Kobi (Rebel Poet). Accomplishing a large body of acclaimed works through his life, Nazrul is officially recognised as the national poet of Bangladesh and commemorated in India. Born into a Muslim quazi (justice) family in India, Nazrul received religious education and worked as a muezzin at a local mosque. He learned of poetry, drama, and literature while working with theatrical groups. After serving in the British Indian Army, Nazrul established himself as a journalist in Kolkata (then Calcutta). He assailed the British Raj in India and preached revolution through his poetic works, such as 'Bidrohi' ('The Rebel') and 'Bhangar Gaan' ('The Song of Destruction'), as well as his publication 'Dhumketu' ('The Comet'). His impassioned activism in the Indian independence movement often led to his imprisonment by British authorities. While in prison, Nazrul wrote the 'Rajbandir Jabanbandi' ('Deposition of a Political Prisoner'). Exploring the life and conditions of the downtrodden masses of India, Nazrul worked for their emancipation. Nazrul's writings explore themes such as love, freedom, and revolution; he opposed all bigotry, including religious and gender. Throughout his career, Nazrul wrote short stories, novels, and essays but is best-known for his poems, in which he pioneered new forms such as Bengali ghazals. Nazrul wrote and composed music for his nearly 4,000 songs (including gramophone records), collectively known as Nazrul geeti (Nazrul songs), which are widely popular today. At the age of 43 (in 1942) he began suffering from an unknown disease, losing his voice and memory. It is often said, the reason was slow poisoning by British Government. It caused Nazrul's health to decline steadily and forced him to live in isolation for many years. Invited by the Government of Bangladesh, Nazrul and his family moved to Dhaka in 1972, where he died four years later. Early Life Kazi Nazrul Islam was born in the village of Churulia near Asansol in the Burdwan District of Bengal (now located in the Indian state of Paschimbanga).He was born in a powerful Muslim Taluqdar family and was the second of three sons and a daughter, Nazrul's father Kazi Faqeer Ahmed was the imam and caretaker of the local mosque and mausoleum. Nazrul's mother was Zahida Khatun. Nazrul had two brothers, Kazi Saahibjaan and Kazi Ali Hussain, and a sister, Umme Kulsum. Nicknamed Dukhu Mian (Sad Man), Nazrul began attending the maktab & madarsa ; the local religious www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive school run by the mosque & dargah where he studied the Qur'an and other scriptures, Islamic philosophy and theology. His family was devastated with the death of his father in 1908. At the young age of ten, Nazrul began working in his father's place as a caretaker to support his family, as well as assisting teachers in school. He later became the muezzin at the mosque, delivering the Azaan and calling the people for prayer. Attracted to folk theatre, Nazrul joined a leto (travelling theatrical group) run by his uncle Fazl e Karim. Working and travelling with them, learning acting, as well as writing songs and poems for the plays and musicals. Through his work and experiences, Nazrul began learning Bengali and Sanskrit literature, as well as Hindu scriptures such as the Puranas. The young poet composed a number of folk plays for his group, which included "Chashaar Shong" ("The drama of a peasant"), "Shakunibadh" ("The Killing of Shakuni a character from the epic Mahabharata"), "Raja Yudhisthirer Shong" ("The drama of King Yudhisthira again from the Mahabharata"), "Daata Karna" ("Philanthropic Karna from the Mahabharata"), "Akbar Badshah" ("Emperor Akbar"), "Kavi Kalidas" ("Poet Kalidas"), "Vidyan hutum" ("The Learned Owl"), and "Rajputrer Shong" ("The drama of a Prince"). In 1910, Nazrul left the troupe and enrolled at the Searsole Raj High School in Raniganj (where he came under influence of teacher, revolutionary and Jugantar activist Nibaran Chandra Ghatak, and initiated life-long friendship with fellow author Sailajananda Mukhopadhyay, who was his classmate), and later transferred to the Mathrun High English School, studying under the headmaster and poet Kumudranjan Mallik. Unable to continue paying his school fees, Nazrul left the school and joined a group of kaviyals. Later he took jobs as a cook at the house of a Christian railway guard and at the most famous bakery of the region Wahid's/Abdul Wahid and tea stall in the town of Asansol. In 1914, Nazrul studied in the Darirampur School (now Jatiya Kabi Kazi Nazrul Islam University) in Trishal, Mymensingh District. Amongst other subjects, Nazrul studied Bengali, Sanskrit, Arabic, Persian literature and classical music under teachers who were impressed by his dedication and skill. Studying up to Class X, Nazrul did not appear for the matriculation pre-test examination, enlisting instead in the Indian Army in 1917 at the age of eighteen. He joined the British army mainly for two reasons: first, his youthful romantic inclination to respond to the unknown and, secondly, the call of politics. Attached to the 49th Bengal Regiment, he was posted to the cantonment in Karachi, where he wrote his first prose and poetry. Although he never saw active fighting, he rose in rank from corporal to havildar, and served as quartermaster for his battalion. During this period, Nazrul read extensively, and was deeply influenced by Rabindranath Tagore and Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay, as well as the Persian poets Hafez, Rumi and Omar Khayyam. He learnt Persian poetry from the regiment's Punjabi moulvi, practiced music and pursued his literary interests. His first prose work, "Baunduler Atmakahini" ("Life of a Vagabond") was published in May, 1919. His poem "Mukti" ("Freedom") was published by the "Bangla Mussalman Sahitya Patrika" ("Bengali Muslim Literary Journal") in July 1919. Rebel Poet Nazrul started a bi-weekly magazine, publishing the first "Dhumketu" (Comet) on August 12, 1922. Earning the moniker of the "rebel poet”, Nazrul also aroused the suspicion of British authorities. A political poem published in "Dhumketu" in September 1922 led to a police raid on the magazine's office. Arrested, Nazrul entered a lengthy plea before the judge in the court. "I have been accused of sedition. That is why I am now confined in the prison. On the one side is the crown, on the other the flames of the comet. One is the king, sceptre in hand; the other Truth worth the mace of justice. To plead for me, the king of all kings, the judge of all judges, the eternal truth the living God... His laws emerged out of the realization of a universal truth about mankind. They are for and by a sovereign God. The king is supported by an infinitesimal creature; I by its eternal and indivisible Creator. I am a poet; I have been sent by God to express the unexpressed, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive to portray the unportrayed. It is God who is heard through the voice of the poet... My voice is but a medium for Truth, the message of God... I am the instrument of that eternal self-evident truth, an instrument that voices forth the message of the ever-true. I am an instrument of God. The instrument is not unbreakable, but who is there to break God?" On April 14, 1923 he was transferred from the jail in Alipore to Hooghly in Kolkata, he began a 40-day fast to protest mistreatment by the British jail superintendent. Nazrul broke his fast more than a month later and was eventually released from prison in December 1923. Nazrul composed a large number of poems and songs during the period of imprisonment and many his works were banned in the 1920s by the British authorities. Kazi Nazrul Islam became a critic of the Khilafat struggle, condemning it as hollow, religious fundamentalism. Nazrul's rebellious expression extended to rigid orthodoxy in the name of religion and politics. Nazrul also criticised the Indian National Congress for not embracing outright political independence from the British Empire. He became active in encouraging people to agitate against British rule, and joined the Bengal state unit of the Congress party. Nazrul also helped organise the Sramik Praja Swaraj Dal, a political party committed to national independence and the service of the peasant masses. On December 16, 1925 Nazrul started publishing the weekly "Langal”, with himself as chief editor. The "Langal" was the mouthpiece of the Sramik Praja Swaraj Dal. During his visit to Comilla in 1921, Nazrul met a young Hindu woman, Pramila Devi, with whom he fell in love and they married on April 25, 1924. Pramila belonged to the Brahmo Samaj, which criticised her marriage to a Muslim. Nazrul in turn was condemned by Muslim religious leaders and continued to face criticism for his personal life and professional works, which attacked social and religious dogma and intolerance. Despite controversy, Nazrul's popularity and reputation as the "rebel poet" rose significantly. "Weary of struggles, I, the great rebel, Shall rest in quiet only when I find The sky and the air free of the piteous groans of the oppressed. Only when the battle fields are cleared of jingling bloody sabres Shall I, weary of struggles, rest in quiet, I the great rebel." Mass Music With his wife and young son Bulbul, Nazrul settled in Krishnanagar in 1926. His work began to transform as he wrote poetry and songs that articulated the aspirations of the downtrodden classes, a sphere of his work known as "mass music." Nazrul assailed the socio-economic norms and political system that had brought upon misery. From his poem 'Daridro' (poverty or pain): "O poverty, thou hast made me great. Thou hast made me honoured like Christ With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue. Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword ... O proud saint, thy terrible fire Has rendered my heaven barren. O my child, my darling one I could not give thee even a drop of milk No right have I to rejoice. Poverty weeps within my doors forever As my spouse and my child." [Who will play the flute?] www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive In what his contemporaries regarded as one of his greatest flairs of creativity, Nazrul began composing the very first ghazals in Bengali, transforming a form of poetry written mainly in Persian and Urdu. Nazrul became the first person to introduce Islam into the larger mainstream tradition of Bengali music. The first record of Islamic songs by Nazrul Islam was a commercial success and many gramophone companies showed interest in producing these. A significant impact of Nazrul was that it drew made Muslims more comfortable in the Bengali Arts, which used to be dominated by Hindus. Nazrul also composed a number of notable Shamasangeet, Bhajan and Kirtan, combining Hindu devotional music. Arousing controversy and passions in his readers, Nazrul's ideas attained great popularity across India. In 1928, Nazrul began working as a lyricist, composer and music director for His Master's Voice Gramophone Company. The songs written and music composed by him were broadcast on radio stations across the country. He was also enlisted/attached with the Indian Broadcasting Company. Nazrul professed faith in the belief in the equality of women — a view his contemporaries considered revolutionary. From his poet Nari (Woman): "I don't see any difference Between a man and woman Whatever great or benevolent achievements That are in this world Half of that was by woman, The other half by man." (Translated by Sajed Kamal) His poetry retains long-standing notions of men and women in binary opposition to one another and does not affirm gender similarities and flexibility in the social structure: "Man has brought the burning, scorching heat of the sunny day; Woman has brought peaceful night, soothing breeze and cloud. 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, brings about a harvest of golden paddy." However, Nazrul's poems strongly emphasise the confluence of the roles of both sexes and their equal importance to life. He stunned society with his poem "Barangana" ("Prostitute"), in which he addresses a prostitute as "mother". Nazrul accepts the prostitute as a human being, reasoning that this person was breast-fed by a noble woman and belonging to the race of "mothers and sisters"; he assails society's negative notions of prostitutes. Who calls you a prostitute, mother? Who spits at you? Perhaps you were suckled by someone as chaste as Seeta. ... And if the son of an unchaste mother is 'illegitimate', so is the son of an unchaste father. -"Barangana" ("Prostitute") Translated by Sajed Kamal) Nazrul was an advocate of the emancipation of women; both traditional and non-traditional women were portrayed by him with utmost sincerity. Nazrul's songs are collectively called as Nazrul Sangeet Nazrul geeti. Exploring Religion Nazrul's mother died in 1928, and his second son Bulbul died of smallpox the following year. His first son, Krishna Mohammad had died prematurely. His wife gave birth to two more sons — Savyasachi in 1928 and Aniruddha in 1931 — but Nazrul remained shaken and aggrieved for a long time. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive "Come back my birdie! Come back again to my empty bosom! Shunno e bookey paakhi mor aaye! Phirey aaye phirey aaye!" His works changed significantly from rebellious expositions of society to deeper examination of religious themes. His works in these years led Islamic devotional songs into the mainstream of Bengali folk music, exploring the Islamic practices of namaz (prayer), roza (fasting), hajj (pilgrimage) and zakat (charity). This was regarded by his contemporaries as a significant achievement as Bengali Muslims had been strongly averse to devotional music. Nazrul's creativity diversified as he explored Hindu devotional music by composing Shama Sangeet, bhajans and kirtans, often merging Islamic and Hindu values. Nazrul's poetry and songs explored the philosophy of Islam and Hinduism. Let people of all countries and all times come together. At one great union of humanity. Let them listen to the flute music of one great unity. Should a single person be hurt, all hearts should feel it equally. If one person is insulted; it is a shame to all mankind, an insult to all! Today is the grand uprising of the agony of universal man. The badnaa, a water jug typical in usage by Bengali Muslims for ablutions (wazu) and bath (ghusl) and the gaaru a water pot typical in usage by Bengali Hindus, meet and embrace each other under the peace of the new pact (between the rioting Hindus and Muslims in Bengal during the British Raj on certain politico-religious differences and disputes that had preceded the said pact). There is no knife in the hand of the Muslim and also the Hindu does not wield the bamboo any more! Bodna gaaru te kolakuli korey! Nobo pact er aashnaai! Musholmaaner haatey naai chhuri! Hindur haatey baansh naai! Nazrul's poetry imbibed the passion and creativity of Shakti, which is identified as the Brahman, the personification of primordial energy. He wrote and composed many bhajans, shyamasangeet, agamanis and kirtans. He also composed large number of songs on invocation to Lord Shiva, Goddesses Lakshmi and Saraswati and on the theme of love of Radha and Krishna. Nazrul assailed fanaticism in religion, denouncing it as evil and inherently irreligious. He devoted many works to expound upon the principle of human equality, exploring the Qur'an and the life of Islam's prophet Muhammad. Nazrul has been compared to William Butler Yeats for being the first Muslim poet to create imagery and symbolism of Muslim historical figures such as Qasim, Ali, Umar, Kamal Pasha, Anwar Pasha and Muhammad. His vigorous assault on extremism and mistreatment of women provoked condemnation from Muslim and Hindu fundamentalists. In 1920, Nazrul expressed his vision of religious harmony in an editorial in Joog Bani, “Come brother Hindu! Come Musalman! Come Buddhist! Come Christian! Let us transcend all barriers, let us foresake forever all smallness, all lies, all selfishness and let us call brothers as brothers. We shall quarrel no more”. In another article entitled Hindu Mussalman published in Ganabani on September 2, 192 he wrote ‘’I can tolerate Hinduism and Muslims but I cannot tolerate the Tikism (Tiki is a tuft of never cut hair kept on the head by certain Hindus to maintain personal Holiness) and beardism. Tiki is not Hinduism. It may be the sign of the pundit. Similarly beard is not Islam, it may be the sign of the mollah. All the hair-pulling have originated from those two tufts of hair. Todays fighting is also between the Pundit and the Mollah: It is not between the Hindus and the Muslims. No prophet has said, ‘’I have come for Hindus I have come for Muslims I have come for Christians.” They have said, “I have come for the www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive humanity for everyone, like light’’. But the devotees of Krishna says, “Krishna is for Hindus”. The followers of Muhammad (Sm) says, “Muhammad (Sm) is for the Muslims”. The Disciple of Christ is for Christian”. Krishna-Muhammad-Christ have become national property. This property is the root of all trouble. Men do not quarrel for light but they quarrel over cattle.” Nazrul was an exponent of humanism. Although a Muslim, he named his sons with both Hindu and Muslim names: Krishna Mohammad, Arindam Khaled(bulbul), Kazi Sabyasachi and Kazi Aniruddha. Later Life and Illness In 1933, Nazrul published a collection of essays titled "Modern World Literature", in which he analyses different styles and themes of literature. Between 1928 and 1935 he published 10 volumes containing 800 songs of which more than 600 were based on classical ragas. Almost 100 were folk tunes after kirtans and some 30 were patriotic songs. From the time of his return to Kolkata until he fell ill in 1941, Nazrul composed more than 2,600 songs, many of which have been lost. His songs based on baul, jhumur, Santhali folksongs, jhanpan or the folk songs of snake charmers, bhatiali and bhaoaia consist of tunes of folk-songs on the one hand and a refined lyric with poetic beauty on the other. Nazrul also wrote and published poems for children. Nazrul's success soon brought him into Indian theatre and the then-nascent film industry. The first picture for which he worked was based on Girish Chandra Ghosh's story "Bhakta Dhruva" in 1934. Nazrul acted in the role of Narada and directed the film. He also composed songs for it, directed the music and served as a playback singer. The film "Vidyapati" ("Master of Knowledge") was produced based on his recorded play in 1936, and Nazrul served as the music director for the film adaptation of Tagore's novel Gora. Nazrul wrote songs and directed music for Sachin Sengupta's bioepic play "Siraj-ud-Daula". In 1939, Nazrul began working for Calcutta Radio, supervising the production and broadcasting of the station's musical programmes. He produced critical and analytic documentaries on music, such as "Haramoni" and "Navaraga-malika". Nazrul also wrote a large variety of songs inspired by the raga Bhairav. Nazrul sought to preserve his artistic integrity by condemning the adaptation of his songs to music composed by others and insisting on the use of tunes he composed himself. Nazrul's wife Pramila Devi fell seriously ill in 1939 and was paralysed from waist down. To provide for his wife's medical treatment, he resorted to mortgaging the royalties of his gramophone records and literary works for 400 rupees. He returned to journalism in 1940 by working as chief editor for the daily newspaper "Nabayug" ("New Age"), founded by the eminent Bengali politician A. K. Fazlul Huq. Nazrul also was shaken by the death of Rabindranath Tagore on August 8, 1941. He spontaneously composed two poems in Tagore's memory, one of which, "Rabihara" (loss of Rabi or without Rabi) was broadcast on the All India Radio. Within months, Nazrul himself fell seriously ill and gradually began losing his power of speech. His behaviour became erratic, and spending recklessly, he fell into financial difficulties. In spite of her own illness, his wife constantly cared for her husband. However, Nazrul's health seriously deteriorated and he grew increasingly depressed. He underwent medical treatment under homeopathy as well as Ayurveda, but little progress was achieved before mental dysfunction intensified and he was admitted to a mental asylum in 1942. Spending four months there without making progress, Nazrul and his family began living a silent life in India. In 1952, he was transferred to a mental hospital in Ranchi. With the efforts of a large group of admirers who called themselves the "Nazrul www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Treatment Society" as well as prominent supporters such as the Indian politician Syama Prasad Mookerjee, the treatment society sent Nazrul and Promila to London, then to Vienna for treatment. Examining doctors said he had received poor care, and Dr. Hans Hoff, a leading neurosurgeon in Vienna, diagnosed that Nazrul was suffering from Pick's disease. His condition judged to be incurable, Nazrul returned to Calcutta on 15 December 1953. On June 30, 1962 his wife Pramila died and Nazrul remained in intensive medical care. In 1972, the newly independent nation of Bangladesh obtained permission from the Government of India to bring Nazrul to live in Dhaka and accorded him honorary citizenship. Despite receiving treatment and attention, Nazrul's physical and mental health did not improve. In 1974, his youngest son, Kazi Aniruddha, an eminent guitarist died, and Nazrul soon succumbed to his long-standing ailments on August 29, 1976. In accordance with a wish he had expressed in one of his poems, he was buried beside a mosque on the campus of the University of Dhaka. Tens of thousands of people attended his funeral; Bangladesh observed two days of national mourning and the Indian Parliament observed a minute of silence in his honour. Criticism and Legacy Nazrul's poetry is characterised by an abundant use of rhetorical devices, which he employed to convey conviction and sensuousness. He often wrote without care for organisation or polish. His works have often been criticized for egotism, but his admirers counter that they carry more a sense of self-confidence than ego. They cite his ability to defy God yet maintain an inner, humble devotion to Him. Nazrul's poetry is regarded as rugged but unique in comparison to Tagore's sophisticated style. Nazrul's use of Persian vocabulary was controversial but it widened the scope of his work. Nazrul's works for children have won acclaim for his use of rich language, imagination, enthusiasm and an ability to fascinate young readers. Nazrul is regarded for his secularism. He was the first person to cite of Christians of Bengal in his novel Mrityukhudha. He was also the first user of folk terms in Bengali literature. He first printed the Sickle and Hammer in any Indian magazine. Nazrul pioneered new styles and expressed radical ideas and emotions in a large body of work. Scholars credit him for spearheading a cultural renaissance in Muslim-majority Bengal, "liberating" poetry and literature in Bengali from its medieval mould. Nazrul was awarded the Jagattarini Gold Medal in 1945 — the highest honour for work in Bengali literature by the University of Calcutta — and awarded the Padma Bhushan, one of India's highest civilian honours in 1960. The Government of Bangladesh conferred upon him the status of being the "national poet". He was awarded the Ekushey Padak by the Government of Bangladesh. He was awarded Honorary D.Litt. by the University of Dhaka . Many centres of learning and culture in India and Bangladesh have been founded and dedicated to his memory. The Nazrul Endowment is one of several scholarly institutions established to preserve and expound upon his thoughts and philosophy, as well as the preservation and analysis of the large and diverse collection of his works. The Bangladesh Nazrul Sena is a large public organization working for the education of children throughout the country. Works: Sanchita (Collected poems) ,1925 Phanimanasa (The Cactus) , poems,1927 www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Chakrabak (The Flamingo) , poems,1929 Satbhai Champa (The Seven Brothers of Champa) , juvenile poems,1933 Nirjhar (Fountain) , poems,1939 Natun Chand (The New Moon) , poems,1939 Marubhaskar (The Sun in the Desert) , poems,1951 Sanchayan (Collected Poems) ,1955 Nazrul Islam: Islami Kobita (A Collection of Islamic Poems; Dhaka, Bangladesh: Islamic Foundation,1982) Agni Bina (The Fiery Flute) , poems,1992 Poems and songs Dolan Champa (name of a faintly fragrant monsoon flower) , poems and songs,1923 Bisher Banshi (The Poison Flute) , poems and songs,1924 Bhangar Gan (The Song of Destruction) , songs and poems,1924 proscribe in 1924 Chhayanat (The Raga of Chhayanat) , poems and songs,1925 Chittanama (On Chittaranjan) , poems and songs,1925 Samyabadi (The Proclaimer of Equality) , poems and songs,1926 Puber Hawa (The Eastern Wind) , poems and songs,1926 Sarbahara (The Proletariat) , poems and songs,1926 Sindhu Hindol (The Undulation of the Sea) , poems and songs,1927 Jinjir (Chain) , poems and songs,1928 Pralaya Shikha (Doomsday Flame) , poems and songs,1930 proscribed in 1930 Shesh Saogat (The Last Offerings) , poems and songs,1958 Short stories Rikter Bedan (The Sorrows of Destitute) , short stories,1925 Shiulimala (Garland of Shiuli) , stories,1931 Byathar Dan (Offering of Pain) , short stories,1992 Aladin Novels Bandhan Hara (Free from Bonds) , novel,1927 Mrityukshuda (Hunger for Death) , novel,1930 Kuhelika (Mystery) , novel,1931 Plays and drama Jhilimili (Window Shutters) , plays,1930 Aleya (Mirage) , song drama,1931 Putuler Biye (Doll's Marriage) , children's play,1933 Madhumala (Garland of Honeysuckle) a musical play,1960 Jhar (Storm) , juvenile poems and play,1960 Pile Patka Putuler Biye (Doll's Marriage) , juvenile poems and play,1964 Essays Joog Bani (The Message of the Age) , essays,1926 Jhinge Phul (The Cucurbitaccus Flower) , essays,1926 Durdiner Jatri (The Traveller through Rough Times) , essays,1926 Rudra Mangal (The Violent Good) , essays,1927 Dhumketu (The Comet) , essays,1961 www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive A Belated Call Him whom I could not then love much Why do I now remember thus at this late hour, a Mother? Today I remember every night he lulled me to sleep by kissing my eves, Kisses followed kisses breaking my early dawn sleep under their heavy load. I felt then much distressed And sought an early release. The memory now fills my eyes with . a flood of tears. Me unfortunate! Under griefs overwhelming weight vanity doors now kiss the dust. The over-flowing caress of the fuIlness of his young breast I trampled under foot, a Mother! Why then this hankering today These feet he pressed on his breast And on them did print a thousand kisses, While tears inundated his eyes, With no response from me, so vain was I, a Mother! Thus awfully disgraced he had to go away. Indeed I saw his breast with scars of neglect, From pillar to' post went he disgraced, He thought of mea a haven, A protection from insult, an abode of peace. A fool that I was I shut my door upon my lord through ignorance. In disguise of a beggar called at my door my King of Kings. He lost his way and came, he, my welcome kingly beggar, Me wretched! How could I recognize him, O Mother? So his offerings of worship, His garland of pearls I refused, My Lord himself worshipped me with ample offerings, Alas! I knew not the worshipper amid the encircling dark smoke of burnt incense. Who knew he came to me last? Nothing is left behind save farewell message of the princely guest. O my Love! Where didst thou nestle, When called at this door my King? Earth now heaves a sigh: 'He is www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive not here, seek him in vain.' He is an eternal traveller, free. of the bonds of home. From far afar comet the magic call of the shady path Beyond the heath, in the thick of the forest, Hark, the amorous jingling of his tinkling anklet? He blossoms with the flower, wanders over hills with the clouds, Now here, now gone, I know not whom he wants. Mother, where should I get power enough to hold this gypsy lover? For him is not love, nor evening lamp to call home. So the doors of my heart Responded not to his knockings, I thought I then loved some one else. I pushed afar the homeless wanderer, with his offended sentiment. In loving embrace, he wanted to press me closely to his bosom, A wretch I was to run away in trembling fear. The shade of kingly beggar's eyes From a distance charmed me, At his near approach the tearful depth of his long hungry look, Overwhelmed me with pain and the lyre of my mind went out of tune, Why then, Mother, do I hanger now for him to come back, And long for his touch of love and caress I then disregarded? Today, I feel I can bury my face in his bosom in deep felicity, And can easily weep out my soul laden with sorrow. Will my wails reach him across the dim forest of his abode, O Mother? Today, I understand, my whole wealth of life's peace and happiness My lover, the King of thieves, has stolen away. O My King of Spring Season! Come back and take my garland as laurels on thy brow. Today, my bosom bursts under the load of grief and lamentation, Come and see how heart-rending are now the wails of that marble-hearted one. Thy prophecy comes true, blood flows out of stone www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive The terrible conflagration of forest burns today a mountain of stone A stupendous flow-tide arises in my bosom, Breaking barriers, breaking bulwarks, In the breast of the dumb appears the God of speech amid a tempestuous sea- Now my bosom bursts, my mouth speaks Whom can you stop, Mother? My heaven was lost with his departure, Now I toss on my sleepless pillow alone with no companion on this sad night- He ill not come by my side up To wake me up before peep of dawn Never will he come at deep of night in the, amorous pursuit of stealthy kisses, His companion is doomed to weep out. a stormy night across a forest. Had I but found him today. I would, O Mother, have fallen flat at his fear Holding his lotus like feet on my breast bathed them in my lake of tears Seated him on one-half of my skirt, The flood of dears appearing unbidden I would have wiped out the wet collyrium from his eyes, face and lip's corner, With my disheveled hair wiped his feet imprisoning him within my embrace. Thou couldst see then, Mother, this Wayward girl, this cause of all ills Leaning her face on his generous bosom and saying, 'I love you' While thus unbosoming herself, a pleasing bashfulness Would make her blush and swear, Her face would unwillingly descend from his breast and roll unawares on his lap I would see, Mother, how could he then restrain himself on ground of injured sentiment! Thus now arises in me many a hope and thirst for love, From offended vanity, anguish, passion' and attachment rolled into one. Leaving me as a debtor of tears, Has he crossed high seas for an unknown island? Is it far beyond rivers, Mother? Is it that tempest itself cannot reach that far-off land. O Mother? If he now learns that I do love him, In wild ecstasy will his sepulcher burst open? His shouts will make www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive
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রুটির দোকানের কর্মচারী থেকে বিদ্রোহী কবি। কবি কাজী নজরুলের জীবন কাহিনী। Kazi Nazrul Islam Biography
কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের জনপ্রিয় ১০টি গজল ২০২০ Kazi Nazrul Islam best bangla gojol 2020 Islamic tune
Last Journey of Kazi Nazrul Islam
Kazi Nazrul Islam | কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম
KAZI NAZRUL ISLAM | Life | Literature | Information.
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Kazi Nazrul Islam (Full Movie)
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Ma Amar Ma | Poet Kazi Nazrul Islam - Son's wife | কবি নজরুল ছেলের সহ ধর্মিণী । mytv
কবি কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম ও প্রমিলা দেবী। National Poet Kazi Nazrul Islam. Kazi Nazrul Islam Live video.
Atit Diner Smriti | Firoza Begum | Collection of Nazrulgeeti | Songs of Kazi Nazrul Islam
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নার্গিসকে লেখা প্রেমিক কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের অমর প্রেমপত্র || Kazi Nazrul Islam Letter to Nargis
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কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের ৭টি জনপ্রিয় না'ত-ই-রাসুল(সাঃ)।। Seven Na'ts of Kazi Nazrul Islam।।
লিচু চোর - Lichu Chor Bangla Kobita By Kazi Nazrul Islam | Moople TV Bangla
Kabi Kazi Nazrul Islam er lekha kobita "Shishur Sadh" #Bengali Kobita #"Shishur Sadh"
কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের জীবনী। Kazi Nazrul islam biography in Bengali.
Hera Hote Hele Dule | Kazi Nazrul Islam | ABC Radio 89 2 FM
Kazi Nazrul Islam Biography in Bengali |কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের জীবনী |Nazrul Jayanti Speech-Abdur Rahman
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বিদ্রোহী কবি কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের অমর বাণী | Quotes of Kazi Nazrul Islam | Sharif's Diary
সাম্যের গান গাই... | কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম ‘‘নারী” কবিতার শ্রেষ্ঠ আবৃত্তি | টিটো মুন্সী
Tumi Sundar Tai Cheye Thaki তুমি সুন্দর তাই চেয়ে থাকি - Nazrul Sangeet
Bolo Bir @ Kazi Nazrul Islam বিদ্রোহী কবিতা

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