My East Bengal

1.
My East Bengal, how astonishingly she is
                              a chilly river
much tranquil and all of a sudden
                              pleased with her swollen prosperity
once full of clamours, many times
                              cool lethargic
time and time again mild-voiced
                              ceaseless floods
many times filled with herons and seagulls
one kingfisher or two
the ceaseless flying of a few crows
a grove of catkins talkatively loud in the wind
a river undulating with endless words
few trees and a shack trellised with leaves
                              of coconut trees and shon plants
a tiny piece of an island on earth
 you are bottomless in the monsoon deluge
the Baikuntha of unmeasured hearts
the bourn of life as far as the horizon
the salutation like a boat driven by tides
like the singing without restraint  
while sitting on the shed of a boat
how astonishingly the hearts spread
how many days I roamed in foreign lands
               to watch many stones, trees, snow
                              and smoke –
the treasures of countless seas
               deep thick blue, fog-coloured
                              or black
in the skies of countless countries I saw the sun
on the right, on the left and touching on the horizon
and sometimes on snowflakes
                              red, blue lucid crystals
in the spread of Bavaria's woods in the north
winds, sunshine and
                              each hour was as if green
and like a rest in lassitude
they all got me overwhelmed
 suddenly to me who has just returned
               she is the grandeur of greenery in wild ecstasy
here my world is much
                              beautiful
here she is a country like a river
tranquil, swollen and clamorous with waves
this is my East Bengal
                              whose metaphor is a tranquil, chilly river.  
 
2.
My East Bengal is a cluster of soft, charmingly 
                             dark tomal trees
in the proximity of many leaves
                            a placid home
 like the coming of an evening
like the bottom of a lake
like the crowd of clouds dark as black hair
the peacefulness of an overwhelming grief
my East Bengal is the fondness of
                            darkness in the rains
the wet delphiniums touching
                            on every heart
surrounded by tomal trees and konok vines around the house
the moment to see the sky while loosening
                            someone's hair-plaits 
the cheerful plenty
                            along with endless feelings
feathers of countless clouds
                            covering the sun at a time
how numbing the smell is
                            of rice in plenty, earth and water
how many phases of a beloved in absentia, one, two, three
                            ten
here in crazy keenness
                           the trysts happen forever
the house and the alien yard
                            become one in keenness
 
the twig of a kadamba tree
               with three flowers and many leaves
                            touches the ground
and more trees, more leaves, more vines
blue, yellow, violet or white
the endless flood of countless flowers
the peace of getting eyes drowsy
                            in the slothfulness of sleep
 
loosening hair black as eyes
                            of a crow
submerging into water the feet whose metaphor
                            is the bright blue lotuses
wrapping the body in a cluster of wet delphiniums
                            that touch on the heart
the body whose metaphor is a lovely tomal tree –
you are my East Bengal
a placid home in overwhelming plenty.
 
3.
My East Bengal is like the sound of rain
               on trees in the dead of night
sometimes the mridanga, sometimes a violin –
once the tunes of a flute
when I wake up alone at night
               to ceaseless soft clamours
                    I watch words on leaves
                           like dreams
 her stretch beyond the shores is
               like consciousness in the dark sky
the consciousness which is once a bottomless oblivion
once the siesta of black eyes
once the zigzags of lightening
once the sudden rise of thunders
but forever is full of many smells, words and
               talks while her eyes watching out
                            in curiosity
 my East Bengal is like the sound of rain
               on trees in the dead of night
 
pearls on clear dirt-free leaves
little flowers as if many stars
as if tears of wood nymphs
as if the lucidity of oysters
                            on clean-cut nails
all these come home to my heart
and stir up at the sound of rain in the dead of night –
               a plethora of blessings in my consciousness
               and a lamp glimmering in the dark
 
rain, rain is here and there
                            all over the world
in the cities of Chicago, New York, Paris
somewhere touching the lights, somewhere
                            near the windows
somewhere the car indicative of a smooth plenty, the umbrella
                            in the rains
my world smells of rain-moistened earth,
                            of rice fields flooded in the rains
                            of the breaking down of twigs of a mango tree
suddenly the bellowing of cows, the flapping
                            of birds' wet wings
and again in ponds and rivers and ditches
                            the response of loveliness
my East Bengal is like the sound of rain
               on trees in the dead of night
 
like the swift stepping of the feet
                            the nebulae of words
clamours of the past – centuries
                            after centuries
once the whispers to ears the stirred-up winds
once the dipping down of all words into many words
suddenly the rage – the oblivious sleep
suddenly on a plain the fainting
                            of the whole world
perhaps the plenty of perplexed pleasures
perhaps a life spent in endless perplexities
the countlessness of unmeasured mutinies
and in the earnestness of all the words
               my Easy Bengal is
like listening to the sound of rain alone on a rainy night
my East Bengal is like the sound of rain
               on trees in the dead of night.