The Twenty-Fifth of Baisakh

The twenty-fifth of the month of Baisakh flows on— Another birthday coursing Towards the day of death. Seated on his movable stand At the border of minuscule births and deaths Who is the artist weaving A garland out of innumerable Rabindranaths? Time's chariot moves on— The traveler treading on foot Lifts his drinking vessel up And receives something to drink By the time he's had his fill He's fallen behind in the dark While his vessel lies smashed to smithereens Under the wheels of time. Pursuing him comes one Who has found something more to drink Someone who has his name But in reality is a different being. I was once a boy. The image built up now of the man Through the mould of a few birthdays Doesn't resemble the boy he once was. Those who knew him well Have all passed away. That boy no longer exists in his own mind Or in anyone else's memories. He's left forever—as has his world. The laughter and tears he knew Are not echoed in the wind anymore. Even the shards of toys he played with Have disappeared from sight. He'd sit by the small window of life Looking at the world outside. His world limited To what he could see through the opening. His naïve eyes would open wide Taking in everything till they reached their limits In the coconut tree rows canopying the garden wall. Evenings were intense because of spells Cast by fairy tales; no fence stood Between fact and fantasy. The mind crossed effortlessly From one to the other. In the play of light and shadow in twilight Shadows melded with substance As if they were kins. His birthdays were islands Basking in sunshine for a while And then disappearing in Time's ocean. At memory's ebb tide from time to time Their peaks would become visible As would their sunset-red coral fringes. The twenty-fifth of Boisakh showed up next In another era—indistinct In the flush of Spring's early morning sunlight. The mendicant Baul singer that is youth Strung a passionate tune on a one-stringed ektara Articulating some obscure pain Seeking the invisible man in him. Listening to those tunes in a heavenly abode Sometimes the muse would respond. Sending some of her messengers Through shaded paths lit up by palash trees in bloom Seemingly drunk in a riot of colors On days when work didn't matter. I'd listen to their soft accents Some of which I could catch. I could see their dark eyelashes Glisten with tears; I'd read on their quivering lips Intimations of intense agony. I'd hear in their tinkling bangles The tingle of intense anticipation. Unknown to me They'd leave behind At first light of the twenty-fifth of Baisakh Garlands woven out of newly bloomed jasmine Overwhelming morning dreams with fragrance. The world of those youthful birthdays Lay in the vicinity of fairy land, Poised between certainty and uncertainty. Occasionally a princess would sleep there Her overflowing tresses all around her Occasionally she would suddenly stir At the touch of a golden wand. And so days went by Till the ramparts of the twenty-fifth of Baisakh Once daubed with spring colors Came falling down. The young man now entered paths where shadows quivered Because of bakul leaves rustling in the breeze; Where the wind sighed And afternoon ached At the plaintive note of a lovesick cuckoo Imploring its mate to come back; Where bee wings thrilled, At the subtle call of fragrant flowers; And green and grassy groves Ended in highways built of stone. The young man now would add String after string to the ektara He had strummed to play his tunes. The twenty-fifth of Baisakh Next brought me Through rugged paths To the shores of a sea of people Whose waves swelled and roared. I cast my net in their midst Negotiating sound after sound. Throughout the day Till I was able to net some souls Though some of them eluded me. Sometimes the day would cloud over And disillusionment set in Making the mind stoop in ignominy But when afternoons became unbearable Images arrived from some blessed land Through unforeseen ways, Making the fruit of labor look beautiful, Offering nectar to the exhausted soul. Mocking apprehensions With waves of ringing laughter. They rekindled valiant flames; From a fire almost consumed by ashes; They retrieved heavenly messages Giving them form. Through sheer devotion. They lit up again my fading lamp Tuning strings that had slackened Till music flowed again Crowning the twenty-fifth of Baisakh With garlands they had themselves woven. Their magic touch Still remains in my songs and writings. Then my life became a combat zone Erupting in conflicts every now and then There were thunder-like rumblings All across the battlefield, Forcing me to fling aside my ektara And pick up a kettle-drum. Even in the intense noon heat I had to speed on Moving through currents of success and failure. In the process thorns pierced my feet. My heart too bled profusely. Relentless waves tossed my vessel From one side to another Aiming to drown the freight of my life Till it was submerged in lies and libel. My ship of life stuck to its course Past hate and love Envy and friendship Discord and harmony. Crossing billows of steaming emotions. In the midst of travails Amidst conflicts and commotion. Where you find me now is in an autumnal twenty-fifth When light is fading and age weighing me down. Do you realize In what I have written There is a lot that is unsaid A lot that is disjointed A lot that has been evaded? In your respect for me, In the love that you show In your ability to forgive You've built up a complex image Compounded out of the good and the bad The innermost me and what you see externally The fame I have attained and my failures. This construct is what is now on show. He is the man you've come to garland And the man I've become publicly In the winter of my life. Even as I leave behind for you all My blessings. As I take my leave Let this image remain in your thoughts. I certainly won't be smug Because it is now the property of Time. And then give me leave So that I can retreat Beyond the black and white warp From which life is woven Beyond what I've become officially To a lonely and private existence; Let me mingle different tunes Produced from diverse instruments Till I reach the source of all music And meld with the primal melody. (“Panchishe Baisakh,” from Sesh Saptak)