Happy Diwali

Light, for me, is a happy smile in the faces on those I respect and care for. Happy Diwali!!!

A poem translated

A good friend of mine, who researches sports culture, had been asking me, for the past few weeks, to translate a rather famous Bengali song for him. He intends to use the translated version in one of his forthcoming papers. This is one friend who has known me since I was a lanky middle school student in the very late eighties and very early nineties, barring a gap of about eight years in between. Therefore, he is fully aware of my procrastinating nature and patiently persisted with me. The idea of translating this small lyric into English remained in my mind, as all ideas I work with do, waiting for the right moment to push other ideas to the background and shove itself forward, so as to get itself an appropriate expression at an appropriate moment. It so turned out that this morning I suddenly felt an urge to complete this pending task. I am satisfied with the end product to the extent I should be. Students of translation would know that it is not an easy job. I am not given to self trumpeting as a matter of course but do like to share my work those whose opinion I value. Since I know for sure that very few actually read this blog and I personally know most of them, I do not mind submitting this little piece to their judgement. Do please read the Bengali original first and then my translation that will follow. The song is far too well known to the Bengalis for me to introduce it to them again. The non-Bengalis, on the other hand, should first read the translation without any introduction. If the translation is good, they will certainly sense the cultural capital invested into this particular song and will themselves find out more about it. Read on.

Bangalir Football

Gnutognuti Rugby noi, Taas Bidi Kheye Somoy Katano noi,

E Khelai nei gynarakol,

Sob Khelar Sera Bangalir Tumi Football!

Aha Ki Modhu ache oi tomar namete bawa Football!

Aha Ki Modhu ache oi tomar namete aha Football!

Tomake lathai roj boot pora koto pa,

Eto lathi khao tobu mukhe kichu bolo na,

Pude maro roddure, kaadaa maakho boroshai,

Tobu phule phnepe thaako awbichawl,

Sob khelar sera Bangalir tumi Football,

Jibone Marane paye paye achho football.

Adhaisho Bochhorer jamidari Ghuche giye

desh chhere paliyeche ingrej,

nokh daant bhanga ek briddho singho se je,

nei tar jari juri nei tej,

tobu maante to badha nei, sei to sekhalo ei football,

tari daulate naam amar hoeyeche Mohun Bagan East Bengal.

Aha ki modhu ache oi tomar namete bawa football!

Aha ki Modhu ache oi tomar namete aha Football!

Sob khelar sera Bangalir tumi Football.

Jaar goal e jao tumi tar buke pore baaj,

Jaar hoye goal koro se je hoi moharaaj,

Rock-e rock-e jhawgra, ghore ghore divorce,

Ilishe ghoti-te Rosatol,

Sob khelar sera Bangalir tumi Football.

The Bengali’s Football

Not brawling as in Rugby,

nor wasting time as in cards or smoking,

There’s no baseness involved in this noble sport,

in this real thing.

Oh the lord of all sports, you the Bengali’s Football,

How your very name spreads sweetness to one and all!

So many booted legs kick you around,

so hard, everyday,

Such heavy pain you suffer, duty bound,

Without having a say.

Comes heat in summer, and slush in the rains,

Yet you remain the same, rolly polly, oh dear Football!

At the legs of life and death, you stand, the Bengali’s Football.

Two hundred and fifty years’ zamindari over, the English,

Left this land for good, an old lion, its roar and tricks all gone,

No harm admitting today that they taught us football, taught this

Mighty sport that made immortal East Bengal and Mohun Bagan.

Calamity strikes the one who happens to concede a goal,

And the one who scores runs the world as a whole!!

Passion runs wild as the Bengali sits down to talk about you,

Husbands divorce wife, fight in your name like children do.

Ghotis and Bangals bring the earth down, emotion their wherewithall,

Your, dear, the lord of all sports, you the Bengali’s football.

Thank you, dear reader, for your attention and patience. You may not know but this is my first successful attempt at translation. My lack of focus always comes in the way of persisting with things. But these days I realize that things have to be done, and it does not matter when you begin. For instance, I started participating in debates only last week and had great fun doing it. I will post that speech the next time. The secret of doing things, I now realize, is in having fun, in enjoying them, without bothering about consequences. You would be surprised to know that this approach often results in excellence as well.

banging my lore-no u ooo please

If there is one place in India which has made me what I am, it is Bangalore. Period. I never wanted to go there, did not know till about a week before I landed that I was actually going and I am not going to settle there for it has no future to offer to my kind of professionals. Ironically though, I am certain that I would be a far lesser person and professional had I not spent half a decade in Bangalore. Bangalore has a way of bringing out the best in you, and letting you go fully secure in the belief that you are going to keep coming back. This is what mentoring is all about.

Twenty years in a blink

I don't even have to close my eyes,
to recall what I looked like twenty years ago;
my mother will always tell me it was nice,
in all fairness, I probably looked so and so.

But if you were to ask me how she looked then,
and how she does now, I see someone tired,
somewhat relieved, but very unfit and uncertain,
having done so much, having run so very hard.

She's taking a bow, tomorrow.
A string of ailments, sacrifices galore, often in vein,
happiness always elusive, depleting resources in tow,
dear mom, you've been nice, time to pass the rein.

Nostalgia, warts and all

We'll follow up the exclusion story some other time. For some time now, I have been feeling that the less we talk about exclusion, the better. And I have been feeling nostalgic, missing many people and many pasts. Am I getting old, or just bold enough to admit it in public? These things do not really matter, for I realize at the same time that I have never felt so bullish about myself. This lovely feeling that it does not matter comes at a price, often a rather steep one. I daresay I rather like it. Let's hear from Gurudeb:

Ache Dukkho Ache Mrityu, biraho dahana lage/tobuo shanti, tobu anonodo, tobu ananta jage/Tobu prana Nitya dhra, ase surjo Chandra tara/Basanta nikunje ase bichitro rage/ Taranga milaye jai, taranga uthe/Kusum Jhariya pade, Kusuma phute/ Nakhi Khya, nahi sesha, nahi nahi Doinyo Besha/sei Purnotaaro paye mono sthano Maange.

I am sorry, dear reader, if you are not a Bengali. Even otherwise you must be familiar with that famous verse of Ishoponishada--Purnamada Purnamidam....--which I am sure at least partly inspired Tagore when he had been working on this particular piece. You'll clrealy see much from the Geeta and various Upanishadas walking into the song in a rather seamless process. There is a wonderful collection of the Upanishadas by Dr. Radhakrishnan in English for you to begin with and to keep going back to, like many of us. Do listen to this Tagore song nonetheless, especially in Debabrata Biswas' voice. I have tremendous, boundless joy everytime I listen to this track, especially when I am down for one reason or another. No not the rapturous, orgasmic kind of eruptive joy, although that is no less significant, but a rather calm, accepting kind of a reassuring joy that I get to learn so much everyday. I do not know if I belive in God but I am grateful, and do hereby offer my shraddha (respects) to whoever or whatever it is that orders us all, one way or another. Interesting isn't it, the spelling in Sanskrit (and thereby Hindi and many oher Indian languages) for respect and funerary ceremonies (Shraddha again) is the same, that is, they are homonyms? It's only this exchange of place between aa and oo (as in the sound) that makes all the difference. Frankly, I do not think it is a matter of phonetics alone. It is only after you ceremonially get rid of your own self that you respect others. Trust me it is true. Try it and you'll realize. May Goddess Durga bless you all. May you all get what you really want.

PS-I hope you see, dear reader, that I am referring merely to the question of transcription, and not even moving as far up as translation. Fact is we cannot ever understand each other completely, but that is no reason why we should not try. Even a partial understanding is better than no understanding. Now if you were to suggest that no understanding is better than misunderstanding, I would listen and introspect and keep quiet. These verbal juggleries no longer move me that much for I firmly believe in communication. It's just that we have to work out the right medium. Such as silence.

security, insecurities, exclusions

In PVR Priya they think well dressed young women cannot be suicide bombers and modestly dressed slightly older young men can. The other day I went to watch this new movie there with my laptop bag slung on my shoulder. I was promptly advised to leave my bag out of the auditorium premises. Appreciting their keen attention to the security of the patrons, I asked them where they have the baggage counter where you deposit your bags for the duration of the show and get it back after you walk out of the auditorium. This is a common practice and a desirable one too. I am familar with it, especially when I visit libraries and shops of various descrirptions, institutions that put in place such mechanisms to keep kelptomanics at bay.

But I was wrong in this case. It is not kleptomaniacs but potential suicide bombers that these plush seats of entertainment worry about. Therefore, they just don't want your bags to be around in the first place. I was directed to a paan bidi shop nearby, the owner of which had been doing precisely what I expected the PVR authorities to do--keeping your bags for the duration of the show, at a price of course.

In other words, PVR authorities are devoted only to the secutiry of their own premises and and to yours too only when you are physically within their premises. The physical bit is taken very literally, for if you happen to carry a bag and a laptop, it will be assumed to be potential bomb and you will be forced to deposit it with that upwardly mobile paanwala. The uniformed secutiry men did not heed my repeated requests to subject the bag to a metal detector test and, if found harmless, let me carry it in. Only purse, they as well as their boss, an older young man like me but slightly better bulit and 'tie'd, said like robots, is allowed in. I will return to matters relating to their idea of purse later. In the meantime, I tried to reason, then demanded to meet the manager who I was told was too big a shot to meet an occassional oddball and then, proceeded to the ticket counter and asked for a refund since I was no longer in a mood to enjoy their hospitality. These sites of entertainment of course do not entertain any concept of refund. I was free to sell my ticket to any interested customer but the chap at the box office dismissive stared at me as if I was a beggar who has to bother about the measly sum of 75 Rs. His gaze having fixed me as a beggar of a certain kind, my middle class instincts prompted me to behave like one and and I went over to the paanwala and deposited my bag with him. No I was not carrying my laptop on that given morning.

It's here that the twist in the tale comes in. But I am going to bring that in tomorrow or whenever I am going to return gain.

A dear sound

Some sights and sounds stay with with you long after you have seen or heard them. They are rare and special and call for minute powers of observation. Birds' twitter, dews' diamond like glint on green grass, fan's whirr, ladies earrings' dangle, gusts of wild wind pregnant with rains with the coconut leaves swaying violently, shuffling pages of yellowing old books, cows burping after a fulfilling lunch--I suddenly find myself all eyes and ears. I will not enlarge this list any further for fear of losing my way in the beauty and simplicity of such small joys of life. Let's just admit I love to soak them all in. Today I just want to share with you a sound that I hold very dear, ones that make me feel things are alright with my world after all, notwithstanding my best efforts to turn them upside down.

There is this apartment block somewhere in South Delhi I have to visit at least once in virtually every week. I normally use gate numbe two possibly because this is the shortest distance to the apartment if you are walking in. a little up this way, on my right, there is an apartment where someone plays mandolin. I do not know s/he is, nor do I wish to. But everytime I walk past this place, by some starnge coincidence the anonymous mandolin player practices some haunting tune or the other. I have occassionally heard tabla and guitars too, and I suspect they probably are trying to set up a band or some such musical ensemble. But it's the robust sound of Mandolin that I always look forward to listening. Mandolin, as you would know, is not an Indian instrument and U.Srinivas is the only Indian who is known to have integrated it with the intricacies of Indian classical music. But of course, there must be many not so well known musicians experimenting with this instrument, including this anonymous friend of mine.

I am always drawn to the sound of mandolin, and I have no clue why. It may be because it is at the same time robust yet plaintive. This is also the reason why Salil Chowdhury's music appeals to me so much, this effortless tonal fluidity breaking down the traditional distinction between happy sounds and sad sounds. This is not the Wordsworthian dictum of sweetest songs telling of saddest thoughts. On the contrary, here is a sound that can be alternately read as wildly celebratory and equally, if not more, as arising from depths of utter despair. It is at once schizophrenic and non-dual, black and white, rapturous and remoreseful, or just plain two in one, if you will. Well, not really. I have always found so many shades of gray as well.

May the mysterious mandolin player go from strength to strength. I am so grateful that s/he is around. S/he turned so many bad days of mine into bright cheerful evenings, and lovely, dreamy nights, without knowing it herself of course. I guess that's what music does to you, soothe your tout nerves and put you to sleep when the world gets too much, and motivate you to wake up and have another go just when you would have thought you have been sleeping a tad too long.