Beyond Land and Time

When I for Myself

(Rupôshi Bānglā 39: Є-shob Kobitā Āmi Jôkhôn Likhєchi)

Translated by Meenakshi Mukherjee

When I for myself these lines did write

The moonlit dew dripped from the branches, and still in the mist

Lay the pale bank along the Dhanshiri river.

The bat’s dark wings across the cold moonlight

Drew a sharp line of desire. Came through the night

Manorama, guarding her flickering lamp. Swarmed with her

Forgotten bees and girls, the cool, creamy, crab-apple came,

And blossomed the mango-spray in the winter night.

In the dim light I saw them all; saw, and wrote these lines

Remembering their pale tresses, remembering

The loveliness of their shell-like hands, and to redeem their hearts.

How many centuries ago did they disappear,

Trailing their yellow saris, breasts like pathetic shells,

Creamily moulded flesh and pathetic hearts,

Into that room most cold and quietly filled

With solace. And yet they often do seem

To strike their sleep against my desolate dream.