Poems by Shyamalkanti Das
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The duck from Narajol
The Narajol duck bears No semblance at all to sundry ducks. The Narajol duck doesn’t stay in water Doesn’t go quack quack quack Doesn’t feast on snails and oysters From the shore itself it strikes a rapport with the Yaksh. Through the hard gravel of a soil it can hear Calls from a dungeon deep within. There’s no jackal in Narajol A kite or two exist, Hawks are there – The ones who, from palace alcoves and balconies, Flap their wings. Hence there’s none that the Narajol duckbird dreads. Hollows to roads Roads to furrows Furrows to meadows it roams, unhindered. The path it roams is smooth enough for No stumble to occur anywhere. The Narajol duck bears No semblance at all to sundry ducks. When we steal a cursory glance at its white plumes Our nose tips betray frothing beads of sweat. Ear lobes, embarrassed, blush red. The sceptre of manhood breaks into vigorous throbs. The Narajol duck glides free amidst an uncanny sky. Whale Hundred…Two hundred…Three hundred…Four hundred…Five hundred years I’m alive While I live I look back on this whale’s life of mine Dense green moss lies settled on me like a thick coat of arms Eyes, in their inward quest, are stuck in their nooks, In my head, a wheel whirrs unceasing amidst flabs of fat It’s been centuries that my private parts lie shrunk Hordes of seed and sperm wallow in gloom, yet Any power to erect I lack, I lack the power to create The glow of a child my semen never emanates. Hundred…Two hundred…Three hundred…Four hundred…Five hundred years Of living has made me devour A quarter of the ocean’s water Thousands of baby dolphins and divers The oceanographers are my numero uno foes, I’ve sucked the pupils Off their eyes, have reduced to drained refuse their veins and hearts I have, by and by, on a rough estimate, swallowed twenty to fifty warships, At least twenty to thirty airships of the size of Kanishka and A million frowns from the eyes of cyclones; inside my tummy There rumbles and grumbles a thousand fragments of The Titanic There chimes in tune in thousands – porcelain crockery, forks and spoons No torpedo, however large, can pose to me an iota of threat. Every morning, at dawn, squids have made faces at me At sundown strokes, octopuses in hundreds, have charged at me in full swing The shark is the most sworn enemy among my kin Many a time has it rendered heart splitting blows that threw me off my fins Chasing piranhas have forced me to be in flight for miles Have bored into the flanks of my neck with their serrated teeth All these holes in me, air lattices so many, chunks of flesh Missing here and there – all mementos of my wins. Six… seven… eight… nine hundred… a thousand years later The people of the subcontinent have had pity on me, Have hauled me up from sea and dashed me onto the shore On the silver screens of Globe, Lighthouse and Mini Roxy movie theatres My hefty appalling face repeatedly rides the waves That rattle the coral reefs, My torso wriggles past an iceberg A moon, cloaked in mist, sheds on me her wan light Such that I, provoked to anger, open my jaws ajar and roar Such that I, with a severe lashing of my tail, can Split once more, the Atlantic in two. On seeing me now before a thousand unblinking eyes Who can ever guess that inside my tummy There lies not only jellyfish, but also the view of nocturnal sky There occur in thousands firework flashes of Titanic’s complete demise. In this tummy of mine, a girl named Rose throbs in her wails While amidst tears a boy named Jack suddenly finds a reason to laugh Throwing caution to the winds, he laughs, in this very tummy of mine…ha ha…ho ho Fragments of life, oh so beautiful, align themselves on his cold white flesh. Six…seven…eight… nine hundred… a thousand years later People watch me on the silver movie screen There flows within my dark tummy A cold sea breeze and dense currents of smiles and tears Seeing which, it appears, thousands have grown benumbed They no longer, like days of yore, talk of mating and love In their mouths froth appears, they emit stifled sounds By and by, their eyes, vision blurred, turn dead still. Translated by Bappaditya Roy Biswas |
Shyamalkanti Das, born in the undivided Midnapore district of West Bengal, is one of the major poets in Bengali literature. His unique way of viewing the world renders to his diction a certain kind of grandeur. His poems have been translated into different languages. He has authored more than fifty books till date. Presently he is the editor-in-chief of a renowned periodical named Kabisammelan. Das has been a recipient of several honours which include the Jibanananda Puraskar (1962) by Pratishruti Parishad for being adjudged the best young poet and the title of national poet(2008). Shyamalkanti Das was awarded the Vidyasagar Puraskar for his original contribution to children's literature by the Govt of West Bengal in 2018. In 2023, Sahitya Akademi has honoured him with the Bal Sahitya Puraskar for his children's novella "Eroplaner Khata".
About the translator
Bappaditya Roy Biswas writes his poems primarily in Bengali. One of his English poems was first published in print in 2001 on the pages of The Statesman. His poems have been published across dailies and periodicals like The Statesman, Dainik Statesman, Kabisammelan, Udbodhan, Masik Krittibas, Ekush Shatak and Pratham Alo. He has seven anthologies of poems to his credit. His collection of poems 'Garbhagrihe Ajibon' published from Signet Press belonging to the house of the iconic Ananda Publishers, has drawn accolades from poets and readers alike. Bappaditya plays an integral role in the editorial teams of Sahitya Ekhaan (bilingual) and Hello Testing Bangla Kobita, two contemporary little magazines of considerable repute. |
