I Won’t Let the Sun Sink by Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena

Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

I won’t let the sun set now.
Look, I’ve broadened my shoulders
and tightened my fists.
I have learned to stand firm
by embedding my feet on the slope.

I won’t let the sun drown now.
I heard you’re riding its chariot
and I want to bring you down
You, the emblem of freedom
You, the face of courage
You, the earth’s happiness
You, timeless love
The flow of my veins, you
The spread of my consciousness, you;
I want to help you climb down that chariot.

Even if the chariot horses
spew fire,
The wheels won’t turn any longer
I’ve broadened my shoulders.
Who will stop you
I’ve expanded the earth
With bangles of golden grain
I will decorate you
With an open heart
and songs of love
I’ve widened my vision
to flutter you as a dream in every eye.

Where will the sun go anyway
It’ll have to stay put here
In our breaths
In our colours
In our resolves
In our sleeplessness
Do not despair
I won’t let a single sun sink now.

Photo by Jonathan Petersson on Pexels.com


सूरज को नही डूबने दूंगा / सर्वेश्वरदयाल सक्सेना


अब मैं सूरज को नहीं डूबने दूंगा।
देखो मैंने कंधे चौड़े कर लिये हैं
मुट्ठियाँ मजबूत कर ली हैं
और ढलान पर एड़ियाँ जमाकर
खड़ा होना मैंने सीख लिया है।

घबराओ मत
मैं क्षितिज पर जा रहा हूँ।
सूरज ठीक जब पहाडी से लुढ़कने लगेगा
मैं कंधे अड़ा दूंगा
देखना वह वहीं ठहरा होगा।

अब मैं सूरज को नही डूबने दूँगा।
मैंने सुना है उसके रथ में तुम हो
तुम्हें मैं उतार लाना चाहता हूं
तुम जो स्वाधीनता की प्रतिमा हो
तुम जो साहस की मूर्ति हो
तुम जो धरती का सुख हो
तुम जो कालातीत प्यार हो
तुम जो मेरी धमनी का प्रवाह हो
तुम जो मेरी चेतना का विस्तार हो
तुम्हें मैं उस रथ से उतार लाना चाहता हूं।

रथ के घोड़े
आग उगलते रहें
अब पहिये टस से मस नही होंगे
मैंने अपने कंधे चौड़े कर लिये है।
कौन रोकेगा तुम्हें
मैंने धरती बड़ी कर ली है
अन्न की सुनहरी बालियों से
मैं तुम्हें सजाऊँगा
मैंने सीना खोल लिया है
प्यार के गीतो में मैं तुम्हे गाऊँगा
मैंने दृष्टि बड़ी कर ली है
हर आँखों में तुम्हें सपनों सा फहराऊँगा।

सूरज जायेगा भी तो कहाँ
उसे यहीं रहना होगा
यहीं हमारी सांसों में
हमारी रगों में
हमारे संकल्पों में
हमारे रतजगों में
तुम उदास मत होओ
अब मैं किसी भी सूरज को
नही डूबने दूंगा।

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Homes and the World

My personal essay, Homes and the World, first published in Literary Shanghai.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

From womb to the world, I bring emergencies in my wake.

  1. LAJPAT NAGAR

Ten days after I’m born, democracy in my country gets turned on its head; constitutional rights are left meaningless for all practical purposes. The Indian government has just declared a state of Emergency. While I have no memory from that time, people who do still recoil in remembered fear when talking of those “Dark days.” Of disappearances and forced sterilizations, of tortures, interrogations and blank newspaper pages – a way to refuse toeing the government line.

My mother has to fight her own emergency, meanwhile. Her marriage has just fallen apart and she’s back in her parents’ home in Lajpat Nagar in New Delhi. When I come bundled up from Holy Family, the Christian missionary hospital where I am delivered to Kasturba Niketan – the refugee rehabilitation colony where my grandmother works, my mother is in desperate need of a job.

Before that first house grows on me, the Emergency has been lifted and my mother finds employment. Her old employer – the library at Delhi University – takes her back, making an exception on its policy regarding rehiring former employees. Her pre-marriage work record helps as much as her post-marriage personal crisis.

Read the rest in Literary Shanghai

Saturday Mornings at the Language Class

First published in Saaranga

The generosity of a weekend morning
and a teacher’s unlocked house. Her
trust in us, somewhat excessive. To
leave the property to a bunch of inquisitive
adolescents; there, less for language
learning and more for the telephone to
make prank calls with, just a few, before
the elderly tutor arrived. To then settle
down on the sofa like monastic disciples
awaiting ordination. With the trail of lessons
moving through villages, bullock carts and
heaving rivers, to let the eye settle on a
glass cabinet housing pretty dolls in
traditional finery — Japanese, Bengali,
Rajasthani. The teacher’s off-school
diversion. After the class — a walkabout of
everything from the classics and satire to
home-brewed verses on bygone Saturday
mornings — pottering over to the dining table
to uncover surprises waiting in neat porcelain
saucers. Tea cakes, cookies, seasonal savouries.
Bribes the teacher cooked to entice some
not-so innocent teenagers to bite into the
mother tongue just a bit deeper.

Photo by Designecologist on Pexels.com

How I Miss You

First published in Saaranga

I miss you like I miss the memory
of things I once couldn’t forget if
I tried to. Like the leaves of the tree
under which the market presswallah

wielded his heavy iron on the entire
neighbourhood’s rumpled crease.
Like the minstrel’s khanjani, portable
cymbals of wistful supplication. I

miss you like the absent compressor
of our dysfunctional refrigerator, its
garish orange paint a reminder of
a well-wisher’s gigantic kindness

in selling us her relic. When it no longer
cooled water or made ice, Uncle made
It his secret cabinet for stashing the
diaries no one could read anyway.

Not even him. I miss you like the boy
Uncle must have once been, con brio,
wanting to love, seeking home. I miss you
like the illusory promise in the songs we

bellowed in school praising our nation, a
sordid country of uneven ladders. I miss
you the way we miss things not exactly
lost and no longer easily found.

The Filtered Light of Freedom

First published in Live Wire

Like air and freedom, light, too, is suspicious
of prison cells. Here, muscularity, minacious,
well-oiled, prowls around the clock, a wild cat
in command of its turf. Women petrify into
grinding stones too heavy for new sorrow.

Combining, braiding intricately and colouring hair
is quite a communal activity in a women’s jail.

Juicy allegations buzzing with mendacity
test the nerve of testosterone. Old friends
discover each other anew as if they had been
separated for years. Porous prison walls are
the only true ally, at times smothering, closing in,
like an obsessive lover.

It feels as if the jail cell is
shrinking as suffocation and claustrophobia creep
in and take over one’s mind and body.

Here, children lick more darkness than milk and
try to believe the sky to be a true story. The rainbow
is a fairy tale. Long conversations conserve grey cells
and crumble invisible walls more solid than concrete.

I was sitting near the jail bars staring out at the
rain, when one of the guards came and gave
me a paper boat that he had made for me.

Light shuns prison cells like fish dodging a cast
net. On certain rain-whorled evenings, a rainbow
and a full-blooded moon still get caught through
the perfidious windows of this spotted palace.

Note: The italicised text are quotes by Devangana Kalita, Umar Khalid and Anirban Bhattacharya respectively.

Featured image: Utsman Media/Unsplash

Letter Writing by Rabindranath Tagore

Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

You gave me a gold-plated fountain pen
And a cornucopia of writing equipment.
A small walnut-wood desk.
Letterheads in different designs.
Silver paper with an enamel finish.
Scissors, knife, sealing wax, ribbon.
A glass paperweight.
Red, blue, green pencils.
A letter must be written every
Other day,
You ordained for me.

I finished bathing in the morning
So I could sit down to write a letter.

But I can’t decide on what to write.
There’s only one news —
That you have left.
This, you already know.
Yet, it seems like
You aren’t really aware of this.
So I think of letting you know —
You have left.
Every time I begin to write
Something tells me this isn’t easy news to share.
I’m no poet —
One who can give voice to a language;
Or vision to words.
The more letters I write, the more I shred them.

It’s ten o’ clock already.
Your nephew, Boku, is ready for school,
I need to feed him first.
This is my last attempt —
Let me write to inform you
That you have left.
The rest is only a jungle of
Doodles crowding the blotted ink.

GITANJALI - The original manuscript By Rabindranath Tagore Published by  Sahitya Samsad This is the original versio… | Handwriting analysis, Rare  books, Book layout
পত্রলেখা

দিলে তুমি সোনা-মোড়া ফাউণ্টেন পেন,
           কতমতো লেখার আসবাব।
               ছোটো ডেস্‌কোখানি।
                   আখরোট কাঠ দিয়ে গড়া।
        ছাপ-মারা চিঠির কাগজ
           নানা বহরের।
রুপোর কাগজ-কাটা এনামেল-করা।
        কাঁচি ছুরি গালা লাল-ফিতে।
           কাঁচের কাগজ-চাপা,
        লাল নীল সবুজ পেন্সিল।
    বলে গিয়েছিলে তুমি চিঠি লেখা চাই
           একদিন পরে পরে।

         লিখতে বসেছি চিঠি,
           সকালেই স্নান হয়ে গেছে।
লিখি যে কী কথা নিয়ে কিছুতেই ভেবে পাই নে তো।
           একটি খবর আছে শুধু--
               তুমি চলে গেছ।
        সে খবর তোমারো তো জানা।
               তবু মনে হয়,
        ভালো করে তুমি সে জান না।
               তাই ভাবি এ কথাটি জানাই তোমাকে--
                   তুমি চলে গেছ।
               যতবার লেখা শুরু করি
        ততবার ধরা পড়ে এ খবর সহজ তো নয়।
               আমি নই কবি--
ভাষার ভিতরে আমি কণ্ঠস্বর পারি নে তো দিতে;
        না থাকে চোখের চাওয়া।
           যত লিখি তত ছিঁড়ে ফেলি।

দশটা তো বেজে গেল।
    তোমার ভাইপো বকু যাবে ইস্‌কুলে,
           যাই তারে খাইয়ে আসিগে।
               শেষবার এই লিখে যাই--
                   তুমি চলে গেছ।
               বাকি আর যতকিছু
           হিজিবিজি আঁকাজোকা ব্লটিঙের 'পরে।

To Have Loved

What a beautiful thing it is to have loved.
To stand next to a Japanese maple tree slowly

dying and admire the burgundy stars
shimmering on its branches in sunlight.

To hold a father’s unsteady hands as the
breath ebbs out of him on an uncertain night.

To dig through rubble, fresh and still warm from
the bomb that fashioned it, for your daughter’s

missing doll. To chat with your friend’s
granddaughter over Whatsapp, epistles of

encrypted affection. To think of your daughter’s
face, now in prison, with a trembling heart and

a colourless smile. What if you don’t make it until
she’s freed? To let go. Of a withering Japanese

maple, your father’s sentience, the head of your
child’s lost doll, the hope to see your daughter again.

To have loved is to make peace with loss even though.
To have loved is to know the insolence of desire.

Copyright. Bhaswati Ghosh

Of Endings, Happy and Sad

First published in Saaranga

In ‘Bateshwar’s Contribution’, a short film by Sandip Ray I recently watched, Bateshwar Sikdar, a veteran writer, suddenly finds himself in the company of visitors and advice – both unsolicited. Over the course of three days, as many individuals, supposedly Sikdar’s fans come to him with the same strange request. They all want him to make the ending of a novel he’s writing, a happy one. Based on a story by Rajshekhar Basu, often hailed as the greatest humourist of the last century, the film, or rather that peculiar request, struck a personal chord with me in what has been my nascent journey into published authorship so far. I am coming to that in a bit.

In Sikdar’s case, when the first reader, a young man, approaches him on one of his morning walks, there isn’t much to suspect – he’s seen gushing with praise for the senior writer and shows great interest in his current serialized work ‘Ke Thaakey, Ke Jaaye?’ (Who Stays, Who Goes?). In fact, he seems so involved with the story that he’s eager to find out the fate of a female character. He asks Sikdar about the same, referring to the character as the novel’s heroine. Sikdar reminds him that there are two heroines in the novel, and when the young reader specifies he’s referring to Aloka who is fighting a serious illness, Sikdar tells him that she’s going to die. Our young reader seems heartbroken and pleads with the author to let her live. Exasperated, Sikdar tells him off and continues on his walk. The next morning, the entreaty turns into a mild threat when another man, a renowned surgeon, drops by at Bateshwar’s house with the same proposition – to let Aloka live. As with the first petitioner, Sikdar turns down the physician’s request and remains firm on his stand to eliminate Aloka to have Sharbari, the novel’s other heroine, take her place. He would have a third and final requester – a woman who introduces herself as a film actor – who comes to him with the offer of buying the film rights for ‘Who Stays, Who Goes?’. She’s eager to play Aloka in the film she informs Sikdar, but he has to ensure she’s cured of her illness and continues to live. Sikdar, though excited at the offer, still remains reluctant to change his story’s ending. It’s only when the lady threatens to jump ship and make a similar offer to a rival author that he reverses his long-held decision to let Aloka die.

Read the rest in Saaranga