May 9 this year marked Rabindranath Tagore's 152nd birth anniversary. On this occasion we are reproducing the following poem by a Bangladesh poet that was first published in Mainstream fortytwo years ago (April 3, 1971).
For Rabindranath
If they cut me into the finest mince-meat,
all of me—every bit of my flesh and blood—
will remain Bangla,
all my heart's love and pain,
sorrow and solace
will remain Bengali.
Bangla's agony is great.
But apart from this agony of Bangla
I feel in the deeps of my heart
the pang of many other tongues
in many a story or play,
many a poem or song
of many a literature.
My head bends low to the memory of
many a Shakespeare, Dante, Tolstoy.
Nonetheless,
deep in my heart's coursing blood
throbs the memory of the one and only
Rabi Thakur—sole and complete.
Sleeping or waking, sitting or standing,
united or separate,
deep to my heart's core
rings the voice of Rabindranath.
It's his language
which leads our spirit by the hand
out of our homely bounds
on to the homes of our neighbours
of the wide world,
so to enable us make friends with them.
It's his language
which guides our every step—
even when we beat a retreat
beaten by our enemies.
Silent or vocal,
It's our Rabindranath's language
which moves with muted steps
in every cell of our brain
in the lanes and bylanes of our heart.
This language and Rabindranath are one
as we too are Bangla.
Niamat Hosain
[Tranalated from the original Bengali by Kshitis Roy]