Last week I visited my hometown, Kurigram. For the first time, by a train. It is one of the most remote parts of Bangladesh. The journey was relatively smooth and took around nine hours.
I booked quad seats for my family.
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| Train Quad-Seats: Two seats facing each other, with a small table between |
The quad seats made me feel like writing something… If I had no kids with me, I would have written something on the table in my writing pad or played chess, I was thinking.
My wife asked me to play something. I played some old Bengali songs in a very low volume so that only four of us could listen.
The kids got asleep soon after the train started to move. I was trying to enjoy the journey. The train got out of the city very fast. Soon it arrived near the Jamuna Multi-purpose Bridge that connects the east part of the country to the western. Before this bridge was built, it was a long horrific journey. Now another bridge, exclusively for the railway, is being built alongside this one. After this is done more trains will connect the somewhat economically backward western part of the country to the east.
The train stopped at many stations. I got quite sleepy and couldn’t keep track of all of them. It stopped at Natore.
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| Natore Railway Station |
Natore is the town of Banalata Sen. The central character of the eponymous poem by Jibanananda Das. It is, arguably, the greatest modern Bengali poem.
I can’t resist the temptation to share an English translation of the poem by Clinton B. Seely. It is a literal translation. But don’t know how much of the magic of the real poem it holds. Because when I read the translation the original poems resonate within my mind.
For thousands of years I roamed the paths of this earth, From waters round Sri Lanka, in dead of night, to seas up the Malabar Coast. Much have I wandered. I was there in the gray world of Ashoka And of Bimbisara, pressed on through darkness to the city of Vidarbha. I am a weary heart surrounded by life’s frothy ocean. To me she gave a moment’s peace—Banalata Sen from Natore.
Her hair was like an ancient darkling night in Vidisha, Her face, the craftsmanship of Sravasti. As the helmsman when, His rudder broken, far out upon the sea adrift, Sees the grass-green land of a cinnamon isle, just so Through the darkness I saw her.
Said she, “Where have you been so long?” And raised her bird’s-nest-like eyes—Banalata Sen from Natore.At day’s end, like hush of dew Comes evening. A hawk wipes the scent of sunlight from its wings. When earth’s colors fade and some pale design is sketched, Then glimmering fireflies paint in the story. All birds come home, all rivers, all of life’s tasks finished. Only darkness remains, as I sit there face to face with Banalata Sen.
I inhaled the morning wind in my heart and touched some dew drops in Natore of Banalata Sen and headed towards my hometown again.