The Sagacious Woody

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Behold! The old beardy hunches over his pot – He licks up, in broad daylight, his damp woods stewed hot! He shakes his head, keeps muttering hymns like a mage – From his ways, you would think he’s no less than a sage! Blabbers all day long – you’d wonder from where they stem – “The sky’s full of cobwebs, so woods have holes in them.” He raises his bald head and beads of sweat run down, “Nobody can fathom its gravity –” he’d frown, “These foolish dunderheads, to such matters purblind, Don’t seem to take in – always wrangling in their mind. Which wood has more essence – blind to facts such simple – Why on eleventh lunar days, woods get dimple.” Scribbled around all o’er, in fact, is his account Of cracked woods and notched woods – he loses not a count! Which hole tastes delicious, and which hole’s insipid, Which crack gives off fragrance, and which one smells horrid. Clunk! Clank! Clackety-rattle! He knocks wood with wood, And says, “I know which wood in what way gets subdued. Paying a
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Horrible Harmony

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Comes the summer, we hear the hummer, Vishmalochan Sharma –
The daunting song is haunting long from Delhi down to Burma.
With dogged might, sings day and night, he doesn't seem to tire;
The people are muddled, in a chaos befuddled – all run haywire.
Helter-skelter all around, the people fidget and bleed,
“We soon gonna die,” the people sigh, “STOP YOUR SONG,” they plead.
Hustle-bustle astray cattle turn turtle by the roadside,
Vishmalochan, indifferent, sings hell-bent with all his pride.
Strong are the waves – no one saves the animals which turn turtle;
Look and hark! The madman stark – curses aloud the hurtle.
Fishes, so surprising, at tranquil, are not rising to the top,
While the trees are not at ease, a whole family roots drop.
Poor bird in flapping flight, swings in fright, in mid-sky flies sickly,
People urge, on death’s verge, “We will die – Stop singing quickly!”
What a blunder! The skies thunder – while the mansions crack;
Vishmalochan merry, sings aloud in a hurry, lost in track.
Suddenly, The Goat-Billy turned silly and ran through the throng,
Speeding ahead with a hard-horned head, it head butted the Bong!
The people were glad, as the Billy turned mad and violent –
Vishmalochan lay at peace – the ruckus was now all silent.
(Bengali original: Gaaner Gunto)
Translated by Arkajyoti Banerjee

গানের গুঁতো (Gaaner Gunto; Literally - The Butting Song)

গান জুড়েছেন গ্রীষ্মকালে ভীষ্মলোচন শর্মা।
আওয়াজখানা দিচ্ছে হানা দিল্লী থেকে বর্মা!
গাইছে ছেড়ে প্রাণের মায়া, গাইছে তেড়ে প্রাণপণ,
ছুটছে লোকে চারদিকেতে ঘুরছে মাথা ভন্‌ভন্।
মরছে কত জখম হয়ে করছে কত ছট্‌ফট্—
বলছে হেঁকে, "প্রাণটা গেল, গানটা থামাও ঝট্‌পট্।"
বাঁধন–ছেঁড়া মহিষ ঘোড়া পথের ধারে চিৎপাত ;
ভীষ্মলোচন গাইছে তেড়ে নাইকো তাহে দৃকপাত।
চার পা তুলি জন্তুগুলি পড়ছে বেগে মূর্ছায়,
লাঙ্গুল খাড়া পাগল পারা বলছে রেগে "দূর ছাই!"
জলের প্রাণী অবাক মানি গভীর জলে চুপচাপ্,
গাছের বংশ হচ্ছে ধংস পড়ছে দেদার ঝুপ্‌ঝাপ্।
শূন্য মাঝে ঘূর্ণা লেগে ডিগবাজি খায় পক্ষী,
সবাই হাঁকে, "আর না দাদা, গানটা থামাও লক্ষ্মী।"
গানের দাপে আকাশ কাঁপে দালান ফাটে বিলকুল,
ভীষ্মলোচন গাইছে ভীষণ খোশমেজাজে দিল্ খুল্।
এক যে ছিল পাগলা ছাগল, এমনি সেটা ওস্তাদ,
গানের তালে শিং বাগিয়ে মারলে গুঁতো পশ্চাৎ।
আর কোথা যায় একটি কথায় গানের মাথায় ডাণ্ডা,
'বাপরে' বলে ভীষ্মলোচন এক্কেবারে ঠাণ্ডা।
By Sukumar Ray

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