The Golden Kabin
No gold coin I have; Don’t demand any dower, O my Doe;
If you take, I can give my dowerless two hands.
I haven’t stored any self-selling gold,
for the cunning frown wounds and hurts me all around everywhere.
If you love me, in return I’ll give my kiss
It’s my only business, for I haven’t learnt how to deceive a lady.
If you give your body, you’ll get mine, too. O my Love,
no capital but body I have, by which I can purchase ornaments for you.
If you get nude, you’ll find me simple;
Even no olive-leaves will remain there, which may envelop my virility;
If you start tasting, please give me a share of those fruits, too;
In consciousness and unconsciousness we’ll remain ever-known to each other.
Although all my distressed veins and arteries wounded severely,
I ain’t defeated, O Love, poets don’t know how to give in.
Supporting my hands, O my venomous snake, ascend on my Pati1;
Fold up your hood now, don’t compose any black verse within my heart.
Whatever darkness you can pour out by each of your snaps,
every moment I become bluer than that darkness in fear of your bite.
In which tricks and artifices have you worn the Nilambor2 sari?
Flowing in drops, the color of night becomes more black.
I think I can jump into that deep darkness
if you pick up my death spreading out the edge of your sari.
Would you permit me to write down my name without any title and shine,
with the scratch of slow trembling nails on your chest? If you get shy,
I’ll wipe off the first letter, the blood-alphabet, not Aryan and ancient,
with my untiring wet kisses.
O Kalabati3 mine, make the sport of Bangali race wavy,
the sport which Batsayan did not know and knew no girls of the Aryan.
Turning round the curve of your neck, come near, O my wild duck;
Uncovering your feathers, give me the ease of your warm body.
I pass my days bowing down to Nature. Today the name of this man,
skillful in words, will open the door of ecstasy.
The arrow of Kakka’s4 words, the command of sylvan soul,
summons you eighteen times, hear attentively, O my eighteenth.
Untie your closed serpent-like plait with your own fingers then ascend on
dark-blue bed-sheet and get seated nude with me to quench our two thirsts.
Let’s go to an uncultivated valley
having the sound of two violent waters with us, like that of a hungry river.
Untie all the folds of your body like the soil of a bar;
May the flesh of Ugol5 fish be happy in your mud;
Moistening all the artistry of pleasure with the lake dye of lips,
let us sink fast, O Love, into the revolving riddle of blood.
If you want to visit my shrine, walk slowly, O my sweet Love.
The blood of Mukundaram6 is mixed with this soil.
Catching the torn palm-leaves, let us recite his verse.
We don’t know how many drops of tear there are on this torn palm-leaves.
Would you come, O wild lass, being the desire of a poet?
Then be aware that python is my totem in poverty.
Like a fresh murder, I’ll draw the vaccine of cinnabar
and the love of a poor man on your red forehead.
How can I win you, my Love,
by which Mantra of what clan, can I take you at my home?
I’ve my belief in Kapila7 only. Has Love ever taken refuge in religion or
in any Sanghha8? Remember, only the grass of grave remains after all deaths.
As long as you’ve the form of copper-colored body, you’ve value;
If you lose it ever, nothing exists more; then it is history which bursts alone into laughter
Have the fruits of cotton-plant exploded beside my home?
Wear the garland of Gunja9, O girl, the fowler of my heart;
Where have you kept the earthen bottle of Mahua10?
Please carry it here in this moonbeam and let us rinse it down together with pleasure.
Who says that I won’t recognize you in the aboriginal dress of a fowler?
Does a hunter ever mistake to recognize the clan of birds?
In whatever Mantras Khona11is opened to unravel the mystery of Nature,
remember, that same magic lies within the souls of poets.
I’ve learnt from the book of Nature from my childhood that
all-piercing root of Green pierces even love; No everlasting
society has ever been built anywhere; The fingers of all artists
of Egypt, Greece and Serasine have failed to do that.
By the strike of Age’s plane, all the arts tremble in fear;
O Girl, the lips of a poet are not more painful than that.
I’ve no faith in Pisces, Girl; I’m a man of Kauma society
who only create the sound of simple equality in your town.
I’ve never composed a single verse after the name of any chieftain;
I’m the poet on whose baldhead always hangs the law of oppressor.
Long long ago my ancestors were slaves of some emperor;
They used to compose the pound of sentences selling their conscience;
That scandal, yet now, hisses in the wind of Bengal;
Alaul12, the rider of the horse of Rosang, hides his face in shame.
Isn’t it better to be a poor minstrel, who is looking for
the neighbour living in Arshi nagar13?
Braid my hair today making diadem over my head;
Become my Aktara14, O Love, I would be your young Lalon15.
All the mistakes I’ve made due to the undesired sentiment of devotion,
Today I’ll rectify them all and create the warbling of new words.
Having lost your gold ear-ring are you crying, my Love?
The boughs of Anaj16 bend down outside in terrible storm;
Is it possible to get back the Jeor17 from the hands of a thief?
Perhaps the coquette of the thief has worn that ring now.
All the elegant conscience of this country has been eaten into by worms;
Selling the brain, the learned society is happy very much;
How long can the truth be concealed under the lid of civility
when the art of a rebellious poem cries loudly within the soul?
Don’t break your bracelet; yet there are some lath of sandalwood
at my home, by which I’ll fill up the holes of your ears.
In the discourse of Dhrupada18, suddenly I have sung the Kheur19;
Pardon me, O virgin, forgive the songs of this upset cuckoo.
The gold cat will drink all the milk of your bowlhow long would you
tolerate, O unsteady girl, pretending that you’ve noticed nothing at all?
The age of Monosa20 has touched me in my profound sleep.
A serpent has entered, O Chaste, into the bridal chamber of iron;
Will we notice ever a new morning after this very night
and the sun, the emperor of warmth, which rises everyday?
My whole body, getting blue by the rage of venom, trembles in fear;
O my Behula21, lift me up now over your body; Embrace me, O my chaste Love,
binding me by your two hands; Today the son of Ebb, who always blasphemes
gods and goddesses, will lie down on your immersion.
If my life comes to an end for the fraud venom of age,
start bewailing with your disheveled hair.
Hearing your cry, the life-bird will return breaking the cage of death.
Viewing the audacity of life, may the life-eater Zam22 bow down its head.
Rending your dress, start dancing, O Love, beside my death;
May the chubby coin of you reverse the system of our living.
Through the current of ancestry, O my proud Love, you’ve got this verdant
splendor in your body; Remember, those ancestors had once built
the city of Pundra. They all have been the food of soil. But I didn’t know
the roots of Banyan trees always drink the blood of a black nation.
My dwelling is also in the country of red-colored soil.
My forefathers were pride of Pattikera23 city.
The waves of monstrous bush have devoured all.
The praise of Amitava Gautama collides now with the screech of crickets.
In the Past, of whose fear, the Vedic fire of dividing men into classes
dared not advance one inch crossing the Karatoa24; Have the foundations
of their dwellings been eaten into by the worms of hypocrisy?
The sound of elegant equality frequently goes futile.
The Borgis25 are looting our paddy, the whole country is being filled with blood and death;
O my dark-complexioned Love, the danger of crops is here more serious than your beauty.
The savage have raised their hands by the Mantra of laborer-equality;
Behold, O Love, peace has set in the country of Hiensung;
Let us stick the badge of a hero on the dresses of them
who carry the invitation of equality for the working class people in Asia.
May the equal distribution of crops be our only religion;
Start singing the song of extirpation of class, motivated by the Mantra
of utmost relief. Pronounce such a speech of love with courage
so that no class-distinction can ever enter into the folk-religion.
Then if you want to refer to the context of lust, come behind
the concealment of corn-field and uncover the yellow of your youth;
From the side of crops how much love I can give,
I’ll give you more than that, the cordial affection of coitus.
I’ve caught your silk-sari with much bashful courage;
O my sweet-voiced Love, don’t delay, acknowledge me your hero.
I’ve heard from my boyhood, O Girl, Bangladesh is the lying-in-room for wise men;
All our past wisdom-trees were born here during the incessant rain;
See now into that room of knowledge, there hang only some depressed bats.
O my amiable Love, how difficult it has been today to have faith in the Past!
How would I accept it’s the birthplace of Srigyan26
and Shilbhadra27 had inhaled the first air from here?
If we exclude its part, it loses its everything mentionable;
only a few sinanthropous cough in our schools.
Within the last exaltation of this stone-age, where would you flee,
O Girl upset, in which bush would you hide yourself?
In your body the color of an independent deer remains, too.
When the blades of stones are thrown from behind the curtain,
the existentialist-giraffes have lengthened their individual necks
into our art-centre and all our workmanship.
Suddenly hearing the sound of high tide at midnight
from the village adjacent to the river, a farmer gropes
for his beloved wife whether she is beside him or not
who opens the door of wealth and corn;
Likewise, grasp my hand, O Love, at this blind night, full of fear.
If the smell of crops remains in your body,
the enemy of food may bring the ferocious attack of greed;
we’ll return that panic created by food-greedy Rahu28.
As a peasant of upland, who eats his food standing in water,
establishes his utmost right on the newly risen bar,
that way I’ve hoisted the flag of justice over your head;
The flag of mine, bright colored, is firm both in kindness and right.
Behold, the northeast is trembling in fear by the ear-splitting thunder;
Swearing by the name of storm, tell me, O Girl, whom are you of?
Open your two eyes, O my beautiful Love, reddened by the odor of Loban29,
the two designed borders of your sari tremble by my breath;
Had you been the sylvan pigeon bent down to shyness?
You’re trembling as if you were the root of a cane fallen in storm.
Your chignon has been unloosed in wind, O my smiling girl; look at me,
crossing your Tikli30, my heart palpitates in fear. All the villagers waiting
for you, having paddy in their auspicious winnowing platters; the Khai31 of Binni32
are spread on the yard; 33 Attar and Aguru34 on your bed.
Having accepted this lucky Dhan-durba35 with reverence,
loosening your Purdah36, O my noble Love, put up again your hair into a bun.
Your sisters-in-law of the same age have caught the threshold, coming to you;
Be simple like them and listen to the first Sabak37 of your family.
All the women from my mother’s side have gathered to welcome you as a bridegroom;
O Girl, say spontaneously like the waves of a river’Kobul! Kobul! ‘
For Rain’s sake, O Bibi, for sesame-colored paddy’s sake,
For the sake of fish and meat and for the sacred milch animals’;
For plough, yoke and scythe’s sake, for the sake of windy sail,
Believe, no poet neglects the religion of heart.
If I ever profane my tongue breaking my promise,
may you turn into the blade of lightning;
and rending my heart, may your divorce fall down upon my head.
Then, O my Love, give me no piece of fish for my health.
Which way the innocent waves break down
on the body of a water-bird floating in the night’s river,
likewise I’ll incessantly pour out all my kisses
on your body setting you free from the chain of shyness.
If it happens otherwise, O Banu,38 for the mother tongue’s and the love-poetry’s sake, may your curse fall down upon my head like a thunderbolt.
1. A kind of Mat.2. Like the color of blue sky.3. Well-versed classical female musician.4. A small reptile. It is believed that it calls according to its age. That means, if it is eight years old, it will make eight sounds.5. A kind of fish.6. A medieval Bengali poet.7. Kamdhenu (the fabulous cow that grants all wishes) 8. A group or community.9. Bunch or cluster of flowers.10. A flower-tree.11. Astrological predictions.12. A great Bengali poet.13. A mystical city mentioned in the songs of Lalon Shah.14. A musical instrument used by Baul singers.15. A great Bengali composer, singer and spiritual leader. Rabindranath was influenced by his songs.16. A kind of vegetable.17. A kind of ornament.18. Classic.19. Scurrilous poem.20. The Goddess of snake.21. Beloved of Lakhinder whom the snake bit at the bridal chamber.22. Yama who is responsible for death.23. An ancient Bengali city.24. A river in Bangladesh.25. Robbers.26. Atish Dipanker, an Bengali Buddhist who visited Tibet getting an invitation from the king of Tibet.27. The Chancellor of Nalanda University in ancient India, a Buddhist scholar.28. A demon said to be the cause of eclipses.29. Benzene.30. One kind of ornament used on the forehead of a woman.31. Food made of rice frying on the oven.32. A kind of paddy.33. A kind of perfume.34. A kind of fragrant wood.35. A kind of grass.36. Borkha.37. Lesson.38. Virgin.