Jibananda Das (1899-1954)
BANALATA SEN I have walked earth's byways for millenia from Ceylon's coast to the archipelago of Malaya, in the night's darkness, moving ever. I have been a guest at the now hoary court of Vimsivar and Asoka; in the further dark of the city of Vidharva. Life's seas foamed all around. I was weary. And my sole respite came, when I spent a couple of hours with Natore's Banalata Sen. Her hair dark, like some long gone Vidisha's night, her face like Sravasti's delicate handiwork. Like some mariner, helm lost, gone astray in far seas, by chance of discovering the greenness of Spice Islands - I saw her in the dusk. And raising eyes, like bird's nests, she asked: `Where were you so long?' She asked me then. Natore's Banalata Sen. Evening comes at all our day's end like the sound of dew. The kite wipes off sunshine's scent from its wings. When all the earth's colours are spent, in the fireflies' brilliant hue, completing an unfinished tale, an old script finds a new arrangement. All the birds return home, all the rivers. All the day's transactions end. Just darkness remains and sitting with me face to face, Banalata Sen. (translated by Ron D. K. Banerjee)
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Revised: February 28, 1996