The Numerological Character of a Lotus
A voyage of cloud is apparent in my numbers achieved. The formless air rustles near the extended number pervading the azure. Colorful cloud leaves tear-drenched autograph in its trail. It is the cloud that makes you perceive the geometry of journey in the inner dashboard. The character of numbers is psychological, no absolute manifestation anywhere; neither in the dewdrops nor in the blue pea. In the meditation of Buddha blooms a lotus with numerological character. The color of each lotus and the difference in manifestation phases awaken struggle, waiting moment and agony. The bliss turns into unexpressed sorrow because the numerological colors are strange—this mystery is not unknown to you. In fact, every single number is a summation of patterns of numbers; your radiance of meditation is only the ally. I have come to learn, with our death numerology ends; there is no chance for it to be publicized across generations.
Translated from Bangla by Dr Bina Biswas
Language, the Distorted Umbra of Sight
The upward waves of the white clouds are stained grey. There is no unrestrained display of brightness. The power of greyness fulfills the sight. Sight cannot be transformed into language indeed. Language, the distant deformed umbra of sight. There is no true counterpart of the bright grey mystery of life. I keep painting a very tiny sky in the failed letters ceaselessly. I identify the sky as a symbol. Our life is surrounded by numerous feeble skies. Those skies epitomize us. In the sky rises the inscrutable parijata of love, the contrary sprout of the heart. The sky is valueless before the speck of dust of the universe; we fight for this sky, we rejoice over a victory. Maybe the value of psychological history of the sky has not yet been appraised.
Translated from Bangla by Dr Ahmed Ahsanuzzaman
In the enclosed field of Rajbari the stinking tents could not provide the reflection of solace, the villages by the Tista could offer. The muddy byways of the camp were filthy with stagnant water and toilet dirt. Everyday wet fire woods became fit to be burnt by the heat of the earthen oven. The refugees were introduced without fail to the unpleasant taste of rationed rice-lentil.
Beside the well there remained the undeclared rubbish dump–the horrible sight of vomit and stool; the life cycles of mosquitoes, flies, maggots and earthworms were distinctly visible. Even in the camp with no rivals death waited in ambush. The itching became more unbearable than the blow of cholera and diarrhoea. There was no arrangement to perform the rituals of the dead. Lifeless bodies of the infant and the aged were wrapped in cheap, coarse mats to take them to graveyard or burning-ground. A grave did not appear to be the ritualistic, ultimate shelter. Wrapped in coarse mats an oedema patient was thrown into the hole of five feet by two feet; in that unidentified bamboo-clumps no one from Bangladesh would come to pay homage. Life and death were synonymous in the camp. Still the refugees attentively listened to the news of Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra; the waves of the Yamuna washed over skeletal waists yearning for an independent homeland.
Arrangements were made ceaselessly for an open-air opera–the voice of the Vibek was glowed with the color of the morning sun. In the colorful pavilion the Bangali youth performed the stunning magic. No dark could overcast the festivity in the anxiety-free villages of Bangladesh. The musical wave of the dhol would be played again.
Translated from Bangla by Nitai Saha