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Mainstream, VOL XLIX No 33, August 6, 2011

Amar Sonar Bangla

Wednesday 10 August 2011

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[(On August 8 this year falls the 22nd day of Sravana. On that day in the Bengali year 1348, Rabindranath Tagore had breathed his last a few minutes past noon. That year, 1941 AD, the 22nd day of Sravana fell on August 7. Every year it is on the 22nd day of Sravana (according to the Bengali calendar) that Tagore’s death anniversary is observed. This time it is the seventieth anniversary of the poet’s death that we will observe early next week. On this occasion we are remembering him and offering our sincere homage to his abiding memory by reproducing Amar Sonar Bangla (My Golden Bengal), his unforgettable poem which was rendered into a song by the poet himself. It is close to the heart of every Bengali whether in West Bengal or in Bangladesh—and since its liberation from Pakistani domination at the end of 1971, the People’s Republic of Bangladesh has made this song into its national anthem. (Tagore has the unique distinction of being the composer of the national anthems of the two neighbouring countries, India and Bangladesh; he has also given music to both the anthems.) Incidentally, this year happens to mark the fortieth anniversary of the independence of Bangladesh. Thus by reproducing the poem we are also honouring the People’s Republic of Bangladesh that came into existence following the culmination of the India-Pakistan war in December 1971. The poem was translated into English from the original Bengali by Kshitis Roy and it appeared in its English form in Mainstream (May 20, 1972). —Editor )]

Amar Sonar Bangla

by RABINDRANATH TAGORE

My Sonar Bangla, I love you.
Ever do your sky and your breeze
play on my heart as on a flute.
In Falgoon, in your mango-grooves,
the aroma goes into my head,
ah me, o mother!
In Aghran, how sweet a smile do I see
in the fulness of your paddy-fields.
I love you, my Sonar Bangla.
 
What beauty, what shade, what love, what charm,
have you spread like the hem of your sari,
under the banyans and along river-banks:
The word of your mouth is sweet to my hearing like nectar,
ah me, o mother!
When I see your face darken
my eyes brim over with tears.
I love you, my Sonar Bangla.
 
In this your playground, I have spent my childhood days
and I reckon myself blest
that the dust of your earth smeared my limbs.
At eventide, at the day’s end,
what a magic lamp you lighted our homes with,
ah me, o mother!
That was the time when I gave up all my frolics
so to come running to nestle in your lap.
I love you, my Sonar Bangla.
 
In your fields where the cattle graze,
in your river-ghats where our people are ferried across,
in the tree-lined village lanes
where the birds sing the whole day,
and, in your courtyards piled with paddy,
may I spend the rest of my days,
ah me, o mother!
All your ploughmen and all your cowherds
are my own people—my brethren all of them.
I love you, my Sonar Bangla.
 
I lay my head at your feet, mother.
Give me the dust of your feet
that I may wear it on my head like a jewel.
Whatsoever I have, a poor man’s mite though
it be,
I shall tender at your feet,
ah me, o mother!
Never more shall I purchase deadly noose
from those other people,
mistaking it for an ornament for mother.
I love you, my Sonar Bangla.
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