Two Poems

The following are two poems which were composed by leading figures in Bangladesh’s literary circles during the struggle for the country’s liberation in 1971. Shaheedulla Quaiser was killed by the anti-liberation forces just before Bangladesh’s independence in December that year. These were translated from the original Bengali by Pritish Nandy and included in a booklet published by Perspective Publications in June 1971.

Mother

She lived in a lonesome village,

All day she worked silently at home

and hardly noticed the sun

throbbing in a summer sky

and rafts of clouds sailing by.

She hardly even noticed time moving on.

Everything was familiar:

painted in gentle colours,

an intricate pattern carefully woven.

A pot of boiling rice, greens,

some fish : a plebeian meal

for her school-teacher husband.

At times she would glance

at the creepers near the fence

or at the yellow bird on the jackfruit tree

wagging its tail ceaselessly.

And time would move on.

A quick bath near the well

and she would comb her greying tresses

thinking of her son

in the local school

memorising his multiplication tables.

As she filled the jar with some sweets

beautifully embroidered,

she would think of her eldest son,

his large bright eyes

and the city in which he studied.

Her footfalls would never be heard

outside this small world of her own:

she would never venture out.

It was self-imposed exile:

a simple life of her own.

Only the memories of her dead parents

would sometimes evoke

a nostalgic pain.

And then suddenly

one day her entire country reared its head

like a raging god.

News come in : of martyrdom and bloodsmeared soil,

the blood-spattered clothes of her son

drew her out of her village home.

She went.

She left behind those creepers near the fence,

the river, the fields, the familiar pond.

Today her footfalls can be heard

on the roads of the city:

down the narrow streets and the alleys.

Memories of her dead son

and the tears of her stricken heart

merge with the slogans

that reverberate. Shamsur Rahman

To the Mother of a Martyr

Your son

is obsessed with music—

how can you

restrain him any more?

Mother,

do you not realise

that there are no barriers

on the path of music?

That afternoon

there was a storm in the river of music:

all your sons and daughters

had joined together

to sing.

Ours were many voices

but we sang a common song;

ours were different words,

and diverse tunes but our music was the same.

Our songs

set the skies smiling,

the children of light came down,

the dust of the earth became our anklets,

a storm rose in the river of music

that afternoon.

Slowly the river of music

was flooded with blood

and then

our songs became birds

and flew away.

Mother,

your children are now the birds of song.

With the song of these birds

a storm will again come to the river:

wait

and you shall see the storm

when your children

return to your arms. Shaheedulla Quaiser ]]