The Bird Feather

 This picture captures the personality of the little girl in the poem below.
'The Bird Feather' was one of the first poems I read of Tagore's 30 years ago when I was studying Bengali. I loved the story but only got around to translating the poem a couple months ago.

 Here is my rendition.
 (Parents: You won't want to read this to your children and not because it is 'inappropriate.' Unfortunately, it hits the mark.)

The Bird Feather    পাখির পালক 

Time to play at last arrived

   and midst the children, one broke free,

A little girl cried, “Mother, look!

   See what I’ve found! Now look and see!

Her eyes were lit in joyful glee;

   her lips in dancing laughter,

Hair was strewn and flowing free

  a mane which followed after.

Wrists in colored bangles danced

Trembling bracelets jingling

Like little cymbals sang the news

  Of what cupped hands were bringing.

Her arms wrapped ‘round her mother’s neck;

 She sat upon her knee

The little girl cried, “Mother, look!

  See what I have, O see!

A feather, washed in sunlit gold

 and flowed with golden glory,

From forest canopy did fall

  To tell the sunbeam’s story.

As eyes in gentle softness close

  and sleep’s tale touch dream’s mystery,

So soft the clouds contained the touch,

  Blue spoke of blue sky’s history.

A crowded nest of chirping young

  Tweet in their feathered might

And chirp about the future morn

  The hope of their first flight.

This feather brushed the maiden’s cheek

  First one side then the other,

Wide-eyed and gaily spoke, “Look! See!

  The maid said to her mother.

The mother looked indeed and saw,

 Said, “Such a thing you found!”

Laughed and threw the feather outside

  And left it on the ground.

The speechless child, dumbfounded, she

 Wandered, sat upon a stump,

Bereft of treasured priceless feather,

  Empty handed, shoulders slumped.

Playtime over, laughter ceased

  No more tresses flying

Listless hands and downcast eyes

  Teardrops told her crying.

Arose and searched, the feather found,

 Hid it from her mother.

Alone, she’d keep it to herself

 And never show another.

Have you ever seen...

a pineapple blossom?  I love the symmetry and colors!  What a Designer!

                                         Notice the amazing colors as it grows!  Even purple!

                                                  And this one is about ready to be picked.

If it looks too good to wait until you get home, no problem.   You can get it cut up right there on the side of the road,  which is what we did!   Yummmmm!  The sweetest pineapple I've ever had!

PS   These photos were taken during our visit to Srimongol in northeastern Bangladesh in March.  Unfortunately not many of these pineapples make it over here to Rajshahi where we live:(     But -Rajshahi is know for it's wonderful mangoes, which are getting close to being ripe!  We'll save that for a another post.

Bazaar Experience

The shopping list included

2 chickens

rui mach (fish)

gom (whole wheat)

eggplant

kormi shak (leafy vegetable that can be used as a salad base)

cucumbers, tomatoes (if available)

pumpkin

butter

 A Shaw’s or Hanaford (our grocery supermarkets in Maine) would be a welcome relief from the 90 degree heated bazaar here in our fair city, but they don't provide half the eduction.

 I went for the difficult ones first: the fish and chicken. Both were alive and well when I picked them out. The price includes free proccessing  which I felt I needed to witness. Rumor runs that there is a lot chick swapping in the bazaar and the one kilogram chicken you pick out could be exchanged for a ¾ kilogram chicken if you don’t keep your eye on her. I did. I picked out two and followed the gentleman to the special site where they are properly, though quickly, blessed, throats slit, thown in a barrel until things quiet down and then retrieved in red blood and in less than 40 seconds prepared to the finish.  I was impressed.

 My fish was also in swimming good health happily in fellowship with his brothers in a crowded tub. He, too, was prepared, not filleted as we would, but cut horizontally in pieces and the head is most certainly included as that portion goes to the honored guest at table.  (Come visit us!)

 There’s no point in me trying to describe the landscape of the bazaar. You’ll just have to come.  Wear old clothes. 

Move Over Michael Jackson

I was invited to sing some songs of Rabindranath Tagore as a part of a celebration of the 150th anniversary of his birth. Tagore, a Bengali,  won the Nobel Prize for literature almost a hundred years ago. His 2500 songs make up just a portion of his literary output which also includes poetry, plays, novels, short stories, philosophical essays and art work.

 Jan and I got gussied up in our nicest Bengali clothes for the occasion.

Then we made our way to the open air stage which had been set up in the middle of town right where seven of the busiest roads met (rightly called the 'Seven-Road Spot.') I feared the traffic and bustle of this congested spot would drown out any performance but I underestimated the capacity of their sound system which drowned out the city noise instead.

Jan and I settled into our seats and awaited the beginning of the program. I wasn't quite sure where I fell in the line up.
 Four mercifully short speeches started things rolling about an hour after we had been told the program would start. (Silly us: When will be ever learn to add an hour to the declared time so that we show up at the proper time. )

 A large group, mostly children, sang a whole repertoire of Tagore songs. They sang with uniform poise and melody steadily for forty minutes in the 88 degree heat. It was evening but the air was still, the lights were bright and they seemed so unaffected. I was wildly waving Jan's fan in my face the whole time to try to muster some relieving breeze. My fan flapped away right through to the end of their performance when all of a sudden, just as the children were finished and leaving the stage, the fan was swept out of my still oscillating hand by a lady in a beautiful sari. I watched her in great disappointment, wondering why she had purloined my only connection to comfort when I saw that she was rushing over to a one of the young singers who was close to fainting from the heat. My cut and run thief was really a mother in good control of the situation and she returned the fan after the girl was revived.

 Music was not the only source of entertainment. Every town has a population of a few crazy people (pagol is the word in Bengali) on the streets. They are harmless but have no hesitation to try to steal the show in such a big public gathering. The first sign that this man wasn't all there was that in the 88 degree heat, he wore layers of quilted clothes. Aside from that, he was using some part of his apparel as a cell phone. When he presented himself in front of the stage during the performance, people would gently encourage him over to the side.

  After the group singing, practically every person in the group sang a solo. The transitions from one performer to the next were seamless as two sets of harmoniums and tabla players had been set up, one on each side of the stage. As one performer sang, the next took their place and waited.

 Without any real warning, the director quietly came over to my seat to tell me I was next. I vaguely remember taking my place, waiting my turn, singing a song and then, (perhaps slightly scripted) being hand-clapped into singing my second song.
  After another six or seven performers after me and three hours after we had arrived, the singing portion ended and the stage would be cleared and set for a Tagore play. We would have loved to see the play in any other circumstances, but it was going on 10:00 p.m. and we had an early rise ahead of us so that we could get home to Rajshahi and leave the next day for the capital city of Dhaka. It was time to call an end to our hot night in the city.
 

Down the street in a rickshaw

Most every day we ride travel in a rickshaw.  Since there are so few foreigners in the city, we get noticed, and often stared at,  pointed at, smiled or laughed at,

                       and-now that many people carry cellphones with cameras,  we get photographed.  

 So while I am pointing my camera at them,  they too are taking a picture of me.   My guess is that we are on many cell phones around the city.  I guess that's only fair since many of this city are on my computer and even on our blog.

A New Year Celebration

 April 14th brought in the Bengali New Year of 1418.  The city was bustling with joyful activity.  Thousands joined in the festivities at the river's edge or at Rajshahi University.  I was invited by a student to the university.  I arrived around noon and she had just finished cooking me a chicken curry  in her little dorm room over an electric hotplate.  After eating a delicious rice meal she put a 'teep' (red dot) on her forehead and mine,  changed into a lovely shalwire-kamiz,  did up her face with some eyeliner, face-whitening cream and lipstick,  and off we went to join the crowds.

  There were numerous concerts, plays, game booths,  and stalls that were selling a variety of foods and trinkets-and, of course,  the typical fair-type stuffed animals.   There were thousands of people there, all dressed in brightly colored (mostly red) festive clothes.  As a white foreigner ('bideshi')  in a city that has very few, we attract a lot of attention.

At one point we stopped to watch a game being played which was similar to the 'hit the pinata' except you were to hit a clay water pot on the ground.  There were only a couple people watching at first.  I was coaxed into participating so having blindfolded me they started me off about 15feet from the kulshi.  I began to walk,  estimating that it would take me ten steps.  It turns out that i walked right past it and with all my might I slammed the stick onto the empty ground. Oh well,  no prize for me but  I gave everyone, including myself,  a good laugh.  When I took off my blindfold I saw that the crowd of spectators had quickly grown to over 50.    The one tradition that I missed out on for the New Year was eating 'patha bhat'-  a fermented rice dish.  Oh well, there's always next year...

Deconstruction

Our route to the market takes us past an area of the road that looks like a bomb was dropped on the buildings.  Actually the front part of the structures are being torn down.  I'm told that they were illegally built too close to the road.  How strange it must be for the owners/tenants to see half their home disappear!