Aami chini go chini tomare

My take on Rabi Thakur's song. (An Assamese inspired to translate a Bengali poem):

I know you, oh yes, I know you,

Maiden from a far off land;

You live beyond the oceans,

O maiden far away.

I’ve seen you in the autumn mornings,

Seen you in the summer evenings,

I’ve seen you, within my heart,

O maiden far away.

I've lent my ear to the skies

And I have heard your songs;

And I've offered to you my soul,

O maiden far away.

My travels have come to an end,

I've arrived in this new land,

A guest standing at your door,

O maiden far away.

I know you, oh yes, I know you,

Maiden of a foreign land;

You live beyond the oceans,

O maiden far away.

Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To Kya Hai?

This world of palaces, thrones and crowns
This world, the enemy of humanity
This world which hungers for riches
So what if I were to win this world?

Each body maimed, each soul thirsty
Confused eyes, sorrowful hearts
Is this a world or is it chaos?
So what if I were to win this world?

Here we are nothing but toys
This is a world of dead idols
Here even death is cheaper than life
So what if I were to win this world?

Youth wanders like a sinner
Young bodies dress up for sale
Here love is nothing but a business
So what if I were to win this world?

This world where man is nothing,
Love is nothing, friendship nothing
Where love means nothing at all
So what if I were to win this world?

Burn it, burn it
Burn it to ashes. 
It's your world. 
Keep it for yourself. 
Do whatever you want with it. 
Take it away,
Take it out of my sight.
I don't want it. 
It's your world. 
I don't want it. 
How would it matter? 
If I were to win the world?

When the king goes down the street

A young band called ‘Rain of Heart’ has come up with a sad song about bomb blasts in Assam. This translation is an acknowledgement of how much I like it. Many thanks to the person who introduced me to this song….

When the king goes down the street

Happily blowing his siren,

A hungry man on the sidewalk

Runs and hides in a dustbin.

Sleepless lies the dying city,

Shopping malls, discos and bars;

False men, false times, false love:

The birth of a hollow civilization.

O mother! O father! O my children!

In this future of sooty gunpowder,

Nothing seems to make any sense;
The foxes have invaded the borders,

Why is Lachit's sword fast asleep?

A youth lies in a pool of blood

His beloved’s message on his mobile;

The lifeless body of someone’s sister,

The burnt remains of someone’s brother.

O mother! O father! O my children!

When the king goes down the street

Happily blowing his siren,

A hungry man on the sidewalk

Runs and hides in a dustbin.

Raijei Bhaoriya: People are the Players

A Song by Bhupen Hazarika


People are the players
And the world is a stage.
What role do you want to play?
Come, there's no time to lose.


No need for a rehearsal
No need for costumes.
Just come out naked.
Tie your own towels 
Around your hungry bellies
And come out.
That's the way
To make a colourful play.


It's time to ask the director,
How long will you cheat us
With the mask on your face
And your dramatic techniques.


No need for sweet dialogues;
Say it with your screams.
Fight the corrupt men
With your consciousness
And become worthy heroes.
That's the way
To make a colourful play.
What role do you want to play?
Come on! There's no time to lose!

Monor batoribur: Tidings of my heart

A song by Jayanta Hazarika. This is how I would sing it in English:


If the tidings of my heart

Fall like the petals of a flower

And my silent poems

Come alive in new forms,

Would you come flooding in

With the colours of Phagoon*

And songs of the monsoon?


The sun sets
On the dreamy blue horizon;
The evening falls
On the wings of the stork;
O what a picture it paints!


Would you wipe out
The vast darkness
Of the night sky? 

If the tidings of my heart
Fall like the petals of a flower
And my silent poems
Come alive in new forms....

*I prefer to keep the word Phagoon here, even if it can perhaps be translated as March or spring, because it reminds me of Holi, the festival of colours. And of course, it rhymes with monsoon.

Jayanta Hazarika

Whenever I think of Jayanta Hazarika, I am filled with sadness; I am reminded of so many young people who leave behind a whole body of work almost as a reminder of how much more they could have done, had they lived a few years longer. I was once asked by a friend from Rajasthan, why Jayanta never became as famous as his elder brother Bhupen, and the only answer I could give was that he died at the young age of thirty four. Many people have given many other reasons for this--his music does not have the depth of that of Bhupen, he did not experiment as much as Bhupen, his music is not as socially committed or as hard hitting as that of Bhupen...it just goes on.

True, Jayanta's music has a lighter touch than that of Bhupen, and mostly appeals to younger listeners. But let us put and end to this comparison game. Jayanta's music is beautiful in its own right. He has often been given the credit of being a pioneer in introducing Western musical instruments in Assamese music in the 1960s and 70s. But what is better, is how he uses those instruments. What amazes me is that in spite of these innovations, his music still remains close to the Assamese soil.

I first realised the beauty of his music on a road journey around the Assamese countryside. We were travelling by car, with my father at the wheel and my mother by his side, while I had the whole backseat to myself. Although we had a variety of music to entertain ourselves with, we finally ended up listening only to Jayanta's songs. And that is when I realised, his music reflects everyday Assamese life most beautifully. He sings about nothing phenomenal, just about ordinary things like love, time, family, sorrow, happiness, hills, rivers, trees, flowers and life. It is this simplicity that is so endearing. His melodies and rhythms echo the undulating surface of the land, the meandering of the rivers and the greenery of the fields. In short, if you are travelling through Assam, you must carry Jayanta's music with you.

Wondering what triggered off this emotional tribute to Jayanta? Well, while surfing through Youtube today, I came across a video of one of my favourite Assamese songs, 'Xar Paam Moi Puwoti Nixate' (I will wake up at the crack of dawn), sung of course, by Jayanta. A very well made video, because it has black and white photos of Jayanta, which made me even more nostalgic. I am attaching the clip here:



This song has been subsequently covered by his only son, Mayukh, and that is also perhaps one of the reasons I like this song so much.

I couldn't resist translating this song. I know I might have killed the song in the process, but what the hell, that is one of the few things I know how to do. Translating is my way of making something my own, my way of connecting with the creator of a great piece of work. So here goes:

                  Xar paam moi puwoti nixate

I will wake up
At the crack of dawn
When dewdrops are falling;
That hour, which moistens
The dry dust lying on the road.
Mother, won’t you wake me up?

I want to see
How the crimson sun
Vanquishes all the darkness;
How it casts a spell
On each budding flower,
So it blooms in all its glory.
How it fills the heart
Of the vacant air
With sweet fragrances.
Mother, won’t you wake me up?

Mother, I want to learn
The secret spell of creation
I want to know,
What is that skill
That can drive away
All emptiness?
I too have a wish:
To open up and bloom,
Like a glorious sunflower.
Mother, won’t you wake me up?