On a drowsy evening in my wearied city,
I found him wandering
Along the Maidan.
No, not towering street-lights
He was admiring the valleys of
darkness
Between halogen lamps
He, as always,
Was exploring our city.
‘Jibanananda – is that you?’
He smiles coming out of his
silhouette
‘What do you think of Mahanagar
today?’
I continue, ‘Does it still
allure you?’
He looks up
A bright moon peeps out
Of a ragged veil of clouds,
Somewhere, a cuckoo
Begins to sing
Despite the city’s eternal white
noise
This noisy, vitiated sky
What did he make of it?
He smiles,
‘The city is always attractive,
If you look at her eyes.
For we are all aging with
wrinkles.’
‘And despite all the din,
The gulmohurs continue to grow,
The barbets continue to trill;
And for the keen souls,
Barhut, Sarnath and Gaya
Are all here in our Vidisha.’
Lost in thoughts again
He was staring now
At the floodlights of Eden
Before another big match.
‘And Bonolata?’ I couldn’t help
asking
He stops on his tracks
'You keep going back to her,
Just like you keep coming back
To this aged city, even if you
are far….’
I get distracted by the cuckoo
But by then, Jibonananda had disappeared
Into the silhouettes of the city…’
Jibanananda Das (1899–1954) was born in Barisal and first came to Calcutta as a young student, studying at Presidency College and later teaching in the city. His career took him away from Calcutta several times—to teaching posts in different parts of Bengal and India—but Calcutta repeatedly drew him back. After Partition in 1947, he left Barisal permanently and returned to Calcutta with his family, making the city his home for the final years of his life. He lived somewhat quietly and precariously, teaching and writing, often wandering the streets and observing the changing city. Calcutta was both his refuge and his restless subject: an ageing, noisy modern city in which he continued to discover ancient Bengal, nature and memory. He died there in 1954 after being struck by a tram.
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