A little bit of everything: Je raate mor duar guli - my ramblings on a beautiful song by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Je raate mor duar guli - my ramblings on a beautiful song by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore

From the time I first listened to this song, it has kind of haunted me. Not an expert in Bengali, rather far from being one (though it’s my mother tongue), I had to take help from a friend to understand the lyrics (Thank you Shonali Bhattacharjee).

Like all Rabindranath Tagore songs, this one too has a mesmerizing effect and like I’ve always felt with his songs, open to different interpretations.

Here’s the version of the song I’ve been listening to by ‘Somlata and the Aces’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xCA-JAHZRM

Transliteration and translation of the song

Je raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare,

Jaani naai to tumi ele aamar ghare.

Je raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare,

(The night when my doors were broken and destroyed by the storm,

little did I know that it was you who came to my house.)

Sab je hoye gelo kaalo, nibe gelo diper aalo,

Aakash paane haat baaralem kaahar tare?

Jaani naai to tumi ele aamar ghare.

Je raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare.

(Everything turned to darkness as all the lamps’ lights went out,

I stretched my hands to the sky, don’t know who I sought
little did I know that it was you who came to my house
the night when my doors were broken and destroyed by the storm,)

Andhokare roinu pore swapono maani.

Jhar je tomar jayodhwaja taai ki jaani.

Sakalbela cheye dekhi, daariye aachho tumi e ki,

Ghar bhora mor shunyotari bukero pore.
Jaani naai to tumi ele aamar ghare.
Je raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare.

(I lay there in the darkness thinking it was a dream or illusion,
that the storm was your war flag, I was unaware,
As I looked around in the morning, I saw you standing there – your illusional presence even in your absence,
the emptiness of my abode, lay heavy on my chest
little did I know that it was you who came to my house
the night when my doors were broken and destroyed by the storm,)

Here’s my interpretation and extended ramblings of this dark yet beautiful song.

Disclaimer: These are my thoughts and not be considered a translation of the song.

It was just another day.

I saw a beautiful woman sleeping in the shade of a tree. Careful scrutiny revealed that she was hurt but there was a motherly calm and peacefulness on her face in spite of the pain. Her children lay besides her playing, oblivious rather overlooking the pain; her body their playground. They looked hungry and play is all they could in the absence of food.

Passersby noticed her too. Some called her wretched, a few derided her thinking she was one of those, others thought she was diseased and left there to die, a few poked her to see if she was alive. She seemed worn out, impervious to these disparaging remarks and gestures.

A bizarre thing happened next. The children, her children, fatigued by their play and famished sank their teeth into their mother. They seemed to relish every bite they took of her flesh. A miasma spread in the air and eerily beckoned scavengers to the feast. Like maggots attacking decay, the passersby soon overpowered the children to devour the woman, ripping her flesh with their uncannily developed canines. A gruesome fight ensued for chunks of flesh as the two-legged monsters snarled at each other like laughing hyenas, blood trickling from their bared teeth, lips and chins.

The woman winced; finally. She opened her eyes and all there was in them was disgust; an abhorrence that could be felt strongly. Like a plant giving energy to itself, she woke up and grew; she let out a scream that terrified even the wind. She looked around ferociously as she grew and grew; all her torn flesh replenished. It was her turn now and she didn’t stop when she started.

An insatiable hunger radiated from her bloody eyes and she picked up and gobbled each of the terror-stricken creatures trying to escape her wrath. Not once did she wince as she devoured her children too. Madness reigned; it wasn’t hunger anymore. She ran shrieking hysterically when the last one disappeared, her hair and insanity let loose. The pregnant grey clouds complicit with the gloomy dark sky burst deliberately it seemed its bag of waters. Darkness and raging tempest engulfed as she grew and paced chomping on and ravaging everything and everyone that came in her way; she spared none.

What I create, I can destroy!

Do we want to know her when she takes this form? Do we recognize her when she is like this? Can we accept her in her horrendous devastating appearance? Do we have a choice?

And have we loved her really; unconditionally? The garden wasn’t ours; she let us play in it. And we let weeds grow, in her garden, in our minds. She pleaded, she showed us her wounds, our given, but we furtively looked elsewhere, occupied in our superficial intimacies. Like with all mothers, we took her for granted.

She wasn’t ever weak; she was only patient and forgiving. And so we ignored her though we were just a speck in contrast. She still gave us importance and all we had for her was neglect. Like a cruel and ruthless child we went on relentlessly blackening and destroying the coulourful picture she had created, all that she had given us.

Should we be startled then when she comes on a war footing, leading a cavalry, mercilessly to avenge? Howling gales, hurricanes, and thunderstorms ride with her, armed with the ghastliest and most powerful weaponry. The angry war flags are like wild unforgiving storms, flapping wildly, outlines of red against the pitch darkness of the extinguished lights; all lamps blown out.

As the silhouettes grow in the ruins of every house, we look up at the sky stretching our hands begging for forgiveness. We fear and lament. For what, why? Who do we pray to now? We bow down now in the emptiness; helpless, beaten, in despair. We give in to her strength in sorrow; something we should have done in happiness.

Will we love her now, unconditionally; will we listen to her after this veritable reality check? A child slapped hard, we either hold and carry the anger or realize the unconventional love behind it.

Like a mother, hopefully she’ll forgive us yet again and let us thrive. Hopefully, the morning will bring a new beginning.

‘What fabrication they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves – our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.’

- The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood