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Kolkata, West Bengal, India
A FLAPDOODLE ... A COPROLALOMANIAC ... A DOPPELGANGER ... a blog when written when deranged for a man to give one gyp and what a gyp with a gusto ... this blog a mistaken ladder furnishes its one carrying self-lagoon ... rotten blog holding a periapt to vomit to laugh and cry and shout and yell ... a preface to the birth of an ablazed moon ... all white all gay all blood all sand ...

Thursday, 17 November 2011

SOMNAMBULILOGUE OF A CHAMELEONIC MIRROR


            [A chameleon changes colours. A mirror reflects what’s true. A somnambulist is one who walks in sleep. A monologue is one person speaking. Now what if the great Yaksha from the ‘Mahabharata’, himself walks and speaks in slumber, while changing colours from hour to hour, and metamorphosing into many a mirrors, laying bare all the lies, truths and semi-truths of civilization as different entities of different epochs! How is it when that mirror-turned Yaksha, mirrors himself as the candid witness of the history of human race? Perhaps a delirium amalgamating the rancorous vignettes of several nefarious alter egos of a paradoxalist — in absolute timelessness, through plurality of Time’s voice, allowing contradictions to emerge within the entire somnambulilogue.]

I am sleeping,
Standing in the lake on one leg,
As a crane living on tiny fish.
Conscious inertia is better![1]
Men cannot see the mirror when sleeping,
For they begged from God the luxury of dreaming;
After all, a man’s thought is his nostalgia.[2]

It’s midnight now,
Street-dogs are barking at the government.[3]
Yes, I am waiting for my friend,
The wise Yudhishthira.
I cannot give him back …
His dead brothers,
His lost kingdom,
His marooned life;
It’s a lone lone hour now,
There’s no one left to curse,
The world, unfortunately, is real.[4]

Krishna-Dwaipayana has long forsaken his pen.
No one alive anymore to write in-between-the-lines!
No one to write at degree zero![5]

Take the only sperm that’s left,
And plant it up in the hole in your culture.[6]
Give me back the November Revolution,
Give me back 14th July and 15th August,
And give me back the Language Martyrs’ Day.

Come and question me when I’m dead.
Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?[7]
I’ll not dare to question you then,
For my bloody questions are my abandoned answers.
You know quite well I’m dead.[8]

Thanks to my parents.
They never taught me how to father my kids,
Nor how to husband my wife.
I’ll never forget our first kiss.
That night the blind man dreamt that he was blind.[9]
No matter if you now hate me,
I’m always as young as I was when you first hugged me.
Thanks for not marrying me, sweetheart!
Or else I would have grown old.

Hell is of this world ― Kurukhsetra, the Ground Zero!
And there are men,
The Pandavas … the Kauravas … the Yadavas …
Who are unhappy escapees from hell;
Escapees destined eternally
To reenact their escape.[10]

When everyone lies in heaven,
Never trust the sane,
No matter whether it’s the Dwapara,
Or the two-thousand-eleven;
Once more let us plague tomorrow with a new testament,[11]
Once more a noose in hell,
Alas, once more a suicidal game.




COUNTERNOTES :

[1] cf. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘Notes from Underground’ (Part-I : Underground; xi)

[2] cf. Albert Camus’s ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’ (Philosophical Suicide)

[3] cf. Vladimir Mayakovsky’s ‘The Way I Became A Dog’

[4] cf. Jorge Luis Borges’s pamphlet-thesis ‘A New Refutation of Time’ (culminating sentence)

[5] This term ‘le degré zéro de l’écriture’ (the degree zero of writing) was used by Roland Barthes to define a style of writing that offers itself as an absence of style, and to distinguish it from the usual tendency of literary writing, which is to offer the style as the constitutive quality that changes the words on the page from being mere chunks of language into literature. Where the usual tendency is to filter the events described through a preconceived network of cultural, moral and intellectual references, writing at ‘zero degree’ would achieve a kind of transparency of language enabling the ideas and events to stand alone, without added comment or meaning.

[6] cf. Leonard Cohen’s ‘The Future’

[7] cf. Kahlil Gibran’s ‘The Prophet’ (I; 30)

[8] cf. Jean-Paul Sartre’s ‘No Exit’ (Inez’s penultimate comment in the final scene)

[9] cf. José Saramago’s ‘Blindness’

[10] cf. Antonin Artaud’s ‘General Security : The Liquidation of Opium’

[11] cf. Ezra Pound’s ‘Ripostes of Ezra Pound’ (Silent)

Sunday, 2 October 2011

আত্মজবানীর অংশ : পঞ্চম অধ্যায় থেকে দুটি পৃষ্ঠা


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                   24/12/2007  t  ivZ  11-Uv  26  wgwbU

Friday, 16 September 2011

SUBIMAL MISRA : THE WRITERS' WRITERS' WRITER


                        As James Joyce is ‘the writer’s writer’, Subimal Misra is ‘the writers’ writers’ writer’. Writing since late 1967, he has hitherto remained inevitably unknown, as an off-the-beaten-track author like him should mandatorily be, in his own native land India, as well as among Bengali-language readers in his mother-tongue speaking state West Bengal. In the hitherto 44 year span of his writing-life, he has never ever allowed himself to print (despite being invited several times) even a single letter in any commercial periodical or any daily or journal of any establishment, always kept himself away from all sorts of media propaganda (like TV shows, Radio broadcastings etc.), felicitation meetings and award ceremonies (whether invited or not); and they have also remained wholesomely allergic to him, never risked to review any of his books throughout his entire life so far, nor do even dare to mention his name anywhere in their papers. He, the outcast, publishes and sells his own books, and never gives advertisements. As the immense magnitude of his ganglionic pen ranges from ‘samizdat’ via ‘tamizdat’ to ‘magnitizdat’, since ‘blue blouse’ through ‘aleatoric’ unto ‘degree zero’; he offers with effortless ease, a sojourn to cerebral literature.
                        He says that he is afraid of success, because if it comes in contemporaniety, he feels that whatever he is writing is not that much novel or unforeseen. He claims that his books are in no way ‘commodities’, and never prints the word ‘price’ in his books. It is printed as ‘Binimoy’ (exchange) and after that the phrase ‘Or what you as a reader of Subimal Misra think it should be’. In his own wors : “I am entirely an author of and exclusively for the Bengali little magazines. In the most ordinary sense, the little magazine of the Bengali language (nearly 2200 in number) is, in parallel to the establishments, a literary flow that publishes the writings of the authors keeping in tact their liberty, honouring their individuality; all the off-the-beaten-track writings in Bengali language are published chiefly in little magazines. But the number of true little magazines (in the most imbued sense of the term) that have some distinguished characteristic values, has lately come to almost a cipher. Even here, my stand is a bit awkward; I am not a parallel writer of the establishments, not parallel, rather mine is a reactionarily counter one. I do want to write, have written, am writing such pieces, to publish which even the little magazines will shudder in awe, and the establishments will never ever dare to touch them.”
                        His works, written with rebellious narrative forms as well as an anachronistic jumble of labyrinthine style and anomie-imbued content --- all these being the substance of the writer’s vision, symbolize modern man’s anxiety-ridden and grotesque alienation in an indifferent and hostile world. In the history of 700 years of Bengali literature, he is the only author who has experimented the most with form and language. He, a self-proclaimed disciple of Jean-Luc Godard, has been the first to employ Eisenstein’s ‘montage-technique’, to implement the ‘film-language’ in the arena of the Bengali literature; as well as to use Burroughs’s ‘cut-method’ in the narrative mode. His effervescently inventive narrative forms and multitudinous diversity of scattergun techniques using collage, cut-out, fusion, montage etc. enmeshing the ‘avant-garde’ underpinnings of his texts exhibit the endless process of interchange between his ‘language of thinking’ and ‘language of writing’. The myth of narrative has been vehemently rejected by him as he hates the age-old tradition of story-telling. His works are never thematic and in several cases merely handy repositories where his self-criticism is overtly severe, as are his fecundity of language and almost superhuman erudition. Almost all of his texts are polyglot in nature as he frequently quotes Latin, German, French and English, and even Sanskrit, and never offers a translation. In fact, his every single text deals with heterogeneous themes, and is imbued with contemporary socio-political-economical messages, thus symbolically illuminating upon the bourgeois-proletariat class dialectics. His writings seem indecipherably chaotic to the unprepared readers, as the riddles of his language are prone to trap his readers in their respective subconscious matrices of thought. Here language becomes a tendency, a phenomenon to which his readers fall preys as he lures them to psycho-penetrate into his language’s indigenous absurdity.

                        As he neither possesses nor knows computer, his encyclopaedic knowledge reflected in his writings speaks only of his voracious reading habit. He literally ‘lives together’ with books residing at a small 3-room apartment, 2 of which are loaded with nearly 15000 books, the other being his centenarian mother’s bedroom. Apart from Brecht and Sartre, he considers Proust, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Joyce and Borges his ‘soul’s companion’ for their cerebral fecundity. In every sense, he is the one and only anti-establishment author alive in the Bengali literature. With venomous language he attacks middle-class sentiment and rotten heaps of values. His every book is a cluster of polemics that exposes a race which is often guilty of being laden with a vain legacy of mythologizing mediocrity, underrating the true literary prodigies. Let us bruit this iconoclastic thinker, emblematic of post-post-modern times, who is his own adjective!

Friday, 12 August 2011

AN OVERTURE TO THE SOURCE OF OUR CULTURAL HERITAGE : THE ‘PURANAS’


“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.”
[ FOUR QUARTETS ( Burnt Norton ) : T. S. ELIOT ]                    

                        The ‘Puranas’ occupy a unique position in the sacred and secular literature of our race. Etymologically the term ‘Purana’ means “that which lives from ancient times”. Originally, therefore, the term signified “ancient tale” or “old narrative” containing the records of past events, as compared with ‘History’. Later it became associated with a class of literature. According to the classical definition of the term found in the ‘Amarakosha’ written by Amarsingha in the 5th century AD, it should have five characteristics or ‘panchalakshana’, which are ‘Sarga’ (creation), ‘Pratisarga’ (dissolution and recreation), ‘Vangsha’ (divine genealogies), ‘Manwantara’ (ages of Manus), and ‘Vangshanucharita’ (genealogies of kings). But this ‘panchalakshana’ definition can be applied only to the ‘Upa-Puranas’ (minor Puranas), and the ‘Maha-Puranas’ (major Puranas) should have ten characteristics or ‘dashalakshana’ which includes the following additional features : ‘Vritti’ (means of livelihood), ‘Raksha’ (incarnation of gods), ‘Mukti’ (final emancipation), ‘Hetu’ (unmanifest), and ‘Apashraya’ (Brahman). Apart from all these, another very elementary feature of utmost significance of the ‘Puranas’ is the glorification of ‘Dharma’ (righteous conduct), ‘Artha’ (economics and politics), ‘Kama’ (erotics), and ‘Moksha’ (salvation), along with that of ‘Brahma’ (god of creation), ‘Vishnu’ (god of preservation), ‘Rudra’ (god of destruction), and ‘Surya’ (god of light).

                        There are said to be eighteen ‘Maha-Puranas’ and the same number of ‘Upa-Puranas’. With a very few exceptions, almost all the ‘Puranas’ give a uniform list of the ‘Maha-Puranas’ mostly in the following order : ‘Brahma’, ‘Padma’, ‘Vishnu’, ‘Bhagavata’, ‘Naradiya’, ‘Markandeya’, ‘Agni’, ‘Vayu’, ‘Bhavishya’, ‘Brahmavaivarta’, ‘Varaha’, ‘Linga’, ‘Skanda’, ‘Vamana’, ‘Kurma’, ‘Matsya’, ‘Garura’, and ‘Brahmanda’. In case of the ‘Upa-Puranas’, the list is more or less as follows : ‘Sanatkumara’, ‘Narasingha’, ‘Nanda’, ‘Shiva-Dharma’, ‘Durvasa’, ‘Devi-Bhagavata’, ‘Kapila’, ‘Harivangsha’, ‘Ushanas’, ‘Manava’, ‘Varuna’, ‘Kali’, ‘Maheshwara’, ‘Shamba’, ‘Saura’, ‘Parashara’, ‘Maricha’, and ‘Bhargava’.

                        The ‘Puranas’ begin their dynastic lists with Manu, the saviour of humanity from the ‘Great Flood’. Vaivaswata Manu, the first king, had ten sons, among whom was divided the entire country. Ninety-five generations ruled between the time of Manu and the great war of ‘Mahabharata’. After the war, the ‘Puranas’ use the future tense for the subsequent dynasties. They are called “the dynasties of the ‘Kali’ age”, mentioned only in seven ‘Puranas’, where their account is traced till about the period of the historical ‘Gupta’ empires who were broken up by the ‘Huns’ in the 6th century AD. The mention of even ‘Yavanas’, ‘Shakas’ and ‘Pallavas’, who came to India in the 2nd and 1st centuries BC, indicates that the geographical lists were brought up-to-date from time to time. The division of time into four ‘Yugas’ (ages), namely the ‘Satya’, the ‘Treta’, the ‘Dwapara’ and the ‘Kali’ had a historical basis; but the chronological system of fitting in seventy-one four-age periods making a ‘Manwantara’[1] in the cosmological scheme, is purely hypothetical as well as a later elaboration, as this theory applies only to ‘Jambudwipa’,[2] and not to the whole world. Great wars, conquests or political changes may have marked the end of one age and the beginning of another. The ‘Satya Yug’ appears to have ended with the destruction of the ‘Haiheya’ dynasties and the ‘Treta’ began with the reign of ‘Sagara’. Rama, the son of Dasharatha, is said to have lived in the interval between the ‘Treta’ and the ‘Dwapara’ yug. The battle of ‘Mahabharata’ has been taken as having occurred at the close of the ‘Dwapara Yug’, and the ‘Kali Yug’ began after the war. These ages thus symbolize changes in the political conditions in India.

                        According to the ‘Puranas’, ‘Dharma’ (righteous conduct), ‘Artha’ (economics and politics), ‘Kama’ (erotics), and ‘Moksha’ (salvation) should be the four aims of human life. ‘Dharma’ includes religious teachings. ‘Sin’, ‘Punishment’, ‘Penance’ and ‘Hell’ are described in details. The popular teaching consists of descriptions of ‘tirthas’ (holy places) and of pilgrimages, as also of ‘vratas’ (ritualistic observances) and ‘danas’ (charities) etc. The chief feature of all these is that these were available to all, including women and ‘Shudras’, to whom the ‘Vedas’ were denied. ‘Artha’, acquisition of wealth or polity, is found in the ‘Rajadharma’ section of many ‘Puranas’, dealing with the duties of kings and methods of administration, conduct of war and peace etc. ‘Kama’ includes marriage-rules, and duties of wife and women, which are illustrated by stories such as those of Sita and Savitri, who are cited as examples of perfect womanhood. ‘Moksha’ or salvation is the final goal placed before every human being. Transmigration is an article of faith; one can attain deliverance from the chain of successive rebirths by following the paths of ‘Yoga’ and ‘Bhakti’.

                        The theology preached in the ‘Puranas’ is heterogenous. The three chief gods are ‘Brahma’ (god of creation), ‘Vishnu’ (god of preservation), and ‘Rudra’ or ‘Shiva’ (god of destruction). They form the all-powerful ‘Holy Trinity’ of the gods and goddesses. ‘Surya’ (god of light) or the ‘sun’ is also very highly extolled in the ‘Puranas’ as ‘the source of all life under the open sky’. Apart from other gods and goddesses, there are ‘Gandharvas’ and ‘Apsaras’ who are respectively the celestial musicians and nymphs. Under demons are classed the ‘Asuras’, ‘Daityas’, ‘Danavas’ and ‘Rakshasas’. Among the three gods of the ‘Holy Trinity’, only god Vishnu’s ‘dashavatara’ (ten incarnations) concept is found in the ‘Puranas’; of which five are mythological : ‘Matsya’ (fish), ‘Kurma’ (tortoise), ‘Varaha’ (boar), ‘Narasingha’ (man-lion), and ‘Vamana’ (dwarf); four are historical : ‘Parashurama’, ‘Rama’, ‘Krishna’, and ‘Buddha’; while the last incarnation, ‘Kalki’, is yet to manifest. This ‘dashavatara’ or ten incarnations theory suggests the idea of the evolutionary process of the advancement of human civilization. The ‘fish’ emerges out of the early-Palaeozoic stage, followed by the ‘tortoise’ in the late-Palaeozoic times, and the ‘boar’ in the Mesozoic period. Next comes the ‘man-lion’ and ‘dwarf’ in the period of cave-men and bush-men. ‘Parashurama’ represents the nomadic and hunter stage of uncivilized, barbaric human beings; and ‘Rama’, ‘Krishna’ and ‘Buddha’ stand for the human race of full-grown city civilization.
 
                        The ‘Puranas’ are closely akin to the ‘Epics’ both in form and substance. Taken collectively, they may be described as a popular encyclopedia of ancient and mediaeval Indian culture ― religious, philosophical, historical, personal, social, economical and political. The importance of the ‘Puranas’ for the comprehensive history of Indian culture and civilization is immense, as there are sections dealing with polity, sociology, administration, fine arts, architecture etc. The present view is to accept the ‘Puranas’ as one of the important sources of the traditional history of ancient India. Nowadays it is considered that the function of a modern historian should be to disentangle legendary, fictitious or mythological materials from the purely historical or cultural data.



[1] The ‘Puranas’ states that a human year is the day and night of the gods; 12000 divine years or 4380000 human years constitute ‘Chaturyuga’ (four ages) or ‘Mahayuga’ (great age) which is divided into four ages of progressive deterioration in the ratio of 4:3:2:1, respectively for ‘Satya’, ‘Treta’, ‘Dwapara’ and ‘Kali’. Each of these ‘Yugas’ is preceded and followed by ‘Sandhyas’ containing a tenth of the period of a ‘Yuga’. 1000 ‘Chaturyugas’, that is 4380000000 human years are equivalent to a day or night of Brahma, which is called a ‘Kalpa’ (aeon). Each ‘Kalpa’ comprises the periods of 14 Manus, the fathers of humankind, each of whom presides over 71 ‘Chaturyugas’; and each span of such 71 four-age period ruled by one Manu, is called a ‘Manwantara’, the reign of a Manu.

[2] According to the ‘Puranas’, the world is said to consist of seven concentric continents separated by encircling seas of different substances such as butter, milk etc. The innermost of the seven continents separated from the next by salt-water is ‘Jambudwipa’, which alone was subject to the law of ‘Chaturyugas’. The most important region of ‘Jambudwipa’ is ‘Bharatavarsha’ or India, so called because the descendants of king ‘Bharata’ reside there. ‘Bharatavarsha’ lies to the north of the ocean and the south of the snowy mountains containing seven main chains of mountains named ‘Mahendra’, ‘Malaya’, ‘Sahya’, ‘Sukimat’, ‘Riksha’, ‘Vindhya’ and ‘Paripatra’. The ‘Kiratas’ live on the east, the ‘Yadavas’ on the west, and the ‘Brahmanas’, ‘Kshatriyas’, ‘Vaishyas’ and ‘Shudras’ in the centre of ‘Bharatavarsha’.

Sunday, 22 May 2011

MY MAIDEN WHOREMISTRESS or A WRY SELF-CARICATURE


Good morning, have you used Pears’ soap? 1
No, she doesn’t tell me something like that.
She gives me her because, yes, bottom,
Not her woman.
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s winding sheet. 2
No, not England’s.
Here it must be Kolkata’s.

              And now I just take a very brief break and go to the kitchen to light a smoke from the gas-oven as I’m run out of match-sticks. I lose my way, all suddenly! I can’t find the door of my room! I feel myself inside a titanic hall; and in front of me, a colourful octopus --- more titanic than the hall itself. And of course, I feel, it is a feminine. She is smiling. She is approaching closer . . . to suck me up . . . bloodless . . . semenless . . . to devour me up. Now I feel, I’m all aroused! Yes . . . I’ve just died.

author and nilotpal
nithor and aulotpal
the brain the mind
the virgin the whore
the redeemer the sinner
the victor the vanquished

Which is the worst?
Sanctimoniousness or Adultery!
What hospitality she treats me with!
Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die. 3
I’m horn-mad.
She has made my micky stand for her . . .

ummmnn youre sooo big
A  CUCKOLD
ohh gawd sooo tight
YES  A  CUCKOLD
cummon harder yea harder
IM  THE  CUCKOLD
oo yeahh just like that
YES  YES  IM  THE  FUCKING  CUCKOLD
oo yeahh yeahh yeahh yeahh

And the rest is NOT silence. 4
To live life is not as simple as to cross a field. 5
HURRY  UP  PLEASE  ITS  TIME
HURRY  UP  PLEASE  ITS  TIME
HURRY  UP  PLEASE  ITS  TIME
HURRY  UP  PLEASE  ITS  TIME 6
To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! 7
Yes . . . I’m just born.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

COUNTERNOTES :-
1 : cf. James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ ( Lotus-Eaters )

2 : cf. ibid ( Nestor )

3 : cf. ibid ( Nausicaa )

4 : cf. William Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ ( V, ii, 350 )

5 : cf. Boris Pasternak’s ‘Hamlet’ ( line 16 )

6 : cf. T. S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ ( line 141 )

7 : cf. James Joyce’s ‘A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man’

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

JIBANANANDA’S UNQUESTIONABLE AFFINITY WITH TRAGEDY IS NOT BEYOND QUESTIONS


                        [ Jibanananda Das was an acclaimed Bengali poet who is considered to be one of the precursors who introduced ‘Modernist Poetry’ to Bengali literature at a period when it was heavily burdened by the influence of Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Romantic’ and ‘Mystic’ poetry. He is so far the most important Bengali poet of the post-Tagore era. The literal meaning of his name, ironically enough, is — ‘Joy ( ananda ) of Life’ ( jiban ). ]


A  POET  WHO  MEASURED  OUT  LIFE  WITH  COFFEE  SPOONS

“The poet
was there with his lyre
and his stick, cut in the mountains
from a fragrant tree,
and the more he suffered,
the more he knew,
the more he sang.”
                                 [ Pablo Neruda : Revolutions ]        

            Jibanananda was born on 18th February of 1899 ( 6th Falgun, 1305 of the Bengali calendar year ) in a Brahmo family at Barishal in the present Bangladesh which was East Bengal at that time. His grandfather, Sarbananda Das, and his schoolteacher father, Satyananda Das were both part-time preachers in the Brahmo Samaj. His mother, Kusumkumari Das, started writing poems when she was very young, and some were even published in magazines while she was still a school-student.

            Jibanananda studied at Braja Mohan College in Barishal from where he passed his I.A. examination. He then passed his B.A. examination with Honours in English language and literature from Calcutta’s Presidency College and became a graduate. From that very college he further completed his Masters’ degree ( M.A. ) in English in 1921.

            After completion of post-graduation, he started his career as a lecturer of English at City College in Calcutta. This was a happy period indeed of his youth when he first started publishing his poems. His first collection of poems entitled ‘Jhara Palak’ ( Fallen Feathers ) was published in 1927. Later, in early 1930s, he had to remain unemployed for several years, earning a meagre amount as a private tutor of school-students. His uncles got him jobs, successively in Assam and Punjab; but he refused to leave Bengal as the pursuit of literature was far more important to him even than economic stability. Later, in January 1947, he also worked in the editorial department of the daily newspaper ‘Swaraj’, for some time. He also briefly held teaching posts in Bagerhat and Delhi before returning to Barishal. In 1935, he joined Braja Mohan College in Barishal and continued to teach there till the partition of India in 1947 when he left for Calcutta. This was probably the most productive period of his literary life, during which ‘Dhusar Pandulipi’ ( Grey Manuscript ), ‘Banolata Sen’ and ‘Mahaprithibi’ ( Great Universe ) — all volumes of his poems — were published respectively in 1936, 1942 and 1945. Another collection entitled ‘Ruposi Bangla’ ( Beautiful Bengal ) which was posthumously published in 1957, was written in1934, also during this very period. The particular poem, ‘Aat Bachhor Aager Ekdin’ ( A Day Eight Years Back ), which I shall be discussing shortly in the third segment of this very critique, was also composed during that most fertile period of Jibanananda’s literary life; as it remains the 10th poem of the volume — ‘Mahaprithibi’. After the partition of India in 1947, when his home-district fell within the new Pakistan, he migrated to Calcutta. Here in Calcutta again he had to face unemployment for several years before being appointed to the post of lecturer in English at Howrah Girls’ College in 1953. By that time, his another collection of poems, ‘Saat-ti Tarar Timir’ ( Darkness of the Seven Stars ) was published in 1949. Jibanananda passed away on 22nd October of 1954 ( 6th Kartik, 1361 of the Bengali calendar year ) being hit by a tram in a road accident. His best poems won the “Indian Sahitya Academy Award” in 1955.

            Here follows a brief of the poet’s biographical annals :—

18 Feb 1899                : Born at Barishal in East Bengal (now Bangladesh).

Jan 1908                      : Admitted at Barishal Braja Mohan School in class five.

1915                                                        : Passed his Matriculation examination in first division.

1917                            : Passed his I.A. (Intermediate of Arts) examinations in first division with English, Bengali and Chemistry, from Barishal Braja Mohan College; and admitted at Presidency College in Calcutta with Honours in English.

1919                            : Passed his B.A. (Bachelor of Arts) with second class; and admitted at the University of Calcutta in M.A. (Master of Arts) in English and also in Law.

1921-22                                  : Passed his M.A. with second class; and gave up studying Law. Joined City College of Calcutta as a lecturer in English.

Sep-Oct 1927              : His first volume of poems ‘Jhara Palak’ was published; and since now he shortened his surname from ‘Dasgupta’ to ‘Das’.

Jul-Aug 1928              : Sacked from his job at City College. As a chaos was initiated due to the Saraswati Puja (worship of the goddess of education) by a group of students of the Ram Mohan Roy Hostel, the number of students in the college was reduced at an alarming rate. Consequently an economic crisis propped up in the college administrative fund, and being the juniormost faculty in his department, he was victimized.

Jul-Aug 1929              : Joined as an English lecturer in the newly established Bagerhat Prafulla Chandra College.

Oct-Nov 1929             : Resigned from his job just after three months.

Nov-Dec 1929            : Started practising private tuition for livelihood.

29 Dec 1929                : Joined in the English department as faculty in Ram Yash College at a place called Kalapahar in Old Delhi.

9 May 1930                 : His marriage to Labonya, the second daughter of Rohini Kumar Gupta and Sarajubala at the Ram Mohan Library, Dhaka was solemnized by Mano Mohan Chakraborty as the ‘Acharya’ (priest) in the presence of friends like Buddhadeb Bosu, Ajit Kumar Dutta etc.

15 Feb 1931                : A daughter, his first issue, was born. She was named Manjushree.

Aug 1936                    : Joins Barishal Braja Mohan College in the English department as faculty.

29 Nov 1936               : His only son Samarananda was born. His second volume of poems ‘Dhusar Pandulipi’ was published.

22 Nov 1942               : His father expires at the age of eighty.

Dec-Jan 1942-43         : His volume of poems ‘Banolata Sen’ was published.

Jul-Aug 1945              : His another volume of poems ‘Mahaprithibi’ was published.

Jul 1947                       : Returns to Calcutta taking a two months’ leave from Barishal B. M. College.

Sep 1947                     : Rejoins B. M. College.

26 Jan 1948                 : Joins in Sunday’s editorial department of a newly published daily entitled ‘Swaraj’ circulated from Calcutta.

Apr-May 1948            : Shifts permanently from Barishal to Calcutta with his entire family.

May-Jun 1948             : Resigns from his job at Barishal B. M. College.

Sep-Oct 1948              : Resigns from ‘Swaraj’ due to financial crisis of the daily.

Nov-Dec 1949            : His volume of poems ‘Saat-ti Tarar Timir’ was published. He received as royalty Rs.100/- in advance for this book. Perhaps this is the first occasion when he earns by writing.

25 Dec 1949                : His mother expires at the age of seventy-three.

2 Sep 1950                  : Joins in the newly established Kharagpur College as lecturer of English.

15 Feb 1951                : Kharagpur College authorities sack him due to economic crisis caused by the decrease of number of students in the college.

Jul-Aug 1951              : Applies for faculty position in the English department in Dum-Dum Motijheel College, which was not considered by the then-Principal Narendranath Ganguly who was his colleague earlier in Barishal B. M. College.

Sep-Oct 1952              : New edition of ‘Banolata Sen’ was published, this time also including in it two poems from ‘Mahaprithibi’ and sixteen more poems.

Oct-Nov 1952             : Joins in leave-vacancy for four months in Barisha College (presently Barisha Bibekananda College).

Apr 1953                     : Refuses to join in Fakirchand College at Diamond Harbour where he himself applied, as it was distant and he had to shift and settle there.

25 Apr 1953                : The Managing Committee of Howrah Girls’ College (presently Bijoykrishna Girls’ College) decides to recruit him permanently even though he did not apply there. ‘Banolata Sen’ was awarded the best book of the Bengali calendar year 1359 by ‘Nikhilbango Rabindra Sahitya Sammelon’ (All-Bengal Rabindra Literary Association).

May 1953                    : He was felicitated in a function at Mahajati Sadan and awarded the prize-money.

Jun-Jul 1953                : Joins Howrah Girls’ College with Rs.15/- added allowance alongwith his Rs.150/- remuneration.

Sep-Oct 1953              : Visits Delhi with family in puja-recess and meeting Humayun Kabir and Ata-ur Rahman requests for a job. Humayun Kabir, at that time the Secretary of Abul Kalam Azad, the minister in the education department of the central government, arranges for him a job in a college at Delhi. But he refuses the offer as he did not want to reside outside Calcutta.

Nov-Dec 1953            : Humayun Kabir once again arranges for him a job in Krishnanagar Government College by requesting Parimal Ray, the then-Education Director of West Bengal; but this time also he refuses it for being distant. Humayun Kabir further requests Parimal Ray for a job in Presidency College according to Jibanananda’s preference; but as there was no vacancy in the English department in Presidency College at that time, nothing could be arranged.

Apr-May 1954            : ‘Jibanananda Das-er Shreshtho Kobita’ (The Best Poems of Jibanananda Das) was published.

Sep 1954                     : On the occasion of his first anniversary of joining the college, the Managing Committee of Howrah Girls’ College decides to increase his remuneration by Rs.25/- and to promote him to the post of the Head of the Department of English due to which he was also to be given a special allowance of additional Rs.25/-.

14 Oct 1954                : During his evening-walk he was severely wounded in a tram-accident near Deshopriyo Park and was admitted to the Shambhunath Pandit Hospital. The bones of his rib cage, that of his thighs, and his collar-bones were all broken in the accident.

17 Oct 1954                : Dr. Bidhan Chandra Roy visits to see his condition.

22 Oct 1954                : Friday, at 11.35 p.m. Jibanananda expires in hospital.



NO  ONE  EXPECTS  MEDIOCRITY  FROM  GOD,  DEVIL  AND  JIBANANANDA

                        “This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants of God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will.”
[ Henry Miller : Tropic of Cancer ]

It is true that all poets are philosophers though all philosophers are not poets. But it is all the more true that Jibanananda was not merely a poet who was elementarily a philosopher, rather apart from that he was also a philosopher of even all those philosophers who were his predecessors. All his signatory watermark poems witness the typically Jibananandesque dialectic of prosaic poetry and poetic prose, alongwith the poet’s philosophy of relative truth. Here we happen to encounter a poet who himself is always in the guise of a mirror. The more we venture to see his face, the more we peep from diverse angles to recognize his true identity, the more we try to expose his real self; eventually we always end up discovering our own good, bad and ugly faces. He is a poet who deliberately defies ‘poetic justice’. He is a poet who teaches us that a true genius must have a heart in his brain as well as a brain in his heart. He is a poet who fuels our grey cells upto such an extent that we learn to re-interpret the clichéd Keatsian maxim, “Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty.” After reading him we begin to feel that Keats might have left some words untold here, in-between the words; and if read properly, it should be :—
          “Beauty is Truth, ( and if it is so, only then ) Truth Beauty.”
In fact, we cannot read his poems; rather his poems read us exposing our psychic genitals, making us ashamed of our futile hypocritic existence, of our hollow and superficial entities.

            The basic claim of poetry from a poet is eternally one; and that is, wringing out everything from the subject-matter by means of ‘diction’ and ‘diction only’. This is why poetry is one of the greatest art forms; and the poets who so far have remained capable to do so with effortless ease, are considered as ‘language-authorities’. But here we must not confuse ourselves and should get it clear that ‘linguists’ or ‘language-scholars’ and ‘language-authorities’ are not identical. The former can neither ‘save’ nor ‘rear up’ ‘language’, rather they issue ‘death certificates’ of ‘language’. The latter only are the true ‘language-martyrs’. They intrude into the maze of foreign thinkers’ and writers’ influence, fight with that very influence, and eventually, unrobe them. In fact, this is how ‘language’ survives. If we travel through the history of the Bengali poetry, what we see is a retreat from this ‘language-authorities’ — an escape from them by ignoring and neglecting the most promising genii of the contemporary literary world. Though unfortunate, this is the gospel truth of history. In the entire history of Bengali poetry, we never come across such a period, when ‘language’ has thus gradually retreated from the printed words. Jibanananda Das, Bishnu Dey, Sudhindranath Dutta, Amiya Chakraborty, Buddhadeb Basu, Samar Sen — if they were the ‘light-houses’, the ‘ocean’ had continually moved away from them, farther and farther. Thus day by day, everyday, losing and losing the ‘language’ gradually, the race of Bengali poets today has been metamorphosed into the French ‘Noble-Savage’ of the eighteenth century. Throughout the last ( more or less ) fifty years, escaping from the ‘language-authorities’, the Bengali poets have lowered the ‘diction’ at such a degrading plight, where each and every word written simply conveys a sound similar to that produced by the languageless primitive men. No line or sentence can either ‘catch’ or ‘throw’ any meaning or sense.

            During the thirties, Bengali poetry explored a new ‘poetic diction’ which, at that time, since was unforeseen after Rabindranath, was identified to be the ‘modern poetry’. Apart from others, especially Jibanananda, composed his verses in an entirely ‘unexpected language’ — ‘unexpected’, in respect of the ‘language’ Bengali poetry had produced till then. He first showed us that ‘language’ can surpass the intended sense of the written words. On one hand, there is the apparently expressed literal interpretation; on the other, the underlying implied meaning that is far from the literal one. He thus first suggested this ‘exposure of language’ — the endless process of interchange between the ‘language of thinking’ and the ‘language of writing’; one overlapping the other, therby venturing to discover a ‘third language’, as well as simultaneously the fourth one, fifth one, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth . . . to infinity; two levels exposing a significant third one, and fourth and fifth and . . . so on and so forth. Thus he created his own ‘diction’, an invention — a ‘new language’ for the ‘neo-poetry’. His form is essentially imbued with experimentation. But, so far as the subject-matter is concerned, this experimentation, quite unexpectedly, is perfectly counter-balanced by a certain central conventionalism. Had it not been so, if the plot-oriented actions had been over-emphasized, his ‘diction of poetry’ certainly would have seemed to be entirely futile. This lack of balance spoils the literary ‘quality’ as well as ‘value’ of both good prose and good poetry. It makes a literary piece too tiring to be read. Jibanananda’s writings — at least his verses, if not prose — are free from any such drawbacks. In his poems, ‘diction’ and ‘subject-matter’ face each other supplementarily, like negative and positive forces, radiating sparks of intellect, creativity, originality, and thus keeping intact a perfect balance.

            Jibanananda belonged to the group of poets who tried to shake off Rabindranath Tagore’s poetic influence. Inspired ( though not influenced ) by western modernism and the intellectual outlook of the Bengali middle class, he wrote about the realities of the urban present and of the lonely self even while he drew upon the rural traditions of Bengal. He shares Tagore’s deep feeling for Nature, eloquently describing the beauty of  rural Bengal in his ‘Ruposi Bangla’ and earning the appellation of ‘Ruposi Banglar Kobi’ ( Poet of Beautiful Bengal ). Unlike Tagore, however, he portrays distressed humanity as well as the depression, frustration and loneliness of modern civilised life in his poems. Introspection is also an important characteristic of his poetic genius. His poems merge a sense of concern for the crisis of the present, and an awareness regarding the responsibilities of the historical past. His poems also played a significant role in the political and cultural perspectives of Bangladesh. His poems inspired a pride in Bengali nationhood, especially in the 1960s and during the war of liberation in 1971. Jibanananda’s most favourite season is Autumn and his poetry is eminently suffused by autumnal shadows. He is a poet of Autumn, as well as of its greyness, somberness and desolation; and perhaps this is why, the seventh Bengali calendar-month ‘Kaartik’ ( mid-October to mid-November ) is a recurring element in his poems.

            If we consider Jibanananda’s poems in perspective of his contemporary time, we can see that during the ‘Banga-Vanga’ ( partition of Bengal ) in1905, he was merely a six year old kid; at the expiry of Rabindranath in 1941, he was forty-two — the father of two children; then during the riot in 1946, he was at the budding youth of his oldhood; and eventually the partition of India and independence in 1947 — from which his death was just seven years away. No one, with at least a minimal awareness of the socio-historic paradigm-shift of that particular period of time, can ever deny the fact that no other poet in the entire history of Bengali poetry has never sketched ‘death’, ‘decadence’, ‘fatigue’ and ‘monotony’ of the contemporary time with such dazzling sunshine glare before Jibanananda. His psycho-penetration into the absurdity of the protagonist’s character, his carefully prepared counter-statements against preceding statements through an ordered movement of thoughts pregnant with insight — all these attribute multifarious dimensions to his poems which in turn inevitably create the inescapable matrix of the typically Jibananandesque dialectic of prosaic poetry and poetic prose. Amidst that, remains awake and alive the clash of words — written and unwrit, the polygamy of meanings — conceived apparent meaning, apparently non-conceivable meanings, to seek meanings neutralizing all and every meaning. He snapshots time with an entirely relative psychological standing, not from any so-called historical or literary perspective — rather making today happen with tomorrow, tomorrow with yesterday, yesterday with today — all overlapping, merging into one another, becoming timeless, as well as temporal, simultaneously; as if a primitive game of group-sex, among the tenses. In his poems, time appears to be a prodigious Gulliver, all else fast fading pale into insignificance in front of it, as mere liliputs. Each and every single work of Jibanananda is thus not merely a reflection of his contemporary time, rather all the more, a token of time, that establishes the poet’s unique as well as individualistic philosophy of relative truth.

            Now before we proceed into more analytical details of ‘A Day Eight Years Back’ in the next segment of this critique, let us once go through the translated version of the poem first :—


A  DAY  EIGHT  YEARS  BACK

News spread that in the post-mortem room
He had been taken away;
Yesternight — amidst the dark of the Falgun night
When the Panchami-moon had sunk
He longed to die!

His bride was lying beside — the baby too was there;
There was love, there was hope — in the moonlight — yet he saw
What ghost? Why his sleep was awakened?
Or had he not slept for years — now sleeps lying in the post-mortem room.

Wanted he such a sleep!
His mouth smeared with blood and foam, the neck bent like a rat died in plague
He sleeps now in the bosom of dark alleys;
Never shall he wake up again.

‘Never shall he wake up again
The intense sufferings of being awakened
Ceaseless — ceaseless burden of it
No more shall he bear with — ’
So was he told
When the moon sank away — in the queer darkling
As if beside his window
A silence like a camel’s throat came and told.

Yet stays awake the owl;
The toad, decomposed, paralysed, begs a couple of moments more
For the signal of another dawn — with an inferable warm affection.

I can feel in the dense aimlessness of gregarious darkness
The pardonless hostility of the gnat-net all around;
The gnat stays awake in its black battle, loves the flow of life.

Flies fly away again in the sunbeams from blood and filth and pus;
So many times I have watched the flying insects playing in the waves of the golden sun.

As if the intimate sky — as if some dispersed life
Have possessed their minds;
The grasshopper’s eager shiver in the hands of a naughty child
Has battled against death;
The moon being set, in the prime dark, to the Peepul you
Approached with a single rope in your hands, yet, alone — all alone;
Knowing that the life of a grasshopper , a magpie-robin — is never to be met with that
of a humankind.

Didn’t the branches of Peepul
Protest? Hadn’t the swarm of glow-worms crowded in for hobnobbing with the tender
bunch of golden flowers?
Hadn’t the ageless blind owl come
And asked : ‘Drifted away the old moon by the floodwaves?
Excellent! —
Let me hunt a few rats now!’
Hadn’t the owl come to convey this tumultuous profound message?

This taste of life — the well-ripened barley’s scent in the late-autumn afternoon —
seemed intolerable to you; —
At morgue has your heart soothed
At morgue — suffocating
With bleeding lips like a trampled rat!

Listen
Yet to this deadman’s tale; — in no
Lady’s love had he failed;
Hankerings of conjugal life
Left no breach anywhere,
Ascending ahead of time, the bride offered
Sweet home — and fancy’s sweetness
For him to learn :
By the crisis-cold of a proletariet’s languor or languishment
Never was shuddered this life;
So
In the post-mortem room
Lying flat on his back he is on the table.

Know — yet I know
Feminine heart — love — kids — home — are not everything;
Not wealth, nor glory, neither affluence —
One more endangered exclamation
Within our internal blood
Plays on;
It fatigues us
Fatigued — makes fatigued;
In the post-mortem room
That fatigue is absent;
So
In the post-mortem room
Lying flat on his back he is on the table.

Yet every night I see, aah,
The ageless blind owl arrives and sits at the Peepul’s twig,
With winking eyes asks : ‘Drifted away the old moon in the floodwaves?
Excellent!
Let me hunt a few rats now — ’

O’ omniscient ancestress, is it excellent today too?
Me too shall grow old like you — I shall ferry the old moon across the floodwaves
at Kalidaha;
We two shall pass away emptying the affluent treasure of life.

[ translated by myself ]



JIBANANANDESQUE  GENRE  :  EVEN  MORE  REAL  SANS  ABSURD  SANS  ABSURDITY

            “I don’t recommend it for others.”
[ Vladimir Mayakovsky : Suicide-Note ]

‘A Day Eight Years Back’ by Jibanananda Das is a poem where the protagonist commits suicide. The poet himself never tried to do so. Nor did Franz Kafka who once wrote, “My life is a hesitation before birth.” If Kafka is to be taken for granted, then only after this hesitation (i.e.- life) is over, true birth (i.e.- death) can be possible. Here, Jibanananda’s protagonist also has an identical outlook towards life. Eugene Ionesco, the Romanian Absurdist, observes in an essay on Kafka, “This theme of man lost in a labyrinth, without a guiding thread, is basic . . . in Kafka’s work.” The same is true for Jibanananda’s works too, though they do have their dissimilarities just like their individualities. In the opening scene of ‘The Gurdian of the Crypt’, the only existing fragment of  Kafka’s unfinished play, we see a young prince summoning the old guardian of the mausoleum where his ancestors are buried, and is told by the old man about the terrifying fight he has each night with the spirits of the departed, who want to leave the prison of their tomb and to invade the world of the living. Interestingly enough, here we see that Jibanananda’s protagonist wants to opt for just the opposite, i.e.― to leave the prison of his life, as if, in order to invade the world of the deads. In fact, both Jibanananda’s and Kafka’s protagonists who are prone to commit suicide, seem to have been trapped in their subconscious matrices of thought; whereas these two creators themselves venture to psycho-penetrate into their created characters’ indigenous absurdity. Here, suicide is a tendency, a phenomenon to which the characters are preys. Martin Esslin opines in his landmark book ‘The Theatre of the Absurd’, “ . . . writers like Dostoevsky, Strindberg, and Joyce, by delving into their own subconscious, discovered the universal, collective significance of their own private obsessions.” This is also true of Jibanananda as well as his ‘A Day Eight Years Back’, in which the protagonist’s entity bespeaks the anxieties of a hyper-sensitive human being lost in a world of convention and routine. The images of Jibanananda’s own sense of loss of contact with reality, and his feelings of guilt at being unable to regain it — the restlessness of the protagonist in this particular poem, his perceptability of his own ‘alter ego’ whose existence he fails to penetrate, whose very presence makes him feel that his own being is at stake, and to whose endless quaries he can find no legitimate answers — have all become the inevitable expression of the helpless plight of the modern man.
ESCHER'S "RELATIVITY"

            The poem itself opens abruptly with a ominous news, without providing any formal sentimental preparation for the readers. Words like ‘post-mortem’, ‘dark’, ‘night’, ‘sunk’ etc. implicitly denoting “death” in the very first stanza, are immediately paradoxically counter-balanced by the single word ‘moonlight’ in the second stanza, this time denoting “life” explicitly. And then in the very next line, the phrase ‘What ghost’ followed by an inevitable question mark ( ? ) identifies itself with the ‘alter ego’ of the protagonist. The poet asks, “Why his sleep was awakened?” to which one of the more than one untold answers perhaps is — ‘he wakes up from sleep only to sleep forever’. But this one is neither the only nor the final question that ceaselessly goes on haunting the poet and with which the poet, in turn, haunts his readers throughout the entire poem. The answer is repeatedly hinted at several times here and there in the poem, but before the very first hint is thrown at the reader, the poet poses two riddling statements in the two culminating lines of the third stanza. First he says, “He sleeps now in the bosom of dark alleys”, which at once draws our attention to the labyrinth of Daedalus where one’s inevitable fate is to be got lost. Here, Jibanananda’s protagonist is also lost in the labyrinth of the absurdity of life; he is confused — he is hung afloat; he can’t decide — what to do and not to do, he doesn’t know — whether to be or not to be. In this particular respect, Shakespeare’s Hamlet is certainly not the only character who is identifiable to Jibanananda’s protagonist; rather Camus’s Meursault (The Outsider), Kafka’s Gregor (Metamorphosis), Sartre’s Roquentin (Nausea), Ionesco’s Berenger (Rhinoceros), Joyce’s Leopold (Ulysses), Beckett’s Malone (Malone Dies), Michaux’s Plume, Dostoevsky’s Underground-Man (Notes from Underground) — all are one. They all share the same feeling of getting trapped in the mysterious flux of their individual ‘being’. The second statement of the poet says, “Never shall he wake up again” which he immediately repeats once again in the very next line — now the opening line of the fourth stanza. It reminds us without fail, the opening and culminating lines of the second section (East Coker) of T.S.Eliot’s ‘Four Quartets’, which respectively are — “In my beginning is my end” and “In my end is my beginning”. This end of the protagonist’s life, then, certainly signifies the beginning of a new life for him. Truly, each exit is an entry from the other side. Here, the poet exhibits this very ‘exit’ with the symbol of the ‘window’ through which “a silence like a camel’s throat came and told” his protagonist that from now onwards he is free; he shall no more need to tolerate the endless burden of “the intense sufferings of being awakened”. As ‘silence’ itself is eternal and endless, so is the ‘camel’s throat’ that manifests endlessness.

            Jibanananda introduces the owl not until the fifth stanza. It is the typical nightwatcher that tirelessly efforts to awaken the sleeping conscience of the hollow, superficial modern men who are but merely barren in all respects. The decomposed, paralysed toad is symbolic of the ‘impasse’ — the deadlock of the modern human existence who are in fact no more than ‘living deads’. It also manifests the ‘dead conscience’ of modern men that desires to continue this ‘impasse’; whereas the owl, as the killer of the toad, takes the initiative to blast open this deadlock. The profound darkness is ‘gregarious’ and its ‘aimlessness’ signifies that human existence itself is aimless — sans goals, sans missions. The “hostility of the gnat-net” refers to the alienation of the soul; the individual is entrapped in its own trick that it plays to safeguard itself, and consequently gets alienated. This individual is in fact the representative of the bourgeois mediocres who are the opportunist in-betweens, who now feel so helpless that they can neither join the rebels (i.e.- the proletariets), nor can convince the aristocrats or the feudals to earn their favour. The gnat staying “awake in its black battle” is actually the rebel proletariets continuing to fight their battle with all their love and passion for liberty. ‘Flies’ are these opportunists who have no true political identities, and who, due to their hankerings after materialistic pleasures (i.e.- ‘sunbeams’), seek to exploit the social malsystems and try to gain profits out of it. These opportunists’ greed and wish for life is as endless as the limitless sky — they fight against death with as much vivacity and spirit of life as is found in “a naughty child” or in a “grasshopper”.

            In the last three lines of the eighth stanza, which can be called the pre-climax of the poem, the poet begins to weave the web of words as well as senses, in order to provide his readers a few threads of thoughts so that they can fabricate their individual and respective inferences, on their own psyche. This is essential as these lines are immediately followed by the ninth stanza — itself the climax of the poem. In the pre-climax, when the poet proclaims how his protagonist meets his fate, he emphasizes especially on the phrase “alone — all alone”. This deadly solitude, in fact, is born out of the aforesaid alienation of the soul; and this very solitude makes him realize that such stagnant, immobile life of a mediocre is in no way identical to that of a rebel. This very realization leads him to suicide. The climax of the poem, a six-line stanza, is schemed with six sentences (certainly not a sentence per line), out of which four are interrogations; and two, exclamations. Interestingly enough, we can mark that as the entire poem contains altogether eighty lines, almost one-tenth of the poem is in interrogatives. Eight questions are thrown by the poet with an effortless ease to fatally trouble the already troubled psyche of his readers. The first two are in the third line of the second stanza; the seventh one, which actually is a repetition of the fifth, is the third line of the thirteenth stanza; and the final one opens the culminating triplet of the poem, the rest four being here in the climax. As I have already stated earlier, the answers to all these quaries are provided by the poet himself very cunningly in an extremely implied manner; they are spread all around here and there in disguise. “The branches of Peepul”, in the very first question of the climax is symbolic of the rebellious spirit within the protagonist himself, i.e. — his ‘alter ego’ (referred earlier in line three of the second stanza as ‘ghost’) which is the only voice of protest. The “swarm of glow-worms” and their “hobnobbing with the tender bunch of golden flowers” stand for the sentimental bondings of mortal human existence — the eternal ‘maya’, from which the rebel must free itself. The owl and the rats form an imagery of the hunter and the hunted. The nightwatcher owl who sincerely ventures to save humankind from the ‘impasse’ they are trapped into due to their own consciencelessness, is itself a symbol of the ‘dead conscience’ of the modern men whose urge to retain this deadlock is indomitable; and in its own subconscious self, it also cherishes a dark desire to kill the only existing conscience alive — that is of the “old moon”, the eternal witness of history — of the course of time. That is reflected in his selfish wish to “hunt a few rats” after the old moon is “drifted away” “by the floodwaves”; as it indicates the opportunists’ going for their own business to fulfill their self-interests unheeded by the social crisis. This is how the entire world gradually moves on the way to chaos, driving itself as if drunkenly, in a self-destructing frenzy along the edge of the abyss; as if singing in intoxication, just as Dmitri Karamazov, in ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ by Fyodor Dostoevsky, sang. A similar kind of sketch of the modern civilization has also been portrayed by Hermann Hesse in his ‘A Glimpse into Chaos’; as well as by T. S. Eliot in his ‘The Hollow Men’ which ends with such a quatrain :—
“This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
Thus, here Jibanananda satirises this attitude of the modern men by psycho-penetrating into his protagonist’s mind, and establishes his philosophy of relative truth, which makes his readers realize that each of their individual existence is at stake.

            The climax being reached, the poet now concentrates on laying bare the probable pros and cons that might have compelled his protagonist to take such a drastic decision of committing suicide. Neither the poet, nor his protagonist knows certainly the answer of this question. All was balanced perfectly, so far as the materialistic hankerings of a common man is concerned. He was in no way amidst any earthly crisis. Yet, he was “fatigued”, the cause of which even the poet himself fails to determine, as he says :—
“One more endangered exclamation
Within our internal blood
Plays on.”
And when the readers, very much like the poet himself, as well as his protagonist, fail to find out the answer; the poet arranges for them an encounter with ‘the owl and the rats’ imagery once again. The ‘impasse’ continues. This indecisiveness, the uncertainty go on beguiling us, befooling us — the incurable fatigue of life envelops our individual entities; we feel our existence being engulfed by ‘tedium vitae’, which reminds us what Baudelaire once uttered in the concluding stanza of his ‘Au Lecteur’, the prefatory poem of ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’ :—
                        “It is boredom, tedium vitae, who with an unwilling tear in his eyes dreams of gibbets as he smokes his pipe. You know him, reader, you know that fastidious monster — o hypocritical reader, my fellow man and brother!”

            In the opening line of the culminating triplet, the poet addresses the ageless owl as the “omniscient ancestress” who failed to save the protagonist from committing suicide, only because of the psychic conflict of its own two alternatingly interchanging personas as the ‘saviour of conscience’, as well as, at the same time, as the ‘dead conscience’ itself. The poet feels himself to be in the same dilemma, and henceforth, feels an unification of his troubled identity with that of the owl. They both are equally helpless as none of them can find the way out to rescue their respective poor entities from this inescapable trap; and eventually the poet confesses his sense of guilty consciousness for being an equally willing accomplice to the owl in its dark desire to assassin the ‘old moon’ — the only existing conscience alive, the eternal witness of history, who might have saved the life of the protagonist. Eventually, after all these realizations, the poet yields to accept his due punishment which is the extinction of his being, of his existence without having been able to leave any lasting mark of his entity — to create any eternal identity of his self that he will leave behind for his succeeding race for which he shall be remembered by them. His passing away shall in no way affect “the affluent treasure of life” in respect of which he remains merely a ‘nobody’. The final line of the poem traces its identicalness to the opening line of T. S. Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, which also bespeaks of an equal sense of relinquishment :—
“Let us go then, you and I”
My citing all such several similar references in respect of Jibanananda, should in no way be interpreted as an attempt to prove as the poet’s being influenced by either his predecessors or his contemporaries, consciously or unconsciously. Rather, what we may safely deduce from here is that all great men think alike, irrespective of time, place, race, language, nation and culture. Perhaps this is why we can find the echo of Jibanananda in the writings of even his next generation poets who have never ever read a single line of  Jibanananda, nor has it been probable for them to read him. As an ideal instance of this, an excerpt from the Nigerian poet Wole Soyinka’s poem ‘And What of It if Thus He Died?’ can be betrayed :—
“Nor deaf nor blind lived he
To beauty’s promise, to laughter
In light hours, but these he sought
To seal and to perpetuate
Upon the face of dearth.”

            Now let us venture to sum up the entire discussion considering the centripetal question inherent in the poem as its axis, i.e. — why does the protagonist commit suicide? In one of his early works, ‘Either / Or, A Fragment of Life’, Soren Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher, tells the story of an ordinary young man who lives for pleasure, but although he experiences the various forms of enjoyment, sensual and aesthetic, which are available to him, he keeps falling into depression. But he pulls himself together, and decides to make something of himself, to give up the hedonic life for the life of duty and responsibility. He gets ahead in his career, makes friends, and soon acquires a wife and family, and social status in his community. But then the old forgotten depression comes back, more dreadful than ever. Kierkegaard says that this man has become something of himself, but he is a stranger to himself. The same is the case here with Jibanananda’s protagonist. He does not know how to overcome despair. He sinks so deep into despair that he gives up all the satisfactions and comforts of life; loses all commitment to family, friends, community; surrenders reason and all belief in the truth of science and philosophy and all moral principles. When all these are lost, with nothing left, he is in total crisis at the edge of the abyss. Now the question that arises is, what can be traced as the cause of this sense of meaninglessness of one’s own existence — this sense of anxiety and hopeless despair of the solitary individuals of the modern world.

            German philosopher Hegel’s ‘theory of alienation’ says that when one cannot identify with one’s society, when one is not reconciled to the ideals and institutions of one’s society, then one exists in a state of alienation. In case of Jibanananda’s protagonist, his alienation can be interpreted as his sense of being self-estranged, shut out of the common life, his sense of being an outsider cut off from his own feelings or identity, his feelings of normlessness, meaninglessness, powerlessness. He feels that he has lost the capacity for love or for any other strong emotion — his life is pointless and empty having no future. From this very point of realization, his struggle unto death with his ‘alter ego’ begins. In his masterpiece, ‘The Phenomenology of Spirit’, Hegel explains the development of human self-consciousness. Hegel says, it is the principle of negation, at work in all human thought, which produces an opposite, negating ‘antithesis’ to every ‘thesis’ and produces also a ‘synthesis’ which negates every negating ‘antithesis’. In case of Jibanananda’s protagonist, the same principle of negation and death is at work in the self’s characteristic relation to the ‘alter ego’, in its desire to negate that, to destroy that, to cancel that out of existence; and henceforth he commits suicide. The cause of his such an irrational act may also be clarified in the light of ‘the instinct of self-preservation’ theory by Thomas Hobbes, the political philosopher, according to whom, reality consists always in the motion of bodies which is transmitted through the sense-organs to the central nervous system, where it appears as sensation; and such transmitted motion always aids or retards the vital motion, the organ for which is the heart rather than the brain. Now as the vital motion is heightened or repressed, two primitive types of feelings appear — desire and aversion; the first being an endeavour towards that which is favourable to the vital processes, and the second being a retraction from that which has the opposite effect. From these primitive reactions of advance or retreat, Hobbes proceeds to derive all the more complex or remote emotions or motives. The novel element in Hobbes’s psychology is not the rather cynical assumption of human selfishness which it implies, it is rather the psychological theory by which he tries to make egoism a scientifically grounded account of behaviour. Thus Jibanananda’s protagonist also realizes that life affords no breathing space or moment of repose in which the end can be once for all achieved, but is a restless pursuit of the means of continued existence; and moreover, the means of security being precarious, no moderation of desire can place a limit to the struggle for existence. He feels that his own desire for security, the really fundamental need of human nature, is always at stake, because every degree of security requires to be still further secured. In fact he understands that the apparently modest need for security is equivalent to an endless need for some unknown ‘X’ factor, i.e.—
“One more endangered exclamation”
that may forfend the inevitable destruction which must in the end overtake all men; and as he fails to supply himself with that requirement, he gets fatigued and yields to that inevitable doom.

            Interestingly enough, Jibanananda’s protagonist is an absurd example of an absurd man, who is a prey to his truths; as once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them, he has to pay something — here, his own life. Since, he is a man who has become conscious of the absurd, i.e.—
                        “Knowing that the life of a grasshopper, a magpie-robin — is never to be met with that of a humankind.”
he is forever bound to it; and since he is a man devoid of hope, and conscious of being, he has ceased to belong to the future :—
“Never shall he wake up again.”
Albert Camus, the pioneer existentialist –novelist and philosopher, cites the example of such an absurd man in his reputed work ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’; and in this context he distinguishes between two kinds of suicide — ‘philosophical suicide’ and ‘plain suicide’. Camus states, “It is that divorce between the mind that desires and the world that disappoints, my nostalgia for unity, this fragmented universe and the contradiction that binds them together. Kierkegaard suppresses my nostalgia and Husserl gathers together that universe.” He further adds, “It was a matter of living and thinking with those dislocations, of knowing whether one had to accept or refuse. There can be no question of masking the evidence, of suppressing the absurd by denying one of the terms of its equation. It is essential to know whether one can live with it or whether, on the other hand, logic commands one to die of it. I am not interested in philosophical suicide, but rather in plain suicide.” Camus shows as example, Dostoevsky’s hero of ‘The Possessed’ — Kirilov, who is an advocate of logical suicide. Kirilov finds it humiliating for him to play the roles of both the plaintiff and the defendant, the accused and the judge at the same time, as this entire comedy is perpetrated by nature; and henceforth he condemns that nature, which brings him into being in order to suffer, to be annihilated with him. Thus by killing himself, he is actually taking his revenge, as it is for an idea, a thought, that he is taking his own life. This, in fact, is the superior suicide, a pedagogical suicide, as he wants to commit suicide because it “is his idea”. So is the case with Jibanananda’s protagonist, too.

            Now the final questions which remain are that, whether this logical and pedagogical killing of the self can be called a ‘tragedy’ or not; and whether Jibanananda’s protagonist, hence, can or cannot be regarded as a true ‘tragic hero’. In this regard, we may best rely upon the Nietzschean antithesis between the Dionysiac or tragic mood, and the theoretical, rationalistic spirit of Socrates. The question of tragedy, indeed, has always remained extremely important for Nietzsche, the German philosopher, since he equates the Dionysiac mode of being — both in his early, romantic conception of it, and in his later, heroic conception of it — specifically with the tragic attitude to life. In ‘Ecce Homo’, Nietzsche claims that, with the possible exception of Heraclitus, no other philosopher before him has understood what the terms ‘Dionysiac’ or ‘tragic’ mean. No philosopher, therefore, has been able to grasp the tragic character of human life, before him, i.e.— to have discovered and embodied the ‘truth’. Nietzsche’s theory of tragedy is rooted in his Schopenhauerian metaphysics. The distinction which Schopenhauer drew between the world of appearance — the spatio-temporal realm of objects and real things, and the sphere of the will, is the basis which Nietzsche’s theory stands upon. Schopenhauer’s metaphysical subordination of man to the will remains an essential feature of Nietzsche’s scheme. This has significant consequences for Nietzsche’s view of tragic downfall. Like Schopenhauer, and in contrast to Aristotle, Nietzsche sees the tragic hero as destroyed by supra-personal cosmic forces. That is not to say that man is merely a victim for Nietzsche — he recognizes that the hero commits sacrilege by overstepping the limits of individual action; but the final cause of the hero’s destruction, that with which the heroic individual comes into conflict, is a supra-personal, metaphysical force behind the actions of men. The ‘tragic hero’ in fact suffers in his own person the primordial contradiction that is concealed in things. In his ‘Twilight of the Idols’, Nietzsche says, “Affirmation of life even in its strangest and sternest problems, the will to life rejoicing in its own inexhaustibility through the sacrifice of its highest types — that is what I called Dionysiac.” According to him, the tragic spirit combines heroic effort and heroic wholeness or self-possession; it is a spirit which confronts the inevitability of destruction, and vehemently affirms that destruction as the means to further heroic creativity. In this respect, Jibanananda’s protagonist fails to confront and affirm the most detested and notorious sides of existence, and also to joyfully affirm the suffering and the sacrifice of his personality which that philosophical heroism entails. That Jibanananda is essentially identified as a ‘tragic poet’ is an unquestionable truth; yet even this very ‘truth’ too must never be taken for granted to be beyond all and every questions; because ‘tragedy’ itself too is relative, very much like the poet’s own philosophy of relative truth.