The Last Poem

A Translation
from the
composition
of

Rabindranath
Tagore

Tamanna Ferdous
The Last Poem
 Amit- The Character
Amit Rai is a barrister. In the British accent, when the surname Rai took the form of
“Roy”, and “Ray”, the form lost the appeal, from an aesthetic perception, nevertheless, it
kept increasing in numbers. For this reason, a wishful seeker, in renovating the
magnificence of this name, Amit invented such a spelling, that it became innovative
enough, to find the utterance among his British friends and girlfriends, sounding as
“Amit Raye.”

Amit’s father was a world-renowned barrister. The amount of wealth that he earned was
sufficient for his next three generations to go astray. Despite the furious problematic
paternal inheritance issues, Amit survived this time, without turning a hair.
Amit got admitted in Oxford, before stepping into the B.A in Calcutta University, there he
traveled through the passage of time of seven long years, striving to appear for the tests
and striving to escape the tests, too. With a higher intellect reigning in, he did not go far
in academic excellence, yet he did not have a shortage of depth in knowledge, seemingly
evident on the surface. His father never expected anything spectacular from him. He
aspired that his only son would season in the color of Oxford, permanent enough, to
pass the excellence of time, even after returning home.

I find Amit likable . Quite a charming boy. I am a novice writer; my readers are less in
numbers, Amit is the best among them, while measuring the worth as capability
matters, there. He vividly enjoys the stylish persona embedded in my compositions,
often so. He believes that the renowned authors marketable in our literary domain do
not possess the gem of a style, of that special kind. Out in the creation, as a camel, may
seem, in an estranged kind, these authors produce in a similar manner, out of norm, in
measures of presentability, from neck to backbone, front to back, backside to torso,
quite in an evocative way. Sluggish in a sloppy way, only maneuvering in the oasis
manageable in the pale and barren land of Bangla literature. It is better to note here, to
help the critics to make them understand that this is a mere disclaimer.
Amit says fashion is a mere masquerade, while the style is the resonance within a
perception. In his opinion, those among the literary moguls, those who follow the
craving for the inner souls, style belongs to them. And those who belong to the
secretariat, those who need to surmise the opinions of ten more observers to keep the
matters at hand manageable, without any escalation, fashion adores them. The persona
of Bankim is manifested in the composition of Bankim, in his “The Poison Tree”, Bankim
tried to fit in there. Bankim fashion is evident in the composition of Nasiram’s “The
Eden of the charming players,” Nasiram, there marred the vibes of Bankim.
Under the tent, belonging to a public, one can be charmed by a beauty, molded into a
befitting manner, but the holy wedlock must have a graceful gaze on the face of the
newlywed bride, mysterious behind the veil of the most intricate and delicate fabric, in
the most gorgeous manner. The foldable tent corners belong to a fashion, while the
gorgeous saree of Varanasi belongs to a style, to ponder along the specialty of a time, in
the most special way.

The Last Poem (March 10, 2023)

Amit says, the walkway meant for the everyday traveler to the marketplace is quite a
static one, as it intimidates us to ponder about any alternative path, to step otherwise,
and that is why, we are so much in reluctance about the concept of style. The Hindu
scripture tells us the story of DakhkhaJagga, which is quite enriched with this mythical
narrative explanation, all about that.

Indra, Chandra, Varun , they are the fashionable Gods of heaven. They were invited too,
in that heaven’s court. Shiva had style, original in such a way , that he needed a special
ovation from the ritualistic puritanism. Learning all these, from a B.A of Oxford, I was
never anything less than energized, because I believed I had a style in my compositional
persona, and for this, all of my books had a one edition track, they are all ,”Irreversible.”

My brother in law Navakrishna, could not tolerate these words of Amit, he used to say,
“Please leave your diplomas of Oxford graduation, aside.” He was a distinguished M.A in
English literature, he had to study a lot , where he understood very little. That day, he
was telling me, “Amit belittles literary gems simply to magnify trivial literary weeds,
here and there. He has a huge hype to defame with his nosey attitude and, you are the
sharpest arsenal used along the way.” Unfortunately, my wife, who happens to be his
own sister, was also present in that discussion. Nevertheless, it was a great relief to
notice that she did not feel comfortable with anything that my brother in law said.
Astonishingly , I traced a familiarity in her taste of culture with Amit, only, although she
did not go too far with her academic studies. Women are so naturally gifted in
understanding.

Many a time, it felt bizarre to me too, simply to perceive that there are so many famous
literary stars in the domain of English literature, who got vilified when Amit referred
anything, about them. These are, to be precise, the famous cover pages of popular
publishers. If one needs to critique the highly authenticated logo of the eligible caste,
they do not even need to skim through the content, you may start slandering, at a
flatmost rate, promptly .To be frank, those magnanimous famous literary tycoons, were
too much a stuff, in the belonging question, too much governmental asset, too much
carrying , in a simile of a waiting room in Bardhaman . And about those, who got traced
in discovered qualification in Amit’s observation, so to say, he had a natural fluency on
them, such a natural grip , that it may attune to the allegorical familiarity of the lavish
personal berth of the special train.

Amit has a true interest in style. Not only while editing and selecting literary content,
but also when, opting for presentability in attire, articulation and attitude. He had a
certain eloquent anecdote about his face, implicit though. He was not amongst any of
the five others, but he was the very fifth one, An interesting subject, a significant outlier
from ordinary other ones. A clean shaved, elicit and profoundly energetic face, with a
pair of enthusiastic eyes, an elegant smile, with a naturally fluent zeal about all these.
Not a single responsive nuance was delayed, and a mind, full of such sparkles that it
seems that the faintest touch will ignite a glow, a lit up moment.

Oftentimes, he is an exposition of his carefully chosen dress codes, loyal to the land.
Simply because of the fact that a group of people do not follow along. The finest fabric ,
carefully wrapped in the purest white, famously known as dhuti, not that of a popular
trend in his outfit , among his friends. He wears panjabi, where the button from the left
shoulder runs to the right, touching the waistline. The sleeves on the front are splitted
half, continuing till the elbows are reached. There is a wrapped ribbon of a certain
width, colored in dark brown, embroidered in glossy threads, ties within. On the left
side, there is a small pocket sized bag, anchored in, tossing gently with a shape, specific
enough to be called a Brindavani style. Inside, there was his watch, kept with a coziness
wrapped in. With a fashionable pair of shoes, red skin on a white one. When he goes
outside, a nicely folded madrasi shawl wraps him delicately, with the stitched edge
running along the garment. The fabric, loosely down, touching from the left shoulder,
often falls down below to the knee.

When there is an invitation to friends’ place, he usually wears a muslim Lucknow topi,
whiteness engraved on white. It is better not to address this one, as his attire, rather,
somehow, this can be better described as his laughter , loud and observational. I don’t
quite understand his fashionable British clothing. Those who are equipped with
understanding, they say about this, it is sort of “out of rack”, but in English, it is
“distinguished”, one might say this about that. He is not eager to showcase his charm,
nevertheless, he has an ardent yearning to ridicule the trendy fashion, stored quite
enough. Those who manage t0 match the age and those who are able to prove that they
are still young, are found in abundance in these streets and walkways. but the pure
energetic youth of Amit is a rare kind, it is mesmerizingly bohemian, tumultuous in
nature, not knowing anything about a goal, overflowing in overwhelming energetic hype,
out there, somewhere in the happening farthest.

Here, his two sisters, whose name is Sissy and Lissy , as if, these are products of the
new market, those of the most recent imported fashion, wrapped with care to package
with the first. Shoes with high and sharp hill with a hooved kind , laced cardigans with
an open chest, with necklaces with sapphires and ambers , sarees worn with a specially
slant mannerism. They walk with a quicker pace on the ground, while these steps are all
noisy. They talk loudly, in layers of sounds they fill in waves of the most intricate smile,
while the facial expression is one of an interesting kind, with an insinuation , looking
deeper , knowingly for certain what is a meaningful gaze all about. The pinkish hand-fan
with the silky touch , faces the cheeks with a gentle kind of breeze , and while sitting on
the resting area with the boyfriend, one could sense a fake sense of omission, apparent
with that blowing breeze, inflection in voices.

Amit's attitude to his girls of his own tribe, make other boys of his group jealous. Overall,
Amit is not reluctant about girls, he does not have inclination to any special girl, too.
Nevertheless, it does not deviate the lighter vibes of musing along, anywhere, while
socializing. Amit attends the party, sometimes, he plays cards, gets himself defeated in a
bait, in a cautious way, ardently requests the singer to repeat the musical notes, with
the most outrageous discord in the happening, ask around about the dresses, as if he is
interested about that one, evident with the most awful manifestation of the taste of
colors. He has a certain trace of infatuation while gossiping with girls, any girl, and
seemingly so, almost similar to a mistaken introspection of inclination, where one must
admit, it is a mere, friendly gesture, with no specific other whims, apparently.

In a shrine with idols, not a singular one, a worshiper remembers one idol , along with
the attributes of the other ones, too, not knowing exactly whom to grace meticulously ,
whom to sequence in magnanimity, also. The Idols are aware of this, still that makes
them happy. Hopeful moms of youngsters aspire there. However, those girls, themselves
are sure somehow, one way or the other, that Amit is quite indisposable, someone, way
beyond the reach. His ideas debate about girls, never quite a decisive one, though, able
enough to draw a conclusion. For this reason, a journey belonging to a neverland
interests him in the atrocities of courage. For this reason, he is a reverie to the most
other conversational ones, a safe one, a secret keeper about anything potentially
hazardous and flammable in the adjacent thread.
That day, when the moon lit up the riverside Ganges, underneath the moonlight, there
was densely black, thick silence, cluttered in a moment of stagnation, Lily Ganguly was
sitting beside Amit. An outing along the Riverside Ganges. He told her softly, “That new
moon on the other side of the river Ganges and we two, spectators, this side, are
witnessing a unique one, second to none in the happening moments of spontaneous
continuity, out there, in eternity.”

An eloquence, sometimes can be engrossing, Lily Ganguly felt the splash, the
spontaneity of the whim and yet, she knew the magical illusion of the mannerism only, a
moment lingered anymore than that will be only the greasy spectrum, an optical illusion
outside the bubbles, nothing more than that. She came back to the present and simply
smiled, “Amit, you uttered a truth, and an obvious truth, so true, that it is strange to even
ponder too much about. The somersault of the frog, jumping deep in the water, this too,
is also a unique moment, not going to be happening forever.”

Amit was smiling, “Lily, a bit, that matters differently, there. And that matters differently,
almost within a countless possibilities. The frog, jumping into the water this evening, is
an awkward moment, a fragmentation of a continuity. But, you and I, with a moonlit
eloquence of the river Ganges, with the starlight, is a spectacular symphony, Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata. Often it comes to my mind that Bishwakarma has the most
unpredictable blacksmith , making the most precious Gold band, flawless and curved
with diamond, topaz and sapphires, making an amulet of a sacred clock, struck at one,
and in the next moment dropping the gem in a fathomless sea, so that nobody can find
that, ever again.”

“It is better that way, Amit. You will not worry then, The goldsmith of Bishwakarma will
not charge you to pay.”

“But Lily, after millions of years , if coincidence sums up in a possibility, on planet Mars,
under the shadows of the forest, glowing in red, along any of those thousand miles long
lakes, where along the shore, we will meet and Sakontal’s fisherman will present this
very moment of diva, hidden inside the belly of that giant fish, we will be speechless, to
see each other, and after that , what will happen is left for you, to think.”