Monday, February 27, 2017


This post consists of the following, in descending vertical order:

-- an image (a vertical view of Bensonhurst Park at dusk);

-- four lines in Bengali (স্মৃতি), plus a link to a FB post;
-- a Roman transcription (Smr̥ti) from;
-- a voice recording of the Bengali;
-- a Roman transcription (Sriti) as described at Bharot Xadhin;

-- an English translation (Memory);
-- a second image (sunset at a street corner in Bensonhurst);
-- a third image (a horizontal version of the first image);
-- the Facebook link, again.

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The Facebook link leads to a brief but moving post by Riaz Qadir on the passing of his mother, with two images of her. That was what gave rise to the four lines of verse, originally in Bengali.

Thanks for taking the time and trouble.

Dusk, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn. 2017 March 11.

দেখতে দেখতে দিন ফুরল,
আঁধার এল শেষে।
যাচ্ছে তবু দিনের ছবি,
স্মৃতির আলোয় ভেসে।

রবিবার, ১৯এ ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

Dēkhatē dēkhatē dina phurala,
ām̐dhāra ēla śēṣē.
Yācchē tabu dinēra chabi,
smr̥tira ālōẏa bhēsē.

Rabibāra, 19ē Phēbruẏāri, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka 

Please click on the rounded triangular play-button on
the right to hear a voice recording. In some browsers, 

you may have to click a second time. This might not
work on cellphones.  Adjust the volume on your device
as needed.

Online recording software >>

(x = sh, c = ch, h = aspiration*, ~ = faint nasal,

vowels as in Spanish/Italian, with intermediate length)
Dekhte dekhte din phurolo,
a~dhar elo xexe.
Jacche tobu diner chobi,
sritir aloe bhexe.

Robibar, 19e Phebruari, 2017 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk

* puff of air, "h", along with preceding consonant


Before our eyes, the daylight ends;
the darkness comes apace.
And yet, the times of day go by,
aglow in memory.

2017 February 19th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Sunset, 86th St & 18th Ave, Brooklyn.  2017 March 3.

Dusk, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn.  2017 March 11. 

Thursday, February 2, 2017


Oh death—departure of the life that was,
that only now exists in memory—
how bitter is your taste—and yet how sweet.
How dreadful is the blow that sets us free.

What use, regret?  How now to pay the dues?
How much, that’s precious, snatched and swept away!
No court, that takes or rules on our appeal.
Our only recompense is that of tears.

And yet, can death extinguish love—that lasts
when all the rest is seen as transient?
We yield the body and the mind to death,
but not the things that stay within our hearts.
2017 February 2nd, Thu., 9 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.
In memory of our beloved 
daughter, sister, mother, friend
Anita (T’ukul) Sen (born Bose),
who passed away earlier today, in Kolkata,
mourned by her son, Anirup, 

daughter-in-law Nabanita,
grandson Rimpu and many others

(Last stanza added 2017 Feb. 7th) 



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