Ghont’a Ghorir Sraddho (The Cremation of the Clocks)

Dear readers of my floods,
 
The Bangla (Bengali) verses below were written in a rush (which may cause much amusement, given their content).  The translation (that interleaves the stanzas) was done in even more of a rush.

The reason I was (and still am) in a rush is that I should have been working solely on job-related matters, as grades are due early Monday morning, and that usually keeps me busy all weekend.

No matter. I'll send this off now, and, with that off my resentful chest, attack the other thing tomorrow, starting early in the morning instead of staying up late, which is rarely is a good thing.

The Bangla word "sraddho" (Sanskrt: "shraaddha") should not really be translated as "cremation".  I may have done that (subconsciously) mainly for alliteration with "clock".

Hindus try to cremate (burn) their dead, with rituals if they can afford that. They then try to have, later, the further rites and collective feast that are together known as the "sraddho".  So "memorial service" might be a better translation than "cremation" or "funeral".

With apologies,
Babui / Arjun
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Please see also:  If Clocks Were Abolished – 2014 March 20th, Thu.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/if-clocks-were-abolished.html
  
For an explanation of the transliteration scheme, see:  Bharot Xadhin (India, Free) – 2014 Feb. 8th, Sat.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
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Ghont’a Ghorir Sraddho   (The Cremation of the Clocks)   
                                
Ei jo`gote keu ba khat’e, keu ba orae ghuri.            
E`ker hate ador khali, onner hate churi.                  
Karor ko`pal xukher jibon, alxemite khuro.              
Karor do`xa, dukkhe bhoga, xexeo tara-huro.           

In this world, some work, others fly kites.
In one’s hand, there’s love; in another’s, a knife.
Some are lucky to live happily and lazily grow old.
The lot of others is to suffer, rushing even at the end.

Malik bhabe, munafa-t’a barate ho`be, bhai.
Mojdur-der khat’ate ho`be, capte ho`be tai. 
Calaki die, xukaj theke bo`dmaxi ho`e bexi.
Xaheb malik ja kichu bojhae, joldi xekhe dixi.

The boss thinks, we have to increase profits.
We’ve got to squeeze the workers, so they work more.         
From cleverness, there comes more evil than good.
Whatever the white boss teaches, the brown one learns.
 
“Ei je ghori, kajer jinix, bilet theke ana.                    
Et’ar ka~t’ae mojduri ae, ruiye neoa mana.             
Ghont’a-minit’ rakhle hixeb, barbe ahar tomar.         
Tumio khabe, amio khabo. Bexir bhagt’a amar.”
            
“Here is a clock, a useful thing, imported from Europe.
They’ll be paid by the clock; they’ll have no time to rest.
If you keep track of hours and minutes, the feast will grow.
You’ll dine well and so will I. The larger share will be mine.”

Tai to de`kho, karkhanate, khat’che sromik-do`l.        
Ka~t’ae ka~t’ae colche de`kho, notun juger ko`l.        
Jontro-ko`le jo`ntro bo`ro, t’akar pho`de dho`ra.     
Ei to do`xa sromik-xo`ber – bedo`m khet’e mo`ra.
         
And so you see the workers toiling in the factories.
The machines of the new age run precisely by the clock.
Caught in the money-trap, workers race upon the wheel.
This is their lot – to work without rest till they die.

“Tai to boli, ghont’a-ghori koreche jo`khon golam,
Curmar kore bhangle po`re, milbe to`khon aram!”       
Ei ko`that’a bolechilo je, nam chilo tar Hori.              
Karkhanete, kaj thamie, bhanglo rege ghori.             

“That is why I say, since the clocks have made us slaves,     
It’s only when we break them into pieces that we’ll have rest.”
The one who said these words, his name was Rock.
He stopped his work at the mill and broke the clock.

Tai dekhe to uthlam jege, sromik xo`bai jo`khon,      
Bajlo sit’i, gund’a pulix korlo jo`bai to`khon.              
Horir sriti morbe na go, roibe agun buke.                  
Thambe jedin ghori, xedin jolbe abar mukhe.            

And when we workers saw this and rose up,
The whistle blew and the goon-police came to kill us.
We’ll remember Rock. The fire will burn within us.
When the clocks stop, it will flame up again.

Khuxir cote gaibo to`khon, “No`mai tomae, Hori!        
Tomar name biplo`bete cuklo xexe ghori!                   
Jindabad, jindabad, moder xohid Horir!                    
Murdabad, murdabad, xoetaner po ghorir!”

In our joy, we will sing, “We salute you, Rock!
The rising up, in your name, has ended the clock!               
Long live, long live, the memory of the martyr!
Death to the devil’s spawn, death to the clock!”
 
 Ho`cche jo`khon, xukher bhore, gho`nt’a-ghorir sraddho,  
Monuxxota ghumer theke jagte to`khon baddho.         
To`khon, “Co`l-co`l, hat’-hat’!” cole jabe jekhane,       
Porci-hixeb chire-phele chure debo xekhane.

When, in that dawn of joy, the clocks are cremated,
Then our humanity will wake again from its slumber.
Wherever the “Go, go! Run, run!” goes to then,
There we shall throw all the torn-up accounts.

Xukrubar, 21e Marc, 2014 kri.                                    
Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk   

2014  March 21, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York   

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Please see also:  If Clocks Were Abolished – 2014 March 20th, Thu.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/if-clocks-were-abolished.html
  
For an explanation of the transliteration scheme, see:  Bharot Xadhin (India, Free) – 2014 Feb. 8th, Sat.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
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