In silence, in my heart

"Tumi rabey neerabey hridayey mamo, nibido nibhrito poorNimaa nisheethini samo," he sang.

"I appreciate the sentiment, honey, but shouldn't you wait until I go away before you sing songs of separation?" I said.

Bengalis. They are worth a 'tap tap tap' a la Obelix, I tell you. They refuse to speak the way the rest of the world does, they say 'sha' for 'sa' and the other 'sa'; they can't say 'ah' but say 'au' or 'o' or 'aw'; they can't make up their minds about 'ba' and 'va' and 'pa'; and he, she or it. But they write great poetry, I tell you.

I like Rabindra Sangeet in theory. When your introduction to the genre is through private recordings of Debabrata Biswas singing, accompanying himself on a harmonium, and cracking wise once in a while, you can't help but like the tunes, songs and the poetry of it. But when I heard what passes for Rabindra Sangeet on All India Radio, wailing and mournful dirge-like renditions of the same, I was shocked.

"How could they take something beautiful and destroy it so?" I ranted. But that seemed to be the norm. The pure and evocative voice and the discreet accompaniment of the harmonium of George-da seemed a far away and lost dream.

This particular song is a favourite of ours. We used to sing it as a lullaby, this and other Rabindra Sangeet.

"It is not so much a song of separation as a pledge, I think," he said. "Like the dense permeating night of full moon, you will stay in my heart silently." He said. I winced. "That's awful, honey." I offered my honest opinion. He bristled. "Let's hear you do it then."

"Um, you will dwell silently in my heart, like the night in her thickening moonlit secrecy."

"Ha!" He scoffed. "How did you arrive at thickening?" "By using the definitions for nibida and nibhrita, of course." I said. "But the use of 'nibida nibhrita' for a moonlit night is odd. One associates the adjectives with darkness, moonless nights maybe."

"Your definitions might be different than Bengali usage, Lali." I shook my head. "Not likely, these are tatsama words. The meaning won't change all that much, and I can prove it to you." I wandered over to the shelves and consulted my dictionaries.

"Nibida means density, thickness, that which is strong and firm. Nibhrita means wholeness, stillness, secrecy, that which is hidden, that which is not clear, that which is alone and low key and steadfastness." I recited, translating the Telugu words as I read.

"So how does this sound? You will dwell in silence in my heart like the still night in her moonlit secrecy?"

"Mamo jeebano joubano, mamo akhilo bhubano tumi bharibey gourabey nisheethini samo," he sang.

"My youth and life, my whole universe, you will enrich with nobility like the night."

"Lame," I said. "And why turn the order of the words around? My life, my prime and my entire world, you will make exalted, like the night, that night…"

"Hmm, why world, why not universe?" "Because bhuvana means world, not universe. That would be vishva."

"Jaagibey Ekaaki tabo karuNo aankhi, tabo anchalo chhaayaa morey rohibey dhaaki," he sang.

"You know, I never liked this verse." I said. True, this verse always jarred in the song. It is out of place with rest of the song's sentiment, and changes the mood. If the rest of the song is avowal, this is supplication.

"I always thought this was tacked on because there needed to be four verses, asthaayi, antara, sanchari and abhog. George-da sang it like sanchari, too, repeating the beginning.

"You will alone stay awake with your kind eyes and enfold me in your anchal, this sounds so awkward after the first two verses."

"Um, wakeful, alone, your benevolent gaze will hold me enwrapped in the shadow of your drape, like the night, that night… Right, this is plea, not pledge," I said.

"But George-da used to sing the words jaagibey Ekaaki with such depth of loneliness." "Yeah, he made it haunting."

"Mamo duhkho beydano, mamo saphalo swapano tumi bharibey sourabhey nisheethini samo," he sang.

"Sourabh is the root for surabhi, is it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Sourav is the ex-captain, sourabha is fragrance and that which is agreeable, and surabhi is a wish-granting cow. Nothing to do with each other." I said. He snorted.

"Isn't there a version that reads sakala svapna?" I asked.

"There is, but that doesn't make sense. The contrast of sadness and pain with fulfilled dreams makes better sense. George-da sang it as saphalo shapano, anyhow."

"My grief, my pain and my dreams come true, you will suffuse with fragrance, like the night, that night…" I offered.

"Tumi rabey neerabey hridayey mamo," he sang. And I sang along.

Cheers!