Abanindranath Tagore’s Apan Katha in English Translation
By Subhamay Ray | July 28, 2009
Abanindranath was a writer too, and he excelled in Bengali prose writing. His important works include a number of story-books like Shakuntala and Kshirer Putul and books on art such as Bageswari Shilpa Prabandhabali. In Apan Katha he paints with an artist’s brush pictures of his early childhood. With much fondness and tender affection he dwells on his nostalgic reminiscences about his ancestral home, the Tagore House at Jorasanko in Kolkata, and traces the development of the artist in him.
I have been reading with delight a translation of his Reminiscences (Apan Katha in the original Bengali).
Publisher: Indian Publishing House, 93 A, Lenin Sarani, Kolkata 700013, India
Telephone: +91-33-22444265
E-mail: indianpress@alliancekolkata.com
A few excerpts :
Rows of bevelled pillars stood in pitch-dark night. In between such rows could be seen our small room at the north-east corner of the second floor. An oil-lamp was burning at one corner. Thick curtains made of coarse material covered all the three windows to shut out the cold. A high bedstead canopied by a coarse green mosquito-net stretched nearly all over the room. So high was the door leading into the room that the lamplight did not reach its top. Beside the door there was an iron chest and right in front of it a stake of about three arms’ length pierced through the floor and stood there rather awkwardly. It seemed to have no reason to be there just in the middle of the room. Leaning on it was a boy of about half its length. On top of the stake there was a small hole like a square niche. I felt like peeping through the hole, but, alas! It was far beyond me. Sitting close to the light, I could see my maid Padma pouring and re-pouring hot milk with a silver spoon to cool it. Her dark arm was rising and falling rhythmically. It was all quiet around but for the sound of milk being poured. Looking at the swing of the maid’s dark arm I wished I could reach and stand on the high bedstead. Far beyond the curtain and near the stable gate was the room of Nanda farash , where lame Noto was playing on his violin and muttering in Hindi—one, two, three and four. Getting hint of the hour my maid came, put some half-cooled milk into my gullet and placing me in between three pillows began to whisper a lullaby. The swing of both the song and the stroke of her dark hands slowly and softy dropped me into downy sleep.
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Farash—A servant whose duty is to make beds, light lamps, dust furniture, etc.
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