Time flows like Vedic chants,

Touching eternity with the essence of change.

By its mystical influence, the drama of seasons unfolds…

Debashree Chakraborty, a renowned novelist and poetess from Kolkata, shares her poetry

Debashree Chakraborty, hailing from Kolkata, West Bengal, India began her literary journey through Little Magazine. In 2022, she received the Bibhutibhushan Smriti Puraskar for her novel Meera, based on the life of Mirabai. She has a passion for writing historical and research-based literature. In addition to contributing to various newspapers and magazines in both Bangladesh and India, she also runs her own theater group, Aurum Natuya. Some of her most renowned works include Lal Chinar Pata, Sethay Charan Pore Tomar, Meera, Bismritir Darpaner Bishwarup, Vishwambhav Neemanjir Antardhan, 1937 Nanking, 1984: Sardar Gaddar Hey!, Afghanistan, Bhanga Shikara, Dorshoner Sekal O Ekal, Trikon, Ami Pakistaner Ek Hindu Meye O Onyanyo Golpo, Arkakshetra Ubach, 1946 Kojagori Purnima, Maharaja Dahir Sen, and Maharani Didda. Her novel Maharaja Dahir Sen has been translated into Sindhi and published in book form in Sindh Province, Pakistan.

Seasonal Colors

Time flows like Vedic chants,

Touching eternity with the essence of change.

By its mystical influence, the drama of seasons unfolds;

Yet, cursed by time, I remain exiled to Ramgiri’s peaks.

You revel in the ecstasy of creation on your grand stage,

While my wounds, carved with the colors of separation,

Paint an intricate canvas—

And amid the dance of performers,

The music of my sighs flows unseen.

 

Time rushes, whirling endlessly—

In my final, desperate attempt to reclaim you,

I place my trembling hands upon the river’s currents.

The waters, touched by our longing,

Burn in the wildfire of summer,

Forming a newly sculpted Sahara.

To the trembling beats of my wounded heart,

A bereft Bedouin hums a tune—

A strange, sorrowful melody—

That awakens warm mirages in the dark,

Shadowed with invisible scars upon the Sufi sands.

 

Around my lonely hut stands a grove of sal trees,

Beside my weary head rests the pale, dying moon,

And near it, a hanging manuscript—

A poetry book inscribed upon sal leaves,

Encircled by the beckoning hum of cloud-borne bees.

The rain, having touched you,

Falls upon my sal-leaf verses,

Immortalizing them in its silver script.

 

Where nerves stretch like intricate sheuli vines

Beyond the deep, swaying fields of kash grass,

I drift into the moat of floating clouds.

I know my grave is not far—

Upon the waves of sacrifice, my consciousness drifts.

Not far now—

The scent of new harvests,

Fallen from the beak of an absentminded crow,

Clings to my skin,

And upon the bed of fallen sal-leaf verses,

I take refuge in my eternal rest.

You have forgotten,

And left your cloud-painted brush beside my grave.

Does the sleepless, mourning lover still see Kalidasa?

***

Meghdoot Once Again

Today, clouds have gathered over the Shipra River,

I know that within moments,

Their scent, like musk,

Will spread across the entire city of Ujjayini.

The Kalidasa and Mallika of that day are no more,

No one searches for them anymore.

Sometimes, Kalidasa, musk, and Mallika

Reunite only through the messenger of clouds.

 

With my feet submerged in the fierce currents of the Shipra,

I sent the great cloud as a messenger.

Once in several light-years, such miraculous

Events take place.

Those whose love once wrapped Ujjayini

In the fragrance of musk—

Kalidasa’s creation now plays the role of the messenger once again.

 

On the stage, some characters repeat themselves,

But I do not know if Mallika’s return is possible.

Wait, wait! In this flood of monsoon,

Who are they?

Whose entwined corpses the Shipra carries away?

__________