Man (Poem By Kazi Nazrul Islam)

I sing the song of equality— There is nothing greater than man, More majestic than man. There is no difference of country, age and person; No partition in religion and caste; Man is man's kinsman throughout all ages In all countries, in every house. ‘O worshiper, open the door! The god of hunger is at your doorstep And it's the time to worship! ' Awakened by such a dream, The agitated priest opened the door of temple. Surely, he might be a king today With the boon of god, he thought. A wayfarer with shabby dress Whose body was thin And hungry voice was feeble, Said, ‘Open the door, o Father; I have been hungry for seven days.' Suddenly the temple got closed; Went back the hungry man. It was dark night; The gem of his hunger burnt on his way. The hungry man said loudly, ‘O God! That temple Belongs to the priest, not to you.' Yesterday there was sweetmeat at mosque; Immense meat and bread remained uneaten; So, the mollah was overjoyed. That very moment, a traveler came Wearing shabby dress And said, ‘O Father, I have been unfed for seven days.' Getting annoyed, the mollah said, ‘What a botheration! You are hungry—then die Going to the ground for dumping dead cows! O chap, do you say your prayers? ' The hungry traveler said, `No, Father! ' The mollah shouted, ‘Then o rascal, get out! ' Carrying meat and bread, He locked the door of mosque. The hungry traveler went back And said walking, ‘O God! I have lived for eighty years And never called upon you. Yet you have never deprived me Of my food. Now in your mosque and temple There is no right of man. Mollah and priest Have locked all their doors.' Where are you, O Genghis, Mahmud of Ghazni And Kala Pahar? Break down all the locked doors Of the house of worship! Who shuts the doors of the house of God? Who puts locks on them? All its doors will remain unlocked— Strike them with hammers and crowbars. O the House of God, The hypocrites sing of the victory Of their self-interest Climbing over your minaret! Having hated human beings, Who are they Kissing the Quran, The Vedas, The Bible? Fie! What a shame! Snatch away those scriptures by force From their mouths. The hypocrites worship books By killing those who have, in fact, Brought these books on earth! O the ignorant, listen: It is man who has brought the books, Books have not brought any man. Adam, David, Jesus, Moses, Abraham, Mohammad, Krishna, Buddha, Nanak, Kabir— All are the treasures of the world; They are our forefathers; Their blood, more or less, runs through our veins. We are their children, kinsmen— We are of the same body; Who knows when some of us may become Like them! Don't laugh, my friend! The self within me Is fathomless and infinite; Do I know or does any body know Who the great exists in me? Perhaps Kalki is emerging in me, Mahdi and Jesus in you; Who knows what is one's limit or origin? Who can find one's trace? Whom do you hate, O brother, Whom do you kick? Perhaps God resides day and night Within his heart! Or prhaps he is nothing— Not great, not of high esteem; He is just covered with filth, badly wounded And burning in the flame of sorrow; Yet all the holy books And the houses of worship of the world Are not as holy as that tiny body of him! Perhaps in his semen, In his cottage Someone will be born Unmatched in the history of the world. Perhaps he, who will deliver such a speech The world has not yet heard And whose great power The world has not yet witnessed, Is coming in his house! Who is he? A Chandal? Why do you startle? He is no despicable being. He may be Harishchandra Or Shiva of crematorium. Today he is Chandal, Tomorrow he may be a great yogi-emperor; You will come to him with offerings And sing of his eulogy. Whom do you neglect as a shepherd? That negligence Plays on someone's flute. Perhaps Gopal of Brojo has come In a shepherd's disguise. You hate a man for his being a peasant! Observe whether father Balarama Has come in a peasant's disguise. All the prophets were the shepherds of lambs; They ploughed too, And those very men Carried the eternal messages That exist till now And will exist for ever. Every day begging men and women Turn away from each door; Perhaps Bholanath and Girijaya Came among them— We could not recognize. You were in fear that you might lose Your wealth if you gave alms; Therefore, you made your doorman Beat the beggar And thus you chased away a god. Those beatings are recorded; Who knows whether you are forgiven By the humiliated goddess! O friend, your bosom is full of greed, Your two eyes are full of self-interest; Otherwise you could see The god became a coolie to serve you. O beast, will you plunder the god Within a man's heart And the nectar churned out of his pain To appease your hunger? Your Mandodari the food of your hunger Knows well, in which location of your palace Lies your death-arrow. O beast, through the ages, Your desire-queen has dragged you Into your death-holes. 03 0.3.2016 Sirajganj