The Mujibnama: Book 1

The Mujibnama An Epic on Sheikh Mujib, the Father of Nation by Sayeed Abubakar Translation in English: Sayeed Abubakar Book 1 It was a hero who roared like thunder With the voice of a lion on the seventh March of Nineteen Hundred Seventy One, At the Racecourse Ground of Dhaka, saying: 'The people of Bengal want to get free; The people of Bengal want to live; the People of Bengal want to have their rights'; He, like Prometheus, nourished into His two eyes the dream of stealing fire From Paradise and had a pain within His bosom for the disgraced and oppressed People of his motherland which surged up Like the flood-tide of its thousand rivers. It was a hero as green as trees who Roared like Royal Bengal Tiger on the Seventh March of Nineteen Hundred Seventy One bathing in the silvery light of The blazing Sun at the Racecourse Ground of Dhaka, saying: 'The struggle for this time Is the struggle of liberation; the Struggle for this time is the struggle of Independence'; In his voice people heard The tiger-tone of Haji Shariatullah, Lion-man Isha Khan of Sonargaon and Mansur-ul-Mulk Siraj ud-Daulah, the Last independent Nawab of Bengal; Spreading the cool shade of Banyan tree All around, touching the blue sky with the Firm head of Nazrul, it was a hero Who at the Racecourse Ground of Dhaka, in The fire-shedding March of Nineteen Hundred Seventy One, having stolen the voice Of Thunder asleep, uttered the call to Get free; the crowd found in his large forehead Lighting like stars the blood-stained flower-like Souls of Sher-e-Bangla A K Fazlul Haque, Abdul Hamid Khan Bhashani, Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy and All the language-martyrs of Nineteen Hundred Fifty Two; I am one of his sons Afflicted with grief, the last poet of this Century, born at Ramvodrapur in Keshabpur Upazilla of Jessore District; I have stood here with a heart as Broken as an earthen jar having a Desire to sing his song. I will sing of His victory, by whose name my country Gets awake everyday and by whose call The sleep of whole Bengal was suddenly Broken one day, the song of liberty Started ringing even on the lips of The wing-broken magpies and in the long Run, a blood-wet wonder-flower got bloomed In the garden of earth named Bangladesh; Bangladesh—the most beautiful homeland Of mine—whose legends have been written on The page of Age with the letters of gold. I know, O God, the leaves of trees do not Shake without your order; by your command, The Sun provides its light tirelessly from One corner to another corner of Earth every day in the same way; by your Command, flowers spread fragrance in air and Birds sing in forests; for your kindness, so Bright is the Moon, rivers are so wavy, Erect are the Himalayas, oceans Are so full of water, the pillarless Sky is so blue, green are the forests and This soil is so productive—all are so By your mercy; your benevolence has Made the flowers beautiful and the fruits Tasty; who has such strength, can step a foot On earth without your warm kindness? He, on Whom you take pity, survives on the page Of time getting immortal; all other Names get obliterated easily Like the letters written on the water Of sea. If you smile on someone with your Pity, even though he is a slave, he Becomes the king; and if you get angry With someone, even though he is a king, He, getting beggar, begs from door to door. Which way the Sun after day bows down in Fear in front of you, and which way the full Moon at the end of night sinks with bowing Head and with eyes full of tears into your Eternity, the same way, o God, my Existence has stumbled upon your feet Like a betel-nut tree broken by storm; If you give light, I will be enlightened, By that light my poem will dazzle the Eyes of the whole world like the white moonlight Of Autumn; if you give me strength, my verse Following the path of Milton, Dante and Homer will walk on the bosom of Eternity; if you get pleased with me, I, too, clasping the hand of my father epic-poet Madhusudan, will cross The impassable ocean of epic. The resolve I have made in this morning, O the most glorious, is known to you; And I know, without your mercy, no hope Is possible to be fulfilled and no Expedition gets successful; I will Sing of his ballad who is the greatest Son of the great Bengali nation in Thousand years, by whose bright declaration The Sun of independence which had set Suddenly at Plassey in Seventeen Hundred Fifty Seven peeped again in The sky of Bengal, by whose beckoning Of finger the shackles of hundred year Slavery were broken miraculously And the whole nation started dancing in Pleasure. I will sing of his ballad which Way Valmiki filled the air of earth with The hymn of Rama. Give melody in My voice; and let my soul bask in the fierce Sunshine which fetches bright morning on earth Piercing the darkness of night; and pour down Great infatuation of poesy Maddened with patriotism into my eyes. Whose mother is ugly on earth? Mothers Are as holy as Paradise, dear and Beautiful to their children. In the same Way, motherlands are dear to all men. Whose heart does not get cool looking at the Face of motherland? Whose eyes do not get Wet in the hard times of own country? The Green shepherd too, who grazes cattle on The withered desert sings of the beauty Of his homeland. The starving peasant too, Doing Jhum cultivation with skinny Body at the bottom of the rough hill, Sings of the glory of his birthplace with Joy. Alas! Who is the stone-hearted one Whose two eyes do not get filled with tears on The foreign land remembering own land? Who is the barbarian that makes an Illicit affair with wanton woman Violating the chastity of his Motherland? On one side, there was The last brightest Sun of Bengal, Bihar And Orissa, Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah; On the other side, there was the trap of Conspiracy made by Ghaseti Begum, Mir Jafar, Jagat Seth and the foreign Pirate Robert Clive; the cumulus of Danger were spread everywhere. The well-watered, well-fruitful, well-fertile Eden-like Bengal, green with abundant corn Fell in danger again and again for Her beauty and riches, which way a deer's Foe is its flesh and a beautiful girl's Danger is her own beauty. In the past, The notorious Maratha cavalry Came here to loot Bengal's all property. The Mughals came here; Man Singh, the robber, Invaded the paddy-fields of Isha Khan with his men. But Isha Khan the great Responded courageously by breaking Down the sword of Man Singh. Later came the White bears in Bengal to devour the people Sleeping in peace. To devour tearing its Whole map, they gathered well-armed at Plassey. The trumpet of war started blowing with A great noise. On one side, there stood the self- Sacrificing patriots; on the other Side, there stood the selfish hungry foreign Beasts white in color; between them, there were A few indigenous ugly vultures. O Bengal, the beautiful native land Of mine, holy motherland! Again and Again, what a distress descends on your Lot! When were you free of foes? Tell me when The venomous cobra of misfortune Did not bite your son Lakhindar! By which Curse, tell, you are the daughter of sorrow Of earth, O beautiful Banga! Your sons Who were blessed with milk and rice became Again slaves by the irony of fate. The Sun of Independence set in the Ocean of Time, depth of which was about Two hundred years. All the clouds of the sky Of Bengal turned black in shame for the red Blood of Siraj; the sun-rays wearing the Burial cloth entered into graves; and A few black cats and all the owls of night Sitting into the dense compact darkness Started mewing with cry. O Bengal, my Pretty land, holy mother, my birth-place! Who loves to live in the blind iron-cage? Who does not want a free life? All the birds Living in the forests spread sweet notes of Peace in the air hiding the treasure of Freedom within souls. How freely all the Fishes of seas move from one water-home To another water-home! The little Ants, very insignificant on earth, Lead what a free life keeping their Backbones erect! Living with the tigers In forests, the calm deer, too, run with a Great joy as free as sun-rays. Only the Peaceful people of Bengal draw the yoke Of slavery like bulls in the fields of Life for the irony of fate. Within Their eyes, nevertheless, there played the dim Red light of the setting sun of the lost Independence and within their bosom There played the pain of losing liberty Like the pain of Orpheus after losing His beloved Eurydice. That pain of Love became solid, took the shape of clouds And surrounded the whole country. When those Clouds collapsed down upon earth with the sound Of Israfil's trumpet, there roared a storm Terrible and destructive. In that fierce Storm, the throne of British empire was flown Like the dry leaves of trees. It seemed Bengal Became free; the branches and green leaves of The lives of people with delight started Oscillating in the wind of freedom. But, alas! Who knew, those who were beside Us as brothers were sore enemies, our Killers! They filled the bosom of Bengal With murder, death, plundering, oppression And brutality. The irritated Mob came out on the high ways to protest. What a dragon came on this land— First, he devoured her economy, wealth and might; Then he devoured the blood of Bengalis and the dignity of women; still his Hunger remained unsatisfied! At last, He desired to pierce the heart of men and Then to eat up their dreams, ambition, hope, Emotion and fancy. Eating up their Mother tongue, he planned to kill this nation Physically and spiritually. With the poisonous nails of that dragon, The language-eater, the high ways of Dhaka became besmeared with the blood of Innocent young men of Bengal who loved Their mothers, mother-tongue and motherland. In such a cloudy day, the whole nation Waited with eager eyes, which way in an Agitated ocean the passengers Stared helplessly towards the face of their Boatman and screamed aloud uttering the Name of God; as if it were a roaring River, on whose growling waves stumbled down A tempest, falling into its trap a Helpless boat is swinging to and fro and Its passengers are crying loudly saying: `Help! Help! ' because the helmsman of their boat Is an enemy. At last, he who was The savior of the perplexed nation Came in front and roared like a lion; by that Roar, the whole country trembled, as if in a Earthquake; hearing it, the corrupted Souls of the enemies trembled in fear Which way the leaves of a banyan tree Tremble. He came which way the Sun piercing The night comes in the east sky; he came which Way after an intolerable long Load-shedding, electricity comes back In the hot nights of Summer; he came which Way a brief shower comes like cool peace on The torn heart of burnt soil in the month of Choitra. All the Bengalis, from Teknaf To Tetulia, from the shore of the Kapatakkha river to that of the Surma, the Punarbhaba, the Meghna And the Jamuna, welcomed him with a Great joy filling the air with applause and Fire-shedding slogans, bowing down their heads Before him. Then they dressed his neck with a Garland and wrote `Bangabandhu', the gold- Name, on his broad forehead with immense love. [Corronation Episode: Book 1]