DEDICATED TO MY VERY VERY LEARNED FRIEND WHOM I MET AT THE PARK.

Sukumar Ray's Bujhiye Bola.

Can any one please supply me a good translation of the Poem “Bujhiye Boal” ( Abol Tabol) by Sukumar Ray (father of Satyajit Ray).? Here is a very humble and very very poor attempt by me :

Hey Shyamadas, come here, sit by my side,

I shall make ye understand that topic, five minutes you bide.

Running a fever? It’s a lie ! It’s your trick,

Didn’t I hear you shouting just now? Am I deaf ?

Sick is your uncle? Going to the doctor?

Better go in the afternoon to the physician,

Or, for your uncle, I can write you a prescription.

I shall, any how, make ye understand the theme,

If you don’t, a pile into your head shall I hammer in.

Which topic? Blown it to the winds? Forgot all about it?

At Bishtu Ghosh’s portico what was I telling yesternight?

Ok. You remember it well. Hearing again is no harm,

You give me slip now-a-days. Evading me; I charm.

Ok. Ok. What’s the hurry ? Sit on the mat. Shall start discussing,

These youngsters of modern days are always busy for nothing.

How is that ? Why did you sit? Take down the books from the rack,

When you are here, is it fair that I bend my back ?

Be careful, pass it on, let me hold. Good for nothing you are,

What a mess ! Why did you bring the dictionary down here ?

Enough is enough. Now, sit here beside my bed,

Gopal ! ask khendi to send a few pieces of betel leaves made.

What was I saying, that from atoms to gross, the matter

It means a stir at the root of the five elements of nature.

At the beginning, start your search to find how and where

The juice is formed at the roots of the tree of this universe.

Take it that a ray of the sun falls here on the grass

And the moon’s rays also fall just beside on the same mass.

What’s that? Why are you yawning now ? It’s early yet.

Looking at the sky. My words are not entering your head, I bet.

What did ye say? My words, all bogus, meaningless prattle?

To make a meaning you need some matter grey inside your skull.

It is cowdung inside your skull becoming fuel for the oven,

Inside that blunt dullhead, subtle ideas are impossible to be driven.

Oh Shyamadas ! Why are you getting up? Giving me a slip,

When you don’t want to hear it at all, why make this trip ?

I shout but nobody listens to my axiomatic lectures,

To make you follow, I wish, I could catch you all by your ears.

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