~~Gnop Churi~~ by Sukumar Roy

I’ve always liked this Bengali poem by Sukumar Roy. So am posting the same kabita for my sisters and for all those bongs who can’t read bangla script.

For Non Bongs who would like to know what this poem is all about.. chk the translated version below.. ofcourse it doesn't sound as hillarious as the original....

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Gnop (mustache) Churi

Head officer boro babu lokti boro shanto,

Tar je emon mathar baiymo keyo kokhono janto?

Dibbi chilen khoshmejaje chairkhani chepe
Ekla boshe jhimjhimiye hotat gelen khepe!

Aattke uthe hath pa chure chokti kore gol,
Hotat bolen “gelum gelum, amay dhore tol!”

Tayi sune keyo boddi dake, keyo ba hake police,
Keyo ba bole, “kamre debe sabdhanete tulish”.

Baisto sobai adeek odeek korchea ghoraghuri,
Babu haaken, “oore aamar gnop giyechea churi”.

Gnop harano! Ajob kotha! Tayo hoye satti?
Gnop jora to temni aache, komeni ek ratti.

Sobai mile bujhiye bole, samne dhore aayna,
Moteo gnop hoyeni churi, kokhonno ta hoye na.

Rege aagun tail a begun, tere bolen tini
“karo kothar dhar dharini, soob beta ki chini.
Nongra chata, khangra jhata bichiri aar moyela,
Emon gnop to rakhto jani shyambabuder goyla.
A gnop jodi aamar bolish korbo toder jobai….”

Aaee na bole jorimana korlen tini sobhai.
Bhison rege bishom kheye dilane likhe khataye…

“Kayuke beshi layi dite nayi, sobai chore mathaye.
Officer ae badorgulo, mathaye khali goobor,
Gauf jora je kothaye gelo, keyo rakhe na khobor!
Echea kore ae baitader gauf dhore khub naachi,
Mukkhugulor mundu dhore kodal diye chanchi.

Gaufke bole aamar tomar – gauf ki karo kena?
Gaufer aami gaufer tumi, Gauf diye jaye chena!”

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The English Version:

Mustache Thievery (translated by Prasenjit Gupta)

Head Officer Chief Babu was a very peaceful man--
And then he turned mental--who knew how it began?
He sat drowsing in his chair, smiling a happy smile
When suddenly, it seemed, something drove him wild.

He leapt up and flung his arms about, his eyes red as brick,
He shouted out, “I’m lost, I’m lost, do save me quick!”
Some ran for a doctor, some yelled “Police!” with all their might,
Some advised restraint: “Careful, he could bite!”

Everyone was rushing frantic, leaving letters untyped--
Then the Babu cried, “Oh help, my mustache has been swiped.”
Lost his mustache? Incredible! How could it be?
But his handlebars were just the same, plain for all to see.

They tried to explain things, held a mirror to his face:
His whiskers weren’t stolen, that couldn’t be the case.
But angry as fire, an eggplant in hot oil, he sputtered and shook:
“I don’t believe a single man, I know each of you crooks.

Dirty and ragged, an over-used broom--an obvious pretender!--
This kind of mustache was kept by Shyambabu’s milk vendor.
I’ll shoot the whole lot! if you say this mustache is mine.”
And right away he proclaimed for all a rather hefty fine.

Getting hotter by the minute, he wrote and underlined in red:
“Give anyone an inch of rope, they’ll climb up on your head.
These monkeys at the office, with brains of dung and hay--

Where my perfect mustache went, not one of them can say.

I should grab their whiskers and dance them up and down
Or shave their sorry heads with a spade upon their crown.
They claim the mustache is mine--as though it’s something you can own!

The mustache owns the man, my friend--that’s how we all are known.”