POETRY OF – JIBANANANDA DAS :

A STUDY IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF WORLD LITERATURE

Subhabrata Ghosh Hazra

With five volumes of poetry, Jhara Palak (1928, Dhusar Pandculipi

(1936, Banalata Sen (1942, Mahaprithibi (1944), Sat – ti – Tarar Timir (1948)
when living and five volumes of poetry often his death – Rupasi Bangla
(1957), Bela – Abela – Kalbela (1961), Suddarshana (1973, (Mon Bihangam)
(1979), Alo Prithibi (1982) - and Jibananda Daser Shreshtha Kabita1 (1954)
going for many reprints eminently evidence and endorse the increasing
popularity and greatness of Jibanananda Das as a poet – as a poet of
heart, hearth and earth, as a poet of Bengal, India and the world. Writing
poetry with a distinction of his own both in terms of the innovative use
of the creative medium and in terms of poetic vision–in a period when
Tagore’s influence and eminence was felt enormously in Bengal and
India, - Jibanananda Das has become today a legend and an institution.
This paper is an attempt to re–read Jibanananda Das’s poetry so as
to identify and locate the recondite richness, essence and more
poignantly, the relevance of his poetry in the national and global context
today. Jibanananda Das mentions in the foreword 2 to his Shrestha Kabita
that it is a very arduous task for the contemporary critics and readers to
evaluate the greatness or richness of a living poet; and that his true
genius and creative talent can be felt and realized only after the poet’s
death. Perhaps Jibanananda Das was too modest and humble when he
wrote these lines for it was during his life–time only that he had earned
critical acclaim and recognition as a poet of significance.
The poetry of Jibanananda Das, when critically examined, unravels
a mystery–the mystery of his growth, coupled with the maturity of his
vision as a poet. Their remains another level of change and development
in his poetry, in terms of his style, involving the patterning of images
drawn from variegated modes of existence and nature. Thus, one
evidences a steady growth and maturity, both in terms of meaning,
vision and form or structure in Jibanananda Das’s poetry. Recognizing
this growth is important in so far as we try to signify his position in the
perspective of world literature.
If in the first three volumes, one encounters in Jibanananda and
incorrigible Romantic, in most other volumes one comes face to face with
a poet who is very much modern and contemporary. He is a Romantic
with a difference because he disapproves of the escapist fantasy. Of all
the English Romantic poets, it is Keats with whom Jibanananda shares
his vision–not merely as a poet of beauty but as a poet sensitive to the
clarion calls of senses. Nature in its multiple forms and shades not only
draws the attention of poet, but also generates an enlivening, animating
spirit to live by unfolding layers and layers of meaning. A poet who can
feel; the embrace of the earth in darkness. (Shreshtha Kabita p.16), who can
view the dawn in the bundle of paddy(p.18),who can taste the affliction
of death in the absence of the lady love (p. 23), who can indefatigably
sing the song of “love and thirst” (p. 27), who can listen to the sound of
dew–drops falling from the nipples of the paddy (p. 26), who can
perpetuate his song bearing the scent of the primordial night’s darkness
(p.40) who can inhale the scent of the bird- wings afloat in all directions
(p. 42), who can have the flavour of the soil soaked in love (p. 42), who
can traverse across the landscape strewn with the heap of the withered
leaves (p. 46), who an internalize the coldness of a young girl’s rice–
washing wet hands (p. 47), who can never afford to miss the blue of the
sky, who can never fail to listen to the cries of the kite or owl; who is in
love with the green, white, yellow, dark, gray, blue, red, who is sensitive
to light and darkness, to crowd and loneliness – can obviously, without
any prejudice be called a Romantic. But Jibanananda is more sensitive,
more open–eyed, open- hearted than a Romantic. He makes neither any

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attempt to deify nature, nor to transport himself to the idealized world
beyond it by the viewless wings of poesy or charioted by Bachus. But a
Rousseauesque innocence and purity pervades through Das’s world of
nature that can not only sanction solace to the wounded but also can
enrich him with an elixir of ecstasy which excites a sense of perpetuity in
him. Like a Romantic he celebrates multiple dimensions of nature, but
unlike a Romantic, Das retains his own identity, without making any
vain attempt to negate it, kill it or silence it. He loves the self or the being
within and bears an infinite frenzy for celebrating it. In “Bodh”, Das
writes:
“Abandoning all gods
I whirl back to this being”3 (p.22)

He is forlorn not because the idealized bird nightingale has gone

disappeared with its enthralling song into the distances, but because of
the realization of the fact that a poet’s aloneness is creative. This
realization is instrumental to the assertion of Das’s self or self–hood. He
interrogates to know the reason, but for Das, the interrogation in itself is
a mode of affirmation to the inevitable condition of every individual.
“Why then am I so alone?
Yet I’m all alone.” (p.20)
He does not keep himself busy in theorizing what imagination is to
the creative writer. Nor does he worry much in defining and designing
the boundaries of imagination and fancy. The immediacy and urgency
with which his creative medium orchestrates; the shifts in image –
pattern manifests, the organizational role that imagination, plays in
frutioning; the creative process. He disallows imagination to play the
central role in his creative art. This centrality he grants to life alone, that
moulds and modulates imagination that reinforces and refines
imagination.

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 Life for Das is neither a cosy couch, grass – soft and luxurious, nor
a bed of thorns where he bleeds. Experiencing the fleeting nature of time,
the changed and changing surroundings, Das is wounded time and
again, but he never loses the intrinsic strength to his heart to live longer,
to know life and its meaning more meaningfully. Life attunes him to
realize and celebrate his sense of mortality. Das remains every inch a
poet of life – amid the jostling city crowd, as well as in his love–lorn
loneliness, amid the dark spread of owl’s wings and in the sun’s
brightness. It is for him not a tale told by an idiot, nor a mid–summer
night’s dream, nor even a mystery or a riddle, but a realizable, feeling
phenomenon that has to entail the burdens of time and change. In
“Manuser Mrityu Hole”, (p. 140 -1 42) Das’s assertion on the reassuring
sense of perpetuity of life often reminds one of Walt Whitman and Pablo
Neruda. Das believes in the authenticity of this perpetuity that allows
only an individual to accept the constitution of silence but permits others
to prolong the procession of breath. Neruda once wrote in Extravagaria:
“I’m the Professor of life
And a very vague student of death”.
Whitman in “Song of Myself” argues strongly that death is
instrumental to carrying the body to the tomb, but the body remains
green on the grass growing above the tomb. This undaunted willingness
to celebrate life in totality, this uncloyed passion to immortalize life in its
mortality, this reassuring faith in the richness variety and vivacity of life,
make Das as a poet with an immaculate earth – bound vision which
makes him simg in “Prithibite Ei” (p. 150): “Yet to be born on this earth is
better”.
The poet’s protest against the process of urbanization,
industrialization and the emerging decadence and the emptiness of the
age remind one of Eliot’s ‘’Wasteland’’. In “Prithibilok” Das depicts a
blank desertion and an invisible fear:

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 Far and near, only the cities,
the houses collapse; the sound of villages
collapsing, breaking in only heard.
The mortals have spent many ages
on this earth, yet their shadows on the wall
seem to be only the reflection
of their loss, death, fear and wilderness.
Except this vacancy, this emptiness,
nothing else is on the bank of time. (p.83)
Similarly in 1946 – 1947 (p. 135 – 139; the disillusioned poet
discovers only a grim, bleak, dark world where the souls of men and
women get constantly afflicted, get patched and pealed in the soundless,
deathless darkness. The poet realizes that bereft of love and light, the
earth is ridden with uneasy, uncanny fear of death and loneliness.
This joy of being born in the human form and this ecstasy of being
alive to the vistas of life make Jibanananda a seeker of life’s invincible
totality. This zest for life takes him to the bucolic grandeur of the rustic
landscape. It also takes him to the crowded city – spaces, replete with
selfishness and multiple hungers. He realizes that the unhalted rhythm
of life comprehends darkness and light, sorrow and joy, reality and
dream, hope and its unfulfilment, innocence and complexity. He is
wounded time and again because of the changing scenario in the world.
As he matures as a poet, he cannot remain blind to the harsh and drab
realities that circumscribe the fence of life and living. In “Laghu Muhurta”
(p. 98 – 100) Das depicts problems of life in clear–cut terms. Through
multiple images he tries to harp on the cash–nexus that governs man’s
relationship with all other men. In “Janantike” (p. 110 – 112) Das ruefully
delineates the contemporary life.
Countless machines all around,
and in assuming to be independent and free
before the god of machine,
man is indiscipline as yet.
A mere glance at the light of the day
reveals how man is wounded,
how he gets killed and stilled. (p. 110 – 111)

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 The poet’s sense of unease and disenchantment intensifies in the
disappearance of peace and solace from the world. The agonized poet
laments:
Nowhere on the earth there’s solace today,
since long peace has been lost.
No nest near some bird – like heart.
Nor even birds
If man’s heart is not woken by calling it
as the dawn, bird and spring–time, how can one
introduce man today. (p. 110).
Das is a poet of heart, of heart’s invisible but expansive horizon.
He is perpetually in search of humid, human hearts, peace, solace and a
secured shelter. In the absence of civilizing and humanizing aspects of
life, the poet is asphyxiated, wounded time and again. In “Bibhinna
Korus” the poet painfully observes: “Even then, there’s no love anywhere
after so long” (p. 115). In “Eikhane Surjyar”, the poet once again reiterates
his quest for love like all great thinkers of the world. But he is
disappointed and wounded, because the world has been infected by lust
for power. He writers:
“When the World War is over,
the shadow of yet another war, hovers, once again” (p. 129)
The poet is a seeker of equality, but like George Orwell he realizes
that there are some who are more equal than others. Uneasy burdens of
the reality thwart the poet’s hope for a better world. The world today is a
changed one. It is selfish to the core, war–torn, brutish, and unkind. The
poet characterizes this world with all his bitterness about it:
“It seems it’s better to drown in the darkness
Here in this earth’s exhausted and unquiet margin
of the country, there are strange people here.
No emperor, no – commander they have,
None to preside over their hearts”. (p. 123)
His deep–seated concern for the depraved the poor and the sick
impel sick to sing:
Here there are beds – but not too many.
Perhaps the hospital’s beds are not for those

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 Who don’t own luxurious houses. (p.124)
His sympathies are with those who sleep on the pavements,
for those who view the sky from the pavements only. The poet thinks of
the well–being of every one on this earth, for he loves life passionately
immaculately.
Even now on the shore of time,
history is half – truth, ridden with lust.
Yet man loves this life, and his mind is aware
Of the meaning of life: everyone’s well – being.
But that auspicious country today is far off.
Emaciated, blind crowd all around –
merely a transitory withdrawal and departure.
After one famine, the arrival of a new famine.
When one war comes to an end
the trumpet for another sounds again.
No end to man’s greed and lust.
No suspension of excitement even during the cycle,
no happiness without illicit union,
No dear wish except turning other’s faces wane.
There’s no other go except ascending the new throne,
greater than the alter one occupies now.
Only man’s grief, pain, falsehood and futility inflate. (pp. 125 –126)

The seeker of light and joy encounters darkness and grief, the
invisible lover of the earth gets perplexed and baffled by the enormity of
darkness. In “Advut Aandhar Ek” he depicts the grim, sad picture of the
world. In such depiction, one always discovers not only a sharp,
sensitive mind of a poet but also a subdued, implicit strain of protest
against those forces which commodity life and reduce man to the status
of a cog in the machine. Das is critical of the changed atmosphere.
Today a wondrous darkness shrouds the world.
Blind are those who can view things clearly,
and in whose hearts there is no love, no affection,
no pulsation of compassion.
The world moves not without their advice.
Those who have a deep confidence in man today,
and even now those presume truth or customs
to be natural or even industry and achievement
their hearts are full of the stuff for vultures and foxes. (p. 152)

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 The poet realizes that “we are all busy in collecting our commission”
(p. 158), and that “we love the breath of the cities and ports” (p. 158). Yet the
poet does not lose his heart; he is hopeful and optimistic. In “Alok Patra”
(p. 163–164) and “Upabdhi” (p. 166–167) one is likely to be fascinated by
the immensity of Das’s optimistic vision. He is certain that this darkness
shall wither away giving birth to light. His faith in times as the healer,
the ultimate redeemer his faith in “the new up surging streams of life” (Alo
Prithibi PP. 167–168) makes Das a seer, a peer and a visionary.
In life constitutes a circle in Jibanananda’s creative consciousness,
love is its center. As an acknowledged poet of heart and love, unaided by
any compulsion to mystify both, Das remains matchless. Love for him is
a solitary signature, a human phenomenon, a subjective experience. It is
rare. It is not available in the sky, among the distant stars, in the sea. In
only finds its shelter in the human heart. It was secretly in the subjective
world of the human hearts. Love adds colour to the life, adds a new
meaning to life. It is a fulfilling experience when reciprocated and a
dampening, disappointing experience when unresponded, neglected,
unreciprocated. In “Nirjan Swakhar” Jibanananda defines the wonder
embedded in the phenomenon called love:
”That is a wonder,
not to be found in the world; no land
it occupies in the sky; the sea water
Knows it not; walking and walking
through night after night to the realm of stars
I never could get it. It only thrives
there in the secret grove of the heart’s alter
of a man and a woman – more silently
than the stars”. (P. 23 – 24).

Love only lives in the unfathomable depth of the human hearts, Das
asserts. Without complex dialectic or logic, and without loading his verse
with the conceits which the Metaphysicals used, Das tries to convince his
lady love about the immensity of his love for her, and the purpose of his

8
songs that would remain after his death to hoist his love. Love being a
subjective phenomenon, retains a captivating capacity to create a private
world of its own. In other words, for Das, love conditions hearts to create
an exclusively private world in which the lovers are inter – assured,
secured. Such exclusivity does not however deter the poet from
unraveling the meaning and essence of life and living. One discovers a
striking similarity, at least on this particular aspect of love’s exclusivity
between Das and Donne. In ‘’Coronization”4 Donne amply justifies this
exclusivity:
Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?
What merchant’s ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out skill
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love
Surely, I’ll go away, yet the immensity of life
would arrest you on the earth on that day.
All my songs indeed are but for you (P. 25).

In “Kampe” the poet harps on his own loneliness in the absence of his
lady love. Listening to the intermittent calls of the female deer and
viewing the wonders of the forest the poet fails to sleep. Attracted by the
calls when the male deer move towards the female deer, the hunters
present in the forest kill them. Similarly the drive towards the flesh or
body attracts men towards women. But the post painfully records how in
this journey, he only treasures pain and finally get skilled:

Bearing within the hope, courage, and dream of love

we live by and get pain, derision and death, don’t we?
…
we are like the dead deer in the spring moon beam. (p. 34).
Similarly in “Tomake Bhalo bese” the poet through an expanded
simile reflects on his eagerness to be united with his lady love:
“I have achieved only the truth of life

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 in a miniscule form: yours and mine communion
on the lotus leaf” (p.134)
Love for him is an ennobling phenomenon, a phenomenon that
brings in refinement. One is at once reminded of Donne’s “Valediction :
Forbidding Mourning”5 where he mentions: “But we by a love so much
refined/That our selves know not what it is”. Love has made him realize the
fleeting nature of time, the transitoriness of life. He sums up this matured
vision endowed on him by love in “Tomake Ami”.
It’s now and here, and it’s not,
life is bereft of rest, it’s fleeting and restless;
cashing a mere glance, the water on the lotus leaf
disappears – this is all that I’ve realized
only by being in love with you. (p. 155)
When the burdens of the real world multiply, agonies abide, and
when no heart is hospitable, the poet in Das gives himself to dreams not
to escape from life but to engender the possibility of a timeless existence.
For Das believes that dreams entail no terminal point, no cessation, no
stillness and death. In “Swapner hate” he gives a justification for giving
himself to dreams:
Because of the world’s hindrances,
Because of this body’s imposing impediments
affliction thickens at the heart; and that’s why
I offer myself to the hands of dreams. (p. 43).
Immortality of dreams – for dreams spring from human heart –
makes the dreamer immortal too. Das writes:
A day’s brightness gets extinguished,
man’s longevity comes to an end,
and the world’s age–old rotation
wipes out his thin line –
but this world of dreams
for ever remains.
Times hand rubs of all else –
and even the span of stars
comes to an end. (p. 45–46)

Such a dreamer weaves a phantasmagoric world of euphoria and

agony in which faces float by, shadows from the past whirl back being

10
animated, being transformed into the real. In such a world one discovers
Banalata Sen (pp. 51–52), Suranjana (p. 56), Sabita (p. 57), Suchetana (p. 58 –
59) a woman who has been “stolen away by stars and not to be given back”
(“Journal: 1346 pp.81 – 83), Sujata (“Loken Bose’r Journal” pp. 131 – 133)
and many other nameless ones. These characters which Das portrays in
his poems are not angels but very much real because of the attributes
they bear in terms of place, situations and their associations. Dream and
reality converge in them giving them a time–tethered and timeless
existence. Banalata Sen is more arresting a character than Cleopatra. Das’s
“Banalata Sen’’ has influenced the celebrated Oriya poets like
Sachidananda Rontray and Guruprasad Mohanty. They tried to create a
similar character in Alaka Sanyal, but could not achieve Das’s intensity,
metaphoric interiority and heightened sensuous appeal.
It is not the poet (for one can not really live for a thousand years)
but the sprit of the poet, the timeless tireless dreamer in the poet in every
age, who has perpetuated his quest for another solacing heart. The
exhausted being of the poet seeks a moment’s solace and Banalata Sen of
Natore could render him with that solace. Her human identity gets
endorsed by the description of her matchless beauty and by her
enquiring utterance “Eto din kothae chilen?” I don’t wish to spoil the
beauty of the original by making any attempt to translate the sensuous
beauty enshrined in the lines of Jibanananda:
Chul tar kabekar andhakar bidishar nisha,
Mukh tar Sravasti’r Karukarjya; atidur samudrer’ par
Hal bhenge je–nabik harayechhe disha,
Sabuj ghaser desh jahkhon se chokhe dekhe daruchini – dwiper bhitar,
Temni dekhechhi tare anddhakare; bolechhe se ‘Eto din kothae chhilen?
Pakhir nirder mato chokh tule Natorer Banalata Sen” (p. 51)

She is the other, the poet seeks after, longs for year after year, to sit
in the darkness facing her. After such knowledge what forgiveness? The
poet’s love–torn heart is forlorn; yet he remains a poet of love, for he

11
believes that it is love alone that garners for life a new meaning, a new
fragrance.

Jibanananda Das is a poet of Bengal, a poet of India. His animating

sense of place, his undiluted uncloyed eagerness to remain rooted to
Bangla his sense of jubilation and elevation in being a Bengali poet
writing in Bengali, would not, as I believe, attest to be tested on the
touch–stone–context of World Literature today. After reading the poems
of Roopasi Bangla, I believe, a creative writer has to studied and analyzed
in the context of a specific society and culture. Uproot him, dislocate him
from such moorings, he gets reduced to insignificance. In the context of
language, R. Parthasarathy in his Rough Passage writers: “Language is a tree
that looses/its colour under another sky”6. The poet honestly declares
sparkling with a sense of pride that “I have seen the face of Bengal, and
that’s why I don’t go out to find out the mien of the earth” (p. 46). Being here,
he has caught sight of the “doel on the dumur tree”. Being here, he has seen
the heap of leaves from jaam, kanthal, hijal, bat trees. Being here, he has
seen the bush of phanimanasa the chandchampa, the blue shade of tamal.
Being here, he has listened to the tender songs of Shyama, the heart
rending cries of the kite in dawn’s half–light. Being here, he has inhaled
the “Soft scent of the paddy” of kalami of chandasarputi (p. 46). Being here,
he has watched “the young girl’s rice–washing wet hands”, “the fatigued
silence of red–banyan fruits’ wounded fragrance” (p. 46) . Being here, he can
only be located amid owls perching on the branches of simul tree, with a
child scattering chaff from puffed rice, with a young man rowing his boat
with tattered white sails in the slimy waters of a river. Being here, he can
be found amid the nest–returning white cranes cutting through the
patches of dark clouds. He declares:
You shall find me only among all these,
only amid all these. (“Abar Asibo Feere” P.47)

He celebrates the bountiful beauty of bucolic Bengal. Is he trying to

retrieve a lost hinterland of his lost childhood at Barisal? Is he
deliberately constructing a locale? Is he trying to signify the location of a

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culture that has experienced bitter blows from the colonial and
hegemonic rule? Is he trying to retrieve the innocence that has been lost
because of the loss of independence, leading subsequently to the
partition? Whatever be the answer – simple, puzzling, intriguing – the
poet celebrates Bengal and with assurance he declares:
“Abar asibo Phire dhansidi’r tire – ei Banglaey.
Haeto manus naye – haeto ba Sankhachil salikhe’r beshe
Haeto bhorer kak hoey ei kartike’r nabanna’r deshe.
Kuasar booke bhese ek din aasibo e kanthal chhayaey,
Haeto ba haans habo – kishori’r – ghunghur rahibe laal paaye.
Saradin kete jaabe kalami’r gandha bhara jale bhese bhese
Abar aasibo aami Banla’r nadi khete bhalobeshe
Jalangi’r dheuye bheja Bangla’r e sabuj Karun dangae”. (p. 47)

With whom shall I venture to compare Jibanananda das?

Wordsworth? Shelley? Keats? Byron? Arnold? Hardy? Yeats? Eliot?
Heaney? Whitman? Frost? Thomas? Neruda? Montalle? Walcott? Donald
Hall? Robert Pinsky? Theodore Roethekee? Wallace Stevens? Rita Dove?
Jane Kenyon? Gregory Orr? Charles Tomlinson? Ted Hughes? Williams?
Lawrence? A.D. Hope? Robert Lowell? Robert Crecley? Frank O’hara?
John Ashbery? Thom Gunn? Josh Ashberry? Galway Kinnel? W.S.
Merwin? Michael Ondaatje? James Tate? Leslie Marmon Silko?
I believe, venturing to fathom verisimilitude is intriguingly
accidental, and comparing Jibanananda would amount to a defeat.

End Notes:
1. Jibanananda Das. (1954, 1956, 1960, 1963, 1966, 1968, 1972, 1976,

1981, 1984, 1988) Jibanananda Daser Shreshtha Kabita. Selected by

“Srijukta Biram Mukhopadhyay”. Calcutta; Bharabi.
2. In fact, nothing has been mentioned in the book: neither’’

forward’’ nor “introduction”.

3. English rendering of the original Bengali has been done by me.

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 4. Helen Gardener (ed.)

5. ibid. p.

6. R. Parthasarathy, (1976) Rough Passage. Delhi: Oxford University

Press.
a. The change that one encounters in Jibanananda Das‘s use of
the creative medium is remarkable. This change also is
symptomatic of the change in attitude from being a Romantic
to a very much modern poet, influenced by the modernist
trend. At least one significant change in terms of his poetic
idiom is easily identifiable. As one moves from the early
volumes to the later ones, one can find out how the flowing
quality of the language gets halted. The images become clear–
cut, sharp, well – defined. They wear the immediacy of an
appeal. Even if at times some poems (e.g. “Ghoda”) assume
surrealistic dimension.
b. I catalogue here certain words and phrases whose repetition
gives not only a haunting, flowing quality to the language, but
also intensifies the immediacy and perpetuity of the
experience. As we move to his later poetry, this repetition is
less frequent and it gets replaced by a meditated sharpness and
precision of the language. The unmeditated haunting quality of
the lines gets replaced by a deliberately constructed halting
rhythm to bear testimony to the modernist techniques.

Title of the poem Page/s Repetition of words/hyphenated words

‘Nilima’ 11 Bare–bare
‘Pyramid’ 12 Chale geche–Chalia geche.
‘Sedin e Dharanir’ 14–16 Jege–jege, dhire–dhire, Kale–kale, naba–
naba.
‘Mrityur aage’ 17 Mathe–mathe, dale–dale, baar–baar,
laal–laal, pathe–pathe,
‘Bodh’ 20–22 dite–dite, ghure–ghure,konodin-
konodin-konodin.
‘Nirjan Swakhar’ 23 rate–rate, hente–hente.

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‘Abasarer gaan’ 25–31 phonta–phonta, theke–theke, dhore–
dhore, ghure–ghure, katayeni–katayeni,
deke–deke
‘Kampe’ 31–34 shuye–shuye, biroger–biroger, chupe–
chupe
‘Metho Chand’ 34–35 eka–eka.
‘Pencha’ 35–37 mathe–mathe, ghase–ghase, dekhe–
dekhe, mathe–mathe.
‘Ponchis bachhar 37–38 kard–kard, mathe–mathe, dike–dike.
pare’
‘Kartick Mather 38–39 chhendra–chhendra, chose–chose.
Chand’
‘Sahaj’ 39–41 doore–kato doore, tabuo hridaye gaan
aase.
‘Pakhira’ 41–42 dale–dale phut phut, laksha–laksha,
jete–jete, gaveer–gaveer.
‘Shakun’ 43 mathe–mathe, akashe–akashe, shringe–
shringe
Swapner hate 43–46 Paare–pare, paashe–paashe
Akashe saat–ti tara 46–47 Laal–laal
Abar Asibo Fere 47 Bheshe–bhese
Golpata Chhaunir buk 48 baar–baar, tule–tule, bujhinako–
chume bujhinako, nim–nim–nim.
Ekhane Aakash Neel 48–49 bulaye–bulaye, theme–theme
Sandhya Haey 49–50 dheere–dheere, aakashe–aakashe
Charidike
Dhan kata hoey geche 50 Kato kato
Amake tumi 52 Janalaey–janalaey
Andhakar 54–55 Chhal–chhal, koti–koti
Bikhiree 62–63 mane–mane
Tomake 64 Keu–keu
Sab 65 Suye–suye, holud–holud.
Haey Chil 66 Urde–Urde
Sindhu Saras 66–68 Shinge–shinge, dale–dale
Kudi bachhar par 68–69 Kurdi–kurdi
Ghaas 69–70 Gelase–gelase
Hawar Raat 70–71 Hajar–hajar, Katare–katare, Kuashaey–
Kuashaey, Taraey–taraey
Buno Haans 72 Sain–sain, Chhutitechhe–chhutitechhe,
Urduk–urduk
Shankha Mala 72 Beye–beye
Monokanika 84–86 Majhe–majhe
Nirankush 90 Sada–sada
Godhuli Sandhi’r 91–92 Chupe–chupe, Unchu–unchu
Nritya
Samayer Kachhe 109 Juge–juge
Bibhinna Korus 115 morde–morde

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