Gurus Tagore And The Sikhs

[taranbir]

Bandadir

by Rabindranath Tagore


An English translation of Bandadir written by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem was originally written in Bengali.

In the prominent royal Mogul court of Delhi ​

King's sleep will break-up hundred times daily ​

There was such a dreadful fright in his heart ​

In his consciousness painful sighs were brought​

What fire scorched his heart no one knows ​

All of a sudden he was jumping in fiery blows ​

It appeared like red hot sky from the Delhi court ​

King's heart shaking, seeking Godly support ​

Rivers of blood were flowing on the five rivers' land
​

Sikhs were facing persecutions for some ideal ground ​

Smeared in blood, they were saying thanks in gratitude ​

Patiently, regardless of comforts, they were in solitude ​

They crossed their way with the Moguls might
​

With faithful heart they remembered God in sight ​

Maiden decorated with mark of blood, their foreheads ​

What sort of people are Sikhs, with such eagerness ​

They move like moth, looking at burning all around
​

Without delay they line up ready to fight duty bound ​

They play jokes with death, and like lions they roar ​

Wherever they stare and rebuke, enemy is no more ​

Brave warriors jumped in fray with hand to hand attack
​

They quickly hawk assaulting caught the deadly foe ​

Like flying hawk assaulting a deadly poisonous snake ​

Squeezing them in his claws from tip to toe ​

Innumerable was the enemy army, Sikhs were very few
​

They were surrounded in chains and were put in queue ​

Clothes soaked in blood, bodies full of wounds and bruises ​

Intestines fall in tummy but they had faith and confidence ​

The enemy was battered by the dashing Banda Singh sage
​

Moguls fought back and tied him like brave lion in cage ​

Surrounded him from all the sides and imprisoned the hero chum ​

Then they moved towards Delhi, on the beat of kettle-drum ​

The Mogul army departed towards the Capital of Delhi city
​

They moved like hurricane, without stopping or any pity ​

Seven hundred Sikhs were imprisoned and curled-up in chains ​

It was a disgusting sight, an extraordinary incident, full of pains ​

On every pointed spear, the head of Sikh was hanging
​

Streams of blood dripping, the sight will give a panging ​

Sikh prisoners shackled in chains, shouted this voice of cry ​

O! our true saviour preserve thy honour, don't let panth shy ​

Spectators gathered in the heart of Delhi's Chandni Chowk
​

This caravan of Sikhs was quite out of strength and in shock ​

Outside they were dull and defeated, inside enjoying thrill ​

Greeting loudly the victory of Guru and obedient to His will ​

The onlookers revealed an extraordinary and peculiar tale
​

The prisoners started argument as no body wanted to fail ​

Everybody wanted to be first in their turn to meet the fate ​

All wanted to meet the Beloved, Gobind through life's gate ​

The wheel of death started, the murderers were on assault
​

An applause was echoed, whenever the sword was at fault ​

The Sikhs were being butchered, going forward for sacrifice ​

It was game of seven days for seven hundred heroes nice ​

Chief Banda Singh was in the clutches of destiny or fate
​

Next they brought forward to kill his little son ever so great ​

The Kazi passed on to banda Singh the killer sword grand ​

He ordered to cut his son's head as it was royal command ​

Sons are symbols of worldliness for formality in social affairs
​

If someone rebukes them one feels like to pull his hairs ​

What sort of test in life, to kill one's own son, was shaping ​

The thing one can't even imagine, the same was happening ​

Banda first picked his son and loved and caressed him
​

Then he tried to explain the role and character of Sikhism ​

Prince Fateh and Jujhar Singh were also children like you ​

Now in the test time and what they achieved you can also do ​

Greeting the victory loudly, the little son was revitalized
​

If life goes, the custom of Sikhism is, let it be sacrificed ​

For holder of righteousness definite victory will be at last ​

His love won't be wasted, he meets the Beleoved very fast ​

The Kazi became angry as he could not bear the splendour
​

The executioner attacked the child and he started to flutter ​

Even then this strange trick of destiny could not succeed ​

Plump intestines jumping softly, the earth was red indeed ​

It is written in the history that Banda remaned unmoved
​

In his mouth soft plump heart of slayed child was forced ​

In this hard probation Banda remained unshaken, steady ​

The history will cry when going through its own study ​

It was such a dreadful scene that onlookers could not spy
​

Snatching with pincers first they took out his both eyes ​

Iron bars were made red hot to burn his body limbs ready ​

The Sikh greeted the victory loudly and soul left the body ​

The Sky echoed with kettle-drum beat, banner flying like kite
​

Once a hero takes a battlefield, he is eager to show his might ​

A true warrior is one, who fights for sake of humble and meek ​

He might cut into the pieces, but to leave battlefield will never ​

seek .
​