explanation of the poem just once try by shakti chattopadhyay
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Answer:
These days, scholars squinch whenever one relates an anecdote about Shakti Chattopadhyay. They say there isn’t as much discussion on Shakti’s poetry as on his life—this is tantamount to insulting the poet and trivializing poetry.
Buddhadeva Bose had once remarked that no one knows what really undermines poetry—does it happen when poems descend to the level of a sidewalk or when they come out as the dry refuse of degree-granting machines called schools or colleges? The point had been made as a reference to Arun Sarkar’s “Read more poetry” campaign.
Will the innumerable fables surrounding Shakti eventually fade away like dewdrops in the sun? I doubt it. I firmly believe that these stories, while providing some understanding of our truncated times, also enable us to grasp such an amazing personality. I don’t claim that these stories are entirely accurate. However, a lot of times the stories that come to be associated with the lives of famous people match their personalities. Historians don’t give a lot of credence to the fable of Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar throwing his slippers at Ardhendusekhar Mustafi on seeing the latter’s theatre performance as an oppressive British officer in the play, “Neeldarpan” or Vidyasagar swimming his way through a tumultuous, rain-swept Damodar river at night to meet his mother. They say that for a person of Vidyasagar’s stature to throw his slippers at an actor on the stage and not make it to the headlines the next day couldn’t have been possible. And he was practical enough not to risk swimming through Damodar on a rainy night. However, these stories are so much in keeping with ordinary people’s image of Vidyasagar that we actually want to believe them. Similarly, one wants to believe Sandipan’s story about Shakti: that an unlettered shoeshine boy, while brushing Shakti’s shoes in front of the Anandabazaar office, had once said, “Saakti-da, aapnar kavitar kitaab ekthho hamake dilen na?” (“Sakti da, won’t you give me a copy of your book of poems?”)
I don’t know how great a poet Shakti was; nobody has given me the responsibility to make that judgment. Future critics will carry out that task. However, only we—his friends—are witness to how big, how different a man Shakti was. We, who have, day after day, year after year, seen these stories unfold before our eyes. Through these stories, a near-mythical image of this man kept becoming clearer to us. After us, no more witnesses to these stories will be left. If we don’t tell these stories, the coming generations will never know that such a man had once walked on Kolkata’s streets, like a bloodstained newspaper blowing in the spring breeze.
From the illicit liquor-tasting sessions accompanied by fire-roasted bats with the Doms under the Kalighat bridge to lavish parties in a nearby five star hotel where Black Sea caviar accompanied Chivas Regal, his singing—in a voice both robust and deep—rang with the same passion as well as detachment. This is not fiction—I had heard him sing in both these places, where adda-lovers would pull him in with similar enthusiasm and even pronunciation—“Hey, Ssokti-da is here!” In both places, the listener’s level of education and comprehension were more or less the same, and in both places, he had the gatherings’ pleasure with his full-throated singing of Rabindrasangeet, full of joy yet dripping with sorrow.
We—who had seen Shakti, bonded with him, and gained acceptance as his friends—can do this one thing for him. In the future, critics will decide how big a poet Shakti was. How many years have passed since Shakti left us? Only twelve. How many years did it take after Jibanananda’s death for the first book on him to be published? Nearly fifty years have passed since the death of Sudhindranath Datta—how many books have been published about his poetry? Why should we go that far; how many years after Tagore’s death did books about his works start getting written? And what was the standard of those initial writings? Nobody reads those now—the omnipresent and the truth, the boundary and the boundless, jeevandevata (god of life) and death consciousness. Those mist-laden theories about Upanishadic depth in Tagore’s poetry written by learned scholars have now been reverently stocked in the highest shelves of libraries; no one disturbs their peace. Instead, we look for Tagore’s memoirs these days, don’t we? The writings of those who saw him, were close to him, observed him during many careful and careless moments are much more valuable
Answer:
The poem discusses the lack of discussion on the poetry of Shakti Chattopadhyay and how it is seen as an insult to the poet and a trivialization of poetry. The author believes that the numerous fables surrounding Shakti will not fade away and provide an understanding of our truncated times, also enabling us to grasp such an amazing personality.
Explanation:
The author questions the accuracy of the stories but believes that they match the personalities of famous people and are in keeping with ordinary people's image of Shakti. The author also questions the judgment of how great a poet Shakti was, and believes that only his friends can truly understand how big, how different a man Shakti was. The author also talks about the delay in the publication of books on poets after their death and how initial writings are not read anymore.
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