“To Mother” Poem by Maharaja Jitendranarayan of Cooch Behar 1902

1902 সনে মহারাজা জিতেন্দ্রনারায়ন ছোটোবেলাত ইংল্যান্ডের এটন স্কুলত বই পড়ার সমায় মাও সুনিতী দেবীর উদ্দেশ্যত এখান কবিতা লেখিচেন। সেই কবিতাত উমার মাওয়ের পত্তি ভক্তি আর স্বদেশপ্রীতির কথা ফুটি উঠিচে। 
TO MOTHER
(Written at Eton 1902)

You ask which country pleases most.

Which land I like the best:

Or cloudy England’s wave-beat coast,

Or else that land of rest.

Beneath great Titan’s burning rays,

Where sings shrill Philomel,

Where short are nights and long are days

That land I love so well.

There blow the fragrant breezes

O’er India’s coral strand;

There Darjeeling oft freezes,

Where Himalayas stand.

What land is there so sweet to me ?

Where would I rather roam

Than in that place, (I mean C. B.)

The land that is my home ?

You ask the reason why I love

A land where fevers reign,

Where fields are parched by heat above.

Where plague is causing pain ?

The simple question which you ask.

I’ll answer very soon.

For me ’twill be an easy task;

For you ’twill be a boon.

O! let me live and dwell within

The lofty palace dome;

And many a pleasant hour spin

There, where I have my home.

How could one spend a healthier time

Than at a game of “Squash”

In that fine court (just near the

slime Which Torsa’s water wash) ?

Or better still to shoot at camp

(In my case ‘twould be miss)

Where all is dry and naught is damp,

And ignorance is bliss !

Or on a sunny afternoon

To play a game of Cricket:

You try to score, but all too soon

The bails are off your wicket.

What better sport could people find

Than on Nilkoti’s plain – 

To hunt the wily jackal kind,

And hunt till you have slain ?

Billiards there you too can play,

Or skate in Durbar Hall.

In slacker moments (so some say)

A “Hooka” will enthrall.

No matter if such sports were not:

Still I could e’er find pleasure.

And so I long for that fair spot,

That land of joy and leisure.

There aren’t sky-scrapers of New York,

Nor Vaticans of Rome.

No useless sights – all idle talk-

Now decorate my home.

And does it make it any worse ?

Perhaps it may be to some.

But on me may you lay a curse,

Unless I love my home.

Although I now am in these isles,

My thoughts are e’er afar.

They are where Phoebus kindly smiles

On my home, Cooch Behar.