শেষের কবিতা - Shesher Kobita(Bengali)

Pathok Publishers Pvt. Ltd.
8
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Shesher Kabita (Bengali: শেষের কবিতা) is a novel by Rabindranath Tagore, widely considered a landmark in Bengali literature. The novel was serialised in 1928, from Bhadro to Choitro in the magazine Probashi, and was published in book form the following year. It has been translated into English as The Last Poem (translator Anandita Mukhopadhyay) and Farewell song (translator Radha Chakravarty).
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About the author

Rabindranath Tagore was a Bengali polymath who reshaped Bengali literature and music, as well as Indian art with Contextual Modernism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Author of Gitanjali and its "profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse", he became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913. 

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Additional Information

Publisher
Pathok Publishers Pvt. Ltd.
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Published on
Sep 18, 2014
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Pages
329
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ISBN
9788192979830
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Best For
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Language
Bangla
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Genres
Juvenile Fiction / General
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Content Protection
This content is DRM protected.
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বিভূতিভূষণ বন্দ্যোপাধ্যায় (Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay)

কিশোর বয়সে নিজেকে শঙ্কর ভাবেনি এমন বাঙ্গালি ছেলে খুজে পাওয়া মুশকিল। চাঁদের পাহাড়ের শঙ্কর রায় চৌধুরি – বিভুতিভূষণ বন্দোপাধ্যায়ের অন্যতম রচনা – যার সাথে লাখো বাঙ্গালি কিশোর ছুটে চলে আফ্রিকার জঙ্গলে – দুঃসাহসিক অভিযানে।

 

এত বছর আগের লেখা। অথচ, আজও মনে হয় এতটাই আধুনিক। এভাবেই হয়তো কিছু কিছু সাহিত্য সময়ের গণ্ডি পেরিয়ে চিরকালই সমসাময়িক থেকে যায়।

 

চাঁদের পাহাড় কোন ইংরেজি গল্পের অনুবাদ নয় – একটি মৌলিক উপন্যাস। এই বইয়ের গল্প ও চরিত্র বিভুতিভূষণ বন্দোপাধ্যায়ের কল্পনাপ্রসুত। তবে স্থান ও কালের বিবরণ নির্ভুল এবং প্রচুর গবেষণার ফসল। 

আরও একবার যাবেন নাকি, আফ্রিকার জঙ্গলে? একবার শঙ্করের সাথে চাঁদের পাহাড়ে?

Rabindranath Tagore
I know not who paints the pictures on memory's canvas; but whoever he may be, what he is painting are pictures; by which I mean that he is not there with his brush simply to make a faithful copy of all that is happening. He takes in and leaves out according to his taste. He makes many a big thing small and small thing big. He has no compunction in putting into the background that which was to the fore, or bringing to the front that which was behind. In short he is painting pictures, and not writing history.

Thus, over Life's outward aspect passes the series of events, and within is being painted a set of pictures. The two correspond but are not one.


We do not get the leisure to view thoroughly this studio within us. Portions of it now and then catch our eye, but the greater part remains out of sight in the darkness. Why the ever-busy painter is painting; when he will have done; for what gallery his pictures are destined—who can tell?


Some years ago, on being questioned as to the events of my past life, I had occasion to pry into this picture-chamber. I had thought to be content with selecting some few materials for my Life's story. I then discovered, as I opened the door, that Life's memories are not Life's history, but the original work of an unseen Artist. The variegated colours scattered about are not reflections of outside lights, but belong to the painter himself, and come passion-tinged from his heart; thereby unfitting the record on the canvas for use as evidence in a court of law.


But though the attempt to gather precise history from memory's storehouse may be fruitless, there is a fascination in looking over the pictures, a fascination which cast its spell on me.


The road over which we journey, the wayside shelter in which we pause, are not pictures while yet we travel—they are too necessary, too obvious. When, however, before turning into the evening resthouse, we look back upon the cities, fields, rivers and hills which we have been through in Life's morning, then, in the light of the passing day, are they pictures indeed. Thus, when my opportunity came, did I look back, and was engrossed.

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