Banalata Sen, for you where did I not wander, wander I, for you, for you, Banalata Sen, where did I, did I, not go to? Where did I, did I not search you? Just for a glimpse of yours, yours, stand I, stand I here! Your face, your lovely face, sweet smile the imagery of mine, the flight of my imagination!

Banalata Sen,
Could not find you,
Who you are,
Where your home?

Banalata Sen of Natore, Rajshahi,
An actress beautifully aesthetic.

The dream girl,
The imaginary girl of Jibananand.

Banalata Sen, how to take Banalata Sen of Jibanananda Das? Who the dream girl is, who the historical girl, who the mythical princess? There is none around to say. A court dancer, a mistress in love, a princess or somebody else? How to reveal her identity? Had Jibanananda Das affection for anyone?  The poem is dramatic and histrionic no doubt. Who is it dancing into the manna of Jibanananda Das? Whose sounding, resounding anklets is he hearing? Who the court dancer dancing into the court of the king?

What it the mystery behind? Is she a history beauty, the myth of beauty carried over time? How the chronicle of love which but never dies, ever renews?

I am a weary heart at the suffering end, I am a traveller travelling, fatigued and way-worn, this marks the thought and content of the poem. I waited and waited for you, Banalata Sen, till the night glowed down, pursued and followed you all through its silence and mystic beauty visiting the shores of thought and idea, dream and reflection. I wanted to paint you, but the portrait remained in shadows and silhouettes.

Banalata Sen is a faint memory of love; it is an oil painting of Jibanananda Das opening the unexpressed love of his which he should have expressed, laid it bare, but he could not, vented it through an imaginary girl and the love expressed for her. Sticking the night jasmines into her hair, clutching the plucked stars, where did she go away?

History’s girl, myth’s girl is Banalata Sen. A portrait of a girl is it.  A portrait of a lady, of an artist as a young maiden without any doubt. Who can but about the pose and posture of Monlisa? Banalata Sen is but some Tussaud’s wax model. As Keats says about the music fled or the waking dream in Ode to a Nightingale so is the case here. It is Coleridge’s Christabel and Kubla Khan. Dr.Faustus’ Helen and his flying kiss, how can we let it go? The case is also of Browning’s The Duchess of Malfi.

A time-traveller is he, a night-wanderer wandering in search of love unfulfilled, travelling to reach the pathway end, but the quest quenches it not, the path comes not to an end.

Man, ever searches, ever wanders in search of, but what it to quench the thirst? The ever-thirsty love painted as phantasmagoria of time is the embroidered motif here.

He has been wandering, keeping track of the world for a thousand years and more, visiting Sinhala to Malaya in night’s darkness, walking the ways of the world. Far does he roam in, stray about. Bimbisara’s, Ashoka’s ash-grey world, he was present in. Farther off in Vidarbha city, he was a tired traveller on the beaten ways of life and the world.

But you, Banalata Sen of Natore, the consolation for me, the peace of my heart. As such the infatuation with, fascination for, the fineness and poise of yours that nothing to lift my spirit, that nothing is here to bestow upon.

Your hair dark and long reminds me of the dark beautiful night of Vidisha and your face the artwork of Sravasti. As the mariners look exasperated or landed on some lush green valley or aisle after the shipwrecks so see I her in darkness. She raises her eyes and looks me to ask where do I keep myself. A bird from  the nest she raises her eyes to know. But what to say? What does it keep happening in? The heart only knows. After the day-end, the night starts with the dew falling softly. The kite finishes it off all with its wings deciphering the retreating image of the sun. The nightfall takes over, encloses in with a silence. The colours of the world fade away. Fireflies light up in their way, glimmering and flying around to script the manuscripts on the anvil. Time starts wrapping up. Life’s mart abuzz with is going to close. Everything has to come at the drawing of the day to a close as do come the birds flying back to. Rivers too get slowly normal. With the change in situation and scenario, a switch over to, I get ready to tell the tales, the anecdotes to start it afresh. The nightfall is so full of eerie silence, under the starlit skies, you and I, I and you, Banalata Sen, standing vis-a-vis, face-to-face with.

The heart calling with the ache and tinge of pain felt anonymously, the evening descending under the shadow of the eyelashes, what it to say it more? How to make the portrait of yours, the portrait of a girl? Have you heard the voice of the heart? First hear you and then say it. The flight of imagination is as such. Where does she live in? She lives in the heart.

Where to go hiding love in the heart? The scent of the bellis, kaminis and champas can never be hidden. The image of Banalata Sen is an example of romantic poetry and the flight of imagination he takes.

The forlorn heart of man, how to take it into confidence? A time traveller fatigued and way-worn, how to hear the tales of life from him? The chronicles of history keep it shrouding the myth of love. Where the shores of life? Where the shores of love?

Banalata Sen as a character represents the historical beauties of Vidisha, Sravasti as well as Rajshahi, Natore. Banalata Sen is a historical poem with the myth of love expressed through the lines. The flight of imagination is in her hair bring dark like the night of Vidisha and her face resembling the sculptures of Sravasti. Where to get a Buddha-blessed girl like her, calm and serene? How to feel the impact of the sermons of peace? The memories of Rajshahi are so fresh and strong in him.  To read the poem is to be reminded of the archaeological and the architectural splendour and magnificence of Vidisha and Sravasti which a few have known it so far.