There is no such thing as a mistake;

There is no such thing as a mistake;
whatever I have done wrong has all led to what is right.
When I first learned to walk, it was with tiny, hesitant steps;
to learn how to walk, one must stumble.
Through lisping and countless mispronunciations,
language was learned in this world.
There is no such thing as a mistake;
whatever I’ve done wrong has all contributed to what is right.
Losing again and again, with one’s back against the wall, one learns how to win.
By falling again and again, one learns to ride a two-wheeled bicycle.
By sinking again and again, one learns to swim—across canals and ponds,
from one bank to the other.
Reading and reading, with books and glasses on the eyes—time gets used up.
There is no such thing as a mistake;
whatever I’ve done wrong has all been the earnings of what is right.
Failing to understand Alipore’s weather;
a love letter goes to the wrong address and earns a resounding slap.
After being cheated again and again,
the foolish man has finally learned the art of trade.
There is no such thing as a mistake;
everything I’ve done wrong has ultimately earned what is right.
But now, having reached this middle age,
I still wonder—what would bring greater gain without making mistakes?
Now, carefully weighing everything, I fall in love with an office colleague;
the relationship snickers softly at the thought of promotion.
Now I am seasoned and mature—no longer a beginner.
Even after being hurt by what people say, I no longer try to commit suicide.
Once, a failed lover, I roamed all over Kolkata.
Now that rustic fellow has become a king and a minister;
all his failures sit in the bars of Park Street.
A strain in my waist, pain in every joint;
yet every day I still feel like running alone in the Maidan.
Now both joy and sorrow come in small, measured bursts.
After being diagnosed with diabetes, I have strictly controlled my eating habits.
Now I am a father of a son; I am no longer a son myself.
Yet, despite a hundred attempts, none of my mistakes seem to be fully corrected.
This life of mine is made of mistakes; I dwell in a paradise of errors.
Within these mistakes lies my living and dying; all twelve months pass in them.
The path by which I arrived by mistake, along that very same path I will depart—also by mistake.
The feelings I have found within these mistakes—I will lose them all.
Yet the resonance of those feelings is no small gain.
Even now, like a little child, I am still learning everything.