I Won't Let You Go: Selected Poems

by Rabindranath Tagore

  rushed with lightning-speed and fell upon him,

  covering all his body with the flood-waves

  of her embraces, tresses, dishevelled drapes,

  sniffs, kisses, caresses, deep breaths,

  her voice emotion-choked, almost muffled,

  repeating, ‘I won’t leave you! No, I won’t!’

  ‘Liege,’ she begged, ‘for your sake I sinned.

  Punish me yourself, hurt my inmost being.

  Pass it on me – your sentence, my reward.’

  The sylvan gloom, bereft of planets and stars,

  blindly experienced something – a nightmare.

  Hundreds of thousands of tree-roots all around

  shuddered with terror, buried underground.

  One last pitiful plea could once be heard,

  in a choked, strangled voice; the next minute

  a body fell on the ground with a heavy thud.

  When Bajrasen came away from the forest,

  the temple’s trident-peak on Ganga’s bank

  was the colour of lightning in the dawn’s first rays.

  On deserted sandy beaches along the river

  heedless of all things, he spent the livelong day

  like a madman. The fiery midday sun

  lashed him all over with its burning thong.

  Pitcher-on-waist village wives, seeing his state,

  said with compassion, ‘Who are you, homeless waif?

  Come to us.’ But he did not respond.

  Thirst split his chest, yet he did not touch

  a drop of water from the river before him.

  At the day’s end, with his body, fevered, burnt,

  he ran and went aboard the empty boat,

  even as an insect, seeing fire, runs

  with ardent zeal. And there upon the bed

  he saw an anklet lying. A hundred times

  he pressed it to his breast. Its tinkling sound

  pierced his heart like an arrow with a hundred tips.

  In a corner lay

  her blue drape, which he gathered to a heap,

  then pressed his face against it, lying down,

  drinking in with insatiable passion

  the delicate odour of her body with his breath.

  The moon – fifth day of waxing – about to set,

  had slipped to the crown of the saptaparna tree,

  dipping into branches. With his arms outstretched,

  Bajrasen, looking at the forest, began to call,

  ‘Come, come, my love!’ Whereupon

  on the sandy beach, against the deep-black woods,

  appeared a shadowy figure, like a ghost.

  ‘Come, come, love!’ ‘My love, I’m here!’

  Shyama fell at his feet. ‘Forgive me, please!

  Alas, from my body my tough life couldn’t be released

  by your merciful hands.’ For just a minute

  Bajrasen set his eyes upon her face,

  stretched out his arms, as if for an embrace,

  then, startled, pushed her away from himself,

  roaring, ‘Why, why did you come back?’

  He took the anklet, flung it from his breast,

  and from his feet kicked the blue drape off

  as if it was live coal. Even the bed

  was like a bed of fire beneath his feet

  and burned him. He then closed his eyes,

  averted his face, said, ‘Go, go back.

  Leave me, go away!’ The woman, for a minute,

  stayed quiet, her head bowed, then kneeled

  upon the ground and saluted his feet.

  She then got off the boat, stepped on the bank,

  softly walked towards the dark woodland,

  as when sleep is sundered, a moment’s miraculous dream

  merges into night’s obscurity.

  [Shilaidaha? 9 October 1899]

  The Realisation of Value

  (Adapted from a Buddhist story)

  On a bitter night of Aghran, bitten by the cruel frost,

  all the lotuses had died,

  save one in the garden-pond of Sudas the florist,

  which had somehow survived.

  He picked it up to sell it, went to the palace-gate,

  asked to see the king himself,

  when a traveller came by and so delighted was he

  by the flower that he immediately said,

  ‘I would like to buy your out-of-season lotus;

  how much are you asking for it?

  The godlike Buddha’s in this city today:

  at his feet I’d put it as a gift.’

  Said the florist, ‘I hope to get a masha of gold,’

  and the traveller was ready to pay it,

  when with much pomp and worship-offerings

  the king came out through the gate.

  King Prasenajit, chanting holy hymns,

  was going to pay the Buddha a visit,

  saw the out-of-season flower, asked, ‘How much?

  I want to buy it for the Lord’s feet.’

  ‘King,’ said the florist, ‘with a masha of gold

  this gentleman’s buying it already.’

  ‘But I’ll pay ten!’ the monarch exclaimed,

  and the traveller said, ‘I’ll pay twenty!’

  ‘It’s mine!’ cried each, wouldn’t concede defeat,

  and the price – it simply rocketed.

  ‘How much more might I get if I gave it to him

  for whose sake they tussle!’ thought the florist.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he cried, his palms pressed together,

  ‘I don’t want to sell this flower!’

  So saying he ran to the spot where the Buddha

  was seated, lighting up a bower.

  Calm and composed, he sat lotus-fashion,

  an immaculate image of bliss.

  His eyes dripped peace, and a light of compassion

  glimmered on his smiling lips.

  Sudas – he stared with a steadfast gaze.

  No, not a word could he speak!

  Then he slumped on the earth and placed his lotus

  there on the Lord’s lotus-feet.

  Showering nectar, the Buddha asked, smiling,

  ‘Son, what is it you need?’

  Sudas, full of longing, said, ‘Lord, nothing else,

  just a trace of the dust of your feet!’

  [Shilaidaha? 12 October 1899]

  FROM Kahini (1900)

  Dialogue between Karna and Kunti

  KARNA. On sacred Jahnavi’s shore I say my prayers

  to the evening sun. Karna is my name,

  son of Adhirath the charioteer, and Radha is my mother.

  That’s who I am. Lady, who are you?

  KUNTI. Child, in the first dawn of your life

  it was I who introduced you to this wide world.

  That’s me, and today I’ve cast aside

  all embarrassment, to tell you who I am.

  KARNA. Respected lady, the light of your lowered eyes

  melts my heart, as the sun’s rays melt

  mountain snows. Your voice

  pierces my ears as a voice from a previous birth

  and stirs strange pain. Tell me then,

  by what mystery’s chain is my birth linked

  to you, unknown woman?

  KUNTI. Oh, be patient,

  child, for a moment! Let the sun-god first

  slide to his rest, and let evening’s darkness

  thicken round us. – Now let me tell you, warrior,

  I am Kunti.

  KARNA. You are Kunti! The mother of Arjun!

  KUNTI. Arjun’s mother indeed! But son,

  don’t hate me for that. How I still recall

  the day of the tournament when you, a young bachelor,

  slowly entered the arena in Hastina-city

  as the newly rising sun enters the margin

  of the eastern sky, still pricked out with stars!

  Of all the wom
en watching from behind a screen

  who was she, bereft of speech, of luck,

  who felt within her tortured breast the pangs

  of hungering love, a thousand she-snake fangs?

  Whose eyes covered your limbs with blessing’s kisses?

  It was Arjun’s mother! When Kripa advanced

  and smiling, asked you to announce your father’s name,

  saying, ‘He who is not of a royal family born

  has no right to challenge Arjun at all,’ –

  then you, speechless, red with shame, face lowered,

  just stood there, and she whose bosom your gleam

  of embarrassment burnt like fire: who was that

  unlucky woman? Arjun’s mother it was!

  Blessed is that lad Durjodhan, who thereupon

  at once crowned you prince of Anga. Yes, I praise him!

  And as you were crowned, the tears streamed from my eyes

  to rush towards you, to overflow your head,

  when, making his way into the arena,

  in entered Adhirath the charioteer, beside himself

  with joy, and you, too, in your royal gear

  in the midst of the curious crowds milling around

  bowed your only-just-anointed head, and saluted

  the feet of the old charioteer, calling him Father.

  Cruelly, contemptuously they smiled –

  the friends of the Pandabs; and right at that instant

  she who blessed you as a hero, O you jewel amongst heroes,

  I am that woman, the mother of Arjun.

  KARNA. I salute you, noble lady. A royal mother you are:

  so why are you here alone? This is a field of battle,

  and I am the commander of the Kaurab army.

  KUNTI. Son, I’ve come to beg a favour of you –

  Don’t turn me away empty-handed.

  KARNA. A favour? From me!

  Barring my manhood, and what dharma requires,

  the rest will be at your feet if you so desire.

  KUNTI. I have come to take you away.

  KARNA. And where will you take me?

  KUNTI. To my thirsty bosom – to my maternal lap.

  KARNA. A lucky woman you are, blessed with five sons,

  and I am just a petty princeling, without pedigree –

  where would you find room for me?

  KUNTI. Right at the top!

  I would place you above all my other sons,

  for you are the eldest.

  KARNA. By what right

  would I enter that sanctum? Tell me how

  from those already cheated of empire

  I could possibly take a portion of that wealth,

  a mother’s love, which is fully theirs.

  A mother’s heart cannot be gambled away

  nor be defeated by force. It’s a divine gift.

  KUNTI. O my son,

  with a divine right indeed you had one day

  come to this lap – and by that same right

  return again, with glory; don’t worry at all –

  take your own place amongst all your brothers,

  on my maternal lap.

  KARNA. As if in a dream

  I hear your voice, honoured lady. Look, darkness has

  engulfed the entire horizon, swallowed the four quarters,

  and the river has fallen silent. You have whisked me off

  to some enchanted world, some forgotten home,

  to the very dawn of awareness. Your words

  like age-old truths touch my fascinated heart.

  It’s as if my own inchoate infancy,

  the very obscurity of my mother’s womb

  was encircling me today. O royal mother,

  loving woman, – be this real, or a dream, –

  come place your right hand on my brow, my chin

  for just a moment. Indeed I had heard

  that I had been abandoned by my natural mother.

  How often in the depth of night I’ve had this dream:

  that slowly, softly my mother had come to see me,

  and I’ve felt so bleak, and beseeched her in tears,

  ‘Mother, remove your veil, let me see your face,’ –

  and at once the figure has vanished, tearing apart

  my greedy thirsty dream. That very dream –

  has it come today in the guise of the Pandab mother

  this evening, on the battlefield, by the Bhagirathi?

  Behold, lady, on the other bank, in the Pandab camp

  the lights come on, and on this bank, not far,

  in the Kaurab stables a hundred thousand horses

  stamp their hooves. Tomorrow morning

  the great battle begins. Why tonight

  did I have to hear from Arjun’s mother’s throat

  my own mother’s voice? Why did my name

  ring in her mouth with such exquisite music –

  so much so that suddenly my heart

  rushes towards the five Pandabs, calling them ‘brothers’?

  KUNTI. Then come on, son, come along with me.

  KARNA. Yes, Mother, I’ll go with you. I won’t ask questions –

  without a doubt, without a worry, I’ll go.

  Lady, you are my mother! And your call

  has awakened my soul – no longer can I hear

  the drums of battle, victory’s conch-shells.

  The violence of war, a hero’s fame, triumph and defeat –

  all seem false. Take me. Where should I go?

  KUNTI. There, on the other bank,

  where the lamps burn in the still tents

  on the pale sands.

  KARNA. And there a motherless son

  shall find his mother for ever! There the pole star

  shall wake all night in your lovely generous

  eyes. Lady, one more time

  say I am your son.

  KUNTI. My son!

  KARNA. Then why

  did you discard me so ingloriously –

  no family honour, no mother’s eyes to watch me –

  to the mercy of this blind, unknown world? Why did you

  let me float away on the current of contempt

  so irreversibly, banishing me from my brothers?

  You put a distance between Arjun and me,

  whence from childhood a subtle invisible bond

  of bitter enmity pulls us to each other

  in an irresistible attraction. –

  Mother, you have no answer?

  I sense your embarrassment piercing these dark layers

  and touching all my limbs without any words,

  closing my eyes. Let it be then –

  you don’t have to explain why you cast me aside.

  A mother’s love is God’s first gift on this earth;

  why that sacred jewel you had to snatch

  from your own child is a question you may choose

  not to answer! But tell me then:

  why have you come to take me back again?

  KUNTI. Child, let your reprimands

  like a hundred thunderclaps rend this heart of mine

  into a hundred pieces. That I’d cast you aside

  is a curse that hounds me, which is why

  my heart is childless even with five dear sons,

  why it is you that my arms go seeking in this world,

  flapping and flailing. It is for that deprived child

  that my heart lights a lamp, and by burning itself

  pays its homage to the Maker of this universe.

  Today I count myself fortunate

  that I have managed to see you. When your mouth

  hadn’t yet uttered a word, I did commit

  a horrendous crime. Son, with that same mouth

  forgive your bad mother. Let that forgiveness burn

  fiercer than any rebukes within my breast,

  reduce my sins to ashes and make me pure!

  KARNA. O Mother, give – give me the dus
t of your feet,

  and take my tears!

  KUNTI. Son, I did not come

  simply in the happy hope of clutching you to my breast,

  but to take you back where you by right belong.

  You are not a charioteer’s son, but of royal birth –

  so cast aside the insults that have been your lot

  and come where they all are – your five brothers.

  KARNA. But Mother, I am a charioteer’s son,

  and Radha’s my mother – glory greater than that

  I have none. Let the Pandabs be Pandabs, the Kaurabs

  Kaurabs – I envy nobody.

  KUNTI. With the puissance of your arms

  recover the kingdom that’s your own, my son.

  Judhisthir will cool you, moving a white fan;

  Bhim will hold up your umbrella; Arjun the hero

  will drive your chariot; Dhaumya the priest

  will chant Vedic mantras; and you, vanquisher of foes,

  will live with your kinsmen, sole ruler in your kingdom,

  sitting on your jewelled throne, sharing power with none.

  KARNA. Throne, indeed! To one who’s just refused the maternal bond

  are you offering, Mother, assurances of a kingdom?

  The riches from which you once disinherited me

  cannot be returned – it’s beyond your powers.

  When I was born, Mother, from me you tore

  mother, brothers, royal family – all at one go.

  If today I cheat my foster-mother, her of charioteer caste,

  and boldly address as my own mother a royal materfamilias,

  if I snap the ties that bind me to the lord

  of the Kuru clan, and lust after a royal throne,

  then fie on me!

  KUNTI. Blessed are you, my son, for you are

  truly heroic. Alas, Dharma, how stern your justice is!

  Who knew, alas, that day

  when I forsook a tiny, helpless child,

  that from somewhere he would gain a hero’s powers,

  return one day along a darkened path,

  and with his own cruel hands hurl weapons at those

  who are his brothers, born of the same mother!

  What a curse this is!

  KARNA. Mother, don’t be afraid.