I Won't Let You Go: Selected Poems
Page 14
Let me predict: it’s the Pandabs who will win.
On the panel of this night’s gloom I can clearly read
before my eyes the dire results of war:
legible in starlight. This quiet, unruffled hour
from the infinite sky a music drifts to my ears:
of effort without victory, sweat of work without hope –
I can see the end, full of peace and emptiness.
The side that is going to lose –
please don’t ask me to desert that side.
Let Pandu’s children win, and become kings,
let me stay with the losers, those whose hopes will be dashed.
The night of my birth you left me upon the earth:
nameless, homeless. In the same way today
be ruthless, Mother, and just abandon me:
leave me to my defeat, infamous, lustreless.
Only this blessing grant me before you leave:
may greed for victory, for fame, or for a kingdom
never deflect me from a hero’s path and salvation.
[26 February 1900]
FROM Kalpana (1900)
A Stressful Time
Though the evening’s coming with slow and languid steps,
all music’s come to a halt, as if at a cue,
in the endless sky there’s none else to fly with you,
and weariness is descending on your breast,
though a great sense of dread throbs unspoken,
and all around you the horizon is draped,
yet bird, o my bird,
already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.
No, this is no susurrus of a forest,
but the sea swelling with a slumber-snoring thunder.
No, this is no grove of kunda flowers,
but crests of foam heaving with fluid palaver.
Where’s that shore, dense with blossoms and leaves?
Where’s that nest, branch that offers shelter?
Yet bird, o my bird,
already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.
Ahead of you still stretches a long, long night;
the sun has gone to sleep behind a mountain.
The universe – it seems to hold its breath,
sitting quietly, counting the passing hours.
And now on the dim horizon a thin curved moon,
swimming against obscurity, appears.
Bird, o my bird,
already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.
Above you the stars have spread their fingers,
as in a mime, with a meaning in their gaze.
Below you death – deep, leaping, restless –
snarls at you in a hundred thousand waves.
But on a far shore some are pleading with you.
‘Come, come’: their wailing prayer says.
So bird, o my bird,
already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.
Ah, there’s no fear, no bonds of love’s illusion;
there’s no hope, for hope is mere deceit.
There’s no speech, no useless lamentation,
neither home nor flower-strewn nuptial sheet.
You’ve only your wings, and painted in deepest black,
this vast firmament where dawn’s direction’s lost.
Then bird, o my bird,
already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.
[Calcutta, 27 April 1897]
Dream
A long, long way away
in a dream-world, in the city of Ujjain,
by River Shipra I once went to find
my first love
from a previous life of mine.
Lodhra-pollen on her face,
dalliance-lotus in her hand,
kunda-buds perched on her ears,
kurubaks pinned to her hair;
on her slim body
a red cloth waist-knot-bound;
ankle-bells making a
faint ringing sound.
On a spring day
I wandered far,
figuring out my way.
In the Shiva-temple
in solemn tones just then
the evening service
began to resound.
Above the empty
shopping arcades gleamed
on darkened buildings
the last of the evening sun.
At last I reached
by a narrow winding road
my love’s house,
secluded and remote.
Conch-shell and wheel were
painted on her door.
On either side stood a
young kadamba tree –
growing like sons.
A carved lion,
majestic and proud,
sat above the white
columns of the gate.
All her pet doves
returned to their dovecot.
Her peacock slept,
perched on a golden rod.
At such a time
a lighted lamp in her hand,
slowly, slowly
my Malavika came down.
She appeared outside the door,
above the stairs,
like a goddess of evening
holding the evening star.
Her saffron-scented limbs
and incensed hair
shed all over me
gusts of their restless breath.
Her drapery, slightly slipped,
by chance revealed
tracery of sandal
painted on her left breast.
Like a statue she stood
in that quiet evening
when the humming city was mute.
Seeing me, my love
slowly, ever so slowly
put her lamp down,
came before me,
put her hand in mine,
and without words
asked with her tender eyes,
‘Hope you’re well, my friend?’
I looked at her face,
tried to speak,
but found no words.
That language was lost to us:
we tried so hard
to recall each other’s name,
but couldn’t remember.
We thought so hard
as we gazed at each other,
and the tears streamed from
our unflickering eyes.
We thought so hard
by that door
beneath a tree!
And I don’t know when
under what pretext
her soft hand slid into my
right hand like a bird
of evening seeking its nest,
and slowly her face
like a drooping lotus
came to rest on my breast.
Keen with yearning,
they mingled quietly –
her breath and my breath.
Night’s darkness swallowed
the city of Ujjain.
The wild wind blew out
the lamp left by the door.
In the Shiva-temple
on River Shipra’s bank
the evening service
came to an abrupt end.
[Bolpur, 22 May 1897]
FROM Kshanika (1900)
What the Scriptures Say
After fifty thou’lt walk to the forest,
so our scriptures say.
But we say a forest retreat
is better in the youthful days.
Bokuls flowering in their plenty,
koels killing themselves with singing,
nature’s arbours, leaves and creepers,
the merrier for hiding, seeking!
Moonlight falling on champak branches –
for whom was such a sight created?
Those who appreciate such beauties
are definitely your under-fifties.
Inside the house, the boring rows,
all the lips alive with gossip,
&
nbsp; nosy neighbours prying, poking.
Privacy? You must be joking!
Time’s so short. It’s all devoured
by do-gooders who come to visit,
sitting down for hours and hours
discussing their holy topics.
No wonder then that hapless youths
are always on the lookout for verdant groves.
They know full well liberation’s
never to be had indoors.
We are modern young men,
smart, born to disobey.
Manu’s codes need amending.
There’ll be new laws under our sway.
Let old men stay at home,
pile their rupees and pices,
manage the property affairs,
seek the legal advices.
Let youths pick almanac-dates
and in Phalgun walk to the forest.
There let them work hard
all through the night without rest.
After fifty thou’lt walk to the forest,
so our scriptures say.
But we think a forest retreat
is better in the younger days.
Straightforward
Eye runs to eye,
heart runs to heart;
in the story of two creatures
that’s all there is to that.
On moonlit Chaitra evenings
when the henna perfumes the air,
you sit with flowers on your lap
while my flute’s by my feet somewhere.
This love between us two
is a straightforward affair.
Your sari, springtime-yellow,
drugs me, clings to my eyes;
the jasmine chain you weave me
like a song of praise on me lies.
A little giving, a little keeping,
a little showing, a little hiding,
a little smile, a touch of shyness:
that’s our mutual understanding.
This love between us two
is a straightforward affair.
No profound mystery resides
in the couplings of springtime.
No truth beyond cognition
sticks like a thorn in our minds.
No shadow creeps behind
this bliss of yours and mine.
No quest, staring at each other,
unknown depths to find.
Our couplings in springtime
are straightforward affairs.
We do not dive into language
for what’s beyond expression,
nor beg the sky to give us what’s
beyond our expectation.
What little we give, what little we get –
that’s all we have, no more to net.
We do not hang on to happiness
and have a tug-of-war.
Our couplings in springtime
are straightforward affairs.
Oh, we had heard on the sea of love
there was no navigation,
that infinite hunger, infinite thirst
were the price of passion,
that love’s music was a strain
on instruments and snapped their strings,
that love’s grove was a labyrinth
with crooked culs-de-sac!
But this our union, love,
is a straightforward affair!
FROM Naibedya (1901)
No. 88
This I must admit: how one becomes two
is something I haven’t understood at all.
How anything ever happens or one becomes what one is,
how anything stays in a certain way, what we mean
by words like body, soul, mind: I don’t fathom,
but I shall always observe the universe
quietly, without words.
How can I
even for an instant understand the beginning, the end,
the meaning, the theory – of something outside of which
I can never go? Only this I know –
that this thing is beautiful, great, terrifying,
various, unknowable, my mind’s ravisher.
This I know, that knowing nothing, unawares,
the current of the cosmos’s awareness flows towards you.
No. 89
Unknown to me is the moment when I passed
through life’s lion-carved gateway into this world’s
magnificent mansion. What power was it
that opened me in this immense mystery’s lap
like a bud in a vast forest in the middle of the night?
Yet when, in the morning, I lifted my head high,
opened my eyes and looked upon this earth,
arrayed in blue cloth spangled with golden rays,
and saw this world’s ways, studded with pleasures and pains,
in an instant did this unknown, unbounded
mystery seem as entirely familiar
as my mother’s breast, very much mine.
Unmanifest, beyond cognition, this awesome power
has, to my eyes, assumed the shape of a mother.
No. 90
Nor do I know death. Today at times
I’m shivering with fear of it. When I think
I have to bid adieu to this world, my eyes moisten
and with both arms I try to hang on to life,
calling it mine.
Fool, who had made this life, this
world, unawares to yourself, so much your own,
from the moment of your birth, even before
your own volition? Thus at death’s dawn
you’ll see once more the face of that unknown
and instantly recognise it. I have loved
my life so dearly that I am convinced
when I meet death, I shall love it just as much.
Removed from one breast, a child cries in alarm,
but given the other breast, is immediately calmed.
FROM Smaran (1903)
No. 5
No, no, she’s no longer in my house!
I’ve looked in every corner. Nowhere to be found!
In my house, Lord, there’s such precious little space –
what goes away from it cannot be retraced.
But your house is infinite, all-pervasive,
and it’s there, Lord, I’ve come to look for her.
Here I stand, beneath this evening sky,
and look at you, tears streaming from my eyes.
There’s a place from where no face, no bliss,
no hope, no thirst can ever be snatched from us.
It’s there I’ve brought my devastated heart,
so you can drown, drown, drown it in that source.
Elixir of deathlessness no longer in my house –
may I recover its touch in the universe!
No. 14
A few old letters I found –
a handful of tokens
belonging to love-drugged life,
memory’s toys, which with such particular care
and secrecy you had hoarded in your room.
From mighty time’s destructive deluge
which sweeps away so many suns and moons
you had in dread stolen these few trifles
and hidden them, saying to yourself,
‘No one else has a right to these riches of mine.’
And who is going to look after them today?
They belong to nobody, yet they exist.
As your affection had guarded them once,
isn’t anyone guarding you likewise today?
[Bolpur, 17 December 1902]
FROM Shishu (1903)
Empathy
If I wasn’t your little boy,
but just a puppy-dog,
would you tell me off,
lest I tried to taste
rice from your dinner-plate?
Tell me truly,
don’t trick me, Mum!
Would you say, �
��Off, off, off!
Whence has it come, this dog?’
Then go, Mum, go.
Let me get off your lap.
I won’t eat from your hand,
I won’t eat from your plate.
If I wasn’t your little boy,
but just a parrot, your pet,
would you chain me, Mum,
lest I should fly away?
Tell me truly,
don’t trick me, Mum!
Would you say, ‘Wretched bird!
He wants to escape, does he?’
Then let me get off, Mum.
You don’t have to love me any more.
I don’t want to stay on your lap,
I’d rather go off to the forest.
[Rainy season 1903?]
An Offer of Help
Mum, why do you look so upset?
Don’t you want to take your boy on your lap?
Feet stretched out in a corner of the room,
just sitting, so lost in your thoughts, –
you haven’t even plaited your hair yet.
Why open the window? What d’you want to see?
It’s raining. You’re getting your head wet.
Your clothes will be splashed with mud.
D’you hear that? It’s four o’ clock!
End of school. My brother’ll be back.
You don’t seem to remember that!
It’s getting late.
What’s the matter today?
Haven’t you had a letter from Dad?
From his bag the postman
left a letter for everyone,
why not one from Dad every day?
He keeps ’em in his bag
to read ’em himself.
The postman’s very smart, a crafty beggar!
Listen, Mum, you just take my advice.
Don’t you worry about that any more.