The Land of Cards: Stories, Poems, and Plays for Children

by Rabindranath Tagore

  King:Enough! No more. Put this into the textbook for fourth-grade students. Let the children of Card Isle learn it by heart.

  Six:Raja Saheb, we are not infant pupils of your fourth grade. Today, we suddenly feel grown-up. That rhythm does not appeal to us.

  Five:O stranger, can you let us hear the rhythm from overseas?

  Prince:I can. Listen, then.

  (Song)

  A lightning-laden thunderstorm

  Sears the sky in the summer heat.

  It makes tree-branches dance in tune

  To the rhythm of a bold new beat.

  Lured by the call of open space,

  The birds soar to a dizzying height,

  The wind beneath their wings propelled

  By the rhythm of uncharted flight.

  The rhythm churns my inner soul,

  Pitting the black against the white,

  Making forms of good and bad collide,

  Throwing the crooked against the upright.

  The rhythm flares in flames of sacrifice,

  It fires the freedom fighter’s blood,

  It spurs the Destroyer’s chariot wheels

  Towards the end of the world, the final flood.

  King:Did you understand any of this?

  Pack of Cards:Nothing at all.

  King:So?

  Pack of Cards:It stirred our soul.

  Death will not harm

  The one who stays composed and calm.

  He’ll test him out, then let him be.’

  ‘I need him not!’ He will decree.

  Listen, stranger.

  Prince:I await your orders.

  King:You roam restlessly all over Card Isle—diving into the water, climbing mountaintops, hacking your path through forests with your axe—what for?

  Prince:Raja Saheb, all of you are constantly rising and falling, flipping over, turning about, rolling about on the ground—what for, either?

  King:That is our law. Prince: This is our desire.

  King:Desire? What a disaster! Desire here, in this Land of Cards? Friends, what do you all say?

  Six and Five:We have accepted the ‘Mantra of Desire’ from him.

  King:What mantra is that?

  Six and Five:(Song)

  Desire! It’s Desire!

  It is the force that makes and breaks,

  The element that gives and takes.

  The power that smashes lock-and-key,

  Severs shackles and breaks free,

  Only to return, and be

  Again in bondage—it’s Desire!

  King:Go, go, go away from here, leave this place quickly! Haratani, didn’t you hear my words? Chiretani, do you observe her conduct? Why has this suddenly happened?

  Haratani:It’s my desire.

  Other Aces:Desire.

  King:What’s this, Rani Bibi, why did you arise so quickly?

  Rani:I can’t stay still any more.

  King:Rani Bibi, I suspect your mind is distracted.

  Rani:Without a doubt, it is distracted.

  King:Do you know that in Card Isle restlessness is the greatest crime?

  Rani:I know, and I also know that no crime is more enjoyable.

  King:You describe a punishable offence as enjoyable—have you even forgotten the language of Card Isle?

  Rani:In the language of our Card Isle, shackles are called ornaments. It’s time to forget this language.

  Ruiton:Yes, Rani Bibi, in their language, prison is called sasurbari, the marital home.

  King:Quiet!

  Haratani:Riddles are called scriptures.

  King:Quiet!

  Haratani:The dumb are called saints.

  King:Quiet!

  Haratani:Fools are called pundits.

  King:Quiet!

  Five:The dead are called the living.

  King:Quiet!

  Rani:And heaven is called sinful. Say, all of you: ‘Victory to Desire!’

  All:Victory to Desire!

  King:Rani Bibi, you are exiled to the forest!

  Rani:What a relief!

  King:Exile! . . . What’s this? But you’re leaving! Where are you going!

  Rani:To my place of exile.

  King:Would you abandon me?

  Rani:Why should I abandon you?

  King:What then?

  Rani:I’ll take you with me.

  King:Where? Rani: To our place of exile.

  King:And all these others, my subjects?

  All:We shall go into exile.

  King:Pundit Ten, what do you think?

  Ten:I think exile is a good thing.

  King:And your scriptures?

  Ten:I’ll throw them into the sea.

  King:The Law of Obedience?

  Ten:It won’t work any more.

  All:Won’t work, won’t work.

  Rani:Where have those humans gone?

  Prince:Here we are.

  Rani:Can we become human?

  Prince:You can, of course you can.

  King:O stranger, can I become human too?

  Prince:I doubt it. But the Rani will support you. Victory to the Rani!

  They all sing together.

  (Song)

  Break down the dam, break down the dam,

  Let’s break it down!

  Set our captive spirits free.

  In the dried-up channel, release the flood

  Of the life force, flowing in manic glee.

  Let’s sing to the victory of this breakdown!

  Let the old and stale be swept away,

  Let go, let it be swept away.

  A new life beckons; we hear its call:

  ‘Fear not, fear not, not at all!’

  For us, the unknown holds no dread.

  Towards its doors, let’s press ahead.

  Break down those doors, let’s break them down!

  Stories

  Hungry Stone

  It was on our way back to Kolkata after a trip around the country during our Puja vacation that my cousin and I met the man on the train. From his attire, I at first mistook the stranger for a Muslim from the western region. His conversation was even more puzzling. He began talking about everything under the sun as if the Creator always consulted him at every step. We had been happily ignorant of all the unheard-of, mysterious goings-on in the world. We did not know that the Russians had advanced so far, that the English had such hidden motives, or that the local rajas were hatching such conspiracies. ‘There happen more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers,’ sneered our new acquaintance. To us, out on our first journey away from home, this man’s demeanour appeared amazing. At the drop of a hat, he would allude to things scientific, or expand upon the Vedas, or break into Persian couplets. Since we had no command of science or the Vedas or Persian, our respect for him grew in leaps and bounds. In fact, my theosophist cousin became convinced that this co-traveller of ours had some connection with otherworldly things—some special magnetism or supernatural power or astral body, or something of the sort. He was listening with rapt attention to even the most ordinary remarks of this extraordinary person, and secretly noting them down. From the extraordinary gentleman’s manner, I realized that he too had sensed this admiration, and was rather pleased.

  When the train stopped at a junction, we trooped into the waiting room to wait for the onward connection. It was half-past ten at night. Due to some obstruction on the way, the next train would be very late, we were told. Meanwhile, I had spread out my bedding to sleep on the table, when that strange gentleman launched on the following story. There was to be no sleep for me that night, after all.

  * * *

  Owing to a disagreement over some administrative matters, I resigned from my post at Junagarh and entered the Nizam’s administration in Hyderabad. Seeing that I was young and strong, they at first deployed me in Barich, to collect revenues on cotton.

  Barich is a very romantic place. Beneath the solitary hills, through vast forests, the river Shusta (the local n
ame for the Sanskrit Swachchhatoa) swirls swiftly, like a skilled dancer, over the river bed with its chiming pebbles, turning and twisting at every step. Directly beside the river, above a very high ghat paved with a hundred and fifty steps, a white stone palace stands alone at the foot of the mountain. There is no human habitation nearby. The cotton market and the village of Barich are far away.

  Almost 250 years ago, Shah Mahmud II had built the palace in this desolate area for his own pleasure. Since then, fragrant rosewater would gush from the spouts in the bathing area, and in that cool, moist, secluded building, seated on wet stone benches engraved in marble, stretching out their tender, bare, petal-soft feet into the pure waters of the bathing tank, young Persian women, their hair unbound before their bath, strumming the sitars in their laps, would sing romantic ghazals about vineyards.

  Now those fountains play no more, that music is gone, and the white stone floor does not reverberate at the exquisite contact of those fair feet. This place today is a vast, empty dwelling place for revenue-collectors like us, tormented by our loneliness, lacking female company. But Karim Khan, the old clerk at the office, had repeatedly urged me not to stay in this palace. ‘Spend the day there if you wish,’ he warned, ‘but never spend the night.’ I had laughed it off. My attendants said they would work until dusk, but not stay there overnight. ‘Very well,’ I declared. So notorious was this palace that even thieves did not dare come there at night.

  At first, the solitude of that abandoned stone palace oppressed my heart like a tremendous weight. I stayed out as much as possible, working tirelessly, only returning at night to fall asleep in exhaustion.

  But barely a week had passed before a certain exquisite addiction to the building began to gradually take hold of me. It is difficult to describe my state at the time, and just as hard to convince people about it. Like a living entity, the entire building seemed to absorb me into its magic entrails.

  Perhaps this process had begun as soon as I set foot in that place, but I clearly recall the day I first became aware of it.

  It was the beginning of summer, and the market was slow. I had no work in hand. Shortly before sunset, I was sitting in an armchair at the bottom of the ghat at the river shore. The river Shusta had then dwindled into a narrow stream. On the opposite shore, a large stretch of sand was shimmering with the colours of late afternoon. On this side, at the base of the ghat steps, pebbles glittered beneath the clear, shallow water. There was no breeze that day. The motionless sky was heavy with the intense fragrance of wild basil, mint and fennel, from the forests on the nearby mountain slopes.

  When the sun sank behind the mountain peaks, a long curtain of shadow immediately descended upon the theatre of the day. In that place, due to the mountain barrier, twilight did not last long after sunset. I was about to rise, planning to take my horse for a short canter, when I heard a footfall on the steps. But turning around, I saw nobody there.

  Imagining that my senses had deceived me, I turned back and sat down again. At once, the patter of many footsteps could be heard, as if a number of people were running down the steps together. A faint apprehension, mingled with an exquisite rapture, filled every fibre of my being. Although there were no human forms before my eyes, I felt as if I could clearly see a group of playful women bathing in the waters of the Shusta that summer evening. At that hour, there was not a sound anywhere in that silent place beneath the mountains, or by the river shore, or in the desolate palace; but I still seemed to clearly hear the bathers go past in quick succession, their merriment sounding like the torrents of a waterfall. They did not appear to notice me. Just as they were invisible to me, I too was apparently invisible to them. The river was calm as before, but I distinctly felt as if the shallow stream of the Swachchhatoa was ruffled by the splashing of many bracelet-clad arms. Laughingly, the female companions seemed to slosh water at each other, and as they swam, their legs sent up sprays of water, scattering the droplets like fistfuls of pearls.

  My heart trembled, whether from apprehension or joy or curiosity, I can’t say. I began to yearn to see them properly, but nothing was discernible. I felt that if I craned my ears, all their words would become clearly audible, but though I listened intently, only the chirping of crickets in the forest could be heard. I felt the presence of a black, two-and-a-half-centuries-old curtain swaying directly before my eyes. If I cautiously lifted a corner to peep within, I would find a vast assembly in progress, but in the intense darkness, nothing could be seen.

  A sudden gust of wind dispersed the oppressive stillness. Instantly, the tranquil waters of the Shusta rippled like the open tresses of an apsara, a celestial dancer. And in an instant, the entire forest, shadowed by dusk, seemed to awaken, murmuring, as if from a nightmare. Dream or reality, call it what you like, the invisible mirage that had appeared before me, mirroring the scenario of two and a half centuries ago, disappeared in a flash. The bewitching women who had rushed past me, disembodied, swift-footed, laughing soundlessly, to plunge into the waters of the Shusta, did not emerge from the water to cross me again, wringing the water from the edges of their wet saris. Like a whiff of fragrance wafted away on a breeze, they vanished in a single breath of spring.

  Now I began to fear that the goddess of verse, taking advantage of the solitude, had taken possession of me. I, who haplessly toiled away, extracting cotton revenues, seemed now to be in danger of being annihilated by Poetry, the great destroyer. I need a hearty meal, I decided; it’s on an empty stomach that one falls prey to all sorts of incurable ailments. Sending for my cook, I ordered a rich Mughlai meal, prepared with plenty of ghee and aromatic spices.

  Next morning, the entire matter seemed supremely ridiculous. Cheerfully, sporting a shola-topi, the kind of pith hat a saheb might wear, I drove off in my rumbling vehicle to pursue my own investigations. Since my quarterly report was due that day, I was supposed to come back late. But as soon as dusk descended, I began to feel drawn towards my residence. Who drew me there I cannot say; but I felt everyone was waiting for me. Leaving my report incomplete, donning my shola-topi, the rattling of my chariot wheels shattering the twilight silence of that dim, tree-shadowed, desolate path, I arrived at the great, dark, silent palace at the foot of the mountains.

  The room above the staircase, facing the front, was huge. Ornate arches, above three rows of massive pillars, supported the vast ceiling. This enormous hall resonated day and night with its own great emptiness. That evening, at the onset of dusk, the lamps had not yet been lit. Pushing the door open, as soon as I entered that immense chamber, I felt that a great disturbance had broken out within—as if the assembly had suddenly dispersed, and everyone had scattered, disappearing who knows where through doors, windows, rooms, corridors and verandas. I stood there stupefied, for there was nothing to be seen. A rapture filled my body. As if the traces of long-lost hair oil and perfume still lingered in the faint fragrance that began to waft into my nostrils. Standing amidst the rows of ancient stone pillars in that unlit, unpeopled, gigantic hall, I heard water gushing forth from fountain spouts on to the marble, an unknown melody playing on the sitar, gold ornaments clinking, anklets jingling, the large copper gong striking the hour, the distant notes of the shehnai drifting in from the nahabat pavilion, chandeliers tinkling in the breeze, the song of the caged bulbuls in the veranda and the call of the tame cranes in the garden.

  A sort of trance possessed me. It seemed to me that this ungraspable, unattainable, unreal situation was the only reality in the world, that all else was illusory. That I was myself—Mr So-and-so, eldest son of So-and-so, earning a salary of 450 rupees for collecting cotton taxes, going to work in a trap, dressed in shola-topi and short kurta—all this seemed so strange, ridiculous, baseless and false that standing in the middle of that vast, gloomy, silent hall, I burst into a loud guffaw.

  Just then, my Muslim attendant entered, carrying a kerosene lamp. Whether he thought me insane I don’t know, but I at once remembered that I was indeed Mr So-and-so, eldest son
of So-and-so. I thought, only our legendary poets and sages can say whether, in this world or beyond, disembodied fountains can in fact spout water eternally or unseen fingers strum an endless melody upon the strings of an illusory sitar. But it was definitely a fact that I earned a monthly salary of 450 rupees for collecting cotton taxes in the Barich marketplace. Now, while reading my newspaper at the camp table by the light of a kerosene lamp, I recalled my strange trance-like state of a few moments ago, and began to laugh at myself.

  Having read my paper and consumed my Mughlai dinner, I extinguished the lamp and retired to bed in a small corner room. Through the open window before me, from the sky above the darkly forested Aravalli mountaintops, a very bright star, from millions of miles away, stared unblinkingly at Mr Revenue-Collector as he lay on that insignificant camp cot. Surprised and amused at this, I fell asleep, I can’t say when, or for how long. Suddenly, I woke up, trembling. Not that there had been any sound inside the room, or that anyone had come in. The unblinking star had dropped out of view behind the dark mountains, and the faint glimmer of the waning moon drifted diffidently in through my window.

  I did not see anybody there at all. Yet, I distinctly felt someone nudging me gently. As soon as I awakened, she seemed to wordlessly beckon me with her bejewelled fingers, signalling that I should follow her very cautiously.