by Ruskin Bond
hardening your mass of waters within,
form yourself into wave-like steps
and go before her as she climbs the jewelled slopes.
63
When struck by swarms of sparks off Indra’s thunderbolt
your water-jets shoot out, celestial maidens there
will surely use you for their bath;
having found you in summer’s heat, my friend,
if these girls eager for play will not let you go,
you should scare them with harsh-sounding roars.
64
Sipping Manasa waters where golden lotuses grow,
joyfully giving Airavata
the fleeting pleasure of your veiling shade,
fluttering with rain-drenched breezes
the fine silk garments of tender leaves
the Tree of Paradise wears,
amuse yourself on that majestic mountain
whose jewelled slopes glitter in chequered light and
shade.
65
Once seen, O wanderer-at-will, you cannot but recognize
Alaka on its upper slope seated as on her lover’s lap
—Ganga, her fine garment, falling down—
High over her many-storied mansions
like a woman with her hair piled up
and bound in a net of pearls, she bears
masses of clouds shedding water in the rainy season.
66
Where palaces with their cloud-kissing tops
equal you in loftiness,
and their gem-paved floors rival the glitter
of your glistening rain drops;
where paintings on the walls vie
with your rainbow hues;
and graceful movements of lovely women
rival the lightning’s play;
where drums beaten to the sound of music
resemble your thunder, mellow, deep-throated:
And in each particular more than compare with you.
67
Where women toy with a lotus held in the hand,
twine fresh jasmines in their hair;
the beauty of their faces glows pale gold
dusted with the pollen of Lodhra flowers;
fresh amaranth-blooms encircle the hair-knot,
a delicate Sirisa nestles at the ear;
and on the hair-parting lie Kadamba blossoms
born at your coming.
68
Where yakshas accompanied by highborn ladies
resort to their palace-terraces
paved with precious gems star-flower-mirroring,
to partake of passion-kindling flower wines
pressed from the Tree of Paradise,
while drumheads softly struck
throb deep-throated tones like yours.
69
Where at sunrise the path-followed at night
by amorous women hastening to midnight trysts
with faltering steps, is marked by telltale signs—
Mandara flowers fallen from playful curls
and petals of golden lotuses worn at the ears,
dislodged, lie strewn on the ground, with pearls
scattered loose as the threads snapped
of bodices of pearls that closely held their breasts.
70
Where lovers undoing the knot at the waist, hands
trembling with passion,
toss aside silken garments loosening,
yaksha women with lips like Bimba fruit,
overcome by shy confusion
aim handfuls of aromatic powder
at glittering gems serving as lamps.
Ah! What fruitless throws even though they hit their
mark.
71
Where, led to terraces of lofty mansions
by their guide the ever-moving wind,
rain clouds like you stain the paintings
with droplets of water;
then, seeming fearful flee at once
fragmented through lattices,
assuming with practised skill
the shapes of smoke streaming out.
72
Where at midnight moonstones
hanging from networks of threads,
touched by the moon’s feet
resplendent as you move away
shed clear drops of coolness
to dispel the languor born
of oft-enjoyed loveplay in women
just released from a loved husband’s close embrace.
73
Where, knowing the Supreme One to dwell incarnate,
friend to the Lord of Treasures,
the God of Love out of fear refrains from drawing
his bow strung with honeybees,
his work accomplished by lovely women
displaying their alluring charms, who bend
the bow of their eyebrows to shoot bright glances
unerringly at Love’s targets.
74
There, to the north of the palaces
of the Lord of Treasures stands our home
recognizable from afar by its arched gateway
beautiful as the rainbow.
Close by grows a young Mandara tree
nurtured by my love like a son and now bending
with clusters of blossoms
within reach of her hand.
75
A flight of steps, all emerald slabs—
a pool patterned over
by full-blown lotuses on glossy beryl stems—
Wild geese haunt its waters, freed from restless longing,
no longer resorting to nearby Manasa-lake
even after they see you coming.
76
By its edge is a miniature hill, wondrous,
with sapphire-inlaid crest, exquisitely blue
and ringed round by golden plantain-trees.
Watching you glitter at the edges with lightning-gleams
my heart trembles struck by the memory of that hill, my
friend,
remembering how dear it was to my beloved wife.
77
On it by a fragrant jasmine bower
encircled by a hedge of amaranth
stands a red Ashoka fluttering its tender leaves,
and the dearly-loved Kesara too.
One craves the touch of your friend’s lovely foot,
the other longs for the wine of her mouth,
pretending it is blossom-time.
78
And between them a golden rod rising
from a pedestal of jade whose sheen
rivals that of bamboos newly-sprouted
supports a crystal tablet;
your blue-throated friend
settles on it at close of day
after my love clapping her hands has made him dance
to the sweet tinkling of her bracelets.
79
By these tokens of recognition
treasured in your heart, O wise one!
And noting the beautifully-drawn forms
of lotus and conch on the sides of the door,
you will know the mansion, its lustre dimmed
no doubt by my absence: when the sun has set
the lotus does not show forth in all its glory.
80
At once becoming small as an elephant cub
for a speedy descent, seated on the charming crest
of that pleasure-hill I described before,
you may easily dart into the mansion
faint lightning-glances twinkling
like a glittering line of fireflies.
81
There you will see her, in the springtime of youth,
slender,
her teeth jasmine-buds, her lips ripe bimba-fruit,
slim-waisted, with deep navel
and the tremulous eyes of a startled doe,
moving languidly from the weight of her hips,
her body bowe
d down a little by her breasts
—Ah! The Creator’s master-work among women.
82
Know her to be my second life,
alone, speaking little,
mourning like a cakravaki
her companion far away.
With the passing of these long days, racked
by intense longing, the young girl
would appear so changed I think,
like a lotus-plant struck by the chilling hoar-frost.
83
Weeping passionately, her eyes would be swollen
and her lips withered by burning sighs;
my beloved’s face cupped in the palm of her hand,
only glimpsed through loose tresses flowing down
would surely appear like the miserable moon
stricken pale when shadowed by you.
84
She will come into your view absorbed
in the day’s rites of worship or drawing my likeness
imagined wasted by separation
or asking the melodious songster in the cage,
‘sweet one, do you remember our lord?
You were a favourite with him.’
85
Or, clad in a drab garment she may place
the lute on her lap, wishing to sing a melody
set to words signifying my name;
succeeding somehow in tuning the strings
wet with her tears, O gentle friend, she forgets
again and again the sequence of notes
even though she composed it herself.
86
Or, beginning with the day of our parting
she may count the months remaining,
laying out in order on the floor,
flowers placed at the threshold;
or, savouring imagined pleasures of love
treasured in her heart:
—such are the only diversions of women
sorrowing in the absence of their husbands.
87
Occupied by day, the pangs of loneliness
would not distress your friend too keenly,
but I fear the nights devoid of diversions
would pass heavy with grief;
therefore, I pray, meet the faithful girl
at midnight with my messages,
standing at the window close to where she lies
wakeful on the ground, and comfort her.
88
Wasted by anguish
she would be lying on her bed of loneliness
drawing herself together on one side,
seeming like the last sliver
of the waning moon on the eastern horizon.
By my side her nights flew by
on winged moments in rapture’s fullness;
now they drag on, heavy with her burning tears.
89
With a burning sigh that withers her lips
tender as leaf-buds, you will see her
toss aside those curling tresses
rough with frequent ritual-baths,
that stray down her cheeks uncared for.
Longing for sleep, hoping in dreams at least
she would be one with me in love,
a sudden torrent of tears might wash away those hopes.
90
On that first day of parting, her tresses
with their wreath of flowers stripped off were twisted
and plaited into one single braid
which I shall unwind when the curse is ended
and all my sorrows melted away:
you will see her with untrimmed nails pushing
that tangled braid, rough and painful to the touch,
repeatedly off the curve of her cheek.
91
Remembering past delights her eyes would turn
towards the moonbeams, cool, ambrosial,
streaming in through the lattices,
and turn away at once in sorrow.
Veiling her eyes with lashes heavy-laden with tears
she will seem to be hovering uncertain
between waking and dreaming
—a day-lily on a cloudy day neither open nor shut.
92
Casting aside all adornments,
keeping alive her fragile body in measureless sorrow,
desolate, my love would try in vain
time and again to throw herself on her bed;
the sight I am sure will make you shed some freshwater
tears;
for tender hearts ever melt in compassion.
93
I know well your friend’s heart is filled with love for me,
hence I believe her brought to this pitiable state
in this our very first parting.
It is not vain self-esteem that makes a braggart of me;
all I have said, my brother,
you will soon see before your very eyes.
94
Lack-lustre without glossy collyrium,
the sidelong glance blocked by straying hair,
the eyebrow’s graceful play forgotten
through abstaining from wine,
the doe-eyed lady’s left eye
would throb at your coming, I guess,
and match the charm of blue lotuses
quivering as fishes dart among them.
95
And her left thigh—bare of my nail marks,
unadorned by the network of pearls of the long-worn zone
she cast aside struck by the turn of fate,
so used to the gentle stroking of my hands
after love’s enjoyment—
pale as a tender plantain’s stem will start quivering.
96
If at that time, O Rain-Giver,
she has found happiness, pray wait near her,
just one watch of the night withholding your thunder,
having striven hard to find me, her beloved,
in a dream of love, let not her arms
twined like tender vines round my neck in close embrace,
suddenly fall away from their hold.
97
Awakening her with a breeze
cooled by your fine spray, when revived
along with the fragrant jasmine’s
fresh clusters of buds, she gazes intensely
at the casement graced by your presence,
begin to address the noble lady
in vibrant tones courteous,
with your lightning-gleams hidden deep within you.
98
O unwidowed lady! Know me,
your husband’s dear friend, and rain cloud
come to tender to you
his messages treasured in my heart.
With deep but gentle tones
I speed weary travellers yearning
to unknot the tangled braids of their grieving wives,
on their way home from distant lands.
99
Thus addressed, like Mithila’s princess
lifting her face up to the Son of the Wind,
she will gaze on you, her heart opening
like a flower from eager expectation:
welcoming you at once, with deep respect
she’ll listen with rapt attention, gentle friend;
for news of husbands brought by a friend
are to women the closest thing to reunion.
100
O long-lived one! In response to my plea
and to honour yourself, speak to her thus:
your consort lives,
haunting Ramagiri’s hermitages,—
parted from you he asks
if all is well with you, tender lady!
Such soothing words should be addressed first
to living beings who fall prey to calamity.
101
Far off, his way barred by adverse decree,
in his imaginings
his body becomes one with your body;
thin with thin,
anguished with intensely anguished,
tear-drowned with tear-drenched
yearning with endlessly yearning,
your hotly-sighing body
with his racked by long drawn-out sighs.
102
Who, before your companions
loved to whisper in your ear
what could well be said aloud indeed,
for he longed to touch your face,
he, gone beyond range of your hearing,
not seen by your eyes, speaks
through my mouth to you, these words
shaped by his intense yearning.
103
In the syama-vines I see your body,
your glance in the gazelle’s startled eye,
the cool radiance of your face in the moon,
your tresses in the peacock’s luxuriant train,
your eyebrow’s graceful curve in the stream’s small
waves;
but alas! O cruel one, I see not
your whole likeness anywhere in any one thing.
104
Scent of warm earth rain-sprinkled, rising fresh,
O my darling, as the fragrance of your mouth, and
the God of Love, five-arrowed, wastes my frame
already wasted, grieving, far from you.
For pity’s sake, think how my days pass
now at summer’s close, as massed rain clouds
rending the sunshine, scatter the pieces
and cling enamoured to the sky in all directions.
105
With bright ores, I draw you on a rock
feigning anger, but when I wish
to draw myself fallen at your feet,
at once my eyes are dimmed by ever-welling tears.
Ha! How cruel is fate that even here
it will not suffer our reunion.
106
Striving hard I find you in a waking dream,
I stretch my arms out into the empty air
to fold you in a passionate embrace.
Those large pearl-drops clustering on tender leaf-shoots
are surely—are they not—the tears
the tree-goddesses shed watching my grief?
107
Sudden, Himalayan breezes split open
the tightly-shut leaf-buds on deodars,
and redolent of their oozing resin
blow south; I embrace those breezes
fondly imagining they have of late
touched your limbs. O perfect one!
108
If only the long-drawn-out night
could be squeezed into a single moment,
if only the hot summer’s day
would glow at all times with a gentle warmth;
my heart, breathing the unattainable prayers
is left a defence-less prey,
O lady with bright-glancing eyes!
To the fierce pangs of separation from you.
109
But no more of me; reflecting deeply
I bear up, drawing on my own inner strength;
you too, lady most blessed,
should resist falling into utter dejection.