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Where pines that most loved of loves,
That paragon of beauty. Who but you, O poet,
Revealer of eternal worlds fit for Laksmī to dally in,
Could take me there? To the woods of undying spring-flowers
Forever moonlit, to the golden-lotus-lake,
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To the sapphire rock, to its crowning jewel-studded palace
Where, submerged in overwhelming riches,
That bereft and lonely Being weeps her lament?
Through the open window she can be seen –
Wasted in body, lying on her bed like a sliver of moon
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Sunk low in the eastern sky.
Poet, your spell has released
Tight bonds of pain in this heart of mine.
I too have entered that heaven of yearning
Where, amidst limitless beauties,
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Alone and awake, that adored one spends her unending night.
The vision goes. I watch the rain again
Pouring steadily all around.
The darkness thickens; the solitariness of night approaches.
Far across the plain, the wind moans aimlessly.
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I am sleepless half the night, asking –
Who has cursed us like this? Why this gulf?
Why do we aim so high only to weep when thwarted?
Why does love not find its true path?
It is something not of the body that takes us there,
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To the bed of pining by the Mānasa lake;
To the sunless, jewel-lit, evening land
Beyond all the rivers and mountains of this world.
The Golden Boat
Clouds rumbling in the sky; teeming rain.
I sit on the river-bank, sad and alone.
The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,
The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.
5
As we cut the paddy it started to rain.
One small paddy-field, no one but me –
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank smear shadows like ink
On a village painted on deep morning grey.
10
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.
Who is this, steering close to the shore,
Singing? I feel that she is someone I know.
The sails are filled wide, she gazes ahead
Waves break helplessly against the boat each side.
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I watch and feel I have seen her face before.
Oh to what foreign land do you sail?
Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while.
Go where you want to, give where you care to,
But come to the bank a moment, show your smile –
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Take away my golden paddy when you sail.
Take it, take as much as you can load.
Is there more? No, none, I have put it aboard.
My intense labour here by the river –
I have parted with it all, layer upon layer:
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Now take me as well, be kind, take me aboard.
No room, no room, the boat is too small.
Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.
Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,
On the bare river-bank, I remain alone –
30
What I had has gone: the golden boat took all.
Broken Song
Kāśīnāth the new young singer fills the hall with sound:
The seven notes dance in his throat like seven tame birds.
His voice is a sharp sword slicing and thrusting everywhere,
It darts like lightning – no knowing where it will go when.
5
He sets deadly traps for himself, then cuts them away:
The courtiers listen in amazement, give frequent gasps of praise.
Only the old king Pratāp Rāy sits like wood, unmoved.
Baraj Lāl is the only singer he likes, all others leave him cold.
From childhood he has spent so long listening to him sing –
10
Rāg Kāfi during holi, cloud-songs during the rains,
Songs for Durgā at dawn in autumn, songs to bid her farewell –
His heart swelled when he heard them and his eyes swam with tears.
And on days when friends gathered and filled the hall
There were cowherds’ songs of Krsa, in rāgs Bhūpālī and Mūltān.
15
So many nights of wedding-festivity have passed in that royal house:
Servants dressed in red, hundreds of lamps alight:
The bridegroom sitting shyly in his finery and jewels,
Young friends teasing him and whispering in his ear:
Before him, singing rāg Sahānā, sits Baraj Lāl.
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The king’s heart is full of all those days and songs.
When he hears some other singer, he feels no chord inside,
No sudden magical awakening of memories of the past.
When Pratāp Rāy watches Kāśīnāth he just sees his wagging head:
Tune after tune after tune, but none with any echo in the heart.
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Kāśīnāth asks for a rest and the singing stops for a space.
Pratāp Rāy smilingly turns his eyes to Baraj Lāl.
He puts his mouth to his ear and says, ‘Dear ustād,
Give us a song as songs ought to be, this is no song at all.
It’s all tricks and games, like a cat hunting a bird.
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We used to hear songs in the old days, today they have no idea.’
Old Baraj Lāl, white-haired, white turban on his head,
Bows to the assembled courtiers and slowly takes his seat.
He takes the tānpurā in his wasted, heavily veined hand
And with lowered head and closed eyes begins rāg Yaman-kalyā.
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His quavering voice is swallowed by the enormous hall,
It is like a tiny bird in a storm, unable to fly for all it tries.
Pratāp Rāy, sitting to the left, encourages him again and again:
‘Superb, bravo!’ he says in his ear, ‘sing out loud.’
The courtiers are inattentive, some whisper amongst themselves,
40
Some of them yawn, some doze, some go off to their rooms;
Some of them call to servants, ‘Bring the hookah, bring some pān.’
Some fan themselves furiously and complain of the heat.
They cannot keep still for a minute, they shuffle or walk about –
The hall was quiet before but every sort of noise has grown
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The old man’s singing is swamped, like a frail boat in a typhoon:
Only his shaky fingering of the tānpurā shows it is there.
Music that should rise on its own joy from the depths of the heart
Is crushed by heedless clamour, like a fountain under a stone.
The song and Baraj Lāl’s feelings go separate ways,
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But he sings for all he is worth, to keep up the honour of his king.
One of the verses of the song has somehow slipped from his mind.
He quickly goes back, tries to get it right this time.
Again he forgets, it is lost, he shakes his head at the shame;
He starts the song at the beginning – again he has to stop.
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His hand trembles doubly as he prays to his teacher’s name.
His voice quakes with distress, like a lamp guttering in a breeze.
He abandons the words of the song and tries to salvage the tune,
But suddenly his wide-mouthed singing breaks into loud cries.
The intricate melody goes to the winds, the rhythm is swept away �
��
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Tears snap the thread of the song, cascade like pearls.
In shame he rests his head on the old tānpurā in his lap –
He has failed to remember a song: he weeps as he did as a child.
With brimming eyes king Pratāp Rāy tenderly touches his friend:
‘Come, let us go from here,’ he says with kindness and love.
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They leave that festive hall with its hundreds of blinding lights.
The two old friends go outside, holding each other’s hands.
Baraj says with hands clasped, ‘Master, our days are gone.
New men have come now, new styles and customs in the world.
The court we kept is deserted – only the two of us are left.
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Don’t ask anyone to listen to me now, I beg you at your feet, my lord.
The singer alone does not make a song, there has to be someone who hears:
One man opens his throat to sing, the other sings in his mind.
Only when waves fall on the shore do they make a harmonious sound;
Only when breezes shake the woods do we hear a rustling in the leaves.
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Only from a marriage of two forces does music arise in the world.
Where there is no love, where listeners are dumb, there never can be song.’
A Half-acre of Land
I had forfeited all my land except for one half-acre.
The landlord said ‘Upen I’ll buy it, you must hand it over.’
I said, ‘You’re rich, you’ve endless land can’t you see
That all I’ve got is a patch on which to die?’
5
‘Old man,’ he sneered, ‘you know I’ve made a garden;
If I have your half-acre its length and breadth will be even.
You’ll have to sell.’ Then I said with my hands on my heart
And tears in my eyes, ‘Don’t take my only plot!
It’s more than gold – for seven generations my family
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Has owned it: must I sell my own mother through poverty?’
He was silent for a while as his eyes grew red with fury.
‘All right, we’ll see,’ he said, smiling cruelly.
Six weeks later I had left and was out on the road;
Everything was sold, debt claimed through a fraudulent deed.
15
For those want most, alas, who already have plenty:
The rich zamindār steals the beggar-man’s property.
I decided God did not now intend me for worldliness:
In exchange for my land he had given me the universe.
I became disciple to a sādhu – I roamed the world:
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Many and pleasing were the sights and places I beheld.
But nowhere on mountain or sea, in desert or city could I wander
Without thinking, day and night, of that half-acre.
Roads, markets, fields – over fifteen years went past;
But finally my homesickness grew too great to resist.
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I bow, I bow to my beautiful motherland Bengal!
To your river-banks, to your winds that cool and console;
Your plains, whose dust the sky bends down to kiss;
Your shrouded villages, that are nests of shade and peace;
Your leafy mango-woods, where the herd-boys play;
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Your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky;
Your sweet-hearted women returning home with water;
I tremble in my soul and weep when I call you Mother.
Two days later at noon I entered my native village:
The pottery to the right, to the left the festival carriage;
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Past temple, market-place, granary, on I came
Till thirsty and tired, at last I arrived at my home.
But shame on you, shame on you, shameless, fallen half-acre!
What mother gives herself freely to a chance seducer?
Do you not remember the days when you nursed me humbly
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With fruits and herbs and flowers held in your sari?
For whom are these lavish garments, these languorous airs?
These coloured leaves stitched in your sari, this head of flowers?
For you I have wandered, homeless, world-weary, pining,
Whereas you, you witch, have sat here idling and laughing.
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How a wealthy man’s love has turned your head! How wholly
You have changed – all signs of the past have gone completely.
You cared for me before, you fed me, your bounty was abundant.
You were a goddess; now, for all your wiles, you are a servant.
As I paced with my heart in two I looked round and saw
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There was still, near the wall, the same old mango-tree.
I sat at its foot and soothed my pain with tears,
And memories rose in my mind of childhood days:
How after a storm that had kept me awake one night
I had dashed out at dawn to gather all the fallen fruit;
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Memories of playing truant in the sweet, still noon –
Alas to think those days can never return.
Suddenly a sharp gust of wind shook the branches above me
And two ripe mangoes fell to the ground beside me.
I mused: my mother still knows her son, maybe.
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I took that gift of love, reverently touched my brow.
Then the gardener appeared from somewhere, like a messenger of death –
A topknotted Oriyā, abusing me for all he was worth.
I said, ‘I gave away everything with scarcely a murmur,
And now when I claim two mangoes there is all this uproar.’
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He didn’t know me, he led me with a stick at his shoulders;
The landlord, rod in hand, was fishing with his retainers.
When he heard what had happened he roared, ‘I’ll kill him.’
In each vile thing he said his retainers exceeded him.
I said, ‘Two mangoes are all I beg of you, master.’
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He sneered, ‘He dresses as a sādhu but he’s a pukka robber.’
I wept, but I laughed as well at the irony of life –
For he was now the great sādhu, and I was the thief.
Day’s End
Day’s end has come, the world is darkening –
It is too late for further sailing.
On the bank, a girl, I ask her with a smile,
‘On whose foreign shore am I landing?’
5
She leaves without a word, her head bowed,
Her full water-jar overflowing.
These steps shall be my mooring.
On the forest’s thick canopy shade is falling,
I find the sight of this country pleasing.
10
Nothing stirs or moves, neither water nor leaves,
Birds throughout the forest are sleeping.
All I can hear is bracelet on jar
Down the empty path, sadly tinkling.
Selected Poems (Tagore, Rabindranath) Page 7