I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
At The Last Watch
Pity, in place of love, That pettiest of gifts, Is but a sugar-coating over neglect. Any passerby can make a gift of it To a street beggar, Only to forget the moment the first corner is turned. I had not hoped for anything more that day. You left during the last watch of night. I had hoped you would say goodbye, Just say 'Adieu' before going away, What you had said another day, What I shall never hear again. In their place, just that one word, Bound by the thin fabric of a little compassion Would even that have been too much for you to bear? When I first awoke from sleep My heart fluttered with fear Lest the time had been over. I rushed out of bed. The distant church clock chimed half past twelve I sat waiting near the door of my room Resting my head against it, Facing the porch through which you would come out. Even that tiniest of chances Was snatched away by fate from hapless me; I fell asleep Shortly before you left. Perhaps you cast a sidelong glance At my reclining body Like a broken boat left high and dry. Perhaps you walked away with care Lest you wake me up. Awaking with a start I knew at once That my vigil had been wasted I realised, what was to go went away in a moment, What was to stay behind stayed on For all time. Silence everywhere Like that of a birds' nest bereft of birds On the bough of a songless tree. With the lifeless light of the waning moon was now blended The pallor of dawn Spreading itself over the greyness of my empty life. I walked towards your bedroom For no reason. Outside the door Burnt a smoky lantern covered with soot, The porch smelt of the smouldering wick. Over the abandoned bed the flaps of the rolled-up mosquito-net Fluttered a little in the breeze. Seen in the sky outside through the window Was the morning star, Witness of all sleepless people Bereft of hope. Suddenly I found you had left behind by mistake Your gold-mounted ivory walking stick. If there were time, I thought, You might come back from the station to look for it, But not because You had not seen me before going away.
Authorship
You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't understand. He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant? What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father write like that, I wonder? Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses? Has he forgotten them all? Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him an hundred times. You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets. Father always plays at making books. If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me, "What a naughty child!" If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that father's at his work?" What's the fun of always writing and writing? When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me then, mother? You never say a word when father writes. When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem to mind at all. But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say, "Child, how troublesome you are!" What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over both sides?
Baby's Way
If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment. It is not for nothing that he does not leave us. He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever bear to lose sight of her. Baby know all manner of wise words, though few on earth can understand their meaning. It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak. The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from mother's lips. That is why he looks so innocent. Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar on to this earth. It is not for nothing he came in such a disguise. This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly helpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love. Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny crescent moon. It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom. He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be caught and pressed in her dear arms. Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfect bliss. It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears. Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's yearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles weave the double bond of pity and love.
Baby's World
I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very own world. I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows. Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys. I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds; Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history; Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.
Beggarly Heart
When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder
Benediction
Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of heaven for our earth. He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his mother's face. He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold. Clasp him to your heart and bless him. He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads. I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door, and grasped you hand to ask his way. He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in his heart. Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him. Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace. Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and bless him.
Brahmā, Vişņu, Śiva
I THE DARK
In a worldless timeless lightless great emptiness Four-faced Brahma broods. nasad asin, no sad asit tadanim; nasid raja no vioma paro yat. kim avarivah? kuha? kasya sarmann? Ambhah kim asid, gahanam gabhiram? na mytur asid, amrtam na tarhi. na ratria ahna asit pratekh. anid avatam svadhaya tad ekam. tasmad dhanyan na parah kim canasa. tama asit tamasa gudham agre; apraketam salilam sarvam a idam. tuchyenabhu apihitam yad asit, tapasas tan mahinajayataikam. Of a sudden sea of joy surges through his heart – The ur-god opens his eyes. Speech from four mouths Speeds from each quarter. Through infinite dark, Through limitless sky, Like a growing sea-storm, Like hope never sated, His Word starts to move. Stirred by joy his breathing quickens, His eight eyes quiver with flame. His fire-matted hair sweeps the horizon, Bright as a million suns. From the towering source of the world In a thousand streams Cascades the primeval blazing fountain, Fragmenting silence, Splitting its stone heart. kamas tad agre sam avartatadhi manaso retah prathamam yad asit? sato bandhum asati nir avindan hrdi pratisya kavayo manisa
II THE MUSIC
In a universe rampant With new life exhalant, With new life exultant, Vishnu spreads wide His four-handed blessing. He raises his conch And all things quake At its booming sound. The frenzy dies down, The furnace expires, The planets douse Their flames with tears, The world’s Divine Poet Constructs its history, From wild cosmic song Its epic is formed. Stars in their orbits, Moon sun and planets – He binds with his mace All things to Law, Imposes the discipline Of metre and rhyme. In the Manasa depths Vishnu watches - Beauties arise From the light of lotuses. Lakshmi strews smiles - Clouds show a rainbow, Gardens show flowers. The roar of Creation Resolves into music. Softness hides rigour, Forms cover power. tirascino vitato rasmir esam: adhah svid asid, upari svid asit? retodha asan, mahimana asan; svadha avasat, prayatih parastat. Age after age after age is slave to a mighty rhythm – At last the world-frame Tires in its body, Sleep in its eyes Slackens its structure, Diffuses its energy. From the heart of all matter Comes the anguished cry – ‘Wake, wake, great Shiva, Our body grows weary Of its law-fixed path, Give us new form. Sing our destruction, That we gain new life.’
III THE FIRE
The great god awakes, His three eyes open, He surveys all horizons. He lifts his bow, his fell pinaka, He pounds the world with his tread. From first things to last it trembles and shakes And shudders. The bonds of nature are ripped. The sky is rocked by the roar Of a wave of ecstatic release. An inferno soars – The pyre of the universe. Shattered sun and moon, smashed stars and planets, Rain down from all angles, A blackness of all particles To be swallowed by flame, Absorbed in an instant. At the start of Creation There was a dark without origin, At the breaking of Creation There is fire without end In an all-pervading sky-engulfing sea of burning Shiva shuts his three eyes. He begins his great trance. ko adha veda? Ka iha pravocat, kuta ajata, kuta iyam visrstih? arvag deva asya visajanena: atha ko veda yata ababhuva? iyam visrstir yata ababhuva; yadi vasa dadhe yadi van na: yo asyadhyaksah parame vioman so anga veda, yadi va na veda
Brink Of Eternity
In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not. My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish ---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe.
Broken Song
Kasinath 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 lightening - no knowing where it will go when. He sets deadly traps for himself, then cuts them away: The courtiers listen in amazement, give frequent gasps of praise. Only the old king Pratap Ray sits like wood, unmoved. Haraj Lal is the only singer he likes, all others leave him cold. From childhood he has spent so long listening to him sing - Rag Kafi during holi, cloud-songs during the rains, Songs for Durga 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 Krsna, in raags Bhupali and Multan. 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 raag Sahana, sits Baraj Lal. 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 Pratap Ray watches Kasinath he just sees his wagging head: Tune after tune after tune, bu none with any echo in the heart. Kasinath asks for a rest and the singing stops for a space. Pratap Ray smilingly turns his eyes to Baraj Lal. He puts his mouth to his ear and says, 'Dear ustad, 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. We used to hear songs in the old days, today they have no idea.' Old Baraj Lal, white-haired, white turban on his head, Bows to the assembled courtiers and slowly takes his seat. He takes the tanpura in his wasted, heavily veined hand And with lowered head and closed eyes begins raag Yaman-kalyap. His quavering voice is swallowed by the enormous hall, Is like a tiny bird in a storm, unable to fly for all it tries. Pratap Ray, 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, Some of them yawn, some doze, some go off to their rooms; Some of them call to servants, 'Bring the bookah, bring some pan.' 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. The old man's singing is swamped, like a frail boat in a typhoon: Only his shaky fingering of the tanpura 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 Lal's feelings go separate ways, 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. His hand trembles doubly as he prays to his teachers 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 - Tears snap the thread of the song, cascade like pearls. In shame he rests his head on the old tanpura in his lap - He has failed to remember a song: he weeps as he did as a child. With brimming eyes king Pratap Ray tenderly touches his friend: 'Come, let us go from here,' he says with kindness and love. 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. Don't ask anyone to listen to me now, I beg you at your feet, my lord. The singer along 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. 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.'
Chain Of Pearls
Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.
Closed Path
I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power,---that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders.
Clouds and Waves
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me- "We play from the time we wake till the day ends. We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon." I ask, "But how am I to get up to you ?" They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds." "My mother is waiting for me at home, "I say, "How can I leave her and come?" Then they smile and float away. But I know a nicer game than that, mother. I shall be the cloud and you the moon. I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be the blue sky. The folk who live in the waves call out to me- "We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know not where we pass." I ask, "But how am I to join you?" They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves." I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the everything- how can I leave her and go?" They smile, dance and pass by. But I know a better game than that. I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore. I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with laughter. And no one in the world will know where we both are.
Colored Toys
When I bring to you colored toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints ---when I give colored toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth ---when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice ---when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body ---when I kiss you to make you smile.
Death
O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to me! Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.
Defamation
Whey are those tears in your eyes, my child? How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing! You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing- is that why they call you dirty? O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink? For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are ready to find fault for nothing. You tore your clothes while playing-is that why they call you untidy? O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds? Take no heed of what they say to you, my child. They make a long list of your misdeeds. Everybody knows how you love sweet things-is that why they call you greedy? O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?
Distant Time
I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.
Dungeon
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.
Endless Time
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chance. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut; but I find that yet there is time.
Face To Face
Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face. Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.
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