In a worldless timeless lightless great emptiness

Four-faced Brahmā broods.

Of a sudden a sea of joy surges through his heart –

The ur-god opens his eyes.

5

Speech from four mouths

Speeds to each quarter.

Through infinite dark,

Through limitless sky,

Like a growing sea-storm,

10

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,

15

Bright as a million suns.

From the towering source of the world

In a thousand streams

Cascades the primeval blazing fountain,

Fragmenting silence,

20

Splitting its stone heart.

In a universe rampant

With new life exhalant,

With new life exultant,

In a borderless sky

25

Visnu spreads wide

His four-handed blessing.

He raises his conch

And all things quake

At its booming sound.

30

The frenzy dies down,

The furnace expires,

The planets douse

Their flames with tears.

The world’s Divine Poet

35

Constructs its history,

From wild cosmic song

Its epic is formed.

Stars in their orbits,

Moon sun and planets –

40

He binds with his mace

All things to Law,

Imposes the discipline

Of metre and rhyme.

In the Mānasa depths

45

Visu watches –

Beauties arise

From the light of lotuses.

Laksmī strews smiles –

Clouds show a rainbow,

50

Gardens show flowers.

The roar of Creation

Resolves into music.

Softness hides rigour,

Forms cover power.

55

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,

60

Diffuses its energy.

From the heart of all matter

Comes the anguished cry –

‘Wake, wake, great Śiva,

Our body grows weary

65

Of its law-fixed path,

Give us new form.

Sing our destruction,

That we gain new life.’

The great god awakes,

70

His three eyes open,

He surveys all horizons.

He lifts his bow, his fell pināka,

He pounds the world with his tread.

From first things to last it trembles and shakes

75

And shudders.

The bonds of nature are ripped.

The sky is rocked by the roar

Of a wave of ecstatic release.

An inferno soars –

80

The pyre of the universe.

Shattered sun and moon, smashed stars and planets

Rain down from all angles,

A blackness of particles

To be swallowed by flame,

85

Absorbed in an instant.

At the start of Creation

There was dark without origin,

At the breaking of Creation

There is fire without end.

90

In an all-pervading sky-engulfing sea of burning

Śiva shuts his three eyes.

He begins his great trance.

‘Day’s ending, let’s go and fetch water.’

I seem to hear from afar that old evening call –

But where is the shade and the water?

Where are the steps and the fig-tree?

5

As I sit alone with my thoughts I seem to hear

‘Day’s ending, let’s go and fetch water.’

Pitcher at my hip, the winding path –

Nothing but fields to the left stretching into haze,

To the right the slanting bamboo-grove.

10

The evening sunlight shines on the blackness of the pool,

The woods round its edge are sunk in shade.

I let myself idly float  in the pool’s deep calm,

The koel on the bank has sweetness in its song.

Returning, I suddenly see above the dark trees,

15

Painted on the sky, the moon.

The wall, split by the peepul-tree –

I used to run there when I woke.

On autumn mornings the world glistened with dew,

Clusters of oleanders bloomed.

20

Two creepers covering the wall with their flow of green

Were laden with purple flowers.

I sat in my hiding-place peering through cracks,

My sari trailed on the ground.

Field after field, and on the horizon

25

A distant village blending with the sky.

Next to me ancient palm-trees stand so densely

Their dark-green foliage merges.

I can see the dam’s thin line, its water glinting,

Herd-boys crowd its edge.

30

The path goes on out of sight, I do not know where –

Who knows through what new places?

Oh this city with its stony body!

Its massive loveless fist has squeezed and crushed

A young girl’s feelings, pitilessly.

35

Where are the boundless fields, the open path,

The birdsong, the trees, the shadows?

There seem to be people all around me,

I can’t speak my heart in case they hear me.

Weeping is wasted here, it is stopped by walls,

40

My weeping always comes back to me.

No one understands why I cry,

They wonder, they want to know the cause.

‘Nothing pleases the girl, she ought to be ashamed,

It’s always the same with girls from villages.

45

All these friends and relations to keep her company,

But she sits in a corner and shuts her eyes!’

They point at my body or face,

They argue about how I look –

I feel like a garland-seller, my wares examined,

50

Tested for quality, coldly.

I loiter alone amidst them all,

Each day hangs so heavily.

People here are like worms crawling between bricks,

There is no love, there is no gaiety.

55

What of you, mother, where are you?

You can’t have forgotten me, surely?

When you sit outside on our roof beneath the new moon

Do you still tell fairy-stories?

Or do you, alone in bed, lie awake at night,

60

In tears and sickness of heart?

Take flowers to the temple at dawn to offer your prayers

For your exiled daughter’s well-being?

Here also the moon rises over the roof,

Its light is at my door and begs for entry.

65

I feel that it wandered widely before it found me

It sought me because it loved me.

I forget myself for a moment,

I rush to fling open the door.

At once the spies all around me rise like a storm,

70

Swoop with their cruel authority.

They won’t give love, they won’t give light.

I feel all the time it would be good to die,

To sink in the lap of the water of the pool,

In its shady darkness, its cool black depths.

75

Keep on, keep on with your evening call –

‘Day’s ending, let’s go and fetch water.’

When will my evening come? All playing end?

The cooling water quench all fires?

If anyone knows, tell me when.

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times

In life after life, in age after age forever.

My spell-bound heart has made and re-made the necklace of songs

That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms

5

In life after life, in age after age forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,

Its ancient tale of being apart or together,

As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge

Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:

10

You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount

At the heart of time love of one for another.

We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same

Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell –

15

Old love, but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you,

The love of all man’s days both past and forever:

Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life,

The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours –

20

And the songs of every poet past and forever.

Ah, supreme poet, that first, hallowed day

Of Äsārh on which, in some unknown year, you wrote

Your Meghadūta! Your stanzas are themselves

Like dark-layered sonorous clouds, heaping the misery

5

Of all separated lovers throughout the world

Into thunderous music.

Who can say what thickness of cloud that day,

What festiveness of lightning, what wildness of wind

Shook with their roar the turrets of Ujjayini?

10

As the thunderclouds clashed, their booming released

In a single day the heart-held grief of thousands of years

Of pining. Long-repressed tears,

Breaking time’s bonds, seem to have poured down

In torrents that day and drenched your noble stanzas.

15

Did every exile in the world that day

Raise his head, clasp his hands, face his beloved’s home

And sing to the clouds one and the same

Song of yearning? Did each lover ask a fresh, unfettered cloud

To carry on its wings a tearful message of love

20

To the distant window where his beloved

Lay wretched on the ground with clothes disordered

And hair unplaited and weeping eyes?

Did your music, O poet, carry all their songs

As you journeyed in your poem through land after land

25

Over many days and nights

Towards the lonely object of your love?

Compare the Ganges in full monsoon flood,

Absorbing streams from every side till all become one in the sea.

Compare the vapour that mountains,

30

Prisoners of their own stone, send forth in Äsārh:

Jealous of the freedom with which clouds pass above them,

They breathe it from a thousand caverns:

It rises fast as desire, unites over the peaks

And becomes in the end a great mass dominating the sky.

35

Since that day, countless first days

Of the cooling rainy season have passed.

Every year has given new life to your poem

By showering it with fresh rain,

By spreading cool shade, by echoing once again

40

With the sound of gathered clouds, by filling streams

With waves that rush like your rain-swelled verse.

All this time, companionless people have sat in loveless rooms

Through the long, rain-weary, starless evenings of Äsārh.

In faint lamplight, they have slowly read aloud that verse

45

And drowned their own loneliness.

Their voices come to me from your poem;

They sound in my ear like waves on the sea-shore.

In the easternmost part of India,

In verdurous Bengal, I sit.

50

Here too the poet Jayadeva watched on a rainy day

The blue-green shadows of distant tamāl-trees,

The density of a sky in full cloud.

Today is a dark day, the rain is incessant,

The wind ferocious – treetops rise

55

Like arms at its attack; their swishing is a cry.

Lightning darts through the clouds, ripping them,

Dotting the sky with sharp, crooked smiles.

In a gloomy closed room I sit alone

And read the Meghadūta. My mind leaves the room,

60

Travels on a free-moving cloud, flies far and wide.

There is the Amrakūta mountain,

There is the clear and slender Revā river,

Tumbling over stones in the Vindhya foothills;

There, along the banks of the Vetravati,

65

Hiding in the shade of green, ripe-fruited jambu-trees,

Are the villages of Daśāra, their fences streaming

With ketaki-flowers their paths lined with great forest-trees

Whose overhanging branches are alive with the twitter of village-birds

Building their nests in the rain.

70

There is that unknown stream along whose jasmine-wooded banks

Forest-girls idly wander:

Lotuses at their ears wilt from the heat of their cheeks

And are desperate for the shade of the cloud.

See how the village-wives stare up at the sky:

75

Simple women – no coyness in their gaze

As the cloud’s thick blue shadow falls on their dark blue eyes!

See how the Siddha women languishing on a cloud-blue rock

Revel in the cloud’s looming coolness; but at the sudden onset of its storm

Cower, rush back to their caves

80

Clutching their clothes and crying, ‘Help,

Help, it’ll blow the mountains down!’

There is Avantī and the Nirvindhyā river;

There is Ujjayinī, gazing at her own great shadow in the Śiprā river.

It is midnight, and the doves in her towers

85

Sleep away love’s urges: but women, restless with desire,

Go out into the broad dark streets to await their trysts

While lightning pricks through the gloom.

There is Kuruksetra, in the land of Brahmāvarta!

There is the peak of Kanakhala, where the wild youthful foam of the Ganges

90

Played with Śiva’s hair, laughed at his consort’s frown

As it touched his moon-crest.

My heart travels thus, like a cloud, from land to land

Until it floats at last into Alakā –

Heavenly, longed-for city

95

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,

100

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

105

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,

110

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.

115

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,

120

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.

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.

15

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 –

20

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:

25

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.

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.

20

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.

25

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.

30

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.

35

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

45

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,

50

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.

55

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 –

60

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.

65

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.

70

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.

75

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.’

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

10

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:

20

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.

25

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;

30

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;

35

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

40

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.

45

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

50

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;

55

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.

60

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.’

65

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.’

70

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 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.

I find this gold-lit country pleasing.

15

A golden trident of Śiva glitters,

A distant temple-lantern glimmers.

A marble road gleams in the shade,

It is sprinkled with fallen bakul-flowers.

Rows of roofs lurk amidst groves,

20

At the sight, my traveller’s heart quivers.

A distant temple-lantern glimmers.

From the king’s far palace the breeze brings a melody,

It floats through the sky, a song in rāg Pūrvī.

The fading scene draws me on –

25

I feel a strange detached melancholy.

Travel and exile lose their appeal,

Impossible hopes no longer call me.

The sky resounds with rāg Pūrvī.

On the forest, on the palace, night is descending –

30

It is too late for further sailing.

All that I need  is a place for my head,

And I’ll end this life of buying and selling.

As she winds her way  she keeps her eyes low,

The girl with the jar at her hip, overflowing.

35

These steps shall be my mooring.

The fierce pinching cold of a winter night, crickets chattering,

The city asleep, nobody moving in the house, lamps out.

I was sunk in deep comfortable slumber, limbs stretched at ease,

My bedding enfolding me with soothing warmth like a lover.

5

It was then that I heard someone calling my name from outside –

My sleep was suddenly broken and I sat up in terror.

The sound struck me to the core like a piercing sharpened arrow –

Sweat broke out on my forehead and my body turned to gooseflesh.

I threw off the covers, left my bed, scarcely clad as I was –

10

With heart thudding I opened the door and stood looking outside.

From the burning-ground by the river came the howl of jackals,

From above me the shriek of some night-bird passing overhead.

Before the door I saw a woman sitting on a black horse,

Veiled, utterly motionless like an image in a picture.

15

Another horse stood beside them, with its tail touching the earth,

Its body dark grey as if made of smoke from the burning-ground.

No movement at all in the horse, but it eyed me sideways –

I was quaking and trembling all over my body with dread.

In the yellowish sky the half-moon looked frosted and weary,

20

The old and leafless fig-tree near me was shivering with cold.

Then the veiled woman raised her hand and beckoned me silently –

As if under a spell, in a trance, I mounted the grey horse.

The horse set off like lightning, I could only look back briėfly –

My house seemed unreal and tenuous like a puff of vapour.

25

Horror and anguish were squeezing my heart, I felt tears rising,

But some harsh power in my throat kept pressing them down again.

On each side of the road stood lines of houses with doors shut fast –

I thought of the men and women inside them in their warm beds.

The empty road seemed painted on a land without life or sound –

30

At the gateway of the palace two watchmen were slumped in sleep.

No noise at all except now and then dogs distantly barking,

Or the boom of the bell in the palace-tower striking the hours.

Road without end, night without end, places never seen before –

It was like an amazing dream, there was no meaning in it.

35

I cannot remember what I saw, everything was confused –

The horses galloped on and on like arrows aimed at nowhere.

Their hoofs made no noise as they fell and they raised no trail of dust,

There seemed no solid ground anywhere, only lines across mist.

Sometimes we passed places that were familiar for a moment –

40

But instantly the road would swerve off again I knew not where.

I felt I saw clouds, I felt I saw birds, and tender green leaves,

But I could not distinguish clearly anything that I saw.

Were they palaces on one side of me, or huge roots of trees,

Or were they only my mind’s fantasies forming in the sky?

45

Sometimes I noticed the woman again, caught sight of her veil –

Her cruel silent manner as she rode brought panic to my heart.

In my fear I forgot the names of all gods, my tongue was tied –

The wind roared in my ears and the horses galloped and galloped.

The moon descended beneath the horizon before night’s end,

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But in the sleepy eyes of the east there was a bloodshot glow.

The horses drew up on an empty sandy beach by the sea,

In the black rocks in front of us I saw the mouth of a cave.

I heard no noise of waves from the sea, no dawn-birds were singing,

There was no delicate morning breeze wafting the scent of woods.

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The veiled woman alighted from her horse and I did the same –

I followed her through the darkly yawning entrance of the cave.

Inside was a magnificent carved chamber with rock pillars,

There were tiers of brilliant lanterns swinging on golden chains.

The stone walls of the chamber had been carved into images –

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Marvellous birds and women, leaves and creepers intertwining.

In the middle hung a canopy with pearl-studded tassels –

Beneath it was a jewelled bed spread with immaculate linen.

Incense was rising from censers on either side of the bed,

At the corners were wonderful statues of women on lions.

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There were no people, no guards, I saw no attendants or maids.

The height of the cavern magnified the slightest sound vastly.

The woman sat down softly on the bed, her face still covered –

With her finger she signalled me to come and sit beside her.

I was freezing all over and my heart was quaking wildly –

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Fear had begun to play a terrifying tune in my veins.

Suddenly there were flutes and vīās sounding all around us,

Showers of flower-dust were cascading down on to our heads,

The rows of suspended lanterns flared into double brightness –

I heard the woman laugh behind her veil, a sweet high-pitched laugh.

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It echoed and resounded in that huge and empty chamber –

It jolted my heart anew and I clasped my hands and pleaded,

‘I am but a guest from another place, please do not mock me –

Who are you, why are you cruel and silent, where have you brought me?’

Immediately the woman struck the ground with a golden stick

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And clouds and clouds of smoky incense darkened the carved chamber.

There arose a tumult of conches and ululating cries –

An ancient Brahmin entered with ritual grasses in his hand.

An escort of forest-women had formed two lines behind him –

Some carried garlands, some fans, some vessels of holy water.

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The Brahmin seated himself and the women stood in silence

While he made calculations on the ground with a piece of chalk,

Silently drawing wheels and circles and a network of lines.

When he had finished he announced that the time was auspicious.

Then the veiled woman got up from the bed with her head held low,

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I too rose and stood beside her as if driven by magic.

The unspeaking forest-women made a circle around us,

They showered grains of puffed rice and flower-petals on our heads.

The priest gave us both his blessing and went on reciting mantras –

I could not follow anything he said, I waited spellbound.

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My unknown bride pledged herself to me mutely and I shuddered,

My hand was turned to ice by the touch of her warm supple hand.

The old Brahmin left slowly followed by the women in lines –

They carried the ritual objects on their heads or on their hips.

Only one of them, lamp in hand, stayed to show us where to go.

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Together we walked behind her, none of us speaking a word.

We passed through a succession of long dark halls that frightened me,

Suddenly I realized that a door had opened before us –

How can I describe the overwhelming room that we entered?

Its variety of coloured lights, flowers of every kind,

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Garments laid out for us, studded with gold and silver and gems.

On a jewelled dais was a bed, flower-strewn as in a dream.

My bride seated herself on the bed with her feet on a stool.

I said, ‘I see all of this, but I still have not seen your face.’

Hundreds of bantering voices began to laugh from all sides,

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They exploded around us like hundreds of bursting fountains.

Slowly, very slowly the veiled woman lifted up her arms

And raised her veil, smiling a sweet smile at me but not speaking.

When I saw her face I fell at her feet in astonishment –

Tearfully I cried, ‘You, even here, my jīban–debatā!’

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In that beautiful face, in that smile and those nectar-filled eyes

Was the daemon who forever tricks me, makes me laugh and wee.

The daemon whose constant games are the pains and joys of my life

Had revealed its familiar face once again, in this unknown world.

I kissed the woman’s pure soft lotus-feet in grief and wonder –

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I could no longer restrain what I suffered and my tears streamed.

A flute began to play beautiful music that pierced my heart.

In that huge and deserted palace the woman laughed and laughed.

And is this all true,

My ever-loving friend?

That the lightning-flash of the light in my eyes

Makes the clouds in your heart explode and blaze.

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Is this true?

That my sweet lips are red as a blushing new bride,

My ever-loving friend,

Is this true?

That a tree of paradise flowers within me,

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That my footsteps ring like vinās beneath me,

Is this true?

That the night sheds drops of dew at the sight of me,

That the dawn surrounds me with light from delight in me,

Is this true?

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That the touch of my hot cheek intoxicates the breeze,

My ever-loving friend,

Is this true?

That daylight hides in the dark of my hair,

That my arms hold life and death in their power,

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Is this true?

That the earth can be wrapped in the end of my sari,

That my voice makes the world fall silent to hear me,

Is this true?

That the universe is nothing but me and what loves me,

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My ever-loving friend,

Is this true?

That for me alone your love has been waiting

Through worlds and ages awake and wandering,

Is this true?

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That my voice, eyes, lips have brought you relief,

In a trice, from the cycle of life after life,

Is this true?

That you read on my soft forehead infinite Truth,

My ever-loving friend,

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Is this true?

The news has gradually spread round the villages –

The Brahmin Maitra is going on a pilgrimage

To the mouth of the Ganges to bathe. A party

Of travelling-companions has assembled – old

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And young, men and women; his two

Boats are ready at the landing-stage.

Mokadā, too, is eager for merit –

She pleads, ‘Dear grandfather, let me come with you.’

Her plaintive young widow’s eyes cannot see reason:

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She entreats him, she is hard to resist. ‘There is no

More room,’ says Maitra. ‘I implore you at your feet,’

She replies, weeping – ‘I can find space

For myself somewhere, in a corner.’ The Brahmin’s

Mind softens, but he still hesitates

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And asks, ‘But what of your little boy?’

‘Rākhāl?’ says Mokadā, ‘he can stay

With his aunt. After he was born I was ill

For a long time with puerperal fever, they despaired

Of my life; Annadā took my baby

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And suckled him along with her own – she gave him

Such love that ever since then the boy

Has preferred his aunt’s lap to mine. He is so

Naughty, he listens to no one – if you try

And tell him off his aunt comes

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And draws him to her breast and weeps and cuddles him.

He will be happier with her than with me.’

Maitra gives in. Mokadā immediately

Hurries to get ready – packs her things,

Pays respects to her elders, floods

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Her friends with tearful goodbyes. She returns

To the landing-stage – but whom does she see there?

Rākhāl, sitting calmly and happily

On board the boat – he has run there ahead of her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she cries. He answers,

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‘I’m going to the sea.’ ‘You’re going to the sea?’

Says his mother, ‘You naughty, naughty boy,

Come down at once.’ His look is determined,

He says again, ‘I’m going to the sea.’

She grabs his arm, but the more she pulls

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The more he clings to the boat. In the end

Maitra smiles, says tenderly, ‘Let him be,

He can come along.’ His mother flares up –

‘All right, then, come,’ she snaps,

‘The sea can have you!’ The moment those words

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Reach her own ears, her heart cries out,

Repentance runs through it like an arrow; she clenches

Her eyes and murmurs, ‘God, God’;

She takes her son in her arms, covers him

With loving caresses, blesses him, prays for him.

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Maitra draws her aside and whispers,

‘For shame, you must never say such things.’

Suddenly Annadā rushes up – people

Have told her that Rākhāl has been allowed

To go with the boats. ‘My darling,’ she cries,

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‘Where are you going?’ ‘I’m going to the sea,’

Says Rākhāl cheerfully, ‘but I’ll come back again,

Aunt Annadā.’ Nearly mad, she shouts to Maitra,

‘But who will control him, he is such a mischievous

Boy, my Rākhāl! From the day he was born

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He has never been away from his aunt for long –

Where are you taking him? Give him back!’

‘Aunt Annadā,’ says Rākhāl, ‘I’m going to the sea,

But I’ll come back again.’ The Brahmin says kindly,

Soothingly, ‘So long as Rākhāl is with me

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You need not fear for him, Annadā. It is winter

The rivers are calm, there are many other

Pilgrims going – there is no danger

At all. The trip will take two months –

I shall bring your Rākhāl back to you.’

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At the auspicious time and with prayers

To Durgā the boats set sail. Tearful

Womenfolk stay behind on the shore.

The village by the Cūrnī river seems tearful

Too, with its wintry morning dew.

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The pilgrimage is over and the pilgrims are returning.

Maitra’s boat is moored to the bank.

Waiting for the afternoon tide. Rākhāl

Curiosity satisfied, whimpers with homesick

Longing for his aunt’s lap. His heart

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Is weary of endless expanses of water.

Sleek and glossy, dark and curving

And cruel and mean and spiteful water,

How like a thousand-headed snake it seems,

So full of deceit, greedy tongues darting,

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Hoods rearing, mouths foaming as it hisses and roars

And eternally lusts for the children of Earth!

O Earth, how speechlessly loving you are,

How stable, how certain, how ancient; how smilingly,

Greenly, softly tolerant of all

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Upheavals; wherever we are, your invisible

Arms embrace us all, day and night,

Draw us with such huge and rapturous force

Towards your calm, horizon-touching breast!

Every few moments the restless little boy

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Comes up to the Brahmin and asks anxiously,

‘Grandfather, when will the tide come?’

Suddenly the still waters stir,

Awaking both banks with hope of departure.

The prow of the boat swings round the cables

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Creak as the current pulls; gurgling,

Singing, the sea enters the river

Like a victory-chariot – the tide has come.

The boatman says his prayers and unleashes

The boat on to the northward-racing stream.

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Rākhāl comes up to the Brahmin and asks,

‘How many days will it take us to get home?’

With four miles gone and the sun still not set

The wind has started to blow more strongly

From the north. At the mouth of the Rūpnārāyan river,

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Where a sandbank narrows the channel, a fierce

Seething battle breaks out between the scurrying

Tide and the north wind. ‘Get the boat to the shore,’

Cry the passengers repeatedly – but where is the shore?

Everywhere, whipped-up water claps

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With a thousand hands its own mad death-dance:

It jeers at the sky in the furious uprush

Of its foam.