Selected Poems (Tagore, Rabindranath) Read online

Her eyes and murmurs, ‘God, God’;

  She takes her son in her arms, covers him

  With loving caresses, blesses him, prays for him.

  50

  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,

  55

  ‘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

  60

  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

  65

  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.’

  70

  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.

  75

  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

  80

  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,

  85

  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

  90

  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

  95

  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

  100

  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.

  105

  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,

  110

  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

  115

  With a thousand hands its own mad death-dance:

  It jeers at the sky in the furious uprush

  Of its foam. On one side are glimpses of the distant

  Blue line of the woods on the bank; on the other,

  Ravenous, gluttonous, murderous waters

  120

  Swell in insolent rebellion against the calm

  Setting sun. The rudder is useless

  As the boat spins and tumbles like a drunkard.

  The men and women aboard tremble

  And flounder as icy terror mixes

  125

  With the piercing winter wind. Some are dumb

  With fear; others yell and wail and weep

  For their dear ones. Maitra, ashen-faced,

  Shuts his eyes and mutters prayers.

  Rākhāl hides his face in his mother’s breast

  130

  And shivers mutely. Desperate now,

  The boatman calls out to everyone, ‘Someone

  Among you has cheated the gods, has not

  Given what is owing – hence these waves,

  This unseasonal typhoon. I tell you, make good

  135

  Your promise now – you must not play games

  With angry gods.’ The passengers throw money,

  Clothes, everything they have into the water,

  Recking nothing. But the water surges higher,

  Starts to gush into the boat. The boatman

  140

  Shouts again, ‘I warn you now,

  Who is keeping back what belongs to the gods?’

  The Brahmin suddenly points to Moksadā

  And cries, ‘This woman is the one, she made

  Her own son over to the gods and now

  145

  She tries to steal him back.’ ‘Throw him overboard,’

  Scream the passengers with one voice, heartless

  In their terror. ‘O grandfather,’ cries Moksadā,

  ‘Spare him, spare him.’ With all her heart

  And might she squeezes Rākhāl to her breast.

  150

  ‘Am I your saviour?’ barks Maitra his voice

  Rising in reproach and bitterness. ‘You stupidly

  Thoughtlessly gave your own son

  To the gods in your anger, and now you expect me

  To save him! Pay the gods your debt –

  155

  All these people will drown if you break

  Your word.’ ‘I am a foolish, ignorant

  Woman,’ says Moksadā: ‘O God, O reader

  Of our inmost thoughts, is what I say

  In the heat of anger my true word?

  160

  Did you not see how far from the truth

  It was, O Lord? Do you only listen

  To what our mouths say? Do you not hear

  The true message of a mother’s heart?’

  But as they speak the boatman and oarsmen

  165

  Roughly tear Rākhāl from his mother’s clasp.

  Maitra turns his face away, shuts his eyes,

  Blocks his ears, grits his teeth.

  A sharp cry sears his heart like a whiplash

  Of lightning, stings like a scorpion – ‘Aunt Annadā,

  170

  Aunt Annadā, Aunt Annadā!’ That helpless, hopeless

  Drowning cry stabs Maitra’s tightly

  Shut ears like a spike of fire. ‘Stop!’

  He bursts out, ‘Save him, save him, save him!’

  For an instant he stares at Mokadā lying senseless

  175

  At his feet; then he turns to the water. The boy’s

  Agonized eyes show briefly among the frothing

  Waves as he splutters ‘Aunt Annadā’ for the last

  Time before the black depths claim him. Only

  His frail fist sticks up once in a final

>   180

  Pathetic grasp at the sky’s protection,

  But it slips away again, defeated. The Brahmin,

  Gasping ‘I shall bring you back’, leaps

  Into the water. He is seen no more. The sun sets.

  New Rain

  It dances today my heart, like a peacock it dances, it dances.

  It sports a mosaic of passions

  Like a peacock’s tail,

  It soars to the sky with delight, it quests, O wildly

  5

  It dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances.

  Storm-clouds roll through the sky, vaunting their thunder, their thunder.

  Rice-plants bend and sway

  As the water rushes,

  Frogs croak, doves huddle and tremble in their nests, O proudly

  10

  Storm-clouds roll through the sky, vaunting their thunder.

  Rain-clouds wet my eyes with their blue collyrium, collyrium.

  I spread out my joy on the shaded

  New woodland grass,

  My soul and kadamba-trees blossom together, O coolly

  15

  Rain-clouds wet my eyes with their blue collyrium.

  Who wanders high on the palace-tower, hair unravelled, unravelled –

  Pulling her cloud-blue sari

  Close to her breast?

  Who gambols in the shock and flame of the lightning, O who is it

  20

  High on the tower today with hair unravelled?

  Who sits in the reeds by the river in pure green garments, green garments?

  Her water-pot drifts from the bank

  As she scans the horizon,

  Longing, distractedly chewing fresh jasmine, O who is it

  25

  Sitting in the reeds by the river in pure green garments?

  Who swings on that bakul-tree branch today in the wilderness, wilderness –

  Scattering clusters of blooms,

  Sari-hem flying,

  Hair unplaited and blown in her eyes? O to and fro

  30

  High and low swinging, who swings on that branch in the wilderness?

  Who moors her boat where ketakī-trees are flowering, flowering?

  She has gathered moss in the loose

  Fold of her sari,

  Her tearful rain-songs capture my heart, O who is it

  35

  Moored to the bank where ketakī-trees are flowering?

  It dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances, it dances.

  The woods vibrate with cicadas,

  Rain soaks leaves,

  The river roars nearer and nearer the village, O wildly

  40

  It dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances.

  The Hero

  Say we made a journey, mother,

  Roaming far and wide together –

  You would have a palanquin,

  Doors kept open just a chink,

  5

  I would ride a red horse, clip

  Clop-clip along beside you, lifting

  Clouds of red dust with my clatter

  Now, suppose it’s getting darker,

  Suddenly we’re blocked by water –

  10

  What a place, how bleak and wild,

  Not a man or beast in sight.

  You take fright, feel in our mind

  We’re lost. I tell you, ‘Don’t be frightened,

  Look, we’ll take that dried-up river.’

  15

  What a thorny, thistly region –

  All the cattle have been taken

  Under cover for the night.

  How the path we’re taking winds,

  Darkness makes it hard to find –

  20

  Then suddenly I hear you crying,

  ‘Near the water, what’s that lantern?’

  Next thing shouts and yells surround us,

  Figures closing in upon us –

  All four bearers fall away,

  25

  Quake in bushes; you remain

  Crouched in fear, reciting names

  Of gods while I keep calmly saying,

  ‘I am here, no one shall harm us.’

  Just imagine, lāthi-wielding

  30

  Long-haired desperate villains wearing

  Fabā-flowers behind their ears –

  ‘Stay right there,’ I shout, ‘keep clear!

  See this sword? I’ll chop you, pierce

  Each man who comes one footstep nearer.’

  35

  Still they come, leaping and yelling.

  You say, ‘No, Oh don’t go near them!’

  I say, ‘Sit tight, I can take them,

  Watch –’ I spur my horse, at once

  Swords and bucklers clash and thud –

  40

  Mother, you would faint at such

  A fight! Some flee; the rest I scupper

  Somehow: run them through, behead them.

  You think they have surely killed me,

  All those hefty men against me,

  45

  Till I roll up, smeared with blood,

  Pouring sweat – ‘The battle’s done,

  Come outside,’ I call. You rush

  And hug me kiss me. ‘What a lucky

  Thing,’ you say, ‘that you were with me.’

  50

  Life is such a boring matter,

  Why are the exciting stories never

  True? How this one would amaze

  Neighbours, brothers – what? such great

  Strength in one so small? My fame

  55

  Would spread, with everybody saying,

  ‘What luck he was with his mother!’

  Death-wedding

  Why do you speak so softly, Death, Death,

  Creep upon me, watch me so stealthily?

  This is not how a lover should behave.

  When evening flowers droop upon their tired

  5

  Stems, when cattle are brought in from the fields

  After a whole day’s grazing, you, Death,

  Death, approach me with such gentle steps,

  Settle yourself immovably by my side.

  I cannot understand the things you say.

  10

  Alas, will this be how you will take me, Death,

  Death? Like a thief, laying heavy sleep

  On my eyes as you descend to my heart?

  Will you thus your tread be a slow beat

  In my sleep-numbed blood, your jingling ankle-bells

  15

  A drowsy rumble in my ear? Will you, Death,

  Death, wrap me, finally, in your cold

  Arms and carry me away while I dream?

  I do not know why you thus come and go.

  Tell me, is this the way you wed, Death,

  20

  Death? Unceremonially, with no

  Weight of sacrament or blessing or prayer?