Chapter 3 of 4 · 3903 words · ~20 min read

Part 3

Then finish the last song and let us leave. Forget this night when the night is no more. Whom do I try to clasp in my arms? Dreams can never be made captive. My eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises my breast.

Why did the lamp go out? I shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is why the lamp went out.

Why did the flower fade? I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded.

Why did the stream dry up? I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the stream dried up.

Why did the harp-string break? I tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is why the harp-string is broken.

Why do you put me to shame with a look? I have not come as a beggar. Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard outside the garden hedge. Why do you put me to shame with a look?

Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I pluck. I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every strange traveller may stand. Not a rose did I pluck.

Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down. The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches. The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat. My feet were tired.

I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at your door. Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes. How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark? I know not what you thought of me.

The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment. I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this seat on the grass. It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way. The day is ended.

Where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when the marketing is over? They all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps from above the village trees. The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep. Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?

Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth. The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the bamboo leaves are silent. The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the courtyards. Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?

It was mid-day when you went away. The sun was strong in the sky. I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went away.

Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant fields. The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my room humming the news of many distant fields.

The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted. In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died. I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.

I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played with it upon my cheek. The river ran unruffled under the shady bank. The lazy white clouds did not move. I had forgotten to braid my hair.

It was mid-day when you went away. The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting. The doves cooed among the dense leaves. I was alone in my balcony when you went away.

I was one among many women busy with the obscure daily tasks of the household. Why did you single me out and bring me away from the cool shelter of our common life?

Love unexpressed in sacred. It shines like gems in the gloom of the hidden heart. In the light of the curious day it looks pitifully dark. Ah, you broke through the cover of my heart and dragged my trembling love into the open place, destroying for ever the shady corner where it hid its nest.

The other women are the same as ever. No one has peeped into their inmost being, and they themselves know not their own secret. Lightly they smile, and weep, chatter, and work. Daily they go to the temple, light their lamps, and fetch water from the river.

I hoped my love would be saved from the shivering shame of the shelterless, but you turn your face away. Yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off my return, and left me stripped naked before the world with its lidless eyes staring night and day.

I plucked your flower, O world! I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked. When the day waned and it darkened, I found that the flower had faded, but the pain remained.

More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world! But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night I have not my rose, only the pain remains.

One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me a flower chain in the cover of a lotus leaf. I put it round my neck, and tears came to my eyes. I kissed her and said, "You are blind even as the flowers are. You yourself know not how beautiful is your gift."

O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God, but also of men; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their hearts. Poets are weaving for you a web with threads of golden imagery; painters are giving your form ever new immortality. The sea gives its pearls, the mines their gold, the summer gardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make you more precious. The desire of men's hearts has shed its glory over your youth. You are one half woman and one half dream.

Amidst the rush and roar of life, O Beauty, carved in stone, you stand mute and still, alone and aloof. Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and murmurs: "Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my bride!" But your speech is shut up in stone, O Immovable Beauty!

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet. Let it not be a death but completeness. Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was mine in a former life.

Her house stood at the end of a desolate street. In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch, and the pigeons were silent in their corner.

She set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me. She raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, "Are you well, my friend?" I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten.

I thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind. Tears shone in her eyes. She held up her right hand to me. I took it and stood silent.

Our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died.

Traveller, must you go? The night is still and the darkness swoons upon the forest. The lamps are bright in our balcony, the flowers all fresh, and the youthful eyes still awake. Is the time for your parting come? Traveller, must you go?

We have not bound your feet with our entreating arms. Your doors are open. Your horse stands saddled at the gate. If we have tried to bar your passage it was but with our songs. Did we ever try to hold you back it was but with our eyes. Traveller, we are helpless to keep you. We have only our tears.

What quenchless fire glows in your eyes? What restless fever runs in your blood? What call from the dark urges you? What awful incantation have you read among the stars in the sky, that with a sealed secret message the night entered your heart, silent and strange?

If you do not care for merry meetings, if you must have peace, weary heart, we shall put our lamps out and silence our harps. We shall sit still in the dark in the rustle of leaves, and the tired moon will shed pale rays on your window. O traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart of the mid-night?

I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road. Now, in the cool of the evening, I knock at the door of the inn. It is deserted and in ruins. A grim _ashath_ tree spreads its hungry clutching roots through the gaping fissures of the walls.

Days have been when wayfarers came here to wash their weary feet. They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands. They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside.

But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here. The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall. Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path. I am the guest of no one at the end of my day. The long night is before me, and I am tired.

Is that your call again? The evening has come. Weariness clings around me like the arms of entreating love. Do you call me?

I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob me of my night? Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the dark is one's own. Must your voice cut through it and smite me?

Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate? Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your pitiless tower? Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your garden?

Must you call me, you unquiet one? Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep. Let the lamp burn in the lonely house. Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home. I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.

A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate.

Before him the endless ocean roared. The garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures, mocking the ignorance that knew not their meaning. Maybe he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for the search had become his life,-- Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the unattainable-- Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can never be reached-- Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks still roamed in search of the touchstone.

One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you come at this golden chain about your waist?" The madman started--the chain that once was iron was verily gold; it was not a dream, but he did not know when it had changed. He struck his forehead wildly--where, O where had he without knowing it achieved success? It had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the chain, and to throw them away without looking to see if a change had come; thus the madman found and lost the touchstone. The sun was sinking low in the west, the sky was of gold. The madman returned on his footsteps to seek anew the lost treasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart in the dust, like a tree uprooted.

Though the evening comes with slow steps and has signalled for all songs to cease; Though your companions have gone to their rest and you are tired; Though fear broods in the dark and the face of the sky is veiled; Yet, bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

That is not the gloom of the leaves of the forest, that is the sea swelling like a dark black snake. That is not the dance of the flowering jasmine, that is flashing foam. Ah, where is the sunny green shore, where is your nest? Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

The lone night lies along your path, the dawn sleeps behind the shadowy hills. The stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moon swims the deep night. Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

There is no hope, no fear for you. There is no word, no whisper, no cry. There is no home, no bed for rest. There is only your own pair of wings and the pathless sky. Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

None lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long. Keep that in mind and rejoice. Our life is not the one old burden, our path is not the one long journey. One sole poet has not to sing one aged song. The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever. Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

There must come a full pause to weave perfection into music. Life droops toward its sunset to be drowned in the golden shadows. Love must be called from its play to drink sorrow and be borne to the heaven of tears. Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

We hasten to gather our flowers lest they are plundered by the passing winds. It quickens our blood and brightens our eyes to snatch kisses that would vanish if we delayed. Our life is eager, our desires are keen, for time tolls the bell of parting. Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

There is not time for us to clasp a thing and crush it and fling it away to the dust. The hours trip rapidly away, hiding their dreams in their skirts. Our life is short; it yields but a few days for love. Were it for work and drudgery it would be endlessly long. Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

Beauty is sweet to us, because she dances to the same fleeting tune with our lives. Knowledge is precious to us, because we shall never have time to complete it. All is done and finished in the eternal Heaven. But earth's flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh by death. Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

I hunt for the golden stag. You may smile, my friends, but I pursue the vision that eludes me. I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands, because I am hunting for the golden stag. You come and buy in the market and go back to your homes laden with goods, but the spell of the homeless winds has touched me I know not when and where. I have no care in my heart; all my belongings I have left far behind me. I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands-- because I am hunting for the golden stag.

I remember a day in my childhood I floated a paper boat in the ditch. It was a wet day of July; I was alone and happy over my play. I floated my paper boat in the ditch.

Suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, and rain poured in torrents. Rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk my boat. Bitterly I thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose to spoil my happiness; all its malice was against me.

The cloudy day of July is long today, and I have been musing over all those games in life wherein I was loser. I was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, when suddenly I remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch.

The day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on the river-bank. I had feared that my time had been squandered and my last penny lost. But no, my brother, I have still something left. My fate has not cheated me of everything.

The selling and buying are over. All the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is time for me to go home. But, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll? Do not fear, I have still something left. My fate has not cheated me of everything.

The lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds in the west bode no good. The hushed water waits for the wind. I hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me. O ferryman, you want your fee! Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has not cheated me of everything.

In the wayside under the tree sits the beggar. Alas, he looks at my face with a timid hope! He thinks I am rich with the day's profit. Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has not cheated me of everything.

The night grows dark and the road lonely. Fireflies gleam among the leaves. Who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps? Ah, I know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains. I will not disappoint you! For I still have something left, and my fate has not cheated me of everything.

At midnight I reach home. My hands are empty. You are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless and silent. Like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love. Ay, ay, my God, much remains still. My fate has not cheated me of everything.

With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors or windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones. I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar. It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil. The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils. Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces, women with limbs like serpents. No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village. The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of incantations which I chanted. My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses swooned in ecstasy. I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the temple, and a pain stung me through the heart.

The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would fain hide themselves. I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alive with the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned had spread its wings and vanished.

Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust! You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce. The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect. The toys that you make for your children are fragile. You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you for that? Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes. Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart. From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality, that is why your eyes are ever wakeful. For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is not built, but only its sad suggestion. Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears. I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your love. I will worship you with labour. I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust, Mother Earth.

In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight. Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with the music of the clouds and forests. But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple grandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the musing moon. The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it. And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into dust.

At midnight the would-be ascetic announced: "This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who has held me so long in delusion here?" God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped. With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on one side of the bed. The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long?" The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not. The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother. God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he heard not. God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seek me, forsaking me?"

The fair was on before the temple. It had rained from the early morning and the day came to its end. Brighter than all the gladness of the crowd was the bright smile of a girl who bought for a farthing a whistle of palm leaf. The shrill joy of that whistle floated above all laughter and noise. An endless throng of people came and jostled together. The road was muddy, the river in flood, the field under water in ceaseless rain. Greater than all the troubles of the crowd was a little boy's trouble--he had not a farthing to buy a painted stick. His wistful eyes gazing at the shop made this whole meeting of men so pitiful.