Part 3
Dearest, I know that thy body is but transitory; that the kindled life, thy shining eyes, shall be quenched by the touch of death, I know; that this thy body, the meeting-place of all beauty, in seeing which I count my life well-lived, shall become but a heap of bones, I know. Yet I love thy body. Day by day afresh through it have I satisfied a woman’s love and desire by serving thy feet and worshipping thee. On days of good omen I have decked thee with a flower-garland; on days of woe I have wiped away with my _sārī_ end thy tears of grief. O my lord, I know that thy soul is with the Everlasting One, yet waking suddenly some nights I have wept in loneliness, thinking how thou didst drive away my fear, clasping me to thy breast. And so I count thy body as the chief goal of my love, as very heaven.[14]
_Priyambadā Debī._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
IN THE LIGHT
We are indeed children of Light. What an endless mart goes on in the Light! In the Light is our sleeping and waking, the play of our life and death.
Beneath one great canopy, in the ray of one great sun, slowly, very slowly, burn the unnumbered lamps of life.
In the midst of this unending Light I lose myself; amidst this intolerable radiance I wander like one blind.
We are indeed children of Light. Why then do we fear when we see the Light? Come, let us look all around and see, here no man hath cause for any fear.
In this boundless ocean of Light, if a tiny lamp goes out, let it go; who can say that it will not burn again?
_Mrs. Kāminī Roy._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
CALL AND BRING HER
She went on the wrong way; she has come back again; afar off she stands, her head bowed down with shame and fear; she does not step forward, she cannot raise her eyes--go near, take her hand, call her and bring her.
To-day turn not your face away in silent reproach; to-day let eyes and words be filled with the nectar of love. What good will come from pouring scorn on the past? Think of her dark future, take her by the hand and bring her.
Lest for lack of love this shamed soul fling away repentance, bring her, call and bring her. She has come to give herself up; bind her fast with loving arms; if she goes to-day, what if she never comes again?
By one day’s neglect, one day’s contempt and anger, you will lose a life for ever. Do you not purpose to give life? Neglect is a poisoned arrow; with sorrowing pardon bring her, call and bring her.
_Mrs. Kāminī Roy._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
BASANTA PANCHAMI[15]
To-day, after a year, on the sacred fifth day, Nature has flung away her worn raiment, and with new jewels, see, with fresh buds and new shoots she has begemmed herself and smiles. The birds wing their way, singing with joy; ah, how lovely! The black bee hums as if with sound of “Ulu! ulu!” he wished good fortune to Nature. The south breeze seems to say as it flits from house to house, “To-day Bīnāpāni[16] comes here to Bengal.” Arrayed in guise that would enrapture even sages, maid Nature has come to worship thy feet, O propitious one! See, O India, at this time all pay no heed to fear of plague, famine, earthquake; all put away pain and grief and gloom; to-day all are drunk with pleasure. For a year Nature was waiting in hope for this day to come. Many folk in many a fashion now summon thee, O white-armed one; I also have a mind to worship. Thy two feet are red lotuses; but, say, with what gift shall we worship thee, O mother Bīnāpāni? Ever sorrowful, ever ill-starred are we women of Bengal, all of us. Yet if thou have mercy, this utterly dependent one will worship thee with the gift of a single tear of devotion shed on thy lotus feet. Graciously accept that, and in mercy, O white-armed one, grant this blessing on my head on this propitious, sacred day, that this life may be spent in thy worship, Mother.
_Pankajinī Basu._
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.
A WOMAN’S BEAUTY
Round the black eyes are eyebrows looking like a bow, They are not frightened at all, and they shoot their arrows with certainty. Seeing the precious ear-rings with pearls and beautiful settings, Even the moon with all the stars is filled with shame. I cannot describe the beauty of the lips, cheeks, teeth, and nose, Even Śesh Nāg,[17] seeing the beautiful hair, sighs deeply.
_Śrī Sarasvatī Devī._
Tr. Mrs. Keay.
AN EVENING ON THE LAGOON
Withdrawn in silence from the raging sea, Behind the dark and waving grove of palm In glorious solitude at even calm We glide at water’s edge, towards the lea Away from busy haunts; Eternity And Love, the burden of our rapturous psalm, As ’neath the star-lit heaven we breathe the balm Of Nature’s stillness, lulling you and me To dream in soft ethereal realms of bliss Where flits no darkening shadow, dwells no care And all is sweetness and ecstatic light, The plighted faith renewed with every kiss Of fervent gratitude for all our share Of blessed weal in life, by day and night.
_P. Seshadri._
AT THE TEMPLE
Three little girls were on the temple-stair Waiting for worship at the inner shrine; Their tiny hands betrayed a hidden sign Of weariness, devoid of strength to bear Their wealth of luscious fruit and offerings rare-- But still they stood. “What shall the Gods assign To crown your lives?” I asked, “what blessings fine Will cheer with happiness your faces fair?” “A mass of glittering jewels,” said one child, “Bracelet and necklace, shining gold waistband And pearl ear-drop.” “Fine robes of richest lace And gayest foam-spun silk,” another willed. The third, with head bent down and trembling hand, Whispered, “A lovely partner on life’s ways.”
_P. Seshadri._
RAKSHA BANDHAN
A piece of silken tassel tipped with gold, Tied round the hand by loving sister’s hands, A sacred day in _Sravan_, when the lands Are bathed in welcome rain, is said to hold A potent charm for good. From days of old This pretty faith has come and happy bands Of brothers still pay heed to its commands One day each year. Who will be rashly bold And flout this festival as void of worth-- An ancient mummery--to which man shows His slavish piety? Let him, who knows Of beings more devoted than the fair, Of wishes purer than a sister’s care, And stronger powers than woman’s love on earth.
_P. Seshadri._
LONGINGS
Were I a mighty Master swaying Art In all her lovely forms surpassing fair And robed in magic mystery, aware Of cunning artist-craft, a mind and heart Aglow with Beauty’s sacred spark, a part Of God’s creative light! If I could share The gift of breathing life-infusing air In canvas, draw thy rapturous sweetness, start The portrait beaming, bright in loveliness; The sculptor’s skill--to shape thy limbs divine In living marble, show thy beauty’s prime! Shall I encrowned with laurel, sing for Time, Eternity, and Universe, enshrine Thy name for ages, scorning storm and stress?
_P. Seshadri._
THOUGHTS
When midnight hours know not the peace of sleep But drudge in trembling hope for envied fame, In ghostly solitude before a flame Of glimmering light, whose sombre rays out-peep To view the city wrapped in silence deep, Midst weird and darkly waving groves of palm; When wizard clocks ring out and rend the calm With strides of Time--their thrilling voices creep Along the soul; my mind with labour worn, Or grappling with a knot, delights to stand In stillness, yearning forth to clasp with love Thy beauteous form--and then, Spring opes above! With blossom’d flow’r and chirping bird, the land Smiles ’neath the sunlit hues the heavens adorn!
_P. Seshadri._
THE LOVERS
From the rose-gardens of Time, fragrant and fresh, in ecstasies of light--Day has come! How many an age of silent love hath breathed and breathed upon his cheeks that tender flush of rose?
The blue in his eyes--from what lakes of enchantment hath he drunk? The radiant colours of his thought--from what infinite wonder hath he made? The glory of his love for whom, for whom hath he brought? For whom, for whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds? The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?
* * * * *
A Lotus-bud has opened; ere she was born the pain of a vast music did fill and fill her soul with a vain constant hope; in the ecstasy of that pain she bloomed into flower.
The Lotus dreams upon the lyric melodies of Day.
In the sunset hush of evening she folds her petals upon the memories of Day, enwoven with her fragrant devotions.
In the secrecy of Night she sings her praise, making the deeps of the dark melodious.
* * * * *
The glory of his love for whom, for whom doth he bring? For whom, for whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds?
The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?
_Fredoon Kabraji._
A BLUE DREAM
Where her two lips Meet or part, Leaps all my heart Like the swift ship’s Lurch on the lucent wave-- Past peril and the grave!
Where her two eyes open or close Upon the rose-kissed snows Of her face, From my soul doth rise Of its grace A white star in their skies!
But if she smile ... Or weave of her mouth a word, Swiftly a light steals Half my mind, while Her word falls all unheard! And a blue mist reels Half curtaining my mind, As a blue dream reels In the heart of the blind: Circling a remembrance Of meadows and streams, Of blossoms that open and lights that dance, And passions that struggle to live in dreams!
_Fredoon Kabraji._
TULIP
Tulip, tell me, what do you hold in your cup?
I hold in my cup the magic that swells the thirst of your soul, O Mother, when you look on the form of your child; the opiate that fills your dream, Mother, with the awe of the Unknown!
But, Tulip, tell me, why do you guard your magic beyond the wing of melody?
Because, ere Thought was, a kiss of Love did capture Death in the Seed of Life. That is why no melody of Life can hold all the magic in my cup, Mother; that is why Love cannot hold your child in Life alone!
_Fredoon Kabraji._
RETURN TO KHAIRPUR
Thy greens grow pearls, thy sunsets roses fair; My wandering heart returned to stay with thee, In shades of eve, to breathe thy cooler air, That brings refreshment, promised long to me. I love thy water-wheels, that sing to sleep The playful twilight, Autumn’s moody child, The flames that from thy fields and pinfolds leap Like lights that lead the hearts by Pan beguiled. I love thy country maids with water-jars Whose graceful coveys rural charms enhance. I love thy palms that gaze at distant stars, And upward draw the earth-encumbered glance. I love thy lake with silver trailing flowers, Whose wavelets fondly hold the starry skies; The moon, entranced by calm of midnight hours, In violet bed on lily-petals lies. No more the eyes of homesick longings pine To watch the sphere remote where stars abound, But, like thy lake that holds its love divine, My heart within hath longed-for heaven found.
_Elsa Kazi._
INDIA--ENTERTAINING TWILIGHT
To India’s comely cottage Twilight hied: “Salam, my lass!” resplendent Twilight cried: “A sumptuous fare prepare! ... since noon I tried To come this way ... but ah! the glowing day did stay With thee!... Fresh milk and fried chapatis bring; Do not forget thy hubble-bubble, dear, For lots of dreamy cheer! From out thy hair the withered lily fling; Don fine array, with pearls thy tresses lay, and play Thy vīnā, dance and sing! One stolen hour is mine; that little while With haunting notes of _suri-raag_ beguile ... And let me see thy flaming eyes, as thunder skies So deep and dark, with mystic lightnings bright; With ‘Duhals’ wake what slumbering lies, the past let rise All yesterdays to pageant gay, invite ... Be swift, my sweet! The meat and chutney let us eat ... The hour, my sweet, Is fleet; from night I must retreat! Already muezzin’s mellow call resounds in mango grove; And temple bells, that wake the gods, the hearts to worship move; Come hither, dear!... The moments flee! Salam, my love, Salam!”
And India, sun-burnt India, sweetly blushed; “Salam! I’ll hasten!” answered she; and brushed From off her braid the faded lily--crushed By day’s embrace; she sped, with joy, her face a-blaze, To milk the goats, to fry the cakes in ghee; Cabob, pullau, the dates and honey brought And hubble-bubble sought With smiles of Sindian hospitality. With peri-grace she soared about the place, to trace Each thing that added glee To Twilight’s hour ... a rich repast she spread Before her guest, who sliced the mangoes red ’Neath palms, beside the well and stream ... his eyes a-gleam With dusk, he watched where night in forests hid And vexed with prying silver beam his crimson dream, While India, humming low, her braids undid. With rustling sound Unbound, her tresses sought the ground; With silvery sound She wound her pearls in orient found ... Her silk-apparel jasmin-decked, kissed rugs of golden cloth; With henna’d hands she swirled her veil, as frail as wings of moth; Her vīnā struck, with bended knee: “Salam,” she quoth: “Salam!”
She shot as lightning up ... then paused and smiled; Then round she spun in trance, as dervish wild; In rainbow hue she flew, with flowers piled; A flame a-whirl, with passion red, each curl a-twirl, As Indra’s temple-dancer, maddening hearts Her lips with kisses scarlet!--Eyes aglow Now moved she sly and slow As Punjab tigress ere for prey she starts ... Then did unfurl a smock as white as pearl ... a girl Of pious Southern parts She turned, gazellean-soft and meek her glance, The rosary and censer graced her dance; A fragrant bud of womanhood, divinely good; But soon her measure ceased ... with rhythmic thrill In Delhi’s wealth arrayed she stood, in soaring mood Then danced again, to show her perfect skill! With flourish bold And gold a-flash, now anklets told, Her footsteps bold Controlled a battle march of old! She forward dashed as amazon of Rajput’s desert side, Her eyes with valour all a-flame, so proudly did she stride: “Wah! Wah!” so Twilight cheered ... and she: “Salam,” replied: “Salam!”
Her Jadoo-veil now changed the scene ... and lo! In clouds she danced thro’ Kashmeer’s mountainsnow, Thro’ jungle glooms and tombs of gold below; By Ganges led, where orchards blossoms shed, she sped ’Mid Koels as Gopi, or as Rama’s queen ... With shimmering ivory limbs, and rubied brow As Moghul princess now She sat ’mid slaves on throne of Jasper sheen. Now made her bed on elephant’s broad head, and fled As Jin thro’ plantains green. Then rose as butterfly from out her shawl All poised o’er lucid lakes of Taj Mahal.-- The hour had slipped, and night at last approached so fast; And Twilight donned his turban, chilled with fright ... The hookah-stick, he dropped aghast, and India cast Her jewelled slipper at her guardian Night Who gently sailed, And trailed the stars ... but Twilight quailed And westward sailed! All veiled in mists he drooped and paled! Her lacquered cradle India spread for moonlit night to rest, Namaskar made with folded hands! ... half serious, half a-jest, She fibbered: “Twilight hit at thee ... Salam, my best Salam!”
_Elsa Kazi._
ROSHANARA
The Queen Roshanara is sad and weeps in the absence of her lord in battle. Her maidens strive to comfort her:
With this, to the couch Whereon lay the Queen, so shaken With voices she heard And dreams she dreamt And visions she saw. To her they brought rose-petals In their hands, and musks in baskets, Perfuming her. But she was Terror-stricken still. Then with a wild clash of Tambourines they fell to An air of joyous happiness, Sweetly soared the voice, Like that of a nightingale, Of the chief maiden who Sang of the wind:
“North wind and south wind, West wind and east wind, Thou shalt not moan, But blow, blow Gently on my Lady’s cheeks, blow. And thou, O great sea, Thou shalt not wail, But sweetly lull my Lady to sleep.
“Red leaf and green leaf, and all ye withered leaves, Ye shall not turn the lawns into a wilderness, For my Lady is sad, And to see ye thus would make her sadder still. Great trees and small trees, Ye shall not shake and shiver When my Lady walks, But ye shall serve her as a good shade.
“Great birds and small birds and all ye humming birds, Ye shall not wail mourning elegies, But shall twitter and your little throats shall quiver In an ecstasy of delight. Ye shall sing of sweet joy, Ye shall make my Lady happy.
“And ye Fairies and Cherubs, Ye Queens of the Dreams, And Kings of the Shadows, Of the hidden people and the Unknown, Ye shall not approach my Lady, For her heart sinks with fright, And she trembles like a leaf That is thrown from the branches With the wind’s force. All ye unknown, be banished From my Lady, to your land Of Mystery and Heart’s Desire, To your land of Eternal Youth.”
_Adi K. Sett._
IN PRAISE OF HENNA
A kokila called from a henna-spray: _Lira! liree! Lira! liree!_ Hasten, maidens, hasten away To gather the leaves of the henna tree. Send your pitchers afloat on the tide, Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old, Grind them in mortars of amber and gold, The fresh green leaves of the henna tree.
A kokila called from a henna-spray: _Lira! liree! Lira! liree!_ Hasten, maidens, hasten away To gather the leaves of the henna tree. The _tilka’s_ red for the brow of a bride, And betel-nut’s red for lips that are sweet; But, for lily-like fingers and feet, The red, the red of the henna tree.
_Sarojini Naidu._
IMPERIAL DELHI
Imperial City! dowered with sovereign grace, To thy renascent glory still there clings The splendid tragedy of ancient things, The regal woes of many a vanquished race; And memory’s tears are cold upon thy face E’en while thy heart’s returning gladness rings Loud on the sleep of thy forgotten Kings, Who in thine arms sought Life’s last resting-place.
Thy changing Kings and Kingdoms pass away, The gorgeous legends of a bygone day, But thou dost still immutably remain Unbroken symbol of proud histories, Unageing priestess of old mysteries Before whose shrine the spells of Death are vain.
_Sarojini Naidu._
DIRGE
(_In sorrow of her bereavement_)
What longer need hath she of loveliness, Whom Death has parted from her lord’s caress? Of glimmering robes like rainbow-tangled mist, Of gleaming glass or jewels on her wrist, Blossoms or fillet-pearls to deck her head, Or jasmine garlands to adorn her bed?
Put by the mirror of her bridal days.... Why needs she now its counsel or its praise, Or happy symbol of the henna leaf For hands that know the comradeship of grief, Red spices for her lips that drink of sighs, Or black collyrium for her weeping eyes?
Shatter her shining bracelets, break the string Threading the mystic marriage-beads that cling Loth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet, Unbind the golden anklets on her feet, Divest her of her azure veils and cloud Her living beauty in a living shroud.
Nay, let her be! ... what comfort can we give For joy so frail, for hope so fugitive? The yearning pain of unfulfilled delight, The moonless vigils of her lonely night, For the abysmal anguish of her tears, And flowering springs that mock her empty years?
_Sarojini Naidu._
SPRING
Young leaves grow green on the banyan twigs, And red on the peepul tree, The honey-birds pipe to the budding figs, And honey-blooms call to the bee.
Poppies squander their fragile gold In the silvery aloe-brake; Coral and ivory lilies unfold Their delicate lives on the lake.
Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge, And all the vivid air thrills With butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge, And the luminous blue of the hills.
_Sarojini Naidu._
CRADLE-SONG
From groves of spice, O’er fields of rice, Athwart the lotus-stream, I bring for you, Aglint with dew, A little lovely dream.
Sweet, shut your eyes, The wild fire-flies Dance through the fairy _neem_; From the poppy-hole For you I stole A little lovely dream.
Dear eyes, good-night, In golden light The stars around you gleam; On you I press With soft caress A little lovely dream.
_Sarojini Naidu._
JUNE SUNSET
Here shall my heart find its haven of calm, By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streams That glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm. Here shall my soul find its true repose Under a sunset sky of dreams Diaphanous, amber, and rose. The air is aglow with the glint and whirl Of swift wild wings in their homeward flight, Sapphire, emerald, topaz, and pearl, Afloat in the evening light.
A brown quail cries from the tamarisk bushes, A bulbul calls from the cassia-plume, And thro’ the wet earth the gentian pushes Her spikes of silvery bloom. Where’er the foot of the bright shower passes Fragrant and fresh delights unfold; The wild fawns feed on the scented grasses, Wild bees on the cactus-gold.
An ox-cart stumbles upon the rocks, And a wistful music pursues the breeze, From a shepherd’s pipe as he gathers his flocks Under the pipal-trees. And a young Banjara driving her cattle Lifts up her voice as she glitters by In an ancient ballad of love and battle Set to the beat of a mystic tune, And the faint stars gleam in the eastern sky To herald a rising moon.
_Sarojini Naidu._
BUNKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJI
How hast thou lost, O month of honey and flowers, The voice that was thy soul! Creative showers, The cuckoo’s daylong cry and moan of bees, Zephyrs and streams and tender-blossoming trees, And murmuring laughter and heart-easing tears And tender thoughts and great, and the compeers Of lily and jasmine and melodious birds, All these thy children into lovely words He changed at will and made soul-moving books From hearts of men and women’s honeyed looks. O master of delicious words! the bloom Of _champak_ and the breath of king-perfume Have made each musical sentence with the noise Of women’s ornaments and sweet household joys And laughter tender as the voice of leaves Playing with vernal winds. The eye receives, That reads these lines, an image of delight, A world with shapes of spring and summer, noon and night; All nature in a page, no pleasing show But men more real than the friends we know. O plains, O hills, O rivers of sweet Bengal, O land of love and flowers, the spring-bird’s call And southern wind are sweet among your trees: Your poet’s words are sweeter far than these. Your heart was this man’s heart. Subtly he knew The beauty and divinity in you. His nature kingly was and as a god In large serenity and light he trod His daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowers Wreathing a hero’s sword, ruled all his hours. Thus moving in these iron times and drear, Barren of bliss and robbed of golden cheer, He sowed the desert with ruddy-hearted rose, The sweetest voice that ever spoke in prose.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._
A ROSE OF WOMEN