Part 5
Tansen, the singer, in great Akbar’s Court Won great renown; through the Badshahi Fort His voice rang like the sound of silver bells And Akbar ravished heard. The story tells How the King praised him, gave him many a gem, Called him chief jewel in his diadem. One day the singer sang the Song of Fire, The Deepak _Râg_, and burning like a pyre His body burst into consuming flame. To cure his burning heart a maiden came And sang Malhar, the song of water cold, Till health returned, and comfort as of old. “Mighty thy Teacher must be and divine,” Great Akbar said; “magic indeed is thine, Learnt at his feet.” Then happy Tansen bowed And said, “Beyond the world’s ignoble crowd, Scorning its wealth, remote and far-away He dwells within a cave of Himalay.” “Could I but see him once,” desired the King, “Sit at his feet awhile, and listening Hear his celestial song, I would deny My state and walk in robes of poverty.” Then said Tansen, “As you desire, Huzoor, Indeed ’twere better as a slave and poor To come; for he, lifted above the things Of earth, disdains to sing to earthly kings.” Long was the road, and Akbar as a slave Followed Tansen who rode towards the cave High in the mountains. At the singer’s feet They knelt and prayed with supplication sweet: “Towards thy shrine, lo, we have journeyed long, O Holy Master, bless us with thy song!” Then Ostad, won by their humility, Sang songs of peace and high felicity; The Malkous _Raga_ all ecstatic rang Till birds and beasts, enchanted as he sang, Gathered to hear. O’er Akbar’s dreaming soul He felt the waves of heavenly rapture roll, But, as he turned to speak his words of praise, Ostad had vanished from his wondering gaze. “Tell me, Tansen, what theme this is that holds The soul enchanted, and the heart enfolds In high delight”; and, when he knew the name, “Tell me,” again he said, “could you the same Theme sing to lure my heart to paths untrod?” “Ah no, to thee I sing; he sings to God.”
_Inayat Khan._
The high ambition of the drop of rain Is to be merged in the unfettered sea; My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain, Changing, became itself the remedy.
Behold how great is my humility! Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore; Now I no longer feel thy tyranny, I hunger for the pain that then I bore.
Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflow If not to breathe with benediction sweet Across her path? Why did the soft wind blow If not to kiss the ground before her feet?
_Ghalib._
How difficult is the thorny way of strife That man hath stumbled in since time began! And in the tangled business of this life How difficult to play the part of man!
When she decrees there should exist no more My humble cottage, through its broken walls, And cruelly drifting in the open door, The frozen rain of desolation falls.
O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burn And bear my soul further and further yet To the Belovéd? Then, why dost thou turn To bitter disappointment and regret?
Such light there gleams from the Belovéd’s face That every eye becomes her worshipper, And every mirror, looking on her grace, Desires to be the frame enclosing her.
Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance, In this grim place of slaughter strange indeed Your joy to see unveiled her haughty glance That flashes like the scimitar of Ede.
When I had hardly drawn my latest breath, Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas! How soon repentance followed on my death, How quick her unavailing sorrow was!
_Ghalib._
Thy beauty flashes like a sword Serene and keen and merciless; But great as is thy cruelty, Even greater is thy loveliness.
It is the gift of God to thee, This beauty rare and exquisite; Why dost thou hide it thus from me? I shall not steal nor sully it.
And as thy beauty shines, in Heaven There climbs upon its path of fire The star that lights my rival’s way, And with it mounts his heart’s desire.
Even in thy house is jealousy, Thy youth demands the lover’s praise Over thy beauty, which itself Is jealous of thy gracious ways.
I died with joy when winningly I heard the Well-Beloved call-- Zahir, where is my beauty gone? Thou must have robbed me after all.
_Zahir._
I shall not try to flee the sword of Death, Nor, fearing it, a watchful vigil keep; It will be nothing but a sigh, a breath, A turning on the other side to sleep.
Through all the close entanglements of earth My spirit shaking off its bonds shall fare And pass, and rise in new unfettered birth, Escaping from this labyrinth of care.
Within the mortal caravanserai No rest and no abiding place I know; I linger here for but a fleeting day, And at the morrow’s summoning I go.
What are these bonds that try to shackle me? Through all their intricate chains my way I find; I travel like a wandering melody That floats untamed, untaken, on the wind.
From an unsympathetic world I flee To you, your love and fellowship I crave, O Singers dead, Sauda and Mushafi, I lay my song as tribute on your grave.
_Amir._
VOICE IN THE AIR
_The vaulted roof opens. The guests feel that a Being is entering from above. They see nothing, but all hear a voice in the air._
High above the clouds in the Home of Light I dwell. My days are passed in the peace of Great Understanding. For their welfare do I visit men in all corners of the earth. At the command of the Mother I move, up and down, East and West, showering the rays of Freedom upon all; The Mother is the Circle, I am but a curve; The Mother is the Whole, I am but a part; The Mother is the Opening Lotus, I am but a single petal; The Mother is the Ocean of Honey, I am but a thirsty bee. Men call me Lord of the Sky and Father of the Heavens. They know naught who speak thus. I am the Space and its all-infilling Light and the sight in Man’s eyes which sees them both; I am the Sense whereby Man knows the Quarters; I dwell in peace, encompassing all these living orbs of light; I know the secret of the Primal Song; the gods are all the offspring of a Song, by them unheard; I keep the record of men’s thoughts in my infinite House of Sky; From æon to æon I hold up the Mirror of Thought to each man’s mind, to lead him across the shoreless Sea of Mirage; Yet I do but the bidding of the Mother of Eternal Power; I am in all hearts, save only those where Love is not.
_The Being rises up through the open roof, and the guests hear his voice dying away in the far-off sky. The vault of the Hall closes. The southern door opens. A Being enters. They hear his voice._
VOICE IN THE AIR:
By the will of the Mother I am the Lord of the Air; I reign over all who breathe; I carry sweet fragrance from ocean to ocean; My song is heard in the mountain forest, but men hear not my music in the clouds; My home is near to the Lord of the Heart; I am the Lord of Life’s Brother and Playmate; I walk with Man from the door of Birth to the door of Death; waking and sleeping, by day and by night, I watch over him; I sweep from Pole to Pole and none can withstand my power; I am the Friend of the Flowers--from one to another I bear sweet messages of love; This all I do at the command of the Mother of Life. There stands the Mother tenderly smiling, filling with sweetness the Quarters of the Heavens. Yea, like a spreading mountain pine She stands in the soft autumn twilight, and it pleases Her that I play upon my reed for the comfort of all creatures that breathe.
_The light dies out, leaving the Hall in darkness. After a while a kind of murky earth-light diffuses itself over the lower part of the Hall. The guests hear the sound of a mighty crying, like the wailing of a sacked city in the far distance. A voice, broken by sighs and groans, speaks from below._
VOICE:
I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods have not named me. I call myself “Humanity”; I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep through the air and the ether. I am man and woman and the intermediate one; I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb. I wander in the woods of dark continents as the savage cannibal; I watch by the bedside of the sick in the home of mercy. I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassion in the heart of the mother. I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself to save others. I change--every moment, every season, every æon; I fill the pages of my history with romances written in blood; Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth; I wax strong and wage war to please Death; I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flaming furnace of hell--and this I do to please my children. I enter the portals of Life with strong crying--and with a sigh I bid farewell to Life. I am prophet; I am idiot; I am king and shepherd and fisherman. I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherds and fishermen and turn them into dust; And with their dust do I besmear myself and madly dance over green meadows. I am--what ye fear to think of me; I will be--what ye love to dream of me. But I will baffle all your fond expectations and all your clever calculations; In a moment of infinite time I will take the whole world by the hand and lift it up to the heaven of my heart. I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children, but one sure instinct I possess--I stand erect the moment I fall, and by the aid of the very obstacle that caused my fall do I rise again. I sorrow not over my shortcomings and my sufferings; I hope--yet know that my hopes are too wild to be realised. In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain I have made my home; I breathe the atmosphere of pain--I drink from the well of pain--I eat the fruits of the tree of pain--my sleep is troubled by the dream of pain. I love not Pain--Pain loves me; The whole history of my existence is a constant fleeing from this cruel lover of mine; I have prayed to God to be delivered from him--has He heard my prayer? I have worshipped a million lesser divinities--nature-gods, man-gods, god-gods--throughout the ages, hoping to be relieved of pain--have they saved me? I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints--have they healed me? I have listened to philosophers, scientists, magicians--have they protected me? Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimed the gospel of peace and security--have they not themselves plunged the poisoned dagger into my heart? I am old as Eternity--yet I feel not the burden of eternal years; I am young as the babe of to-day--yet I am wise as all the hoary Bible-makers of all the races of the earth. I am one--I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man, animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flows ever with passionate impetuosity towards the distant future above the heads of nations. To me the least is not less than the greatest; in all I am their sensitiveness to pain--the pain of a perpetual new birth of cosmos or of chaos. I am large, and my largeness moves me to face great pain for the avoiding of great pain; I am strong, and my strength lies in discovering the source of consolation even in the moment of suffering from suffering itself; I am inured to pain--so that I delight in excitement that brings pain and inflicts pain. Who brought this pain upon me? Had it been God-given, God would one day have taken it away; has He taken it away? Had it been the gift of Nature, I would have revenged myself upon her; but I feel no enmity to Nature--I desire that she be endless, infinite, that I may ever conquer her; I desire to be charmed by her--yet to be her master; I wonder, shall I ever wish to end this play?
Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seek the aid of floods and earthquakes, war and pestilence and famine, to bring destruction on myself; but ever by a mysterious magic I rise from my own ashes and live again; and after my resurrection, sitting in the dawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psyche comes and whispers to my heart: “Not thou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thine own pain!” And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings, how can I desire to live again? How can I inflict pain upon myself? How can I construct machinery for my own torture? I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction; have I perhaps sought to grow at the cost of happiness and peace? Bright Powers in the heavens are watching over my mysterious destiny. Have they lauded me as good and true and beautiful? Have they condemned me as bad and false and ugly? Who will say whether I am developing aright? Who will say whether the daily use to which I am constrained to put my life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose? I am left alone with my unforeseeing understanding and my ever forward-springing untamable energy.
My knowledge embraces not the whole reality. Perchance my sensitiveness to pain has sprung from my limited uncomprehending understanding. True, in my own eyes I grow from ugliness to beauty, from ignorance to knowledge, from slavery to freedom, from sin to holiness. I make progress in culture and civilisation--but I rise to the zenith only to descend to the nadir. Henceforth I will seek new and inward space for my progress. In the coming age I will seek to bore a tunnel in the spirit, to find an inner path to the Divinity of my Heart. But I will not destroy the bridges which I have built during the past ages, linking this earth with the distant divinity of suns and moons and stars. I will be free, glorious, and immortal.
_The Voice ceases._
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
All this is rhythm. May-fields, child-hearts, evening skies, Grow corn and wisdom and stars By the throb of rhythm; And Muses from the Milky Way Nightly visit The sleeping poet’s downy pillow By the law of rhythm; And angels bring him faces Flushed with morning’s rose, Tinted with even’s quiet, By the sweet impulse of rhythm. Wait, O soul! Outside thy door, upon the green, Heaven stands expectant, Waiting to be ushered in By Rhythm, Just now--or perchance to-morrow.
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Usarika.”
Friend, dwell thou within my ruby-lotus heart of dreams; Friend, see thyself in the diamond mirror of my heart of hopes; Friend, sport with me in the garden-walks of my heart, fringed with everlastings; Friend, sleep thou on the shore of the song-throated ocean of my heart; Friend, shine in me like sunlight in the heart of a rose-bud of jade.
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Usarika.”
Thou art the rose, I am the honey; Thou drinkest the light of the four heavens, And my soul is suffused with the rainbow of seven tints; I give myself to the bees And become a song on the wings of winds that sing to the gods and the fleecy clouds and the sleeping children of Life.
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Usarika” (Dawn-Rhythms).
Snow-blossoms, snow-blossoms, Are you alive?
In your heart I see the image of the heavens, the disc of the sun,
And when clouds veil the face of the sky I see your facets tinted with the ink of dark sorrow.
Children of Varun, sweet guests of late Autumn, you too hear the whispers of Immortality.
Like our village sons, dwelling in lighted cottages by the gloom-canopied graves of their departed ancestors.
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Saki” (The Comrade).
The rose of eternity is my heart, the sun-gold honey is my love for my Saki, the honey-bees are my sighs and songs, the river is my feeling of life, and the light of my Saki’s eyes is the true life of the red rose.
What grey dews or blind canker can harm this ever-smiling rose of my heart?
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Saki.”
The blue of Indra is thy laughter frozen into the sky-ocean and these stars and this earth are frozen lilies and we living creatures are frozen bees.
O Saki, laugh no more.
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Saki.”
The shadow of a flying bird across the sun’s disc fell on the still floor of my morning-quiet cave and vanished--
Like the memory of one who passing through the bright shade of my garden trees of early days entered into the deep shadows of another’s garden trees.
_Śrī Ānanda Āchārya._
From “Saki.”
LOVE’S _SAMĀDHI_[19]
Ah, Love, I sink in the timeless sleep, Sink in the timeless sleep; One Image stands before my eyes, And thrills my bosom’s deep: One Vision bathes in radiant light My spirit’s palace-halls; All stir of hand, all throb of brain, Quivers, and sinks, and falls. My soul fares forth; no fetters now Chain me to this world’s shore. Sleep! I would sleep! In pity spare; Let no man wake me more!
_Nārāyan Vāman Tilak._
A CRADLE SONG
Hush thee, hush thee, baby Christ, Lord of all mankind,-- Thou the happy lullaby Of my mind.
Hush thee, hush thee, Jesus, Lord, Stay of all that art,-- Thou the happy lullaby Of my heart.
Hush thee, hush thee, home of peace,-- Lo! Love lying there!-- Thou the happy lullaby Of my care.
Hush thee, hush thee, Soul of mine, Setting all men free-- Thou the happy lullaby Of the whole of me.
_Nārāyan Vāman Tilak._
THE WAY OF POVERTY
Thou hadst no servants to attend on Thee; Then why this pomp of household state for me? Coarse fare and scanty was Thy portion, Lord; Then why for me this richly-furnished board? Thou hadst not where to lay Thy head to rest; Then why should I of mansions be possessed? Ah, hapless I! What is this tyranny? How dost Thou laugh and make a mock of me! Ah, take from me this burden that doth bow My head! blest ocean of all love art Thou! I speak in anger, Lord; yet, if Thou too Reject my prayer, what can Thy servant do? Saith Dāsa, Christ, upon Thy pallet-bed Grant me a little space to lay my head.
_Nārāyan Vāman Tilak._
THE LAST PRAYER
Lay me within Thy lap to rest; Around my head Thine arm entwine; Let me gaze up into Thy face, O Father-Mother mine!
So let my spirit pass with joy, Now at the last, O Tenderest! Saith Dāsa, Grant Thy wayward child This one, this last request.
_Nārāyan Vāman Tilak._
UNION WITH CHRIST
As the moon and its beams are one, So that I be one with Thee, This is my prayer to Thee, my Lord, This is this beggar’s plea.
I would snare Thee and hold Thee ever, In loving wifely ways; I give Thee a daughter’s welcome, I give Thee a sister’s praise.
As words and their meaning are linked, Serving one purpose each, Be Thou and I so knit, O Lord, And through me breathe Thy speech.
O be my soul a mirror clear, That I may see Thee there; Dwell in my thought, my speech, my life, Making them glad and fair.
Take Thou this body, O my Christ, Dwell as its soul within; To be an instant separate I count a deadly sin.
_Nārāyan Vāman Tilak._
PEACE
It is the hour of sunset, and the sky Is robed in purple, as a lovely bride With ruby lips and veil thrown half aside, Waiting for her sweet lord with longing eye. The air is fresh and fragrant, and the sea In smiling joy its boundless bosom heaves, With ringing music of the rising waves; And far from here its weary whisper leaves The broken echo of a world that raves; Its murmur hushed in new-born notes of glee.
* * * * *
Lulled by the laughter of the sky and earth, The heart forgets her sorrow and suspends Her breath in silent rapture and descends Upon the soul the vision of its birth. Immeasurable waters! and the sky Immeasurable! and this wondrous light In rainbow smiles of India, all around-- Resting and rocking and rolling in delight, And swelling with the mirth of many a sound That fills the ocean’s ears unceasingly.
* * * * *
And now the mantle of approaching night Falls gently o’er the drowsy eyes of day; The roseate glow of evening melts away, Softly beyond the western waves, to white. Now o’er the earth a veil of mystery In silver silence all around is spread; And not a sound is heard or sight is seen Except the lingering echoes hither led Of boatmen’s shouts, and distant lights between The mingling bosoms of the sky and sea.
* * * * *
The moon hath risen, and the stars appear, And heaven is watching with the eyes of light; And in my heart a newer hope is bright With varied splendours of the atmosphere. The mind is hushed and all its motions cease Of wayward fancy and unquiet thought; And in the happy island of the soul Awakes a joy in radiance unforgot-- Which o’er the world’s tumultuous uncontrol Doth smile, and softly whisper, “Here is Peace!”
_Nanikram Vasanmal Thadani._
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The new leaves are red, _are_ the rosy kisses. Also, _palas_ and pomegranate both have red blossoms.
[2] This poem deliberately takes off from the loveliest of all Bengali popular songs, Ramprasad’s “This day will surely pass, this day will pass” (see _Bengali Religious Lyrics_, Thompson and Spencer, Oxford University Press).
[3] India has six seasons to our four.
[4] Urvasi, in older (_i.e._ Sanskrit) mythology, is a famous courtesan and dancing-girl at the court of Indra, King of the Gods. Her adventures were many; she was often sent to lure sages aside from their devotions, lest they obtained super-divine powers and threatened the dominion of the Gods (see stanza 4). But in Tagore’s poem she is very much more than her legendary character. The poem is a tangle--Indian mythology, modern science, European romance. She is the cosmic spirit of life, in the mazes of its eternal dance; she is Beauty dissociated from all human relationships; she is that world-enchanting Love which (though not in Dante’s sense) “moves the sun and other stars,” is Lucretius’s _hominum divumque voluptas, Alma Venus_, is Swinburne’s “perilous goddess,” “sea-foam-born.”
I have adopted a quasi-metrical form which I hope will indicate the general outline of the stanza in which this magnificent ode is written.