POETRY

CHAITALI

Rabindranath Tagore

Contents

Unknown World

On the Endless Road

Drought

Wounded Pride

Fearlessness

The Wrong Hour

The Limit of Hope

Receiving a Blessing

The River Ichamati

Offering

Ritusamhara

Opulence

Compassion

Duty

Poetry

To Kalidasa

The Song of Kumara's Birth

A Moment's Meeting

The Ferry

Song

Songless

Truth and Beauty

Without Philosophy

The Hermitage

Grass

Elder Sister

Two Similes

Two Friends

A Rare Birth

The God's Farewell

This Earthly Ground

Meditation

River Journey

Woman

Padma

Borrowed Garb

Acquaintance

In the Village

Putu

The Reckoning of Merit

The First Kiss

Dawn

Ancient India

Prayer

Beloved

Love

The Beloved

Mother Bengal

The Forest

In the Forest, and in the Kingdom

Year's End

Farewell

Dissolution

Renunciation

To the Devotee

A Fearful, Vain Hope

Noon

The Realm of the Mind

The Woman of the Mind

The Scene of Union

The Sweetness of Death

The Cloud-Messenger

Silence

The Traveler

The Peace-Mantra

Tending

The Last Word

The Last Kiss

The Companion

The Devoted Wife

To Civilization

The Ending

The Common Man

The Bonds of Love

A Scene of Tenderness

Dream

Self-Interest

Memory

The Heart's Own Law

Unknown World

(অজ্ঞাত বিশ্ব)

I was born into you a moment's guest, O boundless

Nature — and in simple faith I called you home, I

called you mother still. But this evening you bared

claw and fang, rushing, roaring, in a fiend's dread

shape, flinging your mother's guise into the void,

tearing yourself to shreds in the storm of Baishakh,

you came charging, terrible, on wings of dust, to

root out life as though it were mere grass.

Trembling, I ask you now, O vast and dreadful one —

who are you, with a thousand arms encircling me,

sealing the endless roads of sky on every side? Who

summoned this brief life of mine to be? Where must I

go — and why do I exist at all?

On the Endless Road

(অনন্ত পথে)

Sitting at my window I watch her every day — a

little girl, without play, without restlessness,

grave in her duties, quick and busy-footed, coming

and going to her daily tasks; with eyes half-blinded

by unshed tears I watch her face, and smile at her

with love. Today I loose my boat for a distant

shore; she too will sail one day, her labor done,

back to her own true country; she does not know me,

nor I her — yet still I long to see where the last

thread of her life will lead her. In what unknown

village, what far-off land, in whose house will she

be bride, and then at last a mother — and after that

all ends — and after that, alas, where does this

girl's road go?

Drought

(অনাবৃষ্টি)

I have heard that in ancient days, for love of

mortal women, the gods themselves came down from

heaven. That age is gone. Today, in this rainless

hour, this dry-bedded river, this scorched field of

Baishakh, a farmer's daughter cries her plaintive

prayer again and again — come, O rain, and strike.

With restless hope she lifts her sorrowful eyes to

the sky, and searches it, and searches still. Yet no

rain falls; the deaf wind only scatters every cloud,

and rushes on unheeding, while the sun's fiery

tongue licks dry the last moisture from the sky. In

this dark age, alas, the gods themselves have grown

old and weary. A woman's pleading now moves only

men.

Wounded Pride

(অভিমান)

Whom shall I blame, my friend, whom shall I blame?

Useless, this bluster; useless, this rage. Those who

only die, but never give their lives, have never yet

been honored by anyone. However much I weep in

print, however much I curse, it is my own blackened

face that wears the deeper stain. To carry your

complaint against the one who wrongs you night and

day — straight to that very one! If you hold no

power of judgment in your own hand, if, kicked, you

cannot strike a single blow in answer — then stay at

home, your head bowed low, and hold your peace;

don't beat the drum of it in every weekly paper. On

one side stands the sword, and scorn, unmoving; on

the other, only ink — and only tears.

Fearlessness

(অভয়)

Today, upon the last day of the year, O teacher, to

whom do you show this fear of the last hour, sitting

there? Endless assurance wakes today across the sky,

an endless stream of life runs through the wind, the

whole world has risen laughing in the joy of waking

— only fear still clings to your parched face. God

is no demon gaping wide with death — it is you who,

deceiving, conjure up this dread. Better, almost, to

forget God outright, so small the loss; the true

harm is fear — is deep distrust of God. He himself,

by making us forget, again and again, the fact of

death, has let us nest and dwell in this world's

household. Who are you, to raise this harsh voice of

terror? Joy alone is the true worship of the Joyous

One.

The Wrong Hour

(অসময়)

Let go this useless effort. A hushed silence will

build its own story, in its own time. Today it lies

in meditation — this heart of mine is like a

hermit's grove, fearful its penance will be broken.

At such an hour, here, in vain, my love, you have

come wearing a garland of spring flowers, your skirt

is full of memories of youth — but in this quiet

bower there is no song today. Only along this

hushed, unrustling forest path your two small

anklets rise and hum. Beloved, you have come into

this garden at the wrong hour; today, even

yesterday's song lies mute. Seeing you, the flowers

themselves grow restless, and every bud longs to

open out of season.

The Limit of Hope

(আশার সীমা)

All of the sky, all of the wind, all this green and

living earth, all its splendor, all its peace that

fills the evening sky,

all delight, all honeyed things, every smile touched

with sweetness, all the ever-new luxuries, the whole

intoxication of pleasure,

all the earth, all its glory, the whole weight of

its offerings, every labor of the world's churning,

every necklace of jewels —

if I had all of this, still endlessly my heart would

want for more — but if I have only her, then I ask

for nothing but one small corner of home.

Receiving a Blessing

(আশিষ-গ্রহণ)

I go now to the battlefield, onto the road of

struggle; from far away comes the roar of the

world's upheaval. Before I take my leave, while

still I may, let me fill my heart entirely with your

voice, forever murmuring its sweetness, its generous

blessing — let me carry on my heart your kind touch,

this store of well-wishing. Grant me only this: that

in victory or defeat I may bow my head in quiet

humility, like a flower that carries a god's own

blessing. The trusted face of love, like a bad

dream, may turn hostile all at once — yet let it

never curdle the nectar of my heart; let me remain,

always, my own true self.

The River Ichamati

(ইছামতী নদী)

O slender Ichamati, along your banks may peace live

on forever, hut by hut — may your bordering fields

stand thick with grain. Year after year, in the

rains, dressed in joy, with the deep roll of thunder

and the gathering dark, in the wave-festival stirred

by the eastern wind, lifting a sound of gladness

left and right through the two villages that you

shelter and feed, come flowing down in splendor from

your hill home, proud and radiant in your rejoicing

current. When I am gone, when this song is gone,

still, life moving on in the breast of the earth,

your joyful story, here in Bengal, O river-daughter,

will sound out, year after year, O Ichamati!

Offering

(উৎসর্গ)

Today in my vineyard-grove cluster on cluster the

fruit has formed. So heavy with their aching

sweetness they seem, this instant, about to burst;

in spring's reckless, wild wind they seem about to

bow down to the earth — so full, so unbearably

brimming with juice, layer on layer the fruit has

ripened.

Come now into this bowered home, come, you — the

fulfillment of all I have sought. Plunder, and fill

the fold of your garment with all the wealth that my

life holds; silent, utterly and gently bowed, take

spring's whole surrender for your own — carry away,

with a smiling face, all the grove's own offering of

longing.

Wounded, your nails stained red as with fruit-blood,

tear the stems and let them fall. Sitting at the

vine's root in blissful ease, the whole day through,

with idle fingers, as though at some pointless,

absent-minded task, pluck them one by one in play —

and let the ripe, full fruit break open beneath the

bite of your teeth, upon your lips.

Today in my vineyard-grove the restless bees hum on

and on. All day the restless wind breathes out its

long and rustling sigh, and in the stirring of the

forest's breast the leaf-edged branches tremble —

today in my vineyard-grove fruit has ripened,

cluster on cluster.

Ritusamhara

(ঋতুসংহার)

O prince of poets, Kalidasa, in an imagined bower

you sit in seclusion with your beloved, upon the

crown-prince's throne of youth. To bear your

footstool cut from emerald, the whole earth remains

in waiting; the whole sky holds a golden royal

parasol aloft for you two alone; six handmaidens —

the six seasons — come circling round to dance;

filling ever-new cups, they pour ever-new streams of

colored wine into your thirsting youth; the three

worlds become a single bridal chamber. There is no

sorrow here, no want, no crowd of men — you alone

are king, and she alone your queen.

Opulence

(ঐশ্বর্য)

This small blade of grass, here in the universe,

carries a plain greatness, and wears it lightly. The

new sun of morning, the moon of night — the blade of

grass sits with them, as an equal. This song of

mine, too, mingles with the world's own song, and

melts into the very heart of all that is; the

pouring rain of Shravan, the forest's murmuring —

among them all, it finds its own true home. But you,

O lover of luxury, the weight of all your wealth is

yours alone, locked behind one small, shut door. No

sunlight falls on it, no moon looks down, it holds

no share in the universe's constant blessing. And

when death comes and stands before it, in an

instant, alas, it turns pale, wasted, and utterly

untrue.

Compassion

(করুণা)

In the afternoon, on the dust-choked streets of the

city, a fearsome crowd; from the workshops worn-out

men stream homeward, like the current of a river

freed from its dam. Chariot-horses race on, breath

heaving, driven by hunger and the driver's whip.

Just then, a shopkeeper's child, lost in play, runs

with arms flung wide to catch a fallen kite.

Suddenly he falls beneath the wheels, and the

stone-hard road shudders with the blow. A cry rises

all at once into the empty air, as though, in

heaven, the goddess of mercy wailed aloud. I look

up, and see a woman, her clothes in disarray — a

fallen woman — collapsed and weeping on the ground.

Duty

(কর্ম)

I could not find my servant, come the morning. The

door stood open, no water drawn for bathing — the

wretched fool had not come back all night. I do not

know where my washed clothes have gone, nor any sign

of breakfast being made! The clock ticked on while I

sat there fuming — just let me catch him, I will

teach him a lesson. At last, when the day had grown

late, he came, bowed low, and stood before me, hands

folded. I said to him, full of anger, "Get out of my

sight — I don't want to see your face." Hearing

this, he stood a moment like a man struck dumb,

staring at my face, unable to speak — then said, in

a voice thick and broken, "Last night, at midnight,

my little girl died." Having said this, he quickly

took his towel on his shoulder and went off alone to

his daily work. Just as on every other day —

scrubbing, cleaning, wiping — he left not a single

task undone.

Poetry

(কাব্য)

Did you not have, then, your share of joy and

sorrow, the same war of hope and despair we know, O

immortal poet? Did you not endure, at every turn,

court intrigue, hidden blows? Did you never bear the

weight of insult, neglect, mistrust, unjust

judgment, harsh and cruel want — did sleepless

nights never pass with a spear driven into your

chest? Yet, above it all, untouched and pure, your

poetry's lotus of beauty has opened toward the sun

of joy; nowhere in it is there any trace of sorrow,

want, or hard days. Having drunk, yourself, the

poison churned from life, whatever nectar rose, you

gave it all away.

To Kalidasa

(কালিদাসের প্রতি)

Today you are only a poet, nothing more — where is

your royal court, where is your house, where is that

city of Ujjayini — where has he gone, your king,

Kalidasa, that emperor of emperors? No trace is left

of any of it. And yet, today, it seems that you had

always lived in endless joy, a citizen of Alaka. On

the evening cloud-peak, when Uma's lord, his

meditation broken, danced in the fullness of earthly

rapture, while wet clouds rolled like thunder-drums

and swift lightning kept the rhythm, beat by beat —

you, in that very moment, would raise a hymn of

praise, and at its close, Gauri herself, smiling

with tenderness, would take the peacock feather from

her ear and set it in your hair.

The Song of Kumara's Birth

(কুমারসম্ভবগান)

When you sang, poet, before the divine pair, the

song of Kumara's birth, the Pramathas gathered round

on every side; upon the peak a slow, calm bank of

evening cloud came down, its lightning-play

suspended, its thunder stilled; Kumara's peacock

lowered its tail and stood there quietly at

Parvati's side, its raised neck gently curved.

Sometimes the goddess's lips trembled with a faint

smile; sometimes a sigh passed unseen; sometimes a

welling of tears showed at the corner of her eyes —

until at last a restless shyness settled, silent, on

her downcast lids, and you, poet, looking on the

goddess's face, fell suddenly silent, your song

unfinished.

A Moment's Meeting

(ক্ষণমিলন)

The one I hold as dearest of all kin — how long, how

much do I really know of them! In the midst of

endless time, for a single moment's meeting, their

life has brushed against my own. However small the

fragment of each other we have learned, we do not

know, alas, its boundless rest. And when, one day,

one of the two of us turns away their face, in all

this wide world we two will never meet, face to

face, again — who, in the endless universe, will

hear the other's call! In this brief meeting, then,

O charming one, why did I see you so achingly

beautiful? Why, in this moment's flash of light, O

one most inward, did I know you as someone always,

already known to me?

The Ferry

(খেয়া)

The ferry-boat goes back and forth across the

current; someone travels home, someone leaves it

behind. On the two banks, two villages know each

other well, crossing over, morning until evening. In

the world, how much conflict, how much ruin, how

many new histories are made and unmade; out of the

flow of blood, foaming up, how many golden crowns

bloom, and then break; how many new hungers and

thirsts of civilization rise, how much poison rises,

and how much nectar too — yet here, on these two

banks, that no one else has heard of, two villages

simply gaze at one another. This ferry goes on

forever, over the river's current; someone travels

home, someone leaves it behind.

Song

Thou fallest, laughing, into my heart, like a wave.

In what full moon has the tide risen today, in this

sea of my youth! In restless, wild waters, turning,

returning, to a ceaseless beat, upon this lonely

shore of mine — what game is this of thine! Across

the whole shore of my breast, in how many dances,

how many songs, thou comest near, thou goest far, a

hundred thousand times. Thou fallest, laughing, into

my heart, like a wave.

Like a waking thou risest in mine eyes and kissest

my brow. At the far edge of sleep thou showest

thyself, slowly, in a light new-born. Gazing,

gazing, at last thou comest into the whole of my

heart and standest there, thy hair flung loose, upon

feet of rose-red — the whole sky breaks open and

fills to the brim with thee, every grove bursts to

flower, in life, in youth. Like a waking thou risest

in mine eyes and kissest my brow.

Breathing like a blossom, thou fallest, petal by

petal, upon my breast. In the guise of secret dew,

drop by drop of tears, thou drenchest my life. A

silent throng of fragrance steals into my soul,

unveiling sweet dreams in the hidden heart. At the

thrill of thy touch the dawn comes into eyes still

heavy with sleep, and thy kiss moves through my

every limb. Breathing like a blossom, thou fallest,

petal by petal, upon my breast.

Songless

My lyre-bearer has gone away — how long since, I do

not know. In what neglect, what forgetfulness, upon

the forgotten dust, she has left her lyre behind.

The flowers have opened — in all the world today the

day for singing has come, all ten directions ring,

the tireless mad koel calls, the spring-wood

overflows with rapture. A pain has struck up in me,

an anguish filling my whole being, so many words

rise and fill my mind, yet I sit here the whole day,

songless, without praise — my lyre-bearer has gone

away.

Never again in that fresh new strain will the lyre

fill and rise, never again will the old melody play;

like a young ascetic woman, keeping her eternal vow

of silence, you, my lyre, now lie indifferent. Who

will sit on this seat, in this grove of the mind's

lotus, in whose lap shall I lay you down — stay

lying there, gazing up at the sky — my lyre-bearer

has gone away.

If sometime, forgetting myself, I should lift you up

and try, foolishly, to play you against my breast;

though the whole earth in spring is filled with

song, still today I cannot sing. Today my words are

but the husk of words, no melody is left in them, I

know now that my woven rhythms are in vain — my life

is filled with tears, no music murmurs in it — my

lyre-bearer has gone away.

I used to think this lyre, strung to melody, was

mine to keep, a boon given by my own god; that from

my very life, in a stream of nectar full of

incantation, it had received a voice of song that

would never fade. One evening, in the twilight, my

eyes brimming with tears, I drew it close and held

it to my breast — it no longer wished to sound, and

only then did I understand, alas, my lyre-bearer has

gone away.

Truth and Beauty

I have heard, O world-ocean, that in thy depths lie

priceless gems and pearls without end. Night and

day, in every land, learned divers labor on, forever

searching them out. For that I have no craving, O

great deep! The light that burns upon thy surface,

the mystery that sways beneath thy breast, the

majesty spread across thy blue waters, the music

that rises at thy ceaseless beat, the wondrous play

that dances in thy great dance — if ever in this

world I should know their end, if ever, through all

my days, I should grow weary of them, then I shall

dive into thy fathomless depths, where the jewel

lies, or where death lies.

Without Philosophy

Let whoever wishes sit with eyes shut fast in

meditation, and win the knowledge of whether the

world is real or illusion. I, meanwhile, will sit

with eyes that never tire, and take the world in,

simply, by the light of day.

The Hermitage

When with the mind's eye I see ancient India, from

east to west, from north to south, the great forests

appear, wrapped in their vast shade. The king,

leaving his pride of kingdom behind in the town,

ties up his chariot-horses far off, and goes forward

with head bowed, for his guru's counsel — on the

banks of a flowing river the great sage sits in the

posture of meditation, and his pupils study apart,

beneath the trees, in the calm morning wind; while

the daughters of the sages, binding their soft,

tender youth in rough bark-cloth, water the young

saplings at their roots. Through the forest gate

enters, having left his throne behind, a crownless

king, his hair grown white, the calm radiance of

renunciation upon his brow.

Grass

O friend, be at peace, put your anger away; this

quarrel of mine with you is vain. I only wish to

walk the road I mean to walk, and on it there is no

lack of room for anyone. The seven worlds walk that

road side by side, and still it has no end in the

great sky. Your heaped-up riches, within the walls

of your house, dress themselves in glittering pride,

holding the universe cheap. But carry them out onto

that universal road, and in an instant they will

stand small, dim-faced, and bowed — there, nobler

than they, is a fresh blade of grass, lush and green

in the streaming rains of the monsoon. There, nobler

than they, O Pride, is this — my very small song of

today.

Elder Sister

By the riverbank the migrant laborers from the west

dig earth, stacking it into heaps. Their little

daughter comes and goes about the landing-steps;

scrubbing and scouring pots, bowls, and plates, she

comes running, running, a hundred times a day; her

brass bangles clink and clatter against the brass

tray; busy the whole day long — while her tiny

brother, shaven-headed, mud-streaked, without a

stitch of clothing, follows behind her like a tamed

little creature, and sits waiting on the high bank

at his sister's command, in patient stillness. A

full water-jar upon her head, a plate tucked under

one arm, in her right hand she holds the small hand

of the child — a mother's deputy, bowed beneath her

burden of work, this very small elder sister.

Two Similes

The river that has lost its current, that can flow

no more, is bound about by a thousand ropes of

clinging weed; the nation that has lost its life,

grown still and numb, is bound at every step by its

own withered customs. On the road where everyone

walks, at every hour, no grass or weed can ever take

root; but the nation that never walks that road at

all has its feet held fast by scripture, spell, and

rite.

Two Friends

The dumb beast, wordless, its heart unable to speak

— where, one wonders, does it ever meet the human?

Yet in some first heaven, on creation's morning, as

though heart passed daily into heart in constant

crossing, a footprint was pressed down, and to this

day, through all the ages, it has never quite been

lost — and so the two still know each other. The

kinship of that first day has receded very far; and

yet, suddenly, in some wordless strain, a faint

memory of that old time wakens in the soul, a

nectar-sweet affection wells up within, and the

beast turns a spellbound, simple, tender gaze upon

the face — while the human beholds it with an

amused, fond tenderness. It is as though, in two

disguises, two old friends had chanced to meet — and

after that, a strange and wondrous play unfolds

between two lives.

A Rare Birth

One day this seeing will come to its very end, the

last blink will fall upon these eyes. The next day,

the night will pass just as before, and morning will

wake over a world still wide awake. The play of this

world will go on with its noise and clamor, in joy

and sorrow, the hours will pass from house to house.

Remembering this, I look out today at the whole of

existence with eyes full of longing, full of

eagerness. Whatever meets my eye, nothing now seems

small or worthless, everything today feels precious

beyond measure. Precious is even the tiniest speck

of this earth, precious is even the most wasted,

failed life in this world. Let what I have not

received remain unreceived; let what I have received

stay mine; and whatever I once thought too small to

want — that too, now, give me.

The God's Farewell

In the god's temple an aged devotee sat telling his

prayer-beads, night and day. Then, one evening,

dust-covered in body, clothless, wretched, poor,

someone entered that house. He said in a pleading

voice, "I have no home; out of mercy, give me a

corner, a place to stay." The devotee, drawing back

in distaste, said to him, "Get away, get away, you

unclean thing, go far from here." The stranger said,

"Then I go" — and in the blink of an eye the beggar

took on the very form of the god. The devotee cried,

"Lord, what trick have you played on me!" The god

replied, "It was you who drove me away. I go through

the world in the shape of the poor, seeking out

compassion — only where the homeless are given a

home do I myself dwell."

This Earthly Ground

Small words, small songs come to my mind today —

whatever meets my eye, on every side. I feel as

though I am sailing on, rowing my boat along, and on

either bank I see the green earth pass by.

Everything says, "I am going, I am going," in moment

after moment, and because I see it only for an

instant, I look on it with love. From the shore,

sorrow and joy, that brother and sister, gaze back

at my face with such pitying eyes. Shadowy villages

appear along the banks, and I think to myself, how

much love must surround them. And when I gaze and

gaze with eager, longing eyes, something passes from

my own soul into the soul of this earth — good and

bad, sorrow and joy, darkness and light, and it

comes to me: taking it all together, this earth is

good.

Meditation

The more I love, the greater I see thee to be, the

more truly, my beloved, do I see thee as thou art.

The less I make of thee, the less truly do I know

thee — sometimes I lose thee from sight, sometimes I

call thee back to mind. Today, on this day of

spring, my mind opening wide, I behold a strange and

wondrous dream — as though this world did not exist,

as though nothing else remained, as though there

were only one vast, boundless ocean, with no day, no

night, no hour, no passing moment, the waters of a

great dissolution, still and unmoving; and as

though, in the very midst of it, fully blossomed,

thou alone remained afloat there, a single lotus;

and the King of the universe, seated forever in his

great love, beholds within thee his own reflected

self.

River Journey

My boat moves on, filled by a gentle wind. The

morning's white clouds rest at the edge of the sky.

The river, swollen with the rains, sleeps like a

satisfied child, waveless, its body full and heavy,

sleeping without a sound. On both banks the fields

lie still, thick with green grain, the earth slow

with drowsiness, as though heavy with child. Why is

everything today, all this water and land, so

utterly still? No boat is seen upon the river, the

banks lie empty of people. Sitting alone in the

midst of this abundant earth, Death itself, ancient

beyond all ages, its eyes today grown dim, has

dressed itself in beauty, its hair heavy with cloud,

a faint, pale light falling upon its brow. It hums,

it sings, in a low and grieving tone, and it is

drawing my restless soul away, making it forget.

Woman

You are the mind's own creation, and so within the

mind your image dwells so easily, so entirely at

home. When I behold you at the world's shore it

seems as though you had stepped outside my own mind.

When I see you standing there within the mind itself

it seems as though you had dwelt in this soul

lifetime after lifetime. You are the form the

imagination gives itself, and so, in every

direction, you go mingling and merging with all

beauty. In the moon is the loveliness of your face;

in your face, the rising of the moon; with the whole

of creation you are in ceaseless exchange. The

mind's endless thirst wanders the world and dies

away, blending with you into the sweetness of the

whole universe. And after that, the mind surrenders

— this life and the life beyond — to the very god it

has itself imagined and made.

Padma

O my Padma, you and I have looked upon each other a

hundred, a hundred times. One day, upon your empty

sandbank, in the blessed hour of twilight, in a day

of late autumn, calling to witness the sun sinking

in the west, I gave over my very soul to you. In the

fading light of evening you lay there that day,

bowed-headed like a young bride, silent and still;

the evening star alone, with tender, playful eyes,

gazed toward you, her face full of smiling light.

Ever since that day, O my Padma, you and I have

looked upon each other a hundred, a hundred times.

Many people come to me on many kinds of business;

they do not know of this bond between our two souls,

they do not know why I come, at evening's secret

meeting-hour, to this lonely shore spread with a bed

of sand. When your chattering flocks of ruddy geese

lie hushed upon the water, their clamor set aside,

when, in the silent village along your eastern bank,

the doors are shut, one cottage after another, what

song do you sing, what song do I sing — no one on

either shore has ever traced their source. In

private, through autumn, summer, winter, and the

rains, a hundred times we have looked upon each

other, you and I. How often, sitting on your bank,

have I wondered: if in another life I should come

back again to this earth, if from some far, unknown

land of birth I should come floating down, rowing a

boat, into your swift current — how many villages,

how many fields, how many tangled thickets of

tamarisk, how many sandbanks, how many crumbling,

fallen banks, would I cross before arriving at this

very place — would no deep, buried consciousness in

me stir awake? For a hundred lifetimes, at this same

lonely shore, my secret heart has come out to meet

you; will it not happen again, at that same shore,

that same evening hour, that you and I shall look

upon each other once more?

Borrowed Garb

Who are you, going about dressed in your masters'

finery? Does not your disguise multiply your shame

fourfold! Sitting upon your own body, these borrowed

clothes — are they not, every day, insulting you

yourself? Are they not saying, "You wretch, hold

onto me carefully; am I not far nobler than your own

skin?" If there is no self-respect left in the

heart, then on the back a black coat becomes only a

mark of disgrace. That paltry little cap, perched

upon your head, is it not heaping scorn upon your

own people? It is saying, "The head that now lies

beneath my feet has had its lowliness erased, only

by my own mercy." To carry humiliation over your

whole body — what pride is this! Know well: beside

that, a worn, ragged cloth would be an ornament.

Acquaintance

One day I saw that naked little boy sitting in the

dust, his two legs spread out before him. Sitting at

the landing-steps, his sister was scrubbing a

water-pot, turning it round and round, scooping up

bits of clay to clean it. Not far off, a soft, downy

little kid-goat wandered slowly along, grazing, up

and down the riverbank. Suddenly it came near, and

pausing, again and again, it gazed at the little

boy's face, and called out to him. The boy startled,

trembled, burst into frightened tears, and the

sister dropped her pot at the landing-steps and came

running. Taking her brother onto one hip and the

little goat onto the other, she divided her

affection equally between the two of them! The child

of the beast, the child of man — with their sister

between them, she bound the two together with the

cord of acquaintance.

In the Village

Here, I find her near me — as near as this very

earth beneath my feet, as near as flower and fruit,

as near as the air, the water, all around. Like the

song of a bird, like the murmur of water, like this

morning light itself, like this very softness, the

deep green of the forest — just so do I love her.

Like a beautiful evening, like the tuberose, like

the morning star at the edge of the sky, like the

dawn, stainless, washed clean with dew — just so

beautiful do I find her. Like the rain's water, like

the floor of the sky, like the sweet, deep sleep of

night, like the river's current, like the banyan's

shade over the forest track — just so is she my very

own. Like tears that gather and fall, brimming from

the eyes, just so easily, so naturally, come my

songs — just as life itself pervades, filling every

corner of the heart, just so does her love fill

mine.

Putu

The Chaitra noon will not pass, the thirsty earth

burns in the day's blaze. Then, out of nowhere, I

heard someone call from far away — "Putu-rani,

come!" On the empty riverbank, in the scorching

noon, a tender voice woke my curiosity. I closed my

book and rose, unhurried, opened the door a crack,

and looked outside. A great buffalo, mud upon its

flanks, stood at the water's edge with mild, soft

eyes. A young man had waded in and called to her —

to bathe her — "Putu-rani, come!" I saw the youth —

I saw his Putu-rani — and my quiet, sweet expectancy

dissolved, laughing, into the ordinary.

The Reckoning of Merit

When the holy man rose to heaven, he called for

Chitragupta and said, "Bring me the ledger of my

merit." Chitragupta laid the book before him and

watched to see what his face would show. The sadhu

started: "What a monstrous error! The early pages

you have filled with marks, but on the last leaf I

find only emptiness — all the years I was sunk in

the mire of the world, how could such merit have

come to me then?" Hearing this, Chitragupta smiled

to himself. The sadhu, in fury, cried, "On the page

of my youth why have you written so much merit,

under the ledger of worship?" Chitragupta answered,

smiling, "This is hard to understand — what men call

love, that is what is called worship."

The First Kiss

All ten directions fell silent, their eyes bowed low

— every bird that had been singing hushed its song.

The wind grew still; the water's murmuring stopped

in an instant; the forest's whisper sank slowly into

the forest's own whispering. On the waveless river's

empty bank the evening shadow came down without a

sound, and the mute rim of the sky lay speechless on

the earth. In that hour, at the window, silent,

alone, came our first kiss. At once, in every

quarter, rang out the conch and bell of evening

worship in the temple. The endless world of stars

shivered, and our eyes filled, brimming, with tears.

Dawn

Pure young dawn, and a cool wind — the quiet river

shivers and shivers again. Not yet have the wild

swans come down to the water, not yet has any boat

unfurled its white sail. Not yet has the village

bride come to the landing, no farmer walks the road,

no cattle in the field. I sit alone at the open

window, my burning forehead laid against the open

sky. The breeze runs its caressing touch through my

hair, the glad light falls and settles on my face.

The birds' glad singing, from every quarter, rocks

the blue heaven in a flood of nectar. Blessed am I,

who behold the light of the sky, blessed am I, who

have loved this world so well.

Ancient India

On every side appear Vidarbha, Virata, Ayodhya,

Panchala, Kanchi — heads held high, defying the very

vault of heaven with sidelong glances, in the

neighing of horses, the trumpeting of elephants, in

the clash of swords, the twang of bows, in the music

of the lute, the ringing of anklets, in the bard's

praises, the swell of festival, in the wild roar of

conches, the joy of victory, in the rumbling thunder

of chariots, the roar of the road — forever

sounding, with the din of restless work. Not far

off, the hermitage of the Brahmin — speechless,

grave, calm, restrained, and vast. Here, the drunk

and swelling pride of the Kshatriya glory; there,

the still and mighty silence of the Brahmin's

majesty.

Prayer

Today — by what wealth, by whose hand, could the

world leave me deprived? Yours — the jewel-dust of

your lotus feet lies gathered and kept within me.

However — harsh and cruel the glances that graze me,

however many thorns rain into the depths of my

heart, still — my heart and mind, touched by that

nectar, thrill, moment after moment! Today — what

thirst is left unquenched, O supreme beloved of my

life? In my heart — eternal nectar is poured, by

your hand's tender, compassionate touch. Here — for

how many days and nights, struck by insult, I have

stood with bowed and shamed head, still — the brow

of my heart, by your own hand, remains marked with

the sacred sign. Here — who is it that, in harsh

words, in my ear, sounds the clash of discord! In my

soul — day and night there rises the murmuring of

your lute. Lord — let each keep what is theirs; let

me remain forever disgraced. Only — may you, in this

life, before my eyes, remain, remain forever longed

for.

Beloved

A hundred curses on me today, O lovely one, that I

should wish to see you made so small. Your radiance

of glory, from your very form, falls into my heart

and scatters through the world. When my eyes had not

yet fallen upon you I had not yet seen the

beauty-goddess of the world. You anointed my eyes

with heaven's own collyrium, you left me standing in

this endless place. Would this blue sky have pleased

me half so much, if your bright face had never come

to mind? By some strange, unearthly magic, your

laughter and song have won a thousand lives

throughout the world. You came first, a lamp held in

your hand, and after you, the whole world entered my

heart.

Love

A dense, moonless night, a wilderness without end —

in every direction, by the hundred-thousand,

travelers are crossing over. A tryst in the dark,

toward what road, for whose sake — the wayfarer

himself does not know. Only it seems that the joy of

a whole lifetime is about to appear, smiling, at any

moment. So many touches, so many scents, so many

sounds and songs pass close by and set the heart

trembling. By some chance the light of lightning

flashes out, and whoever I glimpse in it, I love — I

call out to them and say — blessed is this life, for

your sake alone have I wandered so far. In the dark,

all the others come near and pass by too, but I

cannot tell whether they are there at all.

The Beloved

O beloved, O most gracious one, O player of the

lute, today, seated alone on the lotus-throne of my

heart, you pour out heaven's own nectar; above my

head the rain-washed, freshly bathed blue heaven has

laid its gentle hand, full of blessing; before me

the earth, ripe with grain and rippling, brushes my

eyes with an immortal kiss; the restless wind comes

and takes me in its arms; stirring within me a rush

of joy, the brimming river flows on; the noonday

clouds weave a garland of dreams across the brow of

the horizon. Today, enchanted, you have made me

forget — made me forget the world's hundred thousand

words — and with the sound of your lute, you have

built a vast silence.

Mother Bengal

Through virtue and sin, through sorrow and joy,

through falling and rising, let your children grow

into human beings — O Bengal, land aching with

tenderness, within the fold of your house, do not

keep us eternal children any longer. Wherever, among

all the lands of the earth, each one's place may be,

let us go seek it out and find it for ourselves. Do

not, at every step, bind us with small prohibitions,

keeping us tied and called your good, obedient

children. Let us give our lives, bear our sorrows,

and with our own hands struggle it out, for better

or worse. Take your sons — thin, meek, and saintly

as they are — and cast them out of house and home,

cast off from fortune, all of them. Your seven crore

children, O bewitched, doting mother, you have kept

as Bengalis — you have not made us into human

beings.

The Forest

Green, beautiful, and serene — O land of the forest,

you are the ancient dwelling-house of humankind. You

are not still and lifeless, like a marble palace —

your countenance is forever new, alive and moving

with life, with love, with thought, with meaning.

You give us your shade, you give us flower and

fruit, you give us cloth, you give us bedding, you

give us freedom; day and night, murmuring, you speak

so many words, the mantras of an unknown tongue; in

strange and varied music you sing the song of

waking; and in the deep of night you spread out

silence like the end of a sari drawn across a

mother's breast; in your restless, shifting waves

you play with children at their games; and with the

old you speak the ancient word, that lies beyond all

speech.

In the Forest, and in the Kingdom

Having spent the whole day upon the throne, Rama

came, at evening, into his chamber of rest. Half of

the bed had long lain empty; upon it he laid his

weary brow. In a temple emptied of its deity, like

any devotee, he sat down upon the ground, his eyes

filled with tears, and said, kneeling, in a grieving

breath — "As long as I was destitute, dwelling in

the forest, with no gold, no jewel, no pearl to my

name, you were always my Lakshmi, my visible

goddess. Today I am lord of a kingdom — but you are

no more; only your image remains, wrought in gold

and gem." Eternal joy, in its beggar's dress, went

back to the forest; and a golden woman is the king's

undying grief, in the king's own house.

Year's End

This pure dawn, all the birds that there ever were

have risen calling, in every wood, on every branch.

In the doyel's and the shama's throat, a burst of

joy; the papiya sings and sings, its longing never

spent. In a plaintive, pleading voice, the tireless

cuckoo fills the whole world with the heart's own

petition. Some dance, some sing, some fly as if in

rapture, as though they had won back a world they

had lost. Not one bird knows that today the year

comes to its end; they hear no sermon from any wise

old crane. As long as this life lasts beneath this

sky, there is no "end of the year," so far as they

know. But man, joyless, clings through the day and

night, dividing himself into a hundred separate

pieces.

Farewell

O river, in that city there is no murmuring music

like your voice; no open sky so generous, no

unwritten scripture of blue leaves kept open from

horizon to horizon; no calm, tender earth that, with

its green collyrium, keeps truth's own form ever

fresh before clear, unclouded eyes — there, in that

place, one has only one's own heart to lean on,

alone, in the midst of a shoreless world. And so,

like a frightened child, my heart does not wish,

today, to take its leave of you, and all your

company. And so, with all its strength, it clings,

in a desperate embrace, to the goddess of this

solitude. Bind for me your blessing of peace, tie it

into my heart — I will wear it, always, at my

throat.

Dissolution

As though her two eyes, freshly blue, were floating,

blossoming today across the boundless sky. In the

rippling light of a rain-washed morning her

tear-streaked smile opens and unfolds. That tender

play of hers, in a thousand forms, surrounds me now,

out of the whole wide world. The shimmering light on

the river in the rains, the deep, dark shadow of the

far woods on the bank, the still ranks of cloud at

the green edge of the sky — all these seem her face,

dressed in a hundred forms. Her eyes seem to speak,

gazing into my face — "This morning, every bird has

risen up to sing; only my own voice, in this morning

wind, has gone and lost itself in the endless

world."

Renunciation

In the deep of night, the renunciate of the world

declared — "Today I shall abandon this house, for

the sake of my chosen god. Who has kept me here,

deceived, all this while?" The god said, "I have." —

He did not hear it. Clutching her sleeping child to

her breast, his beloved slept in peace at the edge

of the bed. He said, "Who are you two, this trickery

of illusion?" The god said, "I am." — No one heard

it. Rising from his bed, he called out, "Where are

you, Lord?" The god said, "Here." — Still, he did

not hear. The child wept in his sleep, reaching for

his mother — the god said, "Turn back." — He did not

hear that word. The god, letting out a sigh, said,

"Alas — leaving me behind, where has my devotee

gone?"

To the Devotee

Simple, warm, and tender young heart — by what merit

have I won you over? I wonder at it. With eyes

lifted, glad and shining, you gaze at my face in the

light of your affection, and, by that gaze, you make

me glow. Your youth, taking its own grace as a gift,

hangs it round my throat, and dresses me, after the

shape your own heart imagines, into the form of a

god, setting me up in devotion's high and lofty

place. There, alone, I am dying of embarrassment.

There, with daily incense, lamp, and offering, who

is it that keeps me fixed upon that motionless seat?

I only wander the roads, singing as I go — a poet,

no more; I am not the pole-star, I am not the sun.

A Fearful, Vain Hope

I call you "Mother! Mother!" out of terror — hoping,

perhaps, some memory of a mother's tenderness might

come to you, hearing my desperate cry. As if, like a

tigress, all at once forgetting her violence, her

hunger, all her greed, you might lick the son of man

with love. Hiding your claws, lifting your breast,

full and warm, to feed him from your own mouth; upon

your painted breast letting him sleep, his head laid

there in peace. Such a hope — and such a vain one!

You exist in a hundred thousand million worlds —

planets, stars, moon and sun, all blazoned in the

sky — O most exalted one! If you should lift your

thunderbolt fist and knit today your terrible,

dreadful brow — I, this faint and tiny life, where

would I fall? I will call you "Mother" still, and

try, in vain, to charm you into kindness, O

demoness!

Noon

It is high noon. A small, thin river, choked with

weed, lies still, without current. Half-sunk in an

old boat a kingfisher sits; on the bank two cows

graze a field bare of any crop. Lifting its

calm-eyed face, a buffalo stands submerged in the

water. At the river's edge an empty boat lies

moored, no one aboard. At the deserted landing, a

crow, sun-scorched, bathes in the water, flapping

its wings. On the green grassy bank a wagtail swings

its tail, dancing as it goes. A brightly-colored

butterfly, on clear, thin wings, floats and flies

through the air, resting now and then upon the weed.

Wild geese nearby, at the village landing, lift

their babbling cry, washing their white feathers

with wet beaks. The hot wind runs past, carrying

with it the smell of dry grass — and goes on, far

away. Now and then a village dog barks out, caught

up in some quarrel. Now the calm lowing of cattle,

now the call of a myna, now the rustle of an old,

worn banyan; now, far off, against the empty sky,

the sharp, piercing cry of a kite; now, borne on the

wind, the plaintive creak of a moored boat — noon's

inarticulate, mournful monotone; the forest's tender

shade; the village's deep-slumbering hoard of peace

— and here, in the midst of it all, I sit, a

stranger, far from home. Yet I feel no ache of exile

in my heart; it is as though I have merged into

everyone around me; as though I have come back to my

very first birthplace after a long, long age — as

though, beneath the breast of the earth, with all

the beasts and birds and insects, I have gone back

to some fresh morning of an earlier life, in the

first rapture of being alive, when I clung to sky

and wind, to water and land, like an infant at its

mother's breast — drawing in the primal, original

nectar of joy.

The Realm of the Mind

On the solitary peak of Mount Kailash-of-the-Mind,

in that far world, you dwelt in the courtyard of

Mahesh's own temple, his very own poet — poet

Kalidasa. Bright as the sheen upon the blue-throated

god's neck, soft, blue, in the ever-still, gathered

clouds of Ashadh, beneath the shining feet of the

Seven Sages in their heaven of penance — even today

you keep your dwelling in that realm of the mind;

forever you shall remain there, O prince among

poets, filling the whole world with the song of

Shankar's life. — In between flowed the court of

Ujjayini, King Vikramaditya, the assembly of nine

gems — from somewhere, a dream showed itself, bright

for a moment. That dream faded away, that vast and

glittering image, but you remain, forever, in the

realm of the mind — a poet for all time.

The Woman of the Mind

You are not only the Creator's making, O woman — man

has shaped you too, pouring beauty into you out of

his own heart. Seated, the poets weave your garment

on threads of golden simile. Bestowing upon you an

ever-new grandeur, the artist makes his image of you

immortal. So many colors, so many scents, so many

ornaments — pearls come from the sea, gold comes

from the mine, a wealth of flowers comes from the

springtime forest, and even the cochineal insect

gives its life to redden your feet. With modesty,

with adornment, with veil after veil, they have made

you precious by hiding you, made you rare by keeping

you concealed. Upon you has fallen a burning,

radiant desire — you are half a woman of flesh, and

half imagination.

The Scene of Union

Do not laugh, do not laugh, you who are so proud of

your reason! Call to mind, just once, O maker of

distinctions, that great day, when Shakuntala,

loving toward all her own kin, was taking her leave

from the hermitage of her birth — her friend the

mango tree, her vine-sister Madhavi, the whole

family of animals, the motherless fawn, the doe

heavy with young, stood all around her; a plea of

tenderness rose murmuring, weeping, in the rustle of

the leaves, in the trembling voice of the river

Malini's flowing water; and through it all sounded

the old ascetic's grave, choked, faltering hymn of

farewell and blessing. Trees and vines, beast and

bird, river and wood, man and woman — all met

together in one sorrowful union.

The Sweetness of Death

My soul says, softly — O sweet death, is this blue

sky, then, your very own inner chamber? Today it

seems to me that this green earth is a vast, soft

bed that you yourself have spread. Today's play of

water and land, in this season of rain, this peace,

this loveliness — all of it is yours. It feels as

though, without ever having met you, I have been,

till now, unbearably small in this whole wide world.

With calm and compassionate eyes, with a gentle,

smiling mouth, you are calling me, through

everything that moves and does not move. A bride's

first fear of union has broken, at last, seeing your

vast form, and finding it sweet. Everywhere the

wedding-flute is rising into song; everywhere,

today, I see your welcoming lap.

The Cloud-Messenger

Quenched and broken, that great majesty passed away

the day a curse fell from the gods above and entered

that kingdom of joy — the flame of parting, kindling

its fire along the pathway of youth. Youth's

world-devouring, drunken pride melted in a moment,

like a mist-mirage before the fierce sun. The queen

of the six seasons let fall her royal parasol, and

breaking up her court, suddenly lifted the curtain

on the pageant — suddenly it opened, like a painted

picture, this tear-drenched, beautiful world of

ours. On every side appeared mountain and forest,

town and city and village — and there, upon the very

throne of the world's own civilization, your lute of

exile, compassionate, still plays.

Notes. Birohobina ("lute of separation/exile")

invokes viraha, the classical Indian aesthetics of

longing — no single English word covers it. The poem

addresses Kalidasa, the ancient Sanskrit poet whose

own Meghaduta imagined an exiled spirit sending a

cloud as messenger to his beloved; Tagore's poem

answers him across the centuries.

Silence

Whatever I try to say comes out in vain — my own

mind shakes its head: no, not this, not this. In

what words could the fullness of my life ever be

told, that stays unsung upon this lute? It only

rises, brimming with the passion of tears, ringing

the sky of my heart with thunderclouds; now and

again, in a riven streak of lightning, what does it

mean to show, tearing my inmost open? Silence, dumb

and fathomless, gathers the dark and suddenly weeps,

at deep midnight, in a hundred streams. Choked in my

throat, O stunned and speechless life, where have

you lost the very word that was your own? As if

there were no flute at all, only a wasted breath —

instead of a night of song, only a flood of tears.

Notes. Mown is not mere absence of sound but a

brooding, stopped-up muteness — closer to "struck

dumb" than "quiet." The lute/bina recurs across this

sequence as the poet's figure for his own voice.

The Traveler

O traveler, you must go to a far and distant land.

What will you sit here thinking, at the road's very

end? For what sorrow does your heart weep? Toward

whose face do you gaze, sitting, sitting, letting

your days pass only in looking here and there, only

wiping your moist and clouded eyes? At whose words

does your body catch fire in the mind's own blaze?

Where, at last, will your household come to rest!

Where will its clamor enter and take its dwelling!

It will dissolve like a bubble, like a dream — where

will even the small scratch of today's grass-root

remain! Silently, along the two sides of your road,

will burn the lamps of planet and star, in rank on

rank. And still you walk on, alone, into the endless

world — from where to where you go, no one will stay

behind with you.

Notes. Jatri ("one who journeys") carries the weight

of samsara — life itself as pilgrimage, not just

travel. Kushankura-kshata, "the tiny scratch left by

a blade of new grass," is one of the most delicate,

near-untranslatable images in the sequence — the

mark of something almost too small to have existed

at all.

The Peace-Mantra

Tomorrow I loose my boat and sail back into the

world of men, to my own work returning once again —

O goddess who dwells within, do not forsake me, do

not let me drift alone on this sea of worldly pain,

in the clamor of labor. There, through every storm,

let this one note of blessing sound forever in my

mind, upon your lute. By the arrow of parting my

breast lies pierced, and blood is drawn — let your

healing nectar, like your own gathered tears, fall

drop by drop upon my wounded life. Conflict will

rise, terrible, with a hundred wounds and cries —

and you, in a voice grown gentle, give me the sound

of the peace-mantra — "All gain is false, all is

false" — whisper it into my ear — I am only your

eternal companion, seated at your side.

Notes. Shantimantra echoes the Vedic peace-chants

recited to close a ritual. The "goddess who dwells

within" is left ambiguous in the Bengali — inner

muse, Nature, or the poet's own deeper self — and

I've kept that openness rather than resolving it.

Tending

Carrying my pain-wounded life into your house, O

river, so rich with a hospitable tenderness, you

tended me — your soft hand brought a touch of nectar

to my scorched heart. Evening came stealing on; on

the western bank the blood-red sun sank slowly over

the ripening paddy. On the eastern shore no village

grove was to be seen, only a ridge of treetops

against the burning skyline; and from that darkness

came, low and far, the sound of unknown hamlets

ending their day's labor. Lifting two wings of peace

from your two banks you drew me close and covered me

against your breast. Whispering low, you told me:

"Child, let it go — joy and sorrow belong to the

outer world; peace is of the soul alone."

Notes. Shushrusha specifically means the tender

nursing of the sick or wounded, not generic "care" —

a river addressed as nurse and mother at once.

The Last Word

Sometimes it seems that under the weight of a

thousand words my heart has sunk and drowned,

entire. As though some vast, unknown feeling,

through long unseen preparing, were moving in the

farthest chamber of my inmost self. Like the

restless murmur of the sea, its sound keeps coming,

again and again, from very far to very near. It

feels as if all rhythm, every melody, every wondrous

tale that ever was, unheard, unsung — all that poets

everywhere have ever composed — were melting now

into one strange confluence within me; and any

moment, brimming over with sorrow, losing its

footing, this whole soul of mine will swell and rise

like a great tide. But in the end my heart only

breaks, and I can say no more than this — O

Eternally Beautiful One, I love you.

Notes. The final line is one of Tagore's most quoted

single lines in Bengali; I kept it almost bare,

since the whole poem is built to earn that plainness

after so much gathering ornament.

The Last Kiss

Far off in the sky hums a silent song of dawn; the

sorrowing moon of daybreak, a wan and wasted face.

The stars grow pale; the cheek of the eastern bride

lies dew-drenched, pallid, weary. Slowly, slowly the

last lamp-flame guttered out, and the dream-boat of

the night traveler broke apart. Through the window

came, grieving, the raw red wound of morning's

light, merciless and unrelenting. In that very

moment, hurried, deep within the house, was our very

last kiss of parting. Suddenly the wind rose up on

every side with the grinding roar of labor, out on

the road of the world. With a great cry the

lion-gate of the world swung open — and wiping away

my tears, I walked far, far away.

Notes. "Lion-gate" (shingho-dwar) is a literal term

for a grand ceremonial gateway, as of a palace or

temple — kept literal here since it lands as a

threshold-image in English too.

The Companion

Another day's memory came back to me. Once, by a

riverbank, on a grassy stretch, a gypsy girl sat

braiding her hair alone in the late afternoon. A pet

puppy came up from behind her, and seeing the loose

end of hair swing, took it for play — leaping up

again and again, barking, it kept snapping at her

braid, over and over. The girl scolded it, twisting

her neck around, but that only doubled its eagerness

for play. She lifted a small stick as if to strike —

twice as wild grew its delight in the game. Then,

laughing, she lifted it against her breast and

stroked it, tenderness upon tenderness.

Notes. Bede'r meye names a girl of the Bede

community, a traditional river-dwelling people of

Bengal; "gypsy girl" is the nearest common English

gloss, though it only approximates the specific

social identity carried in the original.

The Devoted Wife

Among the devoted women of the world there have been

many faithful wives; their stories still shine

bright within the ancient tales. But there are

hundreds of thousands more, unknown, unnamed,

without fame, without a single line of chronicle —

some dwelt in royal palaces, some in huts of leaves;

some were cherished, some were never honored;

pouring out only devotion, effacing their own names,

they went their way, and left a hundred kinds of

dust behind. And beside them sits a fallen woman

too, branded most sinful of all, yet in heaven a

crown among the faithful. Seeing her among the

devoted, the lotus-born himself bows his head; the

god-fearing lower their eyes in shame. Do you wish

to know her story? Only the Witness who dwells

within — only He knows the tale of her devotion.

Notes. Sati here is used purely in its virtue-sense

— "devoted, faithful" — not in reference to the

historical funeral practice, which the poem does not

invoke. Antaryami ("the inner witness," an epithet

for God as the one who perceives all hearts) is

rendered to keep its specific theological precision

rather than flattened to "God."

To Civilization

Give back that forest, take away this city; take

back your iron, your lumps of ore, your timber and

your stone. O new civilization! O cruel,

all-devouring one, give me back that hermitage's

shade of holiness, those shameless, glareless days,

that hour of evening song, that pasture of cattle,

that deep and quiet calm, that garment of bark, that

fare of wild rice and grain, that plunging, alone,

into self-communion with the great and final truths.

In your prison-house of stone there is no safety, no

true royalty for me — there is no freedom, no wide

spreading of the wings, no strength to find again,

spread wide against my breast, no touching of

another without tearing loose the bond that beats —

endless — at the heart of this whole world.

Notes. One of the most anthologized poems in

Chaitali — Tagore addresses industrial

"civilization" directly, as if arraigning it. The

"spreading of wings" and the closing "prison-house

of stone" deliberately echo and answer each other —

the very stone the poem demands back is what has

become the speaker's cage.

The Ending

Though spring itself has passed, still, again and

again, the heart longs to sing spring's own old

song. If suddenly the fifth note sounds of its own

accord, even then there is no need to startle and

stop. However sweet the sweetness that comes, let it

end exactly where its own limit lies. Where the song

wishes to rest on its own, let it stop there; and

after, let only its whole memory remain. To make

what is already full still fuller — ah, do not drag

it, torn, into some vain and further hope! As

silently as darkness comes at the close of day, so

let the end come too, when leaving must be leaving.

Let a sorrow-filled peace arrive, in quiet

consolation — a beautiful farewell, at the very end

of a sweet meeting.

Notes. "The fifth note" (Pancham) is the fifth

degree of the classical raga scale, traditionally

tied to spring and the koel's call. The poem is

Tagore's own meditation on knowing when to stop — an

ars poetica of restraint, fittingly placed near the

sequence's close.

The Common Man

At evening, a basket on his hip, a bundle balanced

on his head, a villager returns home along the

riverbank. If, some hundred years from now, by some

strange power, from the dead kingdom of the past

this very man should appear again, made flesh once

more, this same basket at his hip, wonder in his

eyes — from every side a boundless crowd would

gather close around him, whispering, hanging on each

word he said. His joys and sorrows — yes, his loves,

his affections, his neighbors, his own dear ones,

his field, his cattle, his home — hearing it told

again and again, no one's longing would be filled.

The story of your own life, that today seems worth

so little to you — one day it will be sung in the

voice of poetry.

Notes. A recurring democratic turn in Chaitali: an

unrecorded, "ordinary" life treated with the wonder

usually reserved for kings and heroes of legend.

The Bonds of Love

I could not recover this poem's printed title with

confidence from the corrupted text; based on its

content I've given it a working title rather than

presenting a guess as fact.

Set him free from this blind knot of your

infatuation — do not keep a sentry standing watch,

wakeful, over him. O mother, do not keep your child

forever a prisoner in the prison-house of your own

tenderness. Wounding him with the touch of your own

eagerness, wearing him thin on the taste of your

indulgence, will you feed your own hungry heart by

draining away his freedom, his very manhood? Having

given him life out of your own long-borne devotion,

will you now swallow him again in that same sea of

love, and keep him still? Will he go on, forever,

walking only behind you through this world? Is he no

more than a part of you, and nothing else besides?

He is his own; he is the world's; he belongs to the

God of all being — he is not a mere child, O mother

— he is not your possession.

Notes. Mohobondho ("the knot of infatuated

attachment") is a precise term for delusion-born

bondage (moha) — sharper than plain "love," and

closer to a moral diagnosis than an endearment.

A Scene of Tenderness

He must be twenty years old, his body wasted thin by

some long, incurable illness beyond cure. Seeing his

listless face, empty of laughter, it seems there's

not a shred of joy left for him in this world.

Unable, in any way, to spare him, his mother gives

her own body, her whole life's strength; that

short-breathed, wasted, long and withering weight

she carries in her lap as if he were an infant

still; with a hopeless, unshaken patience, her face

worn pale with grief, she brings him, every day, to

the edge of the road. The trains come and go, the

crowds of people hurry past; if this restless,

indifferent, curious swarm of mankind might turn,

even a little, their gaze toward the world beyond

him — holding only this much hope, she brings him

along.

Notes. The poem withholds the name of the illness,

and even the son's inner life, throughout — I've

kept that reticence rather than filling in what

Tagore leaves unstated.

Dream

Last night I dreamed a dream — like a god's own

blessing, someone sat beside my pillow, keeping

compassionate eyes fixed upon my face, stroking my

head slowly, slowly, with gentle fingers, a

nectar-touch of one beloved — last night I beheld a

dream. Seeing that face, my heart filled with

sorrow, both my eyes brimmed and trembled with tears

— a whole heart's complaint, lighting every corner

within, seemed to rise welling up into my throat.

Only with restless eyes, in silent and unfathomed

grief, the figure asked, "What has happened to you?"

Just as my heart broke, wanting to answer, that very

moment, the spell of sleep broke too. The dark night

sleeps on, alone; in the forest the cricket-song

rises; at the window the pole-star watches,

sleepless — the hour ticks by with unblinking eyes.

In the lamp-quenched room, lying on an empty bed, I

lay thinking, for how long I cannot say — my head

upon the pillow, alone, lying there and lying still,

wondering what it was, what dream I had seen, in

that deep and moonless hour of night.

Notes. This poem shifts into a shorter,

refrain-based song-meter, unlike the sonnet-like

couplets used elsewhere in the sequence — I mirrored

that with shorter, more clipped English lines to

keep the change in register audible.

Self-Interest

Who are you, self-interest — how small are you,

truly — yet at your touch the joy of the whole

universe goes dark, and endless truth hides itself

away. Love, affection — in one moment you twist them

into shameless distortion; the eternal discipline of

beauty comes to a halt before your petty mockery. O

my friends, let every self-interest be satisfied.

Gather in, hoard even the smallest grain into your

storehouses — leave nothing ungathered. As for me, I

have chosen and kept only the gift of a love that

asks nothing, in whose face flows an endless

message, mingled of nectar and of tears. Let there

remain for me only that old, wordless faith, tender

with its quiet, gentle mockery. Let the great

universe remain; let the seat of the heart remain,

wherever, in whatever corner, its lute goes on

playing still.

Notes. The turn is between swartho (self-interested

gain) and love free of self-interest — I rendered

the latter as "a love that asks nothing" rather than

a literal calque, which would misleadingly suggest

an absence of love instead of its opposite.

Memory

She who once, on another day, sat here upon this

very boat — her voice then was full of a

nectar-sweet song. Her two eyes carried the shade of

thick lashes, brimful of compassion, like a monsoon

cloud. Her tender heart, overflowing with delight,

would rise up laughing in simple, easy mirth.

Sitting beside me she would talk her endless

chatter, so many stories, so much restless longing!

At daybreak, brimming with joy, laughing and

laughing, she would come to me like a bird of

morning. In the sheer excess of her affection, like

a waterfall, she would surround and drench me in her

bright and playful games. Where, in this endless

universe, is she today — I sit and wonder, my eyes

clouded over like a monsoon sky.

Notes. The poem never specifies who "she" is —

child, sister, or beloved are all grammatically

possible in the Bengali. I've kept that openness

rather than resolving it toward any one

relationship.

The Heart's Own Law

The heart is like a spring that cleaves through rock

— it does not know how to look, anywhere, toward

reason. Now and then there are marks of fracture

upon it, which it has no wish to smooth into one

whole. At midday, plunging its scorched body into

the water, it calls out "Mother" to the cool

riverbank that answers. When the moon peeks in,

smiling, beside the house, the heart feels her to be

the house's very own child, nectar-faced. All the

trees and vines that have grown up around the home,

the heart calls brother, calls sister. The creature

in whose birth the heart senses something of its

own, the heart itself, unasked, names "little

darling." Reason overhears, and laughs — what

foolishness, it says! And the heart, in shame, hides

its own heart's truth away.

Notes. Putu-rani, the pet-name in the original, is

an affectionate Bengali endearment (roughly "little

queen") of the kind given half-mockingly to a

favorite animal or child — I translated its function

("little darling") rather than transliterating a

name meaningless in English. This poem reads almost

as an ars poetica for the whole sequence: the

heart's illogical habit of naming moon, river, and

animal as kin is exactly the faculty producing every

poem around it.