The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Fugitive
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Fugitive

Author: Rabindranath Tagore

Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7971]
                Most recently updated: November 3, 2012

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Eric Eldred, Christine De Ryck, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FUGITIVE ***




Produced by Eric Eldred, Christine De Ryck, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










THE FUGITIVE

BY

RABINDRANATH TAGORE







TO

W.W. PEARSON



CONTENTS


    THE FUGITIVE--I.

    KACHA AND DEVAYANI

    TRANSLATIONS

    THE FUGITIVE--II.

    AMA AND VINAYAKA

    THE MOTHER'S PRAYER

    TRANSLATIONS

    THE FUGITIVE--III.

    SOMAKA AND RITVIK

    KARNA AND KUNTI

    TRANSLATIONS



1


Darkly you sweep on, Eternal Fugitive, round whose bodiless rush stagnant
space frets into eddying bubbles of light.

Is your heart lost to the Lover calling you across his immeasurable
loneliness?

Is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason why your tangled
tresses break into stormy riot and pearls of fire roll along your path as
from a broken necklace?


Your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness, sweeping
aside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs shakes the
sacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth.

Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumble
into a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least
speck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with an
unbearable pressure.


My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which the
anklets of light are shaken.

They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalm
of the ancient sea.

I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form
to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings
and songs.


The tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances like thine own desire,
my heart!

Leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed dark towards
limitless light.



2


We came hither together, friend, and now at the cross-roads I stop to bid
you farewell.

Your path is wide and straight before you, but my call comes up by ways
from the unknown.

I shall follow wind and cloud; I shall follow the stars to where day breaks
behind the hills; I shall follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their days
into a wreath on a single thread of song, "I love."



3


It was growing dark when I asked her, "What strange land have I come to?"

She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar,
as she walked away.

The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it
already belonged to the past.

The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against
the water-jar from down the lane.


Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,--for I love the look of this
land.

The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the
marble landing haunts the dark water.

Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into
the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet
tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the
lane littered with leaves.

The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums
wearily.

Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.

Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where
darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a
water-jar.



4


O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds--a
secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.

O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that
doze in the sun.

The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the
cause of my tears.

I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from
me.



5


For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way;
wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in
mist.

Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road,
where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water
heaves in the troubled sea.

Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be
stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.



6


Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that
metaphor, "Flowers are the footprints of summer."

They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be
erased by a passing breeze.

Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the
everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.



7


I am like the night to you, little flower.

I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.

When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-hum
with bees, and songful with birds.

My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it
will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the
pitiless mirth of day.



8


Do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret.
It is but a tiny stone of glistening pain streaked with blood-red by
passion.

What gifts have you brought in both hands to fling before me in the dust?

I fear, if I accept, to create a debt that can never be paid even by the
loss of all I have.

Do not stand before my window with your youth and flowers to shame my
destitute life.



9


If I were living in the royal town of Ujjain, when Kalidas was the king's
poet, I should know some Malwa girl and fill my thoughts with the music of
her name. She would glance at me through the slanting shadow of her
eyelids, and allow her veil to catch in the jasmine as an excuse for
lingering near me.

This very thing happened in some past whose track is lost under time's dead
leaves.

The scholars fight to-day about dates that play hide-and-seek.

I do not break my heart dreaming over flown and vanished ages: but alas and
alas again, that those Malwa girls have followed them!

To what heaven, I wonder, have they carried in their flower-baskets those
days that tingled to the lyrics of the king's poet?

This morning, separation from those whom I was born too late to meet weighs
on and saddens my heart.

Yet April carries the same flowers with which they decked their hair, and
the same south breeze fluttered their veils as whispers over modern roses.

And, to tell the truth, joys are not lacking to this spring, though Kalidas
sing no more; and I know, if he can watch me from the Poets' Paradise, he
has reasons to be envious.



10


Be not concerned about her heart, my heart: leave it in the dark.

What if her beauty be of the figure and her smile merely of the face? Let
me take without question the simple meaning of her glances and be happy.

I care not if it be a web of delusion that her arms wind about me, for the
web itself is rich and rare, and the deceit can be smiled at and forgotten.

Be not concerned about her heart, my heart: be content if the music is
true, though the words are not to be believed; enjoy the grace that dances
like a lily on the rippling, deceiving surface, whatever may lie beneath.



11


Neither mother nor daughter are you, nor bride, Urvashi.[1] Woman you are,
to ravish the soul of Paradise.

[Footnote 1: The dancing girl of Paradise who rose from the sea.]

When weary-footed evening comes down to the folds whither the cattle have
returned, you never trim the house lamps nor walk to the bridal bed with a
tremulous heart and a wavering smile on your lips, glad that the dark hours
are so secret.

Like the dawn you are without veil, Urvashi, and without shame.

Who can imagine that aching overflow of splendour which created you!


You rose from the churned ocean on the first day of the first spring, with
the cup of life in your right hand and poison in your left. The monster
sea, lulled like an enchanted snake, laid down its thousand hoods at your
feet.

Your unblemished radiance rose from the foam, white and naked as a jasmine.


Were you ever small, timid or in bud, Urvashi, O Youth everlasting?

Did you sleep, cradled in the deep blue night where the strange light of
gems plays over coral, shells and moving creatures of dreamlike form, till
day revealed your awful fulness of bloom?


Adored are you of all men in all ages, Urvashi, O endless wonder!

The world throbs with youthful pain at the glance of your eyes, the ascetic
lays the fruit of his austerities at your feet, the songs of poets hum and
swarm round the perfume of your presence. Your feet, as in careless joy
they flit on, wound even the heart of the hollow wind with the tinkle of
golden bells.

When you dance before the gods, flinging orbits of novel rhythm into space,
Urvashi, the earth shivers, leaf and grass, and autumn fields heave and
sway; the sea surges into a frenzy of rhyming waves; the stars drop into
the sky--beads from the chain that leaps till it breaks on your breast; and
the blood dances in men's hearts with sudden turmoil.


You are the first break on the crest of heaven's slumber, Urvashi, you
thrill the air with unrest. The world bathes your limbs in her tears; with
colour of her heart's blood are your feet red; lightly you poise on the
wave-tossed lotus of desire, Urvashi; you play forever in that limitless
mind wherein labours God's tumultuous dream.



12


You, like a rivulet swift and sinuous, laugh and dance, and your steps sing
as you trip along.

I, like a bank rugged and steep, stand speechless and stock-still and
darkly gaze at you.


I, like a big, foolish storm, of a sudden come rushing on and try to rend
my being and scatter it parcelled in a whirl of passion.

You, like the lightning's flash slender and keen, pierce the heart of the
turbulent darkness, to disappear in a vivid streak of laughter.



13


You desired my love and yet you did not love me.

Therefore my life clings to you like a chain of which clank and grip grow
harsher the more you struggle to be free.

My despair has become your deadly companion, clutching at the faintest of
your favours, trying to drag you away into the cavern of tears.

You have shattered my freedom, and with its wreck built your own prison.



14


I am glad you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look.

It is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their
own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. But day will dawn,
my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping.


Who says it is hard to forget?

The mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own
foolish persistence.

The stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking cradle; the forest fire
falls to sleep on its bed of ashes.

You and I shall part, and the cleavage will be hidden under living grass
and flowers that laugh in the sun.



15


Of all days you have chosen this one to visit my garden.

But the storm passed over my roses last night and the grass is strewn with
torn leaves.

I do not know what has brought you, now that the hedges are laid low and
rills run in the walks; the prodigal wealth of spring is scattered and the
scent and song of yesterday are wrecked.

Yet stay a while; let me find some remnant flowers, though I doubt if your
skirt can be filled.

The time will be short, for the clouds thicken and here comes the rain
again!



16


I forgot myself for a moment, and I came.

But raise your eyes, and let me know if there still linger some shadow of
other days, like a pale cloud on the horizon that has been robbed of its
rain.

For a moment bear with me if I forget myself.


The roses are still in bud; they do not yet know how we neglect to gather
flowers this summer.

The morning star has the same palpitating hush; the early light is enmeshed
in the branches that overbrow your window, as in those other days.

That times are changed I forget for a little, and have come.


I forget if you ever shamed me by looking away when I bared my heart.

I only remember the words that stranded on the tremor of your lips; I
remember in your dark eyes sweeping shadows of passion, like the wings of a
home-seeking bird in the dusk.

I forget that you do not remember, and I come.



17


The rain fell fast. The river rushed and hissed. It licked up and swallowed
the island, while I waited alone on the lessening bank with my sheaves of
corn in a heap.


From the shadows of the opposite shore the boat crosses with a woman at the
helm.

I cry to her, "Come to my island coiled round with hungry water, and take
away my year's harvest."


She comes, and takes all that I have to the last grain; I ask her to take
me.

But she says, "No"--the boat is laden with my gift and no room is left for
me.



18


The evening beckons, and I would fain follow the travellers who sailed in
the last ferry of the ebb-tide to cross the dark.

Some were for home, some for the farther shore, yet all have ventured to
sail.

But I sit alone at the landing, having left my home and missed the boat:
summer is gone and my winter harvest is lost.

I wait for that love which gathers failures to sow them in tears on the
dark, that they may bear fruit when day rises anew.



19


On this side of the water there is no landing; the girls do not come here
to fetch water; the land along its edge is shaggy with stunted shrubs; a
noisy flock of _saliks_ dig their nests in the steep bank under whose frown
the fisher-boats find no shelter.

You sit there on the unfrequented grass, and the morning wears on. Tell me
what you do on this bank so dry that it is agape with cracks?

She looks in my face and says, "Nothing, nothing whatsoever."


On this side of the river the bank is deserted, and no cattle come to
water. Only some stray goats from the village browse the scanty grass all
day, and the solitary water-hawk watches from an uprooted _peepal_ aslant
over the mud.

You sit there alone in the miserly shade of a _shimool,_ and the morning
wears on.

Tell me, for whom do you wait?

She looks in my face and says, "No one, no one at all!"



20

KACHA AND DEVAYANI


KACHA AND DEVAYANI

_Young Kacha came from Paradise to learn the secret of immortality from a
Sage who taught the Titans, and whose daughter Devayani fell in love with
him._


KACHA

The time has come for me to take leave, Devayani; I have long sat at your
father's feet, but to-day he completed his teaching. Graciously allow me to
go back to the land of the Gods whence I came.


DEVAYANI

You have, as you desired, won that rare knowledge coveted by the Gods;--but
think, do you aspire after nothing further?


KACHA

Nothing.


DEVAYANI

Nothing at all! Dive into the bottom of your heart; does no timid wish lurk
there, fearful lest it be blighted?


KACHA

For me the sun of fulfilment has risen, and the stars have faded in its
light. I have mastered the knowledge which gives life.


DEVAYANI

Then you must be the one happy being in creation. Alas! now for the first
time I feel what torture these days spent in an alien land have been to
you, though we offered you our best.


KACHA

Not so much bitterness! Smile, and give me leave to go.


DEVAYANI

Smile! But, my friend, this is not your native Paradise. Smiles are not so
cheap in this world, where thirst, like a worm in the flower, gnaws at the
heart's core; where baffled desire hovers round the desired, and memory
never ceases to sigh foolishly after vanished joy.


KACHA

Devayani, tell me how I have offended?


DEVAYANI

Is it so easy for you to leave this forest, which through long years has
lavished on you shade and song? Do you not feel how the wind wails through
these glimmering shadows, and dry leaves whirl in the air, like ghosts of
lost hope;--while you alone, who part from us, have a smile on your lips?


KACHA

This forest has been a second mother to me, for here I have been born
again. My love for it shall never dwindle.


DEVAYANI

When you had driven the cattle to graze on the lawn, yonder banyan tree
spread a hospitable shade for your tired limbs against the mid-day heat.


KACHA

I bow to thee, Lord of the Forest! Remember me, when under thy shade other
students chant their lessons to an accompaniment of bees humming and leaves
rustling.


DEVAYANI

And do not forget our Venumati, whose swift water is one stream of singing
love.


KACHA

I shall ever remember her, the dear companion of my exile, who, like a busy
village girl, smiles on her errand of ceaseless service and croons a simple
song.


DEVAYANI

But, friend, let me also remind you that you had another companion whose
thoughts were vainly busy to make you forget an exile's cares.


KACHA

The memory of her has become a part of my life.


DEVAYANI

I recall the day when, little more than a boy, you first arrived. You stood
there, near the hedge of the garden, a smile in your eyes.


KACHA

And I saw you gathering flowers--clad in white, like the dawn bathed in
radiance. And I said, "Make me proud by allowing me to help you!"


DEVAYANI

I asked in surprise who you were, and you meekly answered that you were the
son of Vrihaspati, a divine sage at the court of the God Indra, and desired
to learn from my father that secret spell which can revive the dead.


KACHA

I feared lest the Master, the teacher of the Titans, those rivals of the
Gods, should refuse to accept me for a disciple.


DEVAYANI

But he could not refuse me when I pleaded your cause, so greatly he loves
his daughter.


KACHA

Thrice had the jealous Titans slain me, and thrice you prevailed on your
father to bring me back to life; therefore my gratitude can never die.


DEVAYANI

Gratitude! Forget all--I shall not grieve. Do you only remember benefits?
Let them perish! If after the day's lessons, in the evening solitude, some
strange tremor of joy shook your heart, remember that--but not gratitude.
If, as some one passed, a snatch of song got tangled among your texts or
the swing of a robe fluttered your studies with delight, remember that when
at leisure in your Paradise. What, benefits only!--and neither beauty nor
love nor...?


KACHA

Some things are beyond the power of words.


DEVAYANI

Yes, yes, I know. My love has sounded your heart's deepest, and makes me
bold to speak in defiance of your reserve. Never leave me! remain here!
fame gives no happiness. Friend, you cannot now escape, for your secret is
mine!


KACHA

No, no, Devayani.


DEVAYANI

How "No"? Do not lie to me! Love's insight is divine. Day after day, in
raising your head, in a glance, in the motion of your hands, your love
spoke as the sea speaks through its waves. On a sudden my voice would send
your heart quivering through your limbs--have I never witnessed it? I know
you, and therefore you are my captive for ever. The very king of your Gods
shall not sever this bond.


KACHA

Was it for this, Devayani, that I toiled, away from home and kindred, all
these years?


DEVAYANI

Why not? Is only knowledge precious? Is love cheap? Lay hold on this
moment. Have the courage to own that a woman's heart is worth all as much
penance as men undergo for the sake of power, knowledge, or reputation.


KACHA

I gave my solemn promise to the Gods that I would bring them this lore of
deathless life.


DEVAYANI

But is it true you had eyes for nothing save your books? That you never
broke off your studies to pay me homage with flowers, never lay in wait for
a chance, of an evening, to help me water my flower-beds? What made you sit
by me on the grass and sing songs you brought hither from the assembly of
the stars, while darkness stooped over the river bank as love droops over
its own sad silence? Were these parts of a cruel conspiracy plotted in your
Paradise? Was all for the sake of access to my father's heart?--and after
success, were you, departing, to throw some cheap gratitude, like small
coins, to the deluded door-keeper?


KACHA

What profit were there, proud woman, in knowing the truth? If I did wrong
to serve you with a passionate devotion cherished in secret, I have had
ample punishment. This is no time to question whether my love be true or
not; my life's work awaits me. Though my heart must henceforth enclose a
red flame vainly striving to devour emptiness, still I must go back to that
Paradise which will nevermore be Paradise to me. I owe the Gods a new
divinity, hard won by my studies, before I may think of happiness. Forgive
me, Devayani, and know that my suffering is doubled by the pain I
unwillingly inflict on you.


DEVAYANI

Forgiveness! You have angered my heart till it is hard and burning like a
thunderbolt! You can go back to your work and your glory, but what is left
for me? Memory is a bed of thorns, and secret shame will gnaw at the roots
of my life. You came like a wayfarer, sat through the sunny hours in the
shade of my garden, and to while time away you plucked all its flowers and
wove them into a chain. And now, parting, you snap the thread and let the
flowers drop on the dust! Accursed be that great knowledge you have
earned!--a burden that, though others share equally with you, will never be
lightened. For lack of love may it ever remain as foreign to your life as
the cold stars are to the un-espoused darkness of virgin Night!



21


I

"Why these preparations without end?"--I said to Mind--"Is some one to
come?"

Mind replied, "I am enormously busy gathering things and building towers. I
have no time to answer such questions."

Meekly I went back to my work.

When things were grown to a pile, when seven wings of his palace were
complete, I said to Mind, "Is it not enough?"

Mind began to say, "Not enough to contain--" and then stopped.

"Contain what?" I asked.

Mind affected not to hear.

I suspected that Mind did not know, and with ceaseless work smothered the
question.

His one refrain was, "I must have more."

"Why must you?"

"Because it is great."

"What is great?"

Mind remained silent. I pressed for an answer.

In contempt and anger, Mind said, "Why ask about things that are not? Take
notice of those that are hugely before you,--the struggle and the fight,
the army and armaments, the bricks and mortar, and labourers without
number."

I thought "Possibly Mind is wise."


II

Days passed. More wings were added to his palace--more lands to his domain.

The season of rains came to an end. The dark clouds became white and thin,
and in the rain-washed sky the sunny hours hovered like butterflies over an
unseen flower. I was bewildered and asked everybody I met, "What is that
music in the breeze?"

A tramp walked the road whose dress was wild as his manner; he said, "Hark
to the music of the Coming!"

I cannot tell why I was convinced, but the words broke from me, "We have
not much longer to wait."

"It is close at hand," said the mad man.

I went to the office and boldly said to Mind, "Stop all work!"

Mind asked, "Have you any news?"

"Yes," I answered, "News of the Coming." But I could not explain.

Mind shook his head and said, "There are neither banners nor pageantry!"


III

The night waned, the stars paled in the sky. Suddenly the touchstone of the
morning light tinged everything with gold. A cry spread from mouth to
mouth--

"Here is the herald!"

I bowed my head and asked, "Is he coming?"

The answer seemed to burst from all sides, "Yes."

Mind grew troubled and said, "The dome of my building is not yet finished,
nothing is in order."

A voice came from the sky, "Pull down your building!"

"But why?" asked Mind.

"Because to-day is the day of the Coming, and your building is in the way."


IV

The lofty building lies in the dust and all is scattered and broken.

Mind looked about. But what was there to see?

Only the morning star and the lily washed in dew.

And what else? A child running laughing from its mother's arms into the
open light.

"Was it only for this that they said it was the day of the Coming?"

"Yes, this was why they said there was music in the air and light in the
sky."

"And did they claim all the earth only for this?"

"Yes," came the answer. "Mind, you build walls to imprison yourself. Your
servants toil to enslave themselves; but the whole earth and infinite space
are for the child, for the New Life."

"What does that child bring you?"

"Hope for all the world and its joy."

Mind asked me, "Poet, do you understand?"

"I lay my work aside," I said, "for I must have time to understand."



22

TRANSLATIONS


VAISHNAVA SONGS



1


Oh Sakhi,[1] my sorrow knows no bounds.

[Footnote 1: The woman friend of a woman.]

August comes laden with rain clouds and my house is desolate.

The stormy sky growls, the earth is flooded with rain, my love is far away,
and my heart is torn with anguish.

The peacocks dance, for the clouds rumble and frogs croak.

The night brims with darkness flicked with lightning.

Vidyapati[2] asks, "Maiden, how are you to spend your days and nights
without your lord?"

[Footnote 2: The name of the poet.]



2


Lucky was my awakening this morning, for I saw my beloved.

The sky was one piece of joy, and my life and youth were fulfilled.

To-day my house becomes my house in truth, and my body my body.

Fortune has proved a friend, and my doubts are dispelled.

Birds, sing your best; moon, shed your fairest light!

Let fly your darts, Love-God, in millions!

I wait for the moment when my body will grow golden at his touch.

Vidyapati says, "Immense is your good fortune, and blessed is your love."



3


I feel my body vanishing into the dust whereon my beloved walks.

I feel one with the water of the lake where he bathes.

Oh Sakhi, my love crosses death's boundary when I meet him.

My heart melts in the light and merges in the mirror whereby he views his
face.

I move with the air to kiss him when he waves his fan, and wherever he
wanders I enclose him like the sky.

Govindadas says, "You are the gold-setting, fair maiden, he is the
emerald."



4


My love, I will keep you hidden in my eyes; I will thread your image like a
gem on my joy and hang it on my bosom.

You have been in my heart ever since I was a child, throughout my youth,
throughout my life, even through all my dreams.

You dwell in my being when I sleep and when I wake.

Know that I am a woman, and bear with me when you find me wanting.

For I have thought and thought and know for certain that all that is left
for me in this world is your love, and if I lose you for a moment I die.

Chandidas says, "Be tender to her who is yours in life and death."



5


"Fruit to sell, Fruit to sell," cried the woman at the door.

The Child came out of the house.

"Give me some fruit," said he, putting a handful of rice in her basket.

The fruit-seller gazed at his face and her eyes swam with tears.

"Who is the fortunate mother," she cried, "that has clasped you in her arms
and fed you at her breast, and whom your dear voice called 'Mother'?"

"Offer your fruit to him," says the poet, "and with it your life."



II



1


Endlessly varied art thou in the exuberant world, Lady of Manifold
Magnificence. Thy path is strewn with lights, thy touch thrills into
flowers; that trailing skirt of thine sweeps the whirl of a dance among the
stars, and thy many-toned music is echoed from innumerable worlds through
signs and colours.

Single and alone in the unfathomed stillness of the soul, art thou, Lady of
Silence and Solitude, a vision thrilled with light, a lonely lotus
blossoming on the stem of love.



2


Behind the rusty iron gratings of the opposite window sits a girl, dark and
plain of face, like a boat stranded on a sand-bank when the river is
shallow in the summer.

I come back to my room after my day's work, and my tired eyes are lured to
her.

She seems to me like a lake with its dark lonely waters edged by moonlight.

She has only her window for freedom: there the morning light meets her
musings, and through it her dark eyes like lost stars travel back to their
sky.



3


I remember the day.

The heavy shower of rain is slackening into fitful pauses, renewed gusts of
wind startle it from a first lull.

I take up my instrument. Idly I touch the strings, till, without my
knowing, the music borrows the mad cadence of that storm.

I see her figure as she steals from her work, stops at my door, and
retreats with hesitating steps. She comes again, stands outside leaning
against the wall, then slowly enters the room and sits down. With head
bent, she plies her needle in silence; but soon stops her work, and looks
out of the window through the rain at the blurred line of trees.

Only this--one hour of a rainy noon filled with shadows and song and
silence.



4


While stepping into the carriage she turned her head and threw me a swift
glance of farewell.

This was her last gift to me. But where can I keep it safe from the
trampling hours?

Must evening sweep this gleam of anguish away, as it will the last flicker
of fire from the sunset?

Ought it to be washed off by the rain, as treasured pollens are from
heart-broken flowers?

Leave kingly glory and the wealth of the rich to death. But may not tears
keep ever fresh the memory of a glance flung through a passionate moment?

"Give it to me to keep," said my song; "I never touch kings' glory or the
wealth of the rich, but these small things are mine for ever."



5


You give yourself to me, like a flower that blossoms at night, whose
presence is known by the dew that drips from it, by the odour shed through
the darkness, as the first steps of Spring are by the buds that thicken the
twigs.

You break upon my thought like waves at the high tide, and my heart is
drowned under surging songs.

My heart knew of your coming, as the night feels the approach of dawn. The
clouds are aflame and my sky fills with a great revealing flood.



6


I was to go away; still she did not speak. But I felt, from a slight
quiver, her yearning arms would say: "Ah no, not yet."

I have often heard her pleading hands vocal in a touch, though they knew
not what they said.

I have known those arms to stammer when, had they not, they would have
become youth's garland round my neck.

Their little gestures return to remembrance in the covert of still hours,
like truants they playfully reveal things she had kept secret from me.



7


My songs are like bees; they follow through the air some fragrant
trace--some memory--of you, to hum around your shyness, eager for its
hidden store.

When the freshness of dawn droops in the sun, when in the noon the air
hangs low with heaviness and the forest is silent, my songs return home,
their languid wings dusted with gold.



8


I believe you had visited me in a vision before we ever met, like some
foretaste of April before the spring broke into flower.

That vision must have come when all was bathed in the odour of _sal_
blossom; when the twilight twinkle of the river fringed its yellow sands,
and the vague sounds of a summer afternoon were blended; yes, and had it
not laughed and evaded me in many a nameless gleam at other moments?



9


I think I shall stop startled if ever we meet after our next birth, walking
in the light of a far-away world.

I shall know those dark eyes then as morning stars, and yet feel that they
have belonged to some unremembered evening sky of a former life.

I shall know that the magic of your face is not all its own, but has stolen
the passionate light that was in my eyes at some immemorial meeting, and
then gathered from my love a mystery that has now forgotten its origin.



10


Lay down your lute, my love, leave your arms free to embrace me.

Let your touch bring my overflowing heart to my body's utmost brink.

Do not bend your neck and turn away your face, but offer up a kiss to me,
which has been like some perfume long closed in a bud.

Do not smother this moment under vain words, but let our hearts quake in a
rush of silence sweeping all thoughts to the shoreless delight.



11


You have made me great with your love, though I am but one among the many,
drifting in the common tide, rocking in the fluctuant favour of the world.

You have given me a seat where poets of all time bring their tribute, and
lovers with deathless names greet one another across the ages.

Men hastily pass me in the market,--never noting how my body has grown
precious with your caress, how I carry your kiss within, as the sun carries
in its orb the fire of the divine touch and shines for ever.



12


Like a child that frets and pushes away its toys, my heart to-day shakes
its head at every phrase I suggest, and says, "No, not this."

Yet words, in the agony of their vagueness, haunt my mind, like vagrant
clouds hovering over hills, waiting for some chance wind to relieve them of
their rain.


But leave these vain efforts, my soul, for the stillness will ripen its own
music in the dark.

My life to-day is like a cloister during some penance, where the spring is
afraid to stir or to whisper.

This is not the time, my love, for you to pass the gate; at the mere
thought of your anklet bells tinkling down the path, the garden echoes are
ashamed.

Know that to-morrow's songs are in bud to-day, and should they see you walk
by they would strain to breaking their immature hearts.



13


Whence do you bring this disquiet, my love?

Let my heart touch yours and kiss the pain out of your silence.

The night has thrown up from its depth this little hour, that love may
build a new world within these shut doors, to be lighted by this solitary
lamp.

We have for music but a single reed which our two pairs of lips must play
on by turns--for crown, only one garland to bind my hair after I have put
it on your forehead.

Tearing the veil from my breast I shall make our bed on the floor; and one
kiss and one sleep of delight shall fill our small boundless world.



14


All that I had I gave to you, keeping but the barest veil of reserve.

It is so thin that you secretly smile at it and I feel ashamed.

The gust of the spring breeze sweeps it away unawares, and the flutter of
my own heart moves it as the waves move their foam.

My love, do not grieve if I keep this flimsy mist of distance round me.

This frail reserve of mine is no mere woman's coyness, but a slender stem
on which the flower of my self-surrender bends towards you with reticent
grace.



15


I have donned this new robe to-day because my body feels like singing.

It is not enough that I am given to my love once and for ever, but out of
that I must fashion new gifts every day; and shall I not seem a fresh
offering, dressed in a new robe?

My heart, like the evening sky, has its endless passion for colour, and
therefore I change my veils, which have now the green of the cool young
grass and now that of the winter rice.

To-day my robe is tinted with the rain-rimmed blue of the sky. It brings to
my limbs the colour of the boundless, the colour of the oversea hills; and
it carries in its folds the delight of summer clouds flying in the wind.



16


I thought I would write love's words in their own colour; but that lies
deep in the heart, and tears are pale.

Would you know them, friend, if the words were colourless?

I thought I would sing love's words to their own tune, but that sounds only
in my heart, and my eyes are silent.

Would you know them, friend, if there were no tune?



17


In the night the song came to me; but you were not there.

It found the words for which I had been seeking all day. Yes, in the
stillness a moment after dark they throbbed into music, even as the stars
then began to pulse with light; but you were not there. My hope was to sing
it to you in the morning; but, try as I might, though the music came, the
words hung back, when you were beside me.



18


The night deepens and the dying flame flickers in the lamp.

I forgot to notice when the evening--like a village girl who has filled her
pitcher at the river a last time for that day--closed the door on her
cabin.

I was speaking to you, my love, with mind barely conscious of my
voice--tell me, had it any meaning? Did it bring you any message from
beyond life's borders?

For now, since my voice has ceased, I feel the night throbbing with
thoughts that gaze in awe at the abyss of their dumbness.



19


When we two first met my heart rang out in music, "She who is eternally
afar is beside you for ever."

That music is silent, because I have grown to believe that my love is only
near, and have forgotten that she is also far, far away.

Music fills the infinite between two souls. This has been muffled by the
mist of our daily habits.

On shy summer nights, when the breeze brings a vast murmur out of the
silence, I sit up in my bed and mourn the great loss of her who is beside
me. I ask myself, "When shall I have another chance to whisper to her words
with the rhythm of eternity in them?"

Wake up, my song, from thy languor, rend this screen of the familiar, and
fly to my beloved there, in the endless surprise of our first meeting!



20


Lovers come to you, my Queen, and proudly lay their riches at your feet:
but my tribute is made up of unfulfilled hopes.

Shadows have stolen across the heart of my world and the best in me has
lost light.

While the fortunate laugh at my penury, I ask you to lend my failings your
tears, and so make them precious.


I bring you a voiceless instrument.

I strained to reach a note which was too high in my heart, and the string
broke.

While masters laugh at the snapped cord, I ask you to take my lute in your
hands and fill its hollowness with your songs.



21


The father came back from the funeral rites.

His boy of seven stood at the window, with eyes wide open and a golden
amulet hanging from his neck, full of thoughts too difficult for his age.

His father took him in his arms and the boy asked him, "Where is mother?"

"In heaven," answered his father, pointing to the sky.


At night the father groaned in slumber, weary with grief.

A lamp dimly burned near the bedroom door, and a lizard chased moths on the
wall.

The boy woke up from sleep, felt with his hands the emptiness in the bed,
and stole out to the open terrace.

The boy raised his eyes to the sky and long gazed in silence. His
bewildered mind sent abroad into the night the question, "Where is heaven?"

No answer came: and the stars seemed like the burning tears of that
ignorant darkness.



22


She went away when the night was about to wane.

My mind tried to console me by saying, "All is vanity."

I felt angry and said, "That unopened letter with her name on it, and this
palm-leaf fan bordered with red silk by her own hands, are they not real?"

The day passed, and my friend came and said to me, "Whatever is good is
true, and can never perish."

"How do you know?" I asked impatiently; "was not this body good which is
now lost to the world?"


As a fretful child hurting its own mother, I tried to wreck all the
shelters that ever I had, in and about me, and cried, "This world is
treacherous."

Suddenly I felt a voice saying--"Ungrateful!"

I looked out of the window, and a reproach seemed to come from the
star-sprinkled night,--"You pour out into the void of my absence your faith
in the truth that I came!"



23


The river is grey and the air dazed with blown sand.

On a morning of dark disquiet, when the birds are mute and their nests
shake in the gust, I sit alone and ask myself, "Where is she?"

The days have flown wherein we sat too near each other; we laughed and
jested, and the awe of love's majesty found no words at our meetings.

I made myself small, and she trifled away every moment with pelting talk.

To-day I wish in vain that she were by me, in the gloom of the coming
storm, to sit in the soul's solitude.



24


The name she called me by, like a flourishing jasmine, covered the whole
seventeen years of our love. With its sound mingled the quiver of the light
through the leaves, the scent of the grass in the rainy night, and the sad
silence of the last hour of many an idle day.

Not the work of God alone was he who answered to that name; she created him
again for herself during those seventeen swift years.

Other years were to follow, but their vagrant days, no longer gathered
within the fold of that name uttered in her voice, stray and are scattered.

They ask me, "Who should fold us?"

I find no answer and sit silent, and they cry to me while dispersing, "We
seek a shepherdess!"

Whom should they seek?

That they do not know. And like derelict evening clouds they drift in the
trackless dark, and are lost and forgotten.



25


I feel that your brief days of love have not been left behind in those
scanty years of your life.

I seek to know in what place, away from the slow-thieving dust, you keep
them now. I find in my solitude some song of your evening that died, yet
left a deathless echo; and the sighs of your unsatisfied hours I find
nestled in the warm quiet of the autumn noon.

Your desires come from the hive of the past to haunt my heart, and I sit
still to listen to their wings.



26


You have taken a bath in the dark sea. You are once again veiled in a
bride's robe, and through death's arch you come back to repeat our wedding
in the soul.

Neither lute nor drum is struck, no crowd has gathered, not a wreath is
hung on the gate.

Your unuttered words meet mine in a ritual unillumined by lamps.



27


I was walking along a path overgrown with grass, when suddenly I heard from
some one behind, "See if you know me?"

I turned round and looked at her and said, "I cannot remember your name."

She said, "I am that first great Sorrow whom you met when you were young."

Her eyes looked like a morning whose dew is still in the air.

I stood silent for some time till I said, "Have you lost all the great
burden of your tears?"

She smiled and said nothing. I felt that her tears had had time to learn
the language of smiles.

"Once you said," she whispered, "that you would cherish your grief for
ever."

I blushed and said, "Yes, but years have passed and I forget."

Then I took her hand in mine and said, "But you have changed."

"What was sorrow once has now become peace," she said.



28


Our life sails on the uncrossed sea whose waves chase each other in an
eternal hide-and-seek.

It is the restless sea of change, feeding its foaming flocks to lose them
over and over again, beating its hands against the calm of the sky.

Love, in the centre of this circling war-dance of light and dark, yours is
that green island, where the sun kisses the shy forest shade and silence is
wooed by birds' singing.



29

AMA AND VINAYAKA


AMA AND VINAYAKA

_Night on the battlefield:_ AMA _meets her father_ VINAYAKA.


AMA

Father!


VINAYAKA

Shameless wanton, you call me "Father"! you who did not shrink from a
Mussulman husband!


AMA

Though you have treacherously killed my husband, yet you are my father; and
I hold back a widow's tears, lest they bring God's curse on you. Since we
have met on this battlefield after years of separation, let me bow to your
feet and take my last leave!


VINAYAKA

Where will you go, Ama? The tree on which you built your impious nest is
hewn down. Where will _you_ take shelter?


AMA

I have my son.


VINAYAKA

Leave him! Cast never a fond look back on the result of a sin expiated with
blood! Think where to go.


AMA

Death's open gates are wider than a father's love!


VINAYAKA

Death indeed swallows sins as the sea swallows the mud of rivers. But you
are to die neither to-night nor here. Seek some solitary shrine of holy
Shiva far from shamed kindred and all neighbours; bathe three times a day
in sacred Ganges, and, while reciting God's name, listen to the last bell
of evening worship, that Death may look tenderly upon you, as a father on
his sleeping child whose eyes are still wet with tears. Let him gently
carry you into his own great silence, as the Ganges carries a fallen flower
on its stream, washing every stain away to render it, a fit offering, to
the sea.


AMA

But my son----


VINAYAKA

Again I bid you not to speak of him. Lay yourself once more in a father's
arms, my child, like a babe fresh from the womb of Oblivion, your second
mother.


AMA

To me the world has become a shadow. Your words I hear, but cannot take to
heart. Leave me, father, leave me alone! Do not try to bind me with your
love, for its bands are red with my husband's blood.


VINAYAKA

Alas! no flower ever returns to the parent branch it dropped from. How can
you call him _husband_ who forcibly snatched you from Jivaji to whom you
had been sacredly affianced? I shall never forget that night! In the
wedding hall we sat anxiously expecting the bridegroom, for the auspicious
hour was dwindling away. Then in the distance appeared the glare of
torches, and bridal strains came floating up the air. We shouted for joy:
women blew their conch-shells. A procession of palanquins entered the
courtyard: but while we were asking, "Where is Jivaji?" armed men burst out
of the litters like a storm, and bore you off before we knew what had
happened. Shortly after, Jivaji came to tell us he had been waylaid and
captured by a Mussulman noble of the Vijapur court. That night Jivaji and I
touched the nuptial fire and swore bloody death to this villain. After
waiting long, we have been freed from our solemn pledge to-night; and the
spirit of Jivaji, who lost his life in this battle, lawfully claims you for
wife.


AMA

Father, it may be that I have disgraced the rites of your house, but my
honour is unsullied; I loved him to whom I bore a son. I remember the night
when I received two secret messages, one from you, one from my mother;
yours said: "I send you the knife; kill him!" My mother's: "I send you the
poison; end your life!" Had unholy force dishonoured me, your double
bidding had been obeyed. But my body was yielded only after love had given
_me_--love all the greater, all the purer, in that it overcame the
hereditary recoil of our blood from the Mussulman.

_Enter_ RAMA, AMA'S _mother_


AMA

Mother mine, I had not hoped to see you again. Let me take dust from your
feet.


RAMA

Touch me not with impure hands!


AMA

I am as pure as yourself.


RAMA

To whom have you surrendered your honour?


AMA

To my husband.


RAMA

Husband? A Mussulman the husband of a Brahmin woman?


AMA

I do not merit contempt: I am proud to say I never despised my husband
though a Mussulman. If Paradise will reward your devotion to your husband,
then the same Paradise waits for your daughter, who has been as true a
wife.


RAMA

Are you indeed a true wife?


AMA

Yes.


RAMA

Do you know how to die without flinching?


AMA

I do.


RAMA

Then let the funeral fire be lighted for you! See, there lies the body of
your husband.


AMA

Jivaji?


RAMA

Yes, Jivaji. He was your husband by plighted troth. The baffled fire of the
nuptial God has raged into the hungry fire of death, and the interrupted
wedding shall be completed now.


VINAYAKA

Do not listen, my child. Go back to your son, to your own nest darkened
with sorrow. My duty has been performed to its extreme cruel end, and
nothing now remains for you to do.--Wife, your grief is fruitless. Were the
branch dead which was violently snapped from our tree, I should give it to
the fire. But it has sent living roots into a new soil and is bearing
flowers and fruits. Allow her, without regret, to obey the laws of those
among whom she has loved. Come, wife, it is time we cut all worldly ties
and spent our remainder lives in the seclusion of some peaceful pilgrim
shrine.


RAMA

I am ready: but first must tread into dust every sprout of sin and shame
that has sprung from the soil of our life. A daughter's infamy stains her
mother's honour. That black shame shall feed glowing fire to-night, and
raise a true wife's memorial over the ashes of my daughter.


AMA

Mother, if by force you unite me in death with one who was not my husband,
then will you bring a curse upon yourself for desecrating the shrine of the
Eternal Lord of Death.


RAMA

Soldiers, light the fire; surround the woman!


AMA

Father!


VINAYAKA

Do not fear. Alas, my child, that you should ever have to call your father
to save you from your mother's hands!


AMA

Father!


VINAYAKA

Come to me, my darling child! Mere vanity are these man-made laws,
splashing like spray against the rock of heaven's ordinance. Bring your son
to me, and we will live together, my daughter. A father's love, like God's
rain, does not judge but is poured forth from an abounding source.


RAMA

Where would you go? Turn back!--Soldiers, stand firm in your loyalty to
your master Jivaji! do your last sacred duty by him!


AMA

Father!


VINAYAKA

Free her, soldiers! She is my daughter.


SOLDIERS

She is the widow of our master.


VINAYAKA

Her husband, though a Mussulman, was staunch in his own faith.


RAMA

Soldiers, keep this old man under control!


AMA

I defy you, mother!--You, soldiers, I defy!--for through death and love I
win to freedom.



30


A painter was selling pictures at the fair; followed by servants, there
passed the son of a minister who in youth had cheated this painter's father
so that he had died of a broken heart.

The boy lingered before the pictures and chose one for himself. The painter
flung a cloth over it and said he would not sell it.

After this the boy pined heart-sick till his father came and offered a
large price. But the painter kept the picture unsold on his shop-wall and
grimly sat before it, saying to himself, "This is my revenge."


The sole form this painter's worship took was to trace an image of his god
every morning.

And now he felt these pictures grow daily more different from those he used
to paint.

This troubled him, and he sought in vain for an explanation till one day he
started up from work in horror, the eyes of the god he had just drawn were
those of the minister, and so were the lips.

He tore up the picture, crying, "My revenge has returned on my head!"



31


The General came before the silent and angry King and saluting him said:
"The village is punished, the men are stricken to dust, and the women cower
in their unlit homes afraid to weep aloud."

The High Priest stood up and blessed the King and cried: "God's mercy is
ever upon you."

The Clown, when he heard this, burst out laughing and startled the court.
The King's frown darkened.

"The honour of the throne," said the minister, "is upheld by the King's
prowess and the blessing of Almighty God."

Louder laughed the Clown, and the King growled,--"Unseemly mirth!"

"God has showered many blessings upon your head," said the Clown; "the one
he bestowed on me was the gift of laughter."

"This gift will cost you your life," said the King, gripping his sword with
his right hand.

Yet the Clown stood up and laughed till he laughed no more.

A shadow of dread fell upon the Court, for they heard that laughter echoing
in the depth of God's silence.



32

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER


THE MOTHER'S PRAYER

_Prince Duryodhana, the son of the blind Kaurava King Dhritarashtra, and of
Queen Gandhari, has played with his cousins the Pandava Kings for their
kingdom, and won it by fraud._


DHRITARASHTRA

You have compassed your end.


DURYODHANA

Success is mine!


DHRITARASHTRA

Are you happy?


DURYODHANA

I am victorious.


DHRITARASHTRA

I ask you again, what happiness have you in winning the undivided kingdom?


DURYODHANA

Sire, a Kshatriya thirsts not after happiness but victory, that fiery wine
pressed from seething jealousy. Wretchedly happy we were, like those
inglorious stains that lie idly on the breast of the moon, when we lived in
peace under the friendly dominance of our cousins. Then these Pandavas
milked the world of its wealth, and allowed us a share, in brotherly
tolerance. Now that they own defeat and expect banishment, I am no longer
happy but exultant.


DHRITARASHTRA

Wretch, you forget that both Pandavas and Kauravas have the same
forefathers.


DURYODHANA

It was difficult to forget that, and therefore our inequalities rankled in
my heart. At midnight the moon is never jealous of the noonday sun. But the
struggle to share one horizon between both orbs cannot last forever. Thank
heaven, that struggle is over, and we have at last won solitude in glory.


DHRITARASHTRA

The mean jealousy!


DURYODHANA

Jealousy is never mean--it is in the essence of greatness. Grass can grow
in crowded amity, not giant trees. Stars live in clusters, but the sun and
moon are lonely in their splendour. The pale moon of the Pandavas sets
behind the forest shadows, leaving the new-risen sun of the Kauravas to
rejoice.


DHRITARASHTRA

But right has been defeated.


DURYODHANA

Right for rulers is not what is right in the eyes of the people. The people
thrive by comradeship: but for a king, equals are enemies. They are
obstacles ahead, they are terrors from behind. There is no place for
brothers or friends in a king's polity; its one solid foundation is
conquest.


DHRITARASHTRA

I refuse to call a conquest what was won by fraud in gambling.


DURYODHANA

A man is not shamed by refusing to challenge a tiger on equal terms with
teeth and nails. Our weapons are those proper for success, not for suicide.
Father, I am proud of the result and disdain regret for the means.


DHRITARASHTRA

But justice----


DURYODHANA

Fools alone dream of justice--success is not yet theirs: but those born to
rule rely on power, merciless and unhampered with scruples.


DHRITARASHTRA

Your success will bring down on you a loud and angry flood of detraction.


DURYODHANA

The people will take amazingly little time to learn that Duryodhana is king
and has power to crush calumny under foot.


DHRITARASHTRA

Calumny dies of weariness dancing on tongue-tips. Do not drive it into the
heart to gather strength.


DURYODHANA

Unuttered defamation does not touch a king's dignity. I care not if love is
refused us, but insolence shall not be borne. Love depends upon the will of
the giver, and the poorest of the poor can indulge in such generosity. Let
them squander it on their pet cats, tame dogs, and our good cousins the
Pandavas. I shall never envy them. Fear is the tribute I claim for my royal
throne. Father, only too leniently you lent your ear to those who slandered
your sons: but if you intend still to allow those pious friends of yours to
revel in shrill denunciation at the expense of your children, let us
exchange our kingdom for the exile of our cousins, and go to the
wilderness, where happily friends are never cheap!


DHRITARASHTRA

Could the pious warnings of my friends lessen my love for my sons, then we
might be saved. But I have dipped my hands in the mire of your infamy and
lost my sense of goodness. For your sakes I have heedlessly set fire to the
ancient forest of our royal lineage--so dire is my love. Clasped breast to
breast, we, like a double meteor, are blindly plunging into ruin. Therefore
doubt not my love; relax not your embrace till the brink of annihilation be
reached. Beat your drums of victory, lift your banner of triumph. In this
mad riot of exultant evil, brothers and friends will disperse till nothing
remain save the doomed father, the doomed son and God's curse.


_Enter an Attendant_

Sire, Queen Gandhari asks for audience.


DHRITARASHTRA

I await her.


DURYODHANA

Let me take my leave. [_Exit._


DHRITARASHTRA

Fly! For you cannot bear the fire of your mother's presence.


_Enter_ QUEEN GANDHARI, _the mother of_ DURYODHANA


GANDHARI

At your feet I crave a boon.


DHRITARASHTRA

Speak, your wish is fulfilled.


GANDHARI

The time has come to renounce him.


DHRITARASHTRA

Whom, my queen?


GANDHARI

Duryodhana!


DHRITARASHTRA

Our own son, Duryodhana?


GANDHARI

Yes!


DHRITARASHTRA

This is a terrible boon for you, his mother, to crave!


GANDHARI

The fathers of the Kauravas, who are in Paradise, join me in beseeching
you.


DHRITARASHTRA

The divine Judge will punish him who has broken His laws. But I am his
father.


GANDHARI

Am I not his mother? Have I not carried him under my throbbing heart? Yes,
I ask you to renounce Duryodhana the unrighteous.


DHRITARASHTRA

What will remain to us after that?


GANDHARI

God's blessing.


DHRITARASHTRA

And what will that bring us?


GANDHARI

New afflictions. Pleasure in our son's presence, pride in a new kingdom,
and shame at knowing both purchased by wrong done or connived at, like
thorns dragged two ways, would lacerate our bosoms. The Pandavas are too
proud ever to accept back from us the lands which they have relinquished;
therefore it is only meet that we draw some great sorrow down on our heads
so as to deprive that unmerited reward of its sting.


DHRITARASHTRA

Queen, you inflict fresh pain on a heart already rent.


GANDHARI

Sire, the punishment imposed on our son will be more ours than his. A judge
callous to the pain that he inflicts loses the right to judge. And if you
spare your son to save yourself pain, then all the culprits ever punished
by your hands will cry before God's throne for vengeance,--had they not
also their fathers?


DHRITARASHTRA

No more of this, Queen, I pray you. Our son is abandoned of God: that is
why I cannot give him up. To save him is no longer in my power, and
therefore my consolation is to share his guilt and tread the path of
destruction, his solitary companion. What is done is done; let follow what
must follow!                            [_Exit._


GANDHARI

Be calm, my heart, and patiently await God's judgment. Oblivious night
wears on, the morning of reckoning nears, I hear the thundering roar of its
chariot. Woman, bow your head down to the dust! and as a sacrifice fling
your heart under those wheels! Darkness will shroud the sky, earth will
tremble, wailing will rend the air and then comes the silent and cruel
end,--that terrible peace, that great forgetting, and awful extinction of
hatred--the supreme deliverance rising from the fire of death.



33


Fiercely they rend in pieces the carpet woven during ages of prayer for the
welcome of the world's best hope.

The great preparations of love lie a heap of shreds, and there is nothing
on the ruined altar to remind the mad crowd that their god was to have
come. In a fury of passion they seem to have burnt their future to cinders,
and with it the season of their bloom.

The air is harsh with the cry, "Victory to the Brute!" The children look
haggard and aged; they whisper to one another that time revolves but never
advances, that we are goaded to run but have nothing to reach, that
creation is like a blind man's groping.

I said to myself, "Cease thy singing. Song is for one who is to come, the
struggle without an end is for things that are."

The road, that ever lies along like some one with ear to the ground
listening for footsteps, to-day gleans no hint of coming guest, nothing of
the house at its far end.

My lute said, "Trample me in the dust."

I looked at the dust by the roadside. There was a tiny flower among thorns.
And I cried, "The world's hope is not dead!"

The sky stooped over the horizon to whisper to the earth, and a hush of
expectation filled the air. I saw the palm leaves clapping their hands to
the beat of inaudible music, and the moon exchanged glances with the
glistening silence of the lake.

The road said to me, "Fear nothing!" and my lute said, "Lend me thy songs!"



34

TRANSLATIONS


BAUL SONGS[1]

[Footnote 1: The Bauls are a sect of religious mendicants in Bengal,
unlettered and unconventional, whose songs are loved and sung by the
people. The literal meaning of the word "Baul" is "the Mad."]



1


This longing to meet in the play of love, my Lover, is not only mine but
yours.

Your lips can smile, your flute make music, only through delight in my
love; therefore you are importunate even as I.



2


I sit here on the road; do not ask me to walk further.

If your love can be complete without mine let me turn back from seeking
you.

I refuse to beg a sight of you if you do not feel my need.

I am blind with market dust and mid-day glare, and so wait, in hopes that
your heart, my heart's lover, will send you to find me.



3


I am poured forth in living notes of joy and sorrow by your breath.

Mornings and evenings in summer and in rains, I am fashioned to music.

Should I be wholly spent in some flight of song, I shall not grieve, the
tune is so dear to me.



4


My heart is a flute he has played on. If ever it fall into other hands let
him fling it away.

My lover's flute is dear to him, therefore if to-day alien breath have
entered it and sounded strange notes, let him break it to pieces and strew
the dust with them.



5


In love the aim is neither pain nor pleasure but love only.

While free love binds, division destroys it, for love is what unites.

Love is lit from love as fire from fire, but whence came the first flame?

In your being it leaps under the rod of pain.

Then, when the hidden fire flames forth, the in and the out are one and all
barriers fall in ashes.

Let the pain glow fiercely, burst from the heart and beat back darkness,
need you be afraid?

The poet says, "Who can buy love without paying its price? When you fail to
give yourself you make the whole world miserly."



6


Eyes see only dust and earth, but feel with the heart, and know pure joy.

The delights blossom on all sides in every form, but where is your heart's
thread to make a wreath of them?

My master's flute sounds through all things, drawing me out of my lodgings
wherever they may be, and while I listen I know that every step I take is
in my master's house.

For he is the sea, he is the river that leads to the sea, and he is the
landing-place.



7


Strange ways has my guest.

He comes at times when I am unprepared, yet how can I refuse him?

I watch all night with lighted lamp; he stays away; when the light goes out
and the room is bare he comes claiming his seat, and can I keep him
waiting?

I laugh and make merry with friends, then suddenly I start up, for lo! he
passes me by in sorrow, and I know my mirth was vain.

I have often seen a smile in his eyes when my heart ached, then I knew my
sorrow was not real.

Yet I never complain when I do not understand him.



8


I am the boat, you are the sea, and also the boatman.

Though you never make the shore, though you let me sink, why should I be
foolish and afraid?

Is reaching the shore a greater prize than losing myself with you?

If you are only the haven, as they say, then what is the sea?

Let it surge and toss me on its waves, I shall be content.

I live in you whatever and however you appear. Save me or kill me as you
wish, only never leave me in other hands.



9


Make way, O bud, make way, burst open thy heart and make way.

The opening spirit has overtaken thee, canst thou remain a bud any longer?



III



1


Come, Spring, reckless lover of the earth, make the forest's heart pant for
utterance!

Come in gusts of disquiet where flowers break open and jostle the new
leaves!

Burst, like a rebellion of light, through the night's vigil, through the
lake's dark dumbness, through the dungeon under the dust, proclaiming
freedom to the shackled seeds!

Like the laughter of lightning, like the shout of a storm, break into the
midst of the noisy town; free stifled word and unconscious effort,
reinforce our flagging fight, and conquer death!



2


I have looked on this picture in many a month of March when the mustard is
in bloom--this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the
rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into
the heart of the village.

I have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of
the oar-strokes from a passing boat.

I have wondered in my mind how simply it stands before me, this great
world: with what fond and familiar ease it fills my heart, this encounter
with the Eternal Stranger.



3


The ferry-boat plies between the two villages facing each other across the
narrow stream.

The water is neither wide nor deep--a mere break in the path that enhances
the small adventures of daily life, like a break in the words of a song
across which the tune gleefully streams.

While the towers of wealth rise high and crash to ruin, these villages talk
to each other across the garrulous stream, and the ferry-boat plies between
them, age after age, from seed-time to harvest.



4


In the evening after they have brought their cattle home, they sit on the
grass before their huts to know that you are among them unseen, to repeat
in their songs the name which they have fondly given you.

While kings' crowns shine and disappear like falling stars, around village
huts your name rises through the still night from the simple hearts of your
lovers whose names are unrecorded.



5


In Baby's world, the trees shake their leaves at him, murmuring verses in
an ancient tongue that dates from before the age of meaning, and the moon
feigns to be of his own age--the solitary baby of night.

In the world of the old, flowers dutifully blush at the make-believe of
faery legends, and broken dolls confess that they are made of clay.



6


_My world_, when I was a child, you were a little girl-neighbour, a loving
timid stranger.

Then you grew bold and talked to me across the fence, offering me toys and
flowers and shells.

Next you coaxed me away from my work, you tempted me into the land of the
dusk or the weedy corner of some garden in mid-day loneliness.

At length you told me stories about bygone times, with which the present
ever longs to meet so as to be rescued from its prison in the moment.



7


How often, great Earth, have I felt my being yearn to flow over you,
sharing in the happiness of each green blade that raises its signal banner
in answer to the beckoning blue of the sky!

I feel as if I had belonged to you ages before I was born. That is why, in
the days when the autumn light shimmers on the mellowing ears of rice, I
seem to remember a past when my mind was everywhere, and even to hear
voices as of playfellows echoing from the remote and deeply veiled past.

When, in the evening, the cattle return to their folds, raising dust from
the meadow paths, as the moon rises higher than the smoke ascending from
the village huts, I feel sad as for some great separation that happened in
the first morning of existence.



8


My mind still buzzed with the cares of a busy day; I sat on without noting
how twilight was deepening into dark. Suddenly light stirred across the
gloom and touched me as with a finger.

I lifted my head and met the gaze of the full moon widened in wonder like a
child's. It held my eyes for long, and I felt as though a love-letter had
been secretly dropped in at my window. And ever since my heart is breaking
to write for answer something fragrant as Night's unseen flowers--great as
her declaration spelt out in nameless stars.



9


The clouds thicken till the morning light seems like a bedraggled fringe to
the rainy night.

A little girl stands at her window, still as a rainbow at the gate of a
broken-down storm.

She is my neighbour, and has come upon the earth like some god's rebellious
laughter. Her mother in anger calls her incorrigible; her father smiles and
calls her mad.

She is like a runaway waterfall leaping over boulders, like the topmost
bamboo twig rustling in the restless wind.

She stands at her window looking out into the sky.

Her sister comes to say, "Mother calls you." She shakes her head.

Her little brother with his toy boat comes and tries to pull her off to
play; she snatches her hand from his. The boy persists and she gives him a
slap on the back.

The first great voice was the voice of wind and water in the beginning of
earth's creation.

That ancient cry of nature--her dumb call to unborn life--has reached this
child's heart and leads it out alone beyond the fence of our times: so
there she stands, possessed by eternity!



10


The kingfisher sits still on the prow of an empty boat, while in the
shallow margin of the stream a buffalo lies tranquilly blissful, its eyes
half closed to savour the luxury of cool mud.

Undismayed by the barking of the village cur, the cow browses on the bank,
followed by a hopping group of _saliks_ hunting moths.

I sit in the tamarind grove, where the cries of dumb life congregate--the
cattle's lowing, the sparrows' chatter, the shrill scream of a kite
overhead, the crickets' chirp, and the splash of a fish in the water.

I peep into the primeval nursery of life, where the mother Earth thrills at
the first living clutch near her breast.



11


At the sleepy village the noon was still like a sunny midnight when my
holidays came to their end.

My little girl of four had followed me all the morning from room to room,
watching my preparations in grave silence, till, wearied, she sat by the
doorpost strangely quiet, murmuring to herself, "Father must not go!"

This was the meal hour, when sleep daily overcame her, but her mother had
forgotten her and the child was too unhappy to complain.

At last, when I stretched out my arms to her to say farewell, she never
moved, but sadly looking at me said, "Father, you must not go!"

And it amused me to tears to think how this little child dared to fight the
giant world of necessity with no other resource than those few words,
"Father, you must not go!"



12


Take your holiday, my boy; there are the blue sky and the bare field, the
barn and the ruined temple under the ancient tamarind.

My holiday must be taken through yours, finding light in the dance of your
eyes, music in your noisy shouts.

To you autumn brings the true holiday freedom: to me it brings the
impossibility of work; for lo! you burst into my room.

Yes, my holiday is an endless freedom for love to disturb me.



13


In the evening my little daughter heard a call from her companions below
the window.

She timidly went down the dark stairs holding a lamp in her hand, shielding
it behind her veil.

I was sitting on my terrace in the star-lit night of March, when at a
sudden cry I ran to see.

Her lamp had gone out in the dark spiral staircase. I asked, "Child, why
did you cry?"

From below she answered in distress, "Father, I have lost myself!"

When I came back to the terrace under the star-lit night of March, I looked
at the sky, and it seemed that a child was walking there treasuring many
lamps behind her veils.

If their light went out, she would suddenly stop and a cry would sound from
sky to sky, "Father, I have lost myself!"



14


The evening stood bewildered among street lamps, its gold tarnished by the
city dust.

A woman, gaudily decked and painted, leant over the rail of her balcony, a
living fire waiting for its moths.

Suddenly an eddy was formed in the road round a street-boy crushed under
the wheels of a carriage, and the woman on the balcony fell to the floor
screaming in agony, stricken with the grief of the great white-robed Mother
who sits in the world's inner shrine.



15


I remember the scene on the barren heath--a girl sat alone on the grass
before the gipsy camp, braiding her hair in the afternoon shade.

Her little dog jumped and barked at her busy hands, as though her
employment had no importance.

In vain did she rebuke it, calling it "a pest," saying she was tired of its
perpetual silliness.

She struck it on the nose with her reproving forefinger, which only seemed
to delight it the more.

She looked menacingly grave for a few moments, to warn it of impending
doom; and then, letting her hair fall, quickly snatched it up in her arms,
laughed, and pressed it to her heart.



16


He is tall and lean, withered to the bone with long repeated fever, like a
dead tree unable to draw a single drop of sap from anywhere.

In despairing patience, his mother carries him like a child into the sun,
where he sits by the roadside in the shortening shadows of each forenoon.

The world passes by--a woman to fetch water, a herd-boy with cattle to
pasture, a laden cart to the distant market--and the mother hopes that some
least stir of life may touch the awful torpor of her dying son.



17


If the ragged villager, trudging home from the market, could suddenly be
lifted to the crest of a distant age, men would stop in their work and
shout and run to him in delight.

For they would no longer whittle down the man into the peasant, but find
him full of the mystery and spirit of his age.

Even his poverty and pain would grow great, released from the shallow
insult of the present, and the paltry things in his basket would acquire
pathetic dignity.



18


With the morning he came out to walk a road shaded by a file of deodars,
that coiled the hill round like importunate love.

He held the first letter from his newly wedded wife in their village home,
begging him to come to her, and come soon.

The touch of an absent hand haunted him as he walked, and the air seemed to
take up the cry of the letter: "Love, my love, my sky is brimming with
tears!"

He asked himself in wonder, "How do I deserve this?"

The sun suddenly appeared over the rim of the blue hills, and four girls
from a foreign shore came with swift strides, talking loud and followed by
a barking dog.

The two elder turned away to conceal their amusement at something strange
in his insignificance, and the younger ones pushed each other, laughed
aloud, and ran off in exuberant mirth.

He stopped and his head sank. Then he suddenly felt his letter, opened and
read it again.



19


The day came for the image from the temple to be drawn round the holy town
in its chariot.

The Queen said to the King, "Let us go and attend the festival."

Only one man out of the whole household did not join in the pilgrimage. His
work was to collect stalks of spear-grass to make brooms for the King's
house.

The chief of the servants said in pity to him, "You may come with us."

He bowed his head, saying, "It cannot be."


The man dwelt by the road along which the King's followers had to pass. And
when the Minister's elephant reached this spot, he called to him and said,
"Come with us and see the God ride in his chariot!"

"I dare not seek God after the King's fashion," said the man.

"How should you ever have such luck again as to see the God in his
chariot?" asked the Minister.

"When God himself comes to my door," answered the man.

The Minister laughed loud and said, "Fool! 'When God comes to your door!'
yet a King must travel to see him!"

"Who except God visits the poor?" said the man.



20


Days were drawing out as the winter ended, and, in the sun, my dog played
in his wild way with the pet deer.

The crowd going to the market gathered by the fence, and laughed to see the
love of these playmates struggle with languages so dissimilar.


The spring was in the air, and the young leaves fluttered like flames. A
gleam danced in the deer's dark eyes when she started, bent her neck at the
movement of her own shadow, or raised her ears to listen to some whisper in
the wind.

The message comes floating with the errant breeze, with the rustle and
glimmer abroad in the April sky. It sings of the first ache of youth in the
world, when the first flower broke from the bud, and love went forth
seeking that which it knew not, leaving all it had known.


And one afternoon, when among the _amlak_ trees the shadow grew grave and
sweet with the furtive caress of light, the deer set off to run like a
meteor in love with death.

It grew dark, and lamps were lighted in the house; the stars came out and
night was upon the fields, but the deer never came back.

My dog ran up to me whining, questioning me with his piteous eyes which
seemed to say, "I do not understand!"

But who does ever understand?



21


Our Lane is tortuous, as if, ages ago, she started in quest of her goal,
vacillated right and left, and remained bewildered for ever.

Above in the air, between her buildings, hangs like a ribbon a strip torn
out of space: she calls it her sister of the blue town.

She sees the sun only for a few moments at mid-day, and asks herself in
wise doubt, "Is it real?"

In June rain sometimes shades her band of daylight as with pencil
hatchings. The path grows slippery with mud, and umbrellas collide. Sudden
jets of water from spouts overhead splash on her startled pavement. In her
dismay, she takes it for the jest of an unmannerly scheme of creation.

The spring breeze, gone astray in her coil of contortions, stumbles like a
drunken vagabond against angle and corner, filling the dusty air with
scraps of paper and rag. "What fury of foolishness! Are the Gods gone mad?"
she exclaims in indignation.

But the daily refuse from the houses on both sides--scales of fish mixed
with ashes, vegetable peelings, rotten fruit, and dead rats--never rouse
her to question, "Why should these things be?"

She accepts every stone of her paving. But from between their chinks
sometimes a blade of grass peeps up. That baffles her. How can solid facts
permit such intrusion?

On a morning when at the touch of autumn light her houses wake up into
beauty from their foul dreams, she whispers to herself, "There is a
limitless wonder somewhere beyond these buildings."

But the hours pass on; the households are astir; the maid strolls back from
the market, swinging her right arm and with the left clasping the basket of
provisions to her side; the air grows thick with the smell and smoke of
kitchens. It again becomes clear to our Lane that the real and normal
consist solely of herself, her houses, and their muck-heaps.



22


The house, lingering on after its wealth has vanished, stands by the
wayside like a madman with a patched rag over his back.

Day after day scars it with spiteful scratches, and rainy months leave
their fantastic signatures on its bared bricks.

In a deserted upper room one of a pair of doors has fallen from rusty
hinges; and the other, widowed, bangs day and night to the fitful gusts.

One night the sound of women wailing came from that house. They mourned the
death of the last son of the family, a boy of eighteen, who earned his
living by playing the part of the heroine in a travelling theatre.

A few days more and the house became silent, and all the doors were locked.

Only on the north side in the upper room that desolate door would neither
drop off to its rest nor be shut, but swung to and fro in the wind like a
self-torturing soul.


After a time children's voices echo once more through that house. Over the
balcony-rail women's clothes are hung in the sun, a bird whistles from a
covered cage, and a boy plays with his kite on the terrace.

A tenant has come to occupy a few rooms. He earns little and has many
children. The tired mother beats them and they roll on the floor and
shriek.


A maid-servant of forty drudges through the day, quarrels with her
mistress, threatens to, but never leaves.

Every day some small repairs are done. Paper is pasted in place of missing
panes; gaps in the railings are made good with split bamboo; an empty box
keeps the boltless gate shut; old stains vaguely show through new whitewash
on the walls.

The magnificence of wealth had found a fitting memorial in gaunt
desolation; but, lacking sufficient means, they try to hide this with
dubious devices, and its dignity is outraged.

They have overlooked the deserted room on the north side. And its forlorn
door still bangs in the wind, like Despair beating her breast.



23


In the depths of the forest the ascetic practised penance with fast-closed
eyes; he intended to deserve Paradise.

But the girl who gathered twigs brought him fruits in her skirt, and water
from the stream in cups made of leaves.

The days went on, and his penance grew harsher till the fruits remained
untasted, the water untouched: and the girl who gathered twigs was sad.


The Lord of Paradise heard that a man had dared to aspire to be as the
Gods. Time after time he had fought the Titans, who were his peers, and
kept them out of his kingdom; yet he feared a man whose power was that of
suffering.

But he knew the ways of mortals, and he planned a temptation to decoy this
creature of dust away from his adventure.


A breath from Paradise kissed the limbs of the girl who gathered twigs, and
her youth ached with a sudden rapture of beauty, and her thoughts hummed
like the bees of a rifled hive.

The time came when the ascetic should leave the forest for a mountain cave,
to complete the rigour of his penance.

When he opened his eyes in order to start on this journey, the girl
appeared to him like a verse familiar, yet forgotten, and which an added
melody made strange. The ascetic rose from his seat and told her that it
was time he left the forest.

"But why rob me of my chance to serve you?" she asked with tears in her
eyes.

He sat down again, thought for long, and remained on where he was.


That night remorse kept the girl awake. She began to dread her power and
hate her triumph, yet her mind tossed on the waves of turbulent delight.

In the morning she came and saluted the ascetic and asked his blessing,
saying she must leave him.

He gazed on her face in silence, then said, "Go, and may your wish be
fulfilled."

For years he sat alone till his penance was complete.

The Lord of the Immortals came down to tell him that he had won Paradise.

"I no longer need it," said he.

The God asked him what greater reward he desired.

"I want the girl who gathers twigs."



24


They said that Kabir, the weaver, was favoured of God, and the crowd
flocked round him for medicine and miracles. But he was troubled; his low
birth had hitherto endowed him with a most precious obscurity to sweeten
with songs and with the presence of his God. He prayed that it might be
restored.

Envious of the repute of this outcast, the priests leagued themselves with
a harlot to disgrace him. Kabir came to the market to sell cloths from his
loom; when the woman grasped his hand, blaming him for being faithless, and
followed him to his house, saying she would not be forsaken, Kabir said to
himself, "God answers prayers in his own way."

Soon the woman felt a shiver of fear and fell on her knees and cried, "Save
me from my sin!" To which he said, "Open your life to God's light!"

Kabir worked at his loom and sang, and his songs washed the stains from
that woman's heart, and by way of return found a home in her sweet voice.

One day the King, in a fit of caprice, sent a message to Kabir to come and
sing before him. The weaver shook his head: but the messenger dared not
leave his door till his master's errand was fulfilled.

The King and his courtiers started at the sight of Kabir when he entered
the hall. For he was not alone, the woman followed him. Some smiled, some
frowned, and the King's face darkened at the beggar's pride and
shamelessness.

Kabir came back to his house disgraced, the woman fell at his feet crying,
"Why accept such dishonour for my sake, master? Suffer me to go back to my
infamy!"

Kabir said, "I dare not turn my God away when he comes branded with
insult."



25

SOMAKA AND RITVIK


SOMAKA AND RITVIK

_The shade of_ KING SOMAKA, _faring to Heaven in a chariot, passes other
shades by the roadside, among them that of_ RITVIK, _his former
high-priest_.


A VOICE

Where would you go, King?


SOMAKA

Whose voice is that? This turbid air is like suffocation to the eyes; I
cannot see.


THE VOICE

Come down, King! Come down from that chariot bound for Heaven.


SOMAKA

Who are you?


THE VOICE

I am Ritvik, who in my earthly life was your preceptor and the chief priest
of your house.


SOMAKA

Master, all the tears of the world seem to have become vapour to create
this realm of vagueness. What make you here?


SHADES

This hell lies hard by the road to Heaven, whence lights glimmer dimly,
only to prove unapproachable. Day and night we listen to the heavenly
chariot rumbling by with travellers for that region of bliss; it drives
sleep from our eyes and forces them to watch in fruitless jealousy. Far
below us earth's old forests rustle and her seas chant the primal hymn of
creation: they sound like the wail of a memory that wanders void space in
vain.


RITVIK

Come down, King!


SHADES

Stop a few moments among us. The earth's tears still cling about you, like
dew on freshly culled flowers. You have brought with you the mingled odours
of meadow and forest; reminiscence of children, women, and comrades;
something too of the ineffable music of the seasons.


SOMAKA

Master, why are you doomed to live in this muffled stagnant world?


RITVIK

I offered up your son in the sacrificial fire: _that_ sin has lodged my
soul in this obscurity.


SHADES

King, tell us the story, we implore you; the recital of crime can still
bring life's fire into our torpor.


SOMAKA

I was named Somaka, the King of Videha. After sacrificing at innumerable
shrines weary year on year, a son was born to my house in my old age, love
for whom, like a sudden untimely flood, swept consideration for everything
else from my life. He hid me completely, as a lotus hides its stem. The
neglected duties of a king piled up in shame before my throne. One day, in
my audience hall, I heard my child cry from his mother's room, and
instantly rushed away, vacating my throne.


RITVIK

Just then, it chanced, I entered the hall to give him my daily benediction;
in blind haste he brushed me aside and enkindled my anger. When later he
came back, shame-faced, I asked him: "King, what desperate alarm could draw
you at the busiest hour of the day to the women's apartments, so as to
desert your dignity and duty--ambassadors come from friendly courts, the
aggrieved who ask for justice, your ministers waiting to discuss matters of
grave import? and even lead you to slight a Brahmin's blessing?"


SOMAKA

At first my heart flamed with anger; the next moment I trampled it down
like the raised head of a snake and meekly replied: "Having only one child,
I have lost my peace of mind. Forgive me this once, and I promise that in
future the father's infatuation shall never usurp the King."


RITVIK

But my heart was bitter with resentment, and I said, "If you must be
delivered from the curse of having only one child, I can show you the way.
But so hard is it that I feel certain you will fail to follow it." This
galled the King's pride and he stood up and exclaimed, "I swear, by all
that is sacred, as a Kshatriya and a King, I will not shrink, but perform
whatever you may ask, however hard." "Then listen," said I. "Light a
sacrificial fire, offer up your son: the smoke that rises will bring you
progeny, as the clouds bring rain." The King bowed his head upon his breast
and remained silent: the courtiers shouted their horror, the Brahmins
clapped their hands over their ears, crying, "Sin it is both to utter and
listen to such words." After some moments of bewildered dismay the King
calmly said, "I will abide by my promise." The day came, the fire was lit,
the town was emptied of its people, the child was called for; but the
attendants refused to obey, the soldiers rebelliously went off duty,
throwing down their arms. Then I, who in my wisdom had soared far above all
weakness of heart and to whom emotions were illusory, went myself to the
apartment where, with their arms, women fenced the child like a flower
surrounded by the menacing branches of a tree. He saw me and stretched out
eager hands and struggled to come to me, for he longed to be free from the
love that imprisoned him. Crying, "I am come to give you true deliverance,"
I snatched him by force from his fainting mother and his nurses wailing in
despair. With quivering tongues the fire licked the sky and the King stood
beside it, still and silent, like a tree struck dead by lightning.
Fascinated by the godlike splendour of the blaze, the child babbled in glee
and danced in my arms, impatient to seek an unknown nurse in the free glory
of those flames.


SOMAKA

Stop, no more, I pray!


SHADES

Ritvik, your presence is a disgrace to hell itself!


THE CHARIOTEER

This is no place for you, King! nor have you deserved to be forced to
listen to this recital of a deed which makes hell shudder in pity.


SOMAKA

Drive off in your chariot!--Brahmin, my place is by you in this hell. The
Gods may forget my sin, but can I forget the last look of agonised surprise
on my child's face when, for one terrible moment, he realised that his own
father had betrayed his trust?


_Enter_ DHARMA, _the Judge of Departed Spirits_


DHARMA

King, Heaven waits for you.


SOMAKA

No, not for me. I killed my own child.


DHARMA

Your sin has been swept away in the fury of pain it caused you.


RITVIK

No, King, you must never go to Heaven alone, and thus create a second hell
for me, to burn both with fire and with hatred of you! Stay here!


SOMAKA

I will stay.


SHADES

And crown the despair and inglorious suffering of hell with the triumph of
a soul!



26


The man had no useful work, only vagaries of various kinds.

Therefore it surprised him to find himself in Paradise after a life spent
perfecting trifles.

Now the guide had taken him by mistake to the wrong Paradise--one meant
only for good, busy souls.


In this Paradise, our man saunters along the road only to obstruct the rush
of business.

He stands aside from the path and is warned that he tramples on sown seed.
Pushed, he starts up: hustled, he moves on.

A very busy girl comes to fetch water from the well. Her feet run on the
pavement like rapid fingers over harp-strings. Hastily she ties a negligent
knot with her hair, and loose locks on her forehead pry into the dark of
her eyes.

The man says to her, "Would you lend me your pitcher?"

"My pitcher?" she asks, "to draw water?"

"No, to paint patterns on."

"I have no time to waste," the girl retorts in contempt.


Now a busy soul has no chance against one who is supremely idle.

Every day she meets him at the well, and every day he repeats the same
request, till at last she yields.

Our man paints the pitcher with curious colours in a mysterious maze of
lines.

The girl takes it up, turns it round and asks, "What does it mean?"

"It has no meaning," he answers.


The girl carries the pitcher home. She holds it up in different lights and
tries to con its mystery.

At night she leaves her bed, lights a lamp, and gazes at it from all points
of view.

This is the first time she has met with something without meaning.


On the next day the man is again near the well.

The girl asks, "What do you want?"

"To do more work for you."

"What work?" she enquires.

"Allow me to weave coloured strands into a ribbon to bind your hair."

"Is there any need?" she asks.

"None whatever," he allows.

The ribbon is made, and thence-forward she spends a great deal of time over
her hair.

The even stretch of well-employed time in that Paradise begins to show
irregular rents.

The elders are troubled; they meet in council.

The guide confesses his blunder, saying that he has brought the wrong man
to the wrong place.

The wrong man is called. His turban, flaming with colour, shows plainly how
great that blunder has been.

The chief of the elders says, "You must go back to the earth."

The man heaves a sigh of relief: "I am ready."

The girl with the ribbon round her hair chimes in: "I also!"

For the first time the chief of the elders is faced with a situation which
has no sense in it.



27


It is said that in the forest, near the meeting of river and lake, certain
fairies live in disguise who are only recognised as fairies after they have
flown away.

A Prince went to this forest, and when he came where river met lake he saw
a village girl sitting on the bank ruffling the water to make the lilies
dance.

He asked her in a whisper, "Tell me, what fairy art thou?"

The girl laughed at the question and the hillsides echoed her mirth.

The Prince thought she was the laughing fairy of the waterfall.


News reached the King that the Prince had married a fairy: he sent horses
and men and brought them to his house.

The Queen saw the bride and turned her face away in disgust, the Prince's
sister flushed red with annoyance, and the maids asked if that was how
fairies dressed.

The Prince whispered, "Hush! my fairy has come to our house in disguise."


On the day of the yearly festival the Queen said to her son, "Ask your
bride not to shame us before our kinsfolk who are coming to see the fairy."

And the Prince said to his bride, "For my love's sake show thy true self to
my people."

Long she sat silent, then nodded her promise while tears ran down her
cheeks.


The full moon shone, the Prince, dressed in a wedding robe, entered his
bride's room.

No one was there, nothing but a streak of moonlight from the window aslant
the bed.

The kinsfolk crowded in with the King and the Queen, the Prince's sister
stood by the door.

All asked, "Where is the fairy bride?"

The Prince answered, "She has vanished for ever to make herself known to
you."



28

KARNA AND KUNTI


KARNA AND KUNTI

_The Pandava Queen Kunti before marriage had a son, Karna, who, in manhood,
became the commander of the Kaurava host. To hide her shame she abandoned
him at birth, and a charioteer, Adhiratha, brought him up as his son._


KARNA

I am Karna, the son of the charioteer, Adhiratha, and I sit here by the
bank of holy Ganges to worship the setting sun. Tell me who you are.


KUNTI

I am the woman who first made you acquainted with that light you are
worshipping.


KARNA

I do not understand: but your eyes melt my heart as the kiss of the morning
sun melts the snow on a mountain-top, and your voice rouses a blind sadness
within me of which the cause may well lie beyond the reach of my earliest
memory. Tell me, strange woman, what mystery binds my birth to you?


KUNTI

Patience, my son. I will answer when the lids of darkness come down over
the prying eyes of day. In the meanwhile, know that I am Kunti.


KARNA

Kunti! The mother of Arjuna?


KUNTI

Yes, indeed, the mother of Arjuna, your antagonist. But do not, therefore,
hate me. I still remember the day of the trial of arms in Hastina when you,
an unknown boy, boldly stepped into the arena, like the first ray of dawn
among the stars of night. Ah! who was that unhappy woman whose eyes kissed
your bare, slim body through tears that blessed you, where she sat among
the women of the royal household behind the arras? Why, the mother of
Arjuna! Then the Brahmin, master of arms, stepped forth and said, "No youth
of mean birth may challenge Arjuna to a trial of strength." You stood
speechless, like a thunder-cloud at sunset flashing with an agony of
suppressed light. But who was the woman whose heart caught fire from your
shame and anger, and flared up in silence? The mother of Arjuna! Praised be
Duryodhana, who perceived your worth, and then and there crowned you King
of Anga, thus winning the Kauravas a champion. Overwhelmed at this good
fortune, Adhiratha, the charioteer, broke through the crowd; you instantly
rushed to him and laid your crown at his feet amid the jeering laughter of
the Pandavas and their friends. But there was one woman of the Pandava
house whose heart glowed with joy at the heroic pride of such
humility;--even the mother of Arjuna!


KARNA

But what brings you here alone, Mother of kings?


KUNTI

I have a boon to crave.


KARNA

Command me, and whatever manhood and my honour as a Kshatriya permit shall
be offered at your feet.


KUNTI

I have come to take you.


KARNA

Where?


KUNTI

To my breast thirsting for your love, my son.


KARNA

Fortunate mother of five brave kings, where can you find place for me, a
small chieftain of lowly descent?


KUNTI

Your place is before all my other sons.


KARNA

But what right have I to take it?


KUNTI

Your own God-given right to your mother's love.


KARNA

The gloom of evening spreads over the earth, silence rests on the water,
and your voice leads me back to some primal world of infancy lost in twilit
consciousness. However, whether this be dream, or fragment of forgotten
reality, come near and place your right hand on my forehead. Rumour runs
that I was deserted by my mother. Many a night she has come to me in my
slumber, but when I cried: "Open your veil, show me your face!" her figure
always vanished. Has this same dream come this evening while I wake? See,
yonder the lamps are lighted in your son's tents across the river; and on
this side behold the tent-domes of my Kauravas, like the suspended waves of
a spell-arrested storm at sea. Before the din of tomorrow's battle, in the
awful hush of this field where it must be fought, why should the voice of
the mother of my opponent, Arjuna, bring me a message of forgotten
motherhood? and why should my name take such music from her tongue as to
draw my heart out to him and his brothers?


KUNTI

Then delay not, my son, come with me!


KARNA

Yes, I will come and never ask question, never doubt. My soul responds to
your call; and the struggle for victory and fame and the rage of hatred
have suddenly become untrue to me, as the delirious dream of a night in the
serenity of the dawn. Tell me whither you mean to lead?


KUNTI

To the other bank of the river, where those lamps burn across the ghastly
pallor of the sands.


KARNA

Am I there to find my lost mother for ever?


KUNTI

O my son!


KARNA

Then why did you banish me--a castaway uprooted from my ancestral soil,
adrift in a homeless current of indignity? Why set a bottomless chasm
between Arjuna and myself, turning the natural attachment of kinship to the
dread attraction of hate? You remain speechless. Your shame permeates the
vast darkness and sends invisible shivers through my limbs. Leave my
question unanswered! Never explain to me what made you rob your son of his
mother's love! Only tell me why you have come to-day to call me back to the
ruins of a heaven wrecked by your own hands?


KUNTI

I am dogged by a curse more deadly than your reproaches: for, though
surrounded by five sons, my heart shrivels like that of a woman deprived of
her children. Through the great rent that yawned for my deserted
first-born, all my life's pleasures have run to waste. On that accursed day
when I belied my motherhood you could not utter a word; to-day your
recreant mother implores you for generous words. Let your forgiveness burn
her heart like fire and consume its sin.


KARNA

Mother, accept my tears!


KUNTI

I did not come with the hope of winning you back to my arms, but with that
of restoring your rights to you. Come and receive, as a king's son, your
due among your brothers.


KARNA

I am more truly the son of a charioteer, and do not covet the glory of
greater parentage.


KUNTI

Be that as it may, come and win back the kingdom, which is yours by right!


KARNA

Must you, who once refused me a mother's love, tempt me with a kingdom? The
quick bond of kindred which you severed at its root is dead, and can never
grow again. Shame were mine should I hasten to call the mother of kings
mother, and abandon _my_ mother in the charioteer's house!


KUNTI

You are great, my son! How God's punishment invisibly grows from a tiny
seed to a giant life! The helpless babe disowned by his mother comes back a
man through the dark maze of events to smite his brothers!


KARNA

Mother, have no fear! I know for certain that victory awaits the Pandavas.
Peaceful and still though this night be, my heart is full of the music of a
hopeless venture and baffled end. Ask me not to leave those who are doomed
to defeat. Let the Pandavas win the throne, since they must: I remain with
the desperate and forlorn. On the night of my birth you left me naked and
unnamed to disgrace: leave me once again without pity to the calm
expectation of defeat and death!



29


When like a flaming scimitar the hill stream has been sheathed in gloom by
the evening, suddenly a flock of birds passes overhead, their loud-laughing
wings hurling their flight like an arrow among stars.

It startles a passion for speed in the heart of all motionless things; the
hills seem to feel in their bosom the anguish of storm-clouds, and trees
long to break their rooted shackles.


For me the flight of these birds has rent a veil of stillness, and reveals
an immense flutter in this deep silence.

I see these hills and forests fly across time to the unknown, and darkness
thrill into fire as the stars wing by.

I feel in my own being the rush of the sea-crossing bird, cleaving a way
beyond the limits of life and death, while the migrant world cries with a
myriad voices, "Not here, but somewhere else, in the bosom of the Faraway."



30


The crowd listens in wonder to Kashi, the young singer, whose voice, like a
sword in feats of skill, dances amidst hopeless tangles, cuts them to
pieces, and exults.


Among the hearers sits old Rajah Pratap in weary endurance. For his own
life had been nourished and encircled by Barajlal's songs, like a happy
land which a river laces with beauty. His rainy evenings and the still
hours of autumn days spoke to his heart through Barajlal's voice, and his
festive nights trimmed their lamps and tinkled their bells to those songs.


When Kashi stopped for rest, Pratap smilingly winked at Barajlal and spoke
to him in a whisper, "Master, now let us hear music and not this
new-fangled singing, which mimics frisky kittens hunting paralysed mice."


The old singer with his spotlessly white turban made a deep bow to the
assembly and took his seat. His thin fingers struck the strings of his
instrument, his eyes closed, and in timid hesitation his song began. The
hall was large, his voice feeble, and Pratap shouted "Bravo!" with
ostentation, but whispered in his ear, "Just a little louder, friend!"


The crowd was restless; some yawned, some dozed, some complained of the
heat. The air of the hall hummed with many-toned inattention, and the song,
like a frail boat, tossed upon it in vain till it sank under the hubbub.


Suddenly the old man, stricken at heart, forgot a passage, and his voice
groped in agony, like a blind man at a fair for his lost leader. He tried
to fill the gap with any strain that came. But the gap still yawned: and
the tortured notes refused to serve the need, suddenly changed their tune,
and broke into a sob. The master laid his head on his instrument, and in
place of his forgotten music, there broke from him the first cry of life
that a child brings into the world.


Pratap touched him gently on his shoulder, and said, "Come away, our
meeting is elsewhere. I know, my friend, that truth is widowed without
love, and beauty dwells not with the many, nor in the moment."



31


In the youth of the world, Himalaya, you sprang from the rent breast of the
earth, and hurled your burning challenges to the sun, hill after hill. Then
came the mellow time when you said to yourself, "No more, no further!" and
your fiery heart, that raged for the freedom of clouds, found its limits,
and stood still to salute the limitless. After this check on your passion,
beauty was free to play upon your breast, and trust surrounded you with the
joy of flowers and birds.


You sit in your solitude like a great reader, on whose lap lies open some
ancient book with its countless pages of stone. What story is written
there, I wonder?--is it the eternal wedding of the divine ascetic, Shiva,
with Bhavani, the divine love?--the drama of the Terrible wooing the power
of the Frail?



32


I feel that my heart will leave its own colour in all your scenes, O Earth,
when I bid you farewell. Some notes of mine will be added to your seasons'
melody, and my thoughts will breathe unrecognised through the cycle of
shadows and sunshine.

In far-distant days summer will come to the lovers' garden, but they will
not know that their flowers have borrowed an added beauty from my songs,
nor that their love for this world has been deepened by mine.



33


My eyes feel the deep peace of this sky, and there stirs through me what a
tree feels when it holds out its leaves like cups to be filled with
sunshine.

A thought rises in my mind, like the warm breath from grass in the sun; it
mingles with the gurgle of lapping water and the sigh of weary wind in
village lanes,--the thought that I have lived along with the whole life of
this world and have given to it my own love and sorrows.



34


I ask no reward for the songs I sang you. I shall be content if they live
through the night, until Dawn, like a shepherd-maiden, calls away the
stars, in alarm at the sun.

But there were moments when you sang your songs to me, and as my pride
knows, my Poet, you will ever remember that I listened and lost my heart.



35


In the morning, when the dew glistened upon the grass, you came and gave a
push to my swing; but, sweeping from smiles to tears, I did not know you.


Then came April's noon of gorgeous light, and I think you beckoned me to
follow you.

But when I sought your face, there passed between us the procession of
flowers, and men and women flinging their songs to the south wind.


Daily I passed you unheeded on the road.

But on some days full of the faint smell of oleanders, when the wind was
wilful among complaining palm leaves, I would stand before you wondering if
you ever had been a stranger to me.



36


The day grew dim. The early evening star faltered near the edge of a grey
lonely sky.

I looked back and felt that the road lying behind me was infinitely
removed; traced through my life, it had only served for a single journey
and was never to be re-travelled.

The long story of my coming hither lies there dumb, in one meandering line
of dust stretching from the morning hilltop to the brink of bottomless
night.

I sit alone, and wonder if this road is like an instrument waiting to give
up the day's lost voices in music when touched by divine fingers at
nightfall.



37


Give me the supreme courage of love, this is my prayer--the courage to
speak, to do, to suffer at thy will, to leave all things or be left alone.
Strengthen me on errands of danger, honour me with pain, and help me climb
to that difficult mood which sacrifices daily to thee.

Give me the supreme confidence of love, this is my prayer--the confidence
that belongs to life in death, to victory in defeat, to the power hidden in
frailest beauty, to that dignity in pain which accepts hurt but disdains to
return it.



38

TRANSLATIONS


FROM HINDI SONGS OF JNANADAS



1


Where were your songs, my bird, when you spent your nights in the nest?

Was not all your pleasure stored therein?

What makes you lose your heart to the sky--the sky that is boundless?


_Answer_

While I rested within bounds I was content. But when I soared into vastness
I found I could sing.



2


Messenger, morning brought you, habited in gold.

After sunset your song wore a tune of ascetic grey, and then came night.

Your message was written in bright letters across black.

Why is such splendour about you to lure the heart of one who is nothing?


_Answer_

Great is the festival hall where you are to be the only guest.

Therefore the letter to you is written from sky to sky, and I, the proud
servant, bring the invitation with all ceremony.



3


I had travelled all day and was tired, then I bowed my head towards thy
kingly court still far away.

The night deepened, a longing burned in my heart; whatever the words I
sang, pain cried through them, for even my songs thirsted. O my Lover, my
Beloved, my best in all the world!


When time seemed lost in darkness thy hand dropped its sceptre to take up
the lute and strike the uttermost chords; and my heart sang out, O my
Lover, my Beloved, my best in all the world!

Ah, who is this whose arms enfold me?


Whatever I have to leave let me leave, and whatever I have to bear let me
bear. Only let me walk with thee, O my Lover, my Beloved, my best in all
the world!


Descend at whiles from thine audience hall, come down amid joys and
sorrows; hide in all forms and delights, in love and in my heart; there
sing thy songs, O my Lover, my Beloved, my best in all the world!



THE END












*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FUGITIVE ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.