Emotions and Feelings

The Kiss

Lips' language to lips' ears.
Two drinking each other's heart, it seems.
Two roving loves who have left home,
pilgrims to the confluence of lips.
Two waves rise by the law of love
to break and die on two sets of lips.
Two wild desires craving each other
meet at last at the body's limits.
Love's writing a song in dainty letters,
layers of kiss-calligraphy on lips.
Plucking flowers from two sets of lips
perhaps to thread them into a chain later.
This sweet union of lips
is the red marriage-bed of a pair of smiles.

The Hero

Mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a
strange and dangerous country.

You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a
red horse.

It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi
lies wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren.

You are frightened and thinking-"I know not where we have come
to."

I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid."

The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs
a narrow broken path.

There are no cattle to be seen in the wide field; they have
gone to their village stalls.

It grows dark and dim on the land and sky, and we cannot tell
where we are going.

Suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper, "What light is
that near the bank?"

Just then there bursts out a fearful yell, and figures come
running towards us.

You sit crouched in your palanquin and repeat the names of the
gods in prayer.

The bearers, shaking in terror, hide themselves in the thorny
bush.

I shout to you, "Don't be afraid, mother. I am here."

With long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their
heads, they come nearer and nearer.

I shout, "Have a care, you villains! One step more and you are
dead men."

They give another terrible yell and rush forward.

You clutch my hand and say, "Dear boy, for heaven's sake, keep
away from them."

I say, "Mother, just you watch me."

Then I spur my horse for a wild gallop, and my sword and
buckler clash against each other.

The fight becomes so fearful, mother, that it would give you
a cold shudder could you see it from your palanquin.

Many of them fly, and a great number are cut to pieces.

I know you are thinking, sitting all by yourself, that your
boy must be dead by this time.

But I come to you all stained with blood, and say,"Mother, the
fight is over now."

You come out and kiss me, pressing me to your heart, and you
say to yourself,

"I don't know what I should do if I hadn't my boy to escort
me."

A thousand useless things happen day after day, and why
couldn't such a thing come true by chance?

It would be like a story in a book.

My brother would say, "Is it possible? I always thought he was
so delicate!"

Our village people would all say in amazement, "Was it not
lucky that the boy was with his mother?"

The Gardener XXXIV: Do Not Go, My Love

Do not go, my love, without asking
my leave.

I have watched all night, and now
my eyes are heavy with sleep.

I fear lest I lose you when I'm
sleeping.

Do not go, my love, without asking
my leave.

I start up and stretch my hands to
touch you. I ask myself, "Is it a
dream?"

Could I but entangle your feet with
my heart and hold them fast to my
breast!

Do not go, my love, without asking
my leave.

The Gardener XXXIV: Do Not Go, My Love

Do not go, my love, without asking
my leave.

I have watched all night, and now
my eyes are heavy with sleep.

I fear lest I lose you when I'm
sleeping.

Do not go, my love, without asking
my leave.

I start up and stretch my hands to
touch you. I ask myself, "Is it a
dream?"

Could I but entangle your feet with
my heart and hold them fast to my
breast!

Do not go, my love, without asking
my leave.

The Gift

I want to give you something, my child, for we are drifting in the

stream of the world.

Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten.

But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart
with my gifts.

Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we
bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us.

You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if
you have no time or thought for us!

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days
that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost
for ever.

The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all
barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her
with his love.

The Gift

I want to give you something, my child, for we are drifting in the

stream of the world.

Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten.

But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart
with my gifts.

Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we
bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us.

You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if
you have no time or thought for us!

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days
that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost
for ever.

The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all
barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her
with his love.

The Gardener XXVII: Trust Love

"Trust love even if it brings sorrow.
Do not close up your heart."

"Ah no, my friend, your words are
dark, I cannot understand them."

"Pleasure is frail like a dewdrop,
while it laughs it dies. But sorrow is
strong and abiding. Let sorrowful
love wake in your eyes."

"Ah no, my friend, your words are
dark, I cannot understand them."

"The lotus blooms in the sight of
the sun, and loses all that it has. It
would not remain in bud in the
eternal winter mist."

"Ah no, my friend, your words are
dark, I cannot understand them."

The Gardener XXVII: Trust Love

"Trust love even if it brings sorrow.
Do not close up your heart."

"Ah no, my friend, your words are
dark, I cannot understand them."

"Pleasure is frail like a dewdrop,
while it laughs it dies. But sorrow is
strong and abiding. Let sorrowful
love wake in your eyes."

"Ah no, my friend, your words are
dark, I cannot understand them."

"The lotus blooms in the sight of
the sun, and loses all that it has. It
would not remain in bud in the
eternal winter mist."

"Ah no, my friend, your words are
dark, I cannot understand them."

The Gardener XXIX: Speak To Me My Love

Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.
The night is dark. The stars are
lost in clouds. The wind is sighing
through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue
cloak will cling round me like night. I
will clasp your head to my bosom; and
there in the sweet loneliness murmur
on your heart. I will shut my eyes
and listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will
sit still and silent. Only the trees will
whisper in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will
dawn. We shall look at each other's
eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.

The Gardener XX: Day After Day He Comes

Day after day he comes and goes
away.

Go, and give him a flower from my
hair, my friend.

If he asks who was it that sent it, I
entreat you do not tell him my name-for
he only comes and goes away.

He sits on the dust under the tree.

Spread there a seat with flowers and
leaves, my friend.

His eyes are sad, and they bring
sadness to my heart.

He does not speak what he has in
mind; he only comes and goes away.

The Gardener XLVI: You Left Me

You left me and went on your way.

I thought I should mourn for you
and set your solitary image in my
heart wrought in a golden song.

But ah, my evil fortune, time is
short.

Youth wanes year after year; the
spring days are fugitive; the frail
flowers die for nothing, and the wise
man warns me that life is but a
dewdrop on the lotus leaf.

Should I neglect all this to gaze after
one who has turned her back on me?

That would be rude and foolish,
for time is short.

Then, come, my rainy nights with
pattering feet; smile, my golden
autumn; come, careless April, scattering
your kisses abroad.

You come, and you, and you also!

My loves, you know we are mortals.
Is it wise to break one's heart for the
one who takes her heart away? For
time is short.

It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse
and write in rhymes that you are all
my world.

It is heroic to hug one's sorrow and
determine not to be consoled.

But a fresh face peeps across my
door and raise its eyes to my eyes.

I cannot but wipe away my tears
and change the tune of my song.

For time is short.

The Gardener XLIV: Reverend Sir, Forgive

Reverend sir, forgive this pair of
sinners. Spring winds to-day are
blowing in wild eddies, driving dust
and dead leaves away, and with them
your lessons are all lost.

Do not say, father, that life is a
vanity.

For we have made truce with death
for once, and only for a few fragrant
hours we two have been made immortal.

Even if the king's army came and
fiercely fell upon us we should sadly
shake our heads and say, Brothers,
you are disturbing us. If you must
have this noisy game, go and clatter
your arms elsewhere. Since only for
a few fleeting moments we have been
made immortal.

If friendly people came and flocked
around us, we should humbly bow to
them and say, This extravagant good
fortune is an embarrassment to us.
Room is scarce in the infinite sky
where we dwell. For in the springtime
flowers come in crowds, and the
busy wings of bees jostle each other.
Our little heaven, where dwell only
we two immortals, is too absurdly
narrow.

The Gardener XIX: You Walked

You walked by the riverside path
with the full pitcher upon your hip.

Why did you swiftly turn your face
and peep at me through your fluttering
veil?

That gleaming look from the dark
came upon me like a breeze that sends
a shiver through the rippling water
and sweeps away to the shadowy
shore.

It came to me like the bird of the
evening that hurriedly flies across the
lampless room from the one open
window to the other, and disappears
in the night.

You are hidden as a star behind the
hills, and I am a passer-by upon the
road.

But why did you stop for a moment
and glance at my face through your
veil while you walked by the riverside
path with the full pitcher upon
your hip?

The Gardener XIII: I Asked Nothing

I asked nothing, only stood at the
edge of the wood behind the tree.

Languor was still upon the eyes
of the dawn, and the dew in the air.

The lazy smell of the damp grass
hung in the thin mist above the earth.

Under the banyan tree you were
milking the cow with your hands,
tender and fresh as butter.

And I was standing still.

I did not say a word. It was the
bird that sang unseen from the thicket.

The mango tree was shedding its
flowers upon the village road, and the
bees came humming one by one.

On the side of the pond the gate of
Shiva's temple was opened and the
worshipper had begun his chants.

With the vessel on your lap you
were milking the cow.

I stood with my empty can.

I did not come near you.

The sky woke with the sound of
the gong at the temple.

The dust was raised in the road
from the hoofs of the driven cattle.

With the gurgling pitchers at their
hips, women came from the river.

Your bracelets were jingling, and
foam brimming over the jar.

The morning wore on and I did not
come near you.

The Gardener XIII: I Asked Nothing

I asked nothing, only stood at the
edge of the wood behind the tree.

Languor was still upon the eyes
of the dawn, and the dew in the air.

The lazy smell of the damp grass
hung in the thin mist above the earth.

Under the banyan tree you were
milking the cow with your hands,
tender and fresh as butter.

And I was standing still.

I did not say a word. It was the
bird that sang unseen from the thicket.

The mango tree was shedding its
flowers upon the village road, and the
bees came humming one by one.

On the side of the pond the gate of
Shiva's temple was opened and the
worshipper had begun his chants.

With the vessel on your lap you
were milking the cow.

I stood with my empty can.

I did not come near you.

The sky woke with the sound of
the gong at the temple.

The dust was raised in the road
from the hoofs of the driven cattle.

With the gurgling pitchers at their
hips, women came from the river.

Your bracelets were jingling, and
foam brimming over the jar.

The morning wore on and I did not
come near you.

The Gardener LXXXIII: She Dwelt on the Hillside

She dwelt on the hillside by edge
of a maize-field, near the spring that
flows in laughing rills through the
solemn shadows of ancient trees. The
women came there to fill their jars,
and travellers would sit there to rest
and talk. She worked and dreamed
daily to the tune of the bubbling
stream.

One evening the stranger came down
from the cloud-hidden peak; his locks
were tangled like drowsy snakes. We
asked in wonder, "Who are you?"
He answered not but sat by the
garrulous stream and silently gazed at
the hut where she dwelt. Our hearts
quaked in fear and we came back home
when it was night.

Next morning when the women
came to fetch water at the spring by
the deodar trees, they found the doors
open in her hut, but her voice was gone
and where was her smiling face?
The empty jar lay on the floor and her
lamp had burnt itself out in the
corner. No one knew where she had
fled to before it was morning--and the
stranger had gone.

In the month of May the sun grew
strong and the snow melted, and we
sat by the spring and wept. We
wondered in our mind, "Is there a
spring in the land where she has gone
and where she can fill her vessel in
these hot thirsty days?" And we
asked each other in dismay, "Is there
a land beyond these hills where we
live?"

It was a summer night; the breeze
blew from the south; and I sat in her
deserted room where the lamp stood
still unlit. When suddenly from
before my eyes the hills vanished like
curtains drawn aside. "Ah, it is
she who comes. How are you, my
child? Are you happy? But where
can you shelter under this open sky?
And, alas! our spring is not here to
allay your thirst."

"Here is the same sky," she said,
"only free from the fencing hills,-this
is the same stream grown into a


river,--the same earth widened into
a plain." "Everything is here," I
sighed, "only we are not." She
smiled sadly and said, "You are in
my heart." I woke up and heard the
babbling of the stream and the rustling
of the deodars at night.

The Gardener LXXVI: The Fair Was On

The fair was on before the temple.
It had rained from the early morning
and the day came to its end.

Brighter than all the gladness of
the crowd was the bright smile of
a girl who bought for a farthing a
whistle of palm leaf.

The shrill joy of that whistle floated
above all laughter and noise.

An endless throng of people came
and jostled together. The road was
muddy, the river in flood, the field
under water in ceaseless rain.

Greater than all the troubles of
the crowd was a little boy's trouble-he
had not a farthing to buy a painted
stick.

His wistful eyes gazing at the shop
made this whole meeting of men so
pitiful.

The Gardener LXXVI: The Fair Was On

The fair was on before the temple.
It had rained from the early morning
and the day came to its end.

Brighter than all the gladness of
the crowd was the bright smile of
a girl who bought for a farthing a
whistle of palm leaf.

The shrill joy of that whistle floated
above all laughter and noise.

An endless throng of people came
and jostled together. The road was
muddy, the river in flood, the field
under water in ceaseless rain.

Greater than all the troubles of
the crowd was a little boy's trouble-he
had not a farthing to buy a painted
stick.

His wistful eyes gazing at the shop
made this whole meeting of men so
pitiful.

The Gardener LXXVI: The Fair Was On

The fair was on before the temple.
It had rained from the early morning
and the day came to its end.

Brighter than all the gladness of
the crowd was the bright smile of
a girl who bought for a farthing a
whistle of palm leaf.

The shrill joy of that whistle floated
above all laughter and noise.

An endless throng of people came
and jostled together. The road was
muddy, the river in flood, the field
under water in ceaseless rain.

Greater than all the troubles of
the crowd was a little boy's trouble-he
had not a farthing to buy a painted
stick.

His wistful eyes gazing at the shop
made this whole meeting of men so
pitiful.

The Gardener LXXIX: I Often Wonder

I often wonder where lie hidden
the boundaries of recognition between
man and the beast whose heart knows
no spoken language.
Through what primal paradise in a
remote morning of creation ran the
simple path by which their hearts
visited each other.
Those marks of their constant tread
have not been effaced though their
kinship has been long forgotten.
Yet suddenly in some wordless
music the dim memory wakes up
and the beast gazes into the man's
face with a tender trust, and the
man looks down into its eyes with
amused affection.
It seems that the two friends meet
masked, and vaguely know each other
through the disguise.

The Gardener LXI: Peace, My Heart

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

The Gardener LXI: Peace, My Heart

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

The Gardener LXI: Peace, My Heart

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

The Gardener LI: Then Finish the Last Song

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