Others

Threshold


I was not aware of the moment
when I first crossed the threshold of this life.


What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery
like a bud in the forest at midnight!


When in the morning I looked upon the light
I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,
that the inscrutable without name and form
had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.


Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.
And because I love this life,
I know I shall love death as well.


The child cries out
when from the right breast the mother takes it away,
in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.

The Lotus

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

The Journey

The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs;
and the flowers were all merry by the roadside;
and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds
while we busily went on our way and paid no heed.


We sang no glad songs nor played;
we went not to the village for barter;
we spoke not a word nor smiled;
we lingered not on the way.
We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.


The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade.
Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon.
The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree,
and I laid myself down by the water
and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.


My companions laughed at me in scorn;
they held their heads high and hurried on;
they never looked back nor rested;
they vanished in the distant blue haze.


They crossed many meadows and hills,
and passed through strange, far-away countries.
All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path!
Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise,
but found no response in me.


I gave myself up for lost
in the depth of a glad humiliation
---in the shadow of a dim delight.


The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom
slowly spread over my heart.
I forgot for what I had traveled,
and I surrendered my mind without struggle
to the maze of shadows and songs.


At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes,
I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile.
How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome,
and the struggle to reach thee was hard!

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 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 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 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 XXII: When She Passed by Me

When she passed by me with quick
steps, the end of her skirt touched
me.

From the unknown island of a
heart came a sudden warm breath of
spring.

A flutter of a flitting touch brushed
me and vanished in a moment, like a
torn flower petal blown in the breeze.

It fell upon my heart like a sigh of
her body and whisper of her heart.

The Gardener XXII: When She Passed by Me

When she passed by me with quick
steps, the end of her skirt touched
me.

From the unknown island of a
heart came a sudden warm breath of
spring.

A flutter of a flitting touch brushed
me and vanished in a moment, like a
torn flower petal blown in the breeze.

It fell upon my heart like a sigh of
her body and whisper of her heart.

The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling to Eyes

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger
on eyes: thus begins the record of our
hearts.

It is the moonlit night of March;
the sweet smell of henna is in the air;
my flute lies on the earth neglected
and your garland of flowers is
unfinished.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

Your veil of the saffron colour
makes my eyes drunk.

The jasmine wreath that you wove
me thrills to my heart like praise.

It is a game of giving and withholding,
revealing and screening again;
some smiles and some little shyness,
and some sweet useless struggles.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present;
no striving for the impossible; no
shadow behind the charm; no groping
in the depth of the dark.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words
into the ever silent; we do not raise
our hands to the void for things
beyond hope.

It is enough what we give and we
get.

We have not crushed the joy to
the utmost to wring from it the wine
of pain.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling to Eyes

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger
on eyes: thus begins the record of our
hearts.

It is the moonlit night of March;
the sweet smell of henna is in the air;
my flute lies on the earth neglected
and your garland of flowers is
unfinished.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

Your veil of the saffron colour
makes my eyes drunk.

The jasmine wreath that you wove
me thrills to my heart like praise.

It is a game of giving and withholding,
revealing and screening again;
some smiles and some little shyness,
and some sweet useless struggles.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present;
no striving for the impossible; no
shadow behind the charm; no groping
in the depth of the dark.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words
into the ever silent; we do not raise
our hands to the void for things
beyond hope.

It is enough what we give and we
get.

We have not crushed the joy to
the utmost to wring from it the wine
of pain.

This love between you and me is
simple as a song.

The Gardener XLII: O Mad, Superbly Drunk

O mad, superbly drunk;

If you kick open your doors and
play the fool in public;

If you empty your bag in a night,
and snap your fingers at prudence;

If you walk in curious paths and
play with useless things;

Reck not rhyme or reason;

If unfurling your sails before the
storm you snap the rudder in two,

Then I will follow you, comrade,
and be drunken and go to the dogs.

I have wasted my days and nights
in the company of steady wise neighbours.

Much knowing has turned my hair
grey, and much watching has made
my sight dim.

For years I have gathered and
heaped up scraps and fragments of
things:

Crush them and dance upon them,
and scatter them all to the winds.

For I know 'tis the height of wisdom
to be drunken and go the dogs.

Let all crooked scruples vanish,
let me hopelessly lose my way.

Let a gust of wild giddiness come
and sweep me away from my anchors.

The world is peopled with worthies,
and workers, useful and clever.

There are men who are easily first,
and men who come decently after.

Let them be happy and prosper,
and let me be foolishly futile.

For I know 'tis the end of all works
to be drunken and go to the dogs.

I swear to surrender this moment
all claims to the ranks of the decent.

I let go my pride of learning and
judgment of right and of wrong.

I'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering
the last drop of tears.

With the foam of the berry-red
wine I will bathe and brighten my
laughter.

The badge of the civil and staid
I'll tear into shreds for the nonce.

I'll take the holy vow to be worthless,
to be drunken and go to the dogs.

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 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 LXIX: I Hunt for the Golden Stag

I hunt for the golden stag.

You may smile, my friends, but I
pursue the vision that eludes me.

I run across hills and dales, I wander
through nameless lands, because I am
hunting for the golden stag.

You come and buy in the market
and go back to your homes laden with
goods, but the spell of the homeless
winds has touched me I know not when
and where.

I have no care in my heart; all my
belongings I have left far behind me.

I run across hills and dales, I wander
through nameless lands--because I am
hunting for the golden stag.

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 LV: It Was Mid-Day

It was mid-day when you went

away .

The sun was strong in the sky.

I had done my work and sat alone
on my balcony when you went away.

Fitful gusts came winnowing
through the smells of may distant
fields.

The doves cooed tireless in the shade,
and a bee strayed in my room humming
the news of many distant fields.

The village slept in the noonday
heat. The road lay deserted.

In sudden fits the rustling of the
leaves rose and died.

I gazed at the sky and wove in the
blue the letters of a name I had known,
while the village slept in the noonday
heat.

I had forgotten to braid my hair.
The languid breeze played with it upon
my cheek.

The river ran unruffled under the
shady bank.

The lazy white clouds did not move.

I had forgotten to braid my hair.

It was mid-day when you went
away.

The dust of the road was hot and
the fields panting.

The doves cooed among the dense
leaves.

I was alone in my balcony when you
went away.

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.

The Flower-School

When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
bagpipes among the bamboos.

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to
come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand
in a corner.

When the rain come they have their holidays.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle
in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.

Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you
know why they are in such a hurry?

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they
have their mother as I have my own.

The End

It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.

When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
here!"-mother, I am going.

I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and
I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.

In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you
will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with
the lightning through the open window into your room.

If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the
night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."

One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and
lie upon your bosom while you sleep.

I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your
eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you
wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.

When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children
come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the
flute and throb in your heart all day.

Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,"Where
is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in
the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."

The Beginning

"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked
its mother.

She answered, half crying, half laughing, and clasping the
baby to her breast


"You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.

You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; and when with
clay I made the image of my god every morning, I made the unmade
you then.

You were enshrined with our household deity, in his worship
I worshipped you.

In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in the life of my
mother you have lived.

In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home you have
been nursed for ages.

When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, you hovered
as a fragrance about it.

Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, like a glow
in the sky before the sunrise.

Heaven's first darling, twain-born with the morning light, you
have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you
have stranded on my heart.

As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong
to all have become mine.

For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. What
magic has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of
mine?"

The Chanpa Flower

Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a
branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and
danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?

You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.

I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.

When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders,
you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court
where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the
flower, but not know that it cane from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap,
I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book,
just where you were reading.

But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your
little child?

When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and
be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.

"Where have you been, you naughty child?"

"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.