Tag: Rabindranath Tagore

From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 24, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.

Ah, who is she who dwells in my heart, the woman sorrowing ever?
I wooed her and I failed.
I decked her with wreaths and sang songs in her praise.
A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.
“I have no joy in thee,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.

I bought jeweled anklets for her feet and fanned her with a fan gem-studded;
I made for her a bed on a golden couch.
There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.

“I have no joy in them,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I seated her upon a car of victory, and drove her from end to end of the earth.
Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.
Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.
“I have no joy in conquests,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.

I asked her, “Tell me, whom is it thou seekest?”
She only said, “I do not know his name.”
Days pass by and she weeps.
“When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me forever?” she cries, the woman in sorrow.

From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 25, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.

Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were shut in the town, and stars were hidden in clouds in the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?
He woke up starting, and the rude light from the woman’s lamp struck his forgiving eyes.
It was the dancing girl, drunk with the wine of her youth, starred with jewels and clouded with a pale blue mantle.
She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.
“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman, “graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you.”
The ascetic answered, “Go on your way, fair woman. When the time is ripe I will come and see you.”
Suddenly, the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

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The new year had not begun yet.
The wind was wild. The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossoms.
Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.
The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.
From the mid-sky smiled the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking in the lonely city road, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaints.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.
What woman was it lying on the earth in the shadow of the wall at his feet?
Struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, she was driven away from the town with haste for fear of her fatal touch.
The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.
“Who are you, kind angel of mercy?” asked the woman.
“The time, at last, has come for me to visit you, and I have come,” replied the young ascetic.