The Fugitive and Other Poems: Vaishnava Songs

Vaishnava Songs

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.]

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."

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."

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."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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