But such drab words, ah, sad to say,
When all that’s bright has fled and gone,
Praised by dull folk, dressed all in grey,
Live on and on.
English
Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh (1917-69)
A Single Shooting Star
A single shooting star
A distant star
shoots through the blue of space
Here, someone measures its speed,
records the rise and set.
But nothingness of space,
assumed to blue, must spell
an answer inaccessible.
To stretching scope
eye muscle’s strain.
Astronomers describe
its pace and spatial shift;
account for its time concealed
in tunnels of shade.
Yet it tracks only itself,
oblivious to sketch
and sketcher, eye and scope.
With equal speed
another lone star seems
to move across the space
So in moving out of shades
of evil, reining self,
riding the void,
each star
becomes the image
seeing
its own fearless offspring—
because of this
I shall put faith in every man,
in every man’s son.
Translated from the Hindi by James Mauch
Greece Chunder Dutt (1833-92)
Water Fowl
From the low hills that skirt these mighty meres,
And more than rival in their loveliness
The dreaming Indian’s Happy hunting grounds,
In boyhood’s careless prime, I once beheld
The wild fowl migrates. ‘Twas a cloudless morn
In early spring; the sun had bathed in gold
The dew-sprent turf, and trees of giant girth,
Whose gnarled trunks, deep scarred and scathed with fire,
Raised by the neighbouring herdsmen to destroy
The rotting leaves, and withered and undergrowth,
And clear the pastures for the early grass,
Stood like grim warders of the lone hill side
On which I lay—a faint breeze stirred the leaves,
When from the fens a mighty rushing sound
Rose—the precursor of a wedge-shaped host
Of swans, and pelican, and clamorous geese,
White-collared teals, widgeons, and stately cranes
With flecks of vivid green upon their wings.
Northwards the phalanx streamed, and soon the sky
Was hid as with a veil of glancing wings!
And from the grassy slope my wondering eyes
Could at one single glance, with ease, survey
Myriads of birds! for hours and hours they flew,
With harsh shrill screams that echoed from the woods.
It was a sight to fire with wild delight
A youthful heart. I felt a keener joy
Than feels in far Caffrarian wilds the Boer,
(Lone tenant with his partner of a hut
And cherished garden ‘mid the arid waste)
At a ‘trek bokken’, when the nimble deer
Sweep past his tiny farm, in such vast herds,
That to the welkin’s verge the brown karoo
Seems a bright carpet to the gazer’s eye.
Long years have past of joys and griefs and cares
Since that spring morn of which I speak, yet oft,
When I sit silent in long winter eves,
And gaze upon the fire in listless mood,
To my mind’s eye return in vision clear,
Those gnarled trunks upon the lone hill side,
That cloud of out-stretched necks and restless wings!
English
Kalidasa (c. 5 CE-6 CE)
From The Loom of Time
Canto III
13
The dance-display ended, Love deserts the peacocks
to attend the honey-sweet concert of wild geese;
Beauty, Genius of Blossom-Time, forsaking
the Kadambā, Kutaja, and Kakubha,
the Sarja and Aśoka, now dwells, in the Sapta-parna.
14
Redolent of the fragrance of Śephālika blossoms,
resonant with bird-song in undisturbed quietness,
groves with lotus-eyed gazelles wandering in the glades
kindle restless longing in everyone’s heart.
15
Playfully tossing lotuses, pink, white and red,
deliciously cooled moving fondly among them,
wiping away the dewdrops edging their petals
the breeze at daybreak rocks the heart with wild longing.
16
People rejoice to see the village-bounds
Crowded with large herds of cows lying undisturbed,
where ripe grain lies spread in heaps on threshing floors
and the air rings with cries of wild geese and sarus cranes.
17
The gait of wild geese surpass the rare charm of women’s steps,
full-blown lotuses the radiance of their moon-bright faces;
blue water lilies rival the lustre of passion-glowing eyes,
delicate wavelets the play of their eyebrows graceful.
18
Śyāma creepers curving with tender flower-filled twigs
usurp the brilliance of women’s jewel-loaded arms;
fresh jasmines peeping through vibrant Aśoka flowers
rival the sparkle of smiles brilliant as moonlight
19
Young women fill with a wealth of jasmine buds
their thick midnight-blue hair curling at the ends;
they place varied blue-lotuses
behind ears decked with fine gold earrings.
20
Globed breasts adorned with pearls sandal-misted,
wide curving hips with girdles strung with bells,
precious anklets making music on their lotus feet,
lit with happiness deep within
women now enhance their beauty.
21
A cloudless sky inlaid with the moon and countless stars
wears the exquisite beauty of lakes glowing
with the sheen of emeralds, and strewn with moon-lotuses,
wide open; and a regal swan floats serene.
22
Autumn skies are enchanting, star-sprinkled,
lit by a clear-rayed moon; serenely beautiful
are the directions of space, free of thronging rain clouds:
the earth is dry; waters sparkling clear;
breezes consorting with lotuses blow cool.
23
Wakened by the morning beams, the day-lotus
now expands to look like a lovely maiden’s face;
but the moon-lotus droops with the setting moon
like the smiles of women whose husbands are far from home.
24
Seeing the glow of the beloved’s dark eyes
in the blue-lotus,
hearing the tones of her gold girdle bells
in the love-mad murmur of wild geese,
recalling the rich red of her lower lip
in the Bandhuka’s flame-clusters,
travellers, their thoughts whirling, lament.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Chandra Rajan
Sri Aurobindo (1872-1950)
The Tiger and the Deer
Brilliant, crouching, slouching, what crept through the green
heart of the forest,
Gleaming eyes and mighty chest and soft soundless paws of
grandeur and murder?
The wind slipped through the leaves as if afraid lest its voice
and the noise of its steps perturb the pitiless Splendour,
Hardly daring to breathe. But the great beast crouched and
crept, and crept and crouched a last time, noiseless, fatal,
Till suddenly death leapt on the beautiful wild deer as it drank
Unsuspecting from the great pool in the forest’s coolness and shadow,
And it fell and, torn, died remembering its mate left sole in
the deep woodland—
Destroyed, the mild harmless beauty by the strong cruel beauty
in Nature.
But a day may yet come when the tiger crouches and leaps no
more in the dangerous heart of the forest,
As the mammoth shakes no more the plains of Asia;
Still then shall the beautiful wild deer drink from the coolness
of great pools in the leaves’ shadow.
The mighty perish in their might;
The slain survive the slayer.
English
Bana (7 CE)
From The Deeds of Harsha
A Stallion Wakes from His Sleep
He stretches his hind-leg, and, bending his spine, extends his body
upwards.
Curving his neck, he rests his muzzle on his chest, and tosses his
dust-grey mane.
The steed, his nostrils ceaselessly quivering, with desire of fodder
rises from his bed, gently whinnies, and paws the earth with his
hoof.
He bends his back and turns his neck sideways, till his face
touches his buttock,
and then the horse, the curls matted about his ears,
rubs with his hoof the red corner of his eye, itching from sleep,
his eye, struck by his dew-drop scattering mane, waving and tossing,
his eye, to the point of whose quivering eyelash there clings a tiny
fragment of chaff.
Translated from the Sanskrit by A.L. Basham
Anon, Punjabi Folk Song
Lullaby
Where does the Cuckoo sleep, Baby? Down by the great stone
bank,
Where the lizards bask in the sunshine, and the monkeys play on
the bank?
Where does the peacock sleep, Baby? Out in the jungle grass,
Where the jackals howl in the evening, and parrots scream as they
pass.
What does the peacock drink, Baby? Cream from somebody’s cup;
And if someone isn’t careful, the peacock will drink it all up.
What does the Cuckoo drink, Baby? Milk from somebody’s pan,
So run and stop the rascal as quick as ever you can.
What does the Cuckoo eat, Baby? Candy and all that’s nice,
And great round balls of brown sugar speckled with silver and spice.
What does the peacock eat, Baby? Lollipops all day long;
But Baby must go to sleep now, for this is the end of the song.
Translated from the Punjabi by C.F. Usborne
Anon, Santhal Ritual Song
Erok Sim Bonga
Our obeisance to you, Mother Jaher Era.
On the occasion of the Erok festival we offer to you
young fowls, and freshly husked rice.
Accept it in pleasure
We pray to you:
For every seed we sow let there be twelve.
And let not disease attack them.
If they attack, please subdue them.
Do not allow weeds and grass to grow among our crops.
Do not allow disease and misfortune to befall our village.
Bring us the rain-bearing clouds in plenty.
Bring them in time.
Let the earth be green with our crops.
Let there be no hindrance to our movements.
Let there prevail among us
the spirit of mutual love and goodwill.
Translated from the Santhali by Sitakant Mahapatra
Sarojini Naidu (1879-1948)
The Bird Sanctuary
In your quiet garden wakes a magic tumult
Of winged choristers that keep the Festival of Dawn,
Blithely rise the carols in richly cadenced rapture,
From lyric throats of amber, of ebony and fawn.
The bulbul and the oriole, the honey-bird and shama
Flit among high boughs that drip with nectar and with dew,
Upon the grass the wandering gull parades its sea-washed silver,
The hoopoe and the kingfisher their bronze and sapphire
blue.
Wild gray pigeons dreaming of a home amid the tree-tops,
Fill their beaks with silken down and slender banyan twigs,
But the jade-green gipsy parrots are only gay marauders,
And pause upon their sun-ward flight to plunder red ripe figs.
In your gracious garden there is joy and fostering freedom,
Nesting place and singing space for every feathered thing,
O Master of the Birds, grant sanctuary and shelter
Also to a homing bird that bears a broken wing.
English
From Jayavallabha’s Vajjalagam (c. 8 CE)
Summer
Having burnt it all to ash
along with every animal,
the wild fire
shins up a dried-out tree
and surveys the forest again,
wondering what is left.
Translated from the Prakrit by Martha Ann Selby
Sri Jnanadeva (1275-96)
From Anubhavamrita, Canto IX
Life of the Opened Self
Now fragrance
Develops a fine nose.
The ears of listening
Grow.
Mirrors rise
From the eyes.
The wind
Is fanning itself,
The head turning
Into a champak.
The tongue
Is an intense juice.
The lotus
Forges out a full sun.
The moonbird
Has become the moon.
Bees are flowers.
The bodies of men
Become woman.
The sleeper
Has become a bed.
The blossoms of the mango
Turn
Into singing koels.
The body itself
Becomes the rippling
Wind of the woods
On the shoulder
Of the Malaya mountain.
Flavours
Burst out their individual tongues.
Gold carves out
Its own ornaments.
The subject and the object,
The seer and the seen,
Are moved
Into a oneness beyond seeing.
Centuries of opening
And falling petals
Do not disturb
The stillness of being
Unalterable Chrysanthemum.
In that city
Beyond all action
Experience arrives
Like a throng
Of migrants
Stunned.
Translated from the Marathi by Dilip Chitre
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
From Gitanjali, 100
Monsoon weather now I see
all around humanity.
In an angry muttering
it has come here, cloaked and shrouded.
Rising in a sky dense-clouded,
furious at heart it dances—
and a mass of cloud advances
over-running its own bounds.
Clasped in a close union
clouds fly on unfaltering.
Who can tell what drives them on?
From that drift the thunder sounds.
Monsoon weather now I see
all around humanity.
Into the far-distant regions
cloud-accumulations go
in their companies and legions.
What propels them they don’t know,
nor when they dis
solve and fall,
as the Sraban-torrents come,
from a great hillside to the sea.
Do they comprehend at all
what land that was? Where it might be?
How grand and splendid they become!
Yet it takes them unawares,
the terrible life and death that is theirs.
Monsoon weather now I see
all around humanity.
In that rumbling over there
in the havoc of the north-east,
where a storm takes on its nature,
what is whispered on the air?
What irrevocable future,
in the deepening shadows pieced
on the horizon, in night-stillness
carries its own speechless pain?
As it reaches to its fullness
in the dark skies of the brain,
black imagination leads
into what forthcoming deeds?
Monsoon weather now I see
all around humanity.
Translated from the Bangla by Joe Winter
Subramania Bharati (1882-1921)
Wind, 9
Wind, come softly.
Don’t break the shutters of the windows.
Don’t scatter the papers.
Don’t throw down the books on the shelf.
There, look what you did—you threw them all down.
You tore the pages of the books.
You brought rain again.
You’re very clever at poking fun at weaklings.
Frail, crumbling houses, crumbling doors, crumbling rafters,
crumbling wood, crumbling bodies, crumbling lives,
crumbling hearts—
the wind god winnows and crushes them all.
He won’t do what you tell him.
So, come, let’s build strong homes,
let’s join the doors firmly.
Practise to firm the body.
Make the heart steadfast.
Do this, and the winds will be friends with us.
The wind blows out weak fires.
He makes strong fires roar and flourish.
His friendship is good.
We praise him every day.
Translated from the Tamil by A.K. Ramanujan
From the Atharva Veda (c. 2 BCE)
Book XIX, Hymn 50
A Hymn to Night for Protection and Prosperity
Blind him and make him headless, Night! The serpent with the
pungent breath.
Strike from his head the wolf’s two eyes, and dash the thief against
a post.
Those oxen that are thine, O Night, with sharpened horns and
These My Words Page 6
