Jatri (Passenger) was a part of Tagore’s collection, Khanika (moments), published in 1900.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
PASSENGER
There’s place on my ferry. You are alone. You have Only one bundle of paddy. It may be a bit crammed, But not that heavily jammed. My ferry could be A bit overloaded — But you don’t have to leave. There’s a place for you!
Come, come to my boat! If your feet are dusty, Let them be mud-coated. Your body is like a creeper. Your eyes are restless. Your garb’s blue-green, Flowing like water — There’ll always be place for you — Come, come to my boat!
There are many passengers. Their destinations are varied. They are all strangers. You’ll also for a while Sit on my ferry Till the end of the ride. A denial will make no difference — If you want to come, join us. There are many passengers.
Where’s your jetty? Where’s the store For your paddy? If you do not state, What will be our fate? I’ll have to ponder At the end of the ride — Where’s your shore, Where’s your home?
*The interesting thing about this poem is that it seems to be complete reversal of the poem Sonar Tori(Golden Boat), published in 1894, with the ferryman welcoming passengers aboard, whereas in the earlier poem, the ferry woman sails off with the bundle of paddy belonging to another, leaving her passenger behind.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Sheeth or Winter was first published in 1909 in Tagore’s collection called Shishu (Children). The poem looks forward to winter giving way to spring using simple but eloquent verses.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
The bird says, “I will leave.” The flower says, “I will not bloom.” The breeze merely says, “I will not flit across the woods.” Young shoots do not look up, Instead, sprouts shrivel to shed. Dusty bamboos loom To paint an untimely dusk. Why do the birds migrate? Why do flowers not bloom? Why has the agile breeze stopped romping in the woods? The heartless winter Has a bleak outlook. Wrinkled and harsh, She imparts hard lessons. The gleaming moonlit night, The fresh fragrance of flowers, The youthful sport of breeze, The cacophony of leaves — All these she looks upon as sins, She thinks in nature, The knowledgeable only sit Still like a picture. That is why the bird bids “goodbye”. The flower says, “I’ll not bloom.” The breeze merely says, “I’ll not run across the woods.” But when Hope says, “Spring’ll come,” The flower says, “I’ll bloom.” The bird says, “I’ll sing.” The moon says, “I’ll smile.” The newly-fledged spring Has just started to awake. He smiles at whatever he sees. He plays with everything. His heart is full of hope. Unaware of his own desires, His being runs hither and thither Looking for kindred spirits. Flowers bloom, so does the child. Birds sing, so does he. He hugs the caressing breeze To play vernal games. That’s why when I hear, “Spring’ll come,” The flower says, “I’ll bloom.” The bird says, “I’ll sing.” The moon says, “I’ll smile.” Winter, why did you come here? Your home is in the north — Birds do not sing there, Flowers do not bloom on trees. Your home is a snowy desert That’s dark and lifeless — Sit there alone, O knowledgeable, Spend your days contemplating.
Snowy Kanchenjunga photographed from Darjeeling, West Bengal, in winters.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Today, it’s a cloudless day. Happy skies Smile like friends. The breeze flits, flies Embracing the face, chest, eyes — Like an invisible aanchol billows high Only to descend on a sleeping deity. Peacefully on Padma’s waves, the ferry Sails swishing joy. Relaxed sandbanks Lie sunbathing at a distance. The high sloping sides are interrupted By tall shady trees, a hidden hut. A narrow, curved path from a distant village Crosses the farms and nears the water’s edge Like a thirsty tongue. Rural brides Wash their clothes, chatter awhile, Joke. Their loud sweet laughter Mingle with the sounds of water To waft to me. A fisherman, aged, Sits on a bent boat, weaves a net While sunning his back. A naked child Laughs merrily while he dives Again and again into the water. Patient, Padma gazes like an indulgent parent. From the ferry, I see two shores — The clearest lucid blue expands galore. Amidst a flood of light, exotic lines are seen In the water, land, forests. On a warm breeze, The ferry sails past shores with groves, sometimes, Scent of mango buds waft, only at times, Faint sounds of bird calls.
My mind Is filled with peace — I feel Happiness is simple. It spreads like Flowers in bowers, like the smile On the face of a child — expectant lips Holding the nectar of a kiss, Gaze silently forever laced With artless innocence. The sky is immersed and stilled with the harmony of music in sync. How will I sing in tune with those notes? How will I sound? How will I compose The lyrics in simple words to gift To my beloved so that they bring A smile to her eyes, her lips? How will I help unfold this to my love? How will I convey the joy from above? It’s tough to hold on, to clasp. I chase it but it eludes my grasp. I look for it. I walk fast— Like a blind man, I stumble afar. But it’s now lost. I gaze All around, fascinated, focussing On this still, blue water, so calm. And I had thought it was easy to clasp.
*Aanchol is the loose end of a sari
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Aaj Shoroter Aloy (Today in this Autumnal Light) was first published in Tagore’s collection called Shesh Saptak (The Last Octave, 1935).
Painting by Sohana Manzoor
Today, as I gaze in this autumnal light, I feel I am viewing life anew. I see a youth. His eyes, weary from daily strife, Have lost their sight.
I imagine — As a pilgrim from the past, I have drifted here On the strength of chants. Traveling upstream in my dreams, I have arrived at this moment, In the present century’s shore. I gaze with eager eyes. I detach myself from the self. I am a stranger from another age Awaiting introductions as of yore. Deep curiosity enthrals. I am drawn To whoever I find, Like a bee to a flower. Today, my mind is centred Amidst the chaos. Today, those stained By weak popular opinions, Have been stripped off Their garb of mediocrity. The truth of our existence Emerges in full splendour. The mute who never found voice, The large population of neglected, Have broken their silence — The first words seemed to emerge Like dawn after the deepest of dark.
As a distant wayfarer, I travel to my own world To glimpse eternal truths from between The rips torn in the present, Like a bride wed for life Gazes from within The fine curtain With new eyes on Eternity’s unfading truths.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Shaishabshandha(Childhood’s Dusk) was published as a part of Tagore’s poetry collection called Sonar Tori (Golden Boat, 1894).
Art by Sohana Manzoor
CHILDHOOD'S DUSK
Slowly, across all horizons Spreads the weary exhaustion Of darkness like a mother’s anchal*. Standing alone, I gaze steadily At the west, absolutely still. I contemplate fixedly The bottomless abyss, The lonely riverside with a Dusky sky. Dawn weeps, As deep gloom sweeps With tired eyes, compassionately, Silently over the water and land In this gloaming. Suddenly, a song bursts forth From the dark woods, the village paths, Perhaps, from a youth returning home. Uplifting, peaceful, fearless notes Resonate in tune as if sharply Slicing the twilight in two. I cannot see him. I see a village In the southern part. Amidst the lonely Bamboo woods, the sugarcane fields, The betel nut and banana trees, There rests a village. I can see that. Perhaps, it’s a cowherd’s son Singing on his way home. He does not think much Except of a full stomach. He brings back that dusk in my childhood: We talked, played — three friends — While we lay on the bed. That was in the distant past. Has the world not aged? Have we exchanged our childhood, Our games, our toys, our restful slumber for the burden of knowledge? Standing on this lonely field, When silence fills the gloaming, Hearing this song, I recall — The riverbanks, the mango groves, The brass bells ringing in temples, The mustard fields, by the pond, Smiling faces in many homes, Young hearts filled with new hopes, Impossible, beautiful imaginings, Priceless dreams, endless desires And beliefs. Standing in the dark, I see among stars, the infinite universe — Many young at home abed, Their mother’s face lit by the lamp.
*Loose end of a sari
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Probhatey (In the Morning) was published as a part of Rabindranath Tagore’s collection called Kheya (Ferry) published in 1906.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
IN THE MORNING
The heavy downpour Of one night Has filled the lake in my home To the brim. When I look, I see Deep blue waters overflow. Where is its shore? Where is its bottom? Where does it turn? With one downpour, see the lake Is filled to the brim.
Last night, who could imagine This would happen! The rain poured incessantly In the deep dark night. In the midnight of this monsoon, While I lay in a lamp less room, I heard the wind howl As if in distress — Who knew then This would happen!
Amidst this outpouring of teardrops, I found today A serene lotus Presiding the scene. O tell me, when O when did it bloom, Pristine among multitudes Shining with vibrancy, Bringing solace to me In the midst of this abyss Of despondency!
Today, sitting alone, I ponder Gazing at the site. I see the treasures torn From the chest by the tragic night. I can see the heartbreak, Hear the wailing, the awakening, I write from my heart Of the raging tempest. I gaze at the treasures torn From the chest by the stormy night.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Sonar Tori(Golden Boat) is the titular poem of Tagore’s book of the same name. This celebrated collection was first published in 1894.
Art by Rabindranath Tagore. From Public domain
Amidst dense clouds and heavy downpour, Without any hope of respite, I sit on the shore. Many sheaves of rice are piled in droves, Housed in straw-built stores. The river's edge is like a razor as the water flows, Torrential and ferocious. While the rice was being cut, it started to pour.
I have a small field, and I work alone. The water sways on all sides and overflows. On the other shore’s horizon, I see etched A village under the shadow of trees Covered in misty morning clouds. On this shore, I am alone in this small field.
Someone is singing and rowing to this side. Looks like, I might know her. Without glancing around, She rows past in full sail. The waves helplessly Part to give way— Looks like, I might know her.
Oh where do you row, to which foreign land? Come to me in your boat. Go wherever you want, Give to whoever you desire, Only, do take With a smile, My golden crop from this shore.
Take as much as you wish into your boat. Is there anymore? — There’s none left. By the river, I stashed into the boat All that I had done in my life In bundles — Now, please be merciful and take me along.
I have no place. The boat is too small. It is filled with my crop of golden paddy. Surrounded by heavy Monsoon clouds, I stayed by the Lonely shore — Whatever I had was taken away by the golden boat.
Art by Sohana
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Asha or Hope is a poem from Tagore’s collection, Kalpana (Imagination, 1900).
Art by Sohana Manzoor
HOPE
When the sun set on my life, You welcomed me, O mother of mine. Opening the doors of your inner sanctum, You planted a kiss on my temples, Lit a timeless lamp at my bedside. My neck Was with a string of thorny blooms decked To honour my songs. It hurt, it burnt — Till taking off the wreath, you plucked Each thorn off with your own hands, Washed the dust. That garland — With blooms now clean and white — You draped on me as your eternal child. My eyes opened as tears streamed. I woke up to find it was only a dream!
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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The twenty fifth of Boisakh Draws my stream of birthdays Closer to death. Sitting on that wafting mat, an artisan is making a garland With small statuettes of Many mortal Rabindranaths.
Time travels on his chariot. The pedestrian lifts his bowl While walking, he gets a drink. When he finishes, he recedes into the darkness. His bowl is crushed to dust under the wheels. Behind him, Follows another with a new bowl. He savours a fresh flavour. Eventhough he has the same name, He is a different person.
Once I was a child. Within a few birthdays, An entity was sculpted Who no one recognised. The people who would have known him Are not around. The being of that child is non-existent, Nor does anyone remember him. He has disappeared with his little world. His past sorrows and joys Find no reverberations. The pieces of his broken toys Cannot be seen in the dust. He would sit and calf-like Gaze outside, with longing. His world was Framed by the opening in the window. His innocent glance Would halt at the Coconut trees along the fence. His evenings were steeped in fairytales. There was no insurmountable barrier Between the real and unreal. His mind would skip between The two effortlessly. In the gloaming of light and darkness, The shadows wrapped around spring, Drawing close with belonging. Those few birthdays, For some time, Were like a brightly lit island. But the past has sunk into the darkness of the ocean. Sometimes, during low tides, We can see that mountain peak. We can see a shoreline of blood-red corals.
Over time, The twenty fifth of Boishakh Assumed Vivid vernal hues. Youthfulness played a melody Of yearning on the ektara, Questing for intangible Invisible inspirations. Hearing that music over time, The celestial Lakshmi’s throne swayed She sent over Few of her ambassadors, To earth to spew colours On the palash woods, Enticing, alluring to forgetfulness. I have heard their voices speak softly. I understood some. Some I didn’t. I have seen dark eyelashes damp with wetness. I have seen lips tremble with unspoken agony. I have heard the tinkle of bracelets vacillate with eager surprise. Unbeknown to me, On the first conscious morning, Of the twenty fifth of Boisakh, They left behind a Garland of jasmines. My dream at dawn Was heady with their fragrance.
That birthday was youthful with Fairytales woven by communities and villages, Some we knew, some doubted. There, princesses with their hair undone Were sometimes asleep, Sometimes, they awoke in surprise Touched by magical golden wands. Over time, The ramparts that walled the Vernal pochisheBoishakh broke. The path laden with the sway of Bokul leaves Trembling shadows, Murmuring breeze, The lovelorn kokil’s pleading call That turns the morning to afternoon, The bees buzzing their wings Towards the invisible scent of nectar -- That grassy path arrived At the stone paved road of adulthood. The ektara that played the haunting melody In youth changed its old string for new. That twenty fifth of Boisakh, Exposed me To a rough road, Bore me like a wave to the ocean of humanity. Morning and night, I have woven tunes and Caste a net mid-river – Some have been caught, Some have fled the fragile net.
Sometimes, the day has been faint, Motivation disappointed, Sadness filled the mind. Unexpectedly, in the midst Of such depression, I found Inspiration in Amravati’s mortal idol. They beautify the world, Offering vessels of nectar To the weary. They insult fear with billowing Waves of laughter. They fan flames of courage From ash-smothered smouldering fires. They arouse celestial voices to ignite meditative words. They have lighted the flame in my nearly suffused lamp. They have given melody to the strings with their cool breeze. They have garlanded me with honour On the twenty fifth of Boishakh. My songs, my words, Still reverberate with their Magical touch.
From then, in the battle of life, Conflicts raged like Thundering clouds. I had to abandon the ektara. Sometimes, I had to pick up the trumpet. Under the hot mid-day sun, I had to take on A battle. My feet are injured with thorns, My wounded heart bleeds. The Merciless harshness of waves Have beaten my boat, left and right, Muddying with criticism, Drowning with transactions. Hatred and love, Envy and friendship, Music and courage, My world has been stirred By the mists of all these emotions.
In the midst of this revolutionary-crisis, As the twenty fifth of Boishakh grows older, You have all come to me. Do you know – Despite my attempts, much is still left unexpressed, Much is in disarray, much is neglected?
From inside and outside, Good and bad, clear and unclear, famed and unknown, A vain, complicated character, You have created an idol With your regard, your love, Your forgiveness. Today you have brought this garland, I accept this as a recognition of The aging twenty-fifth of Boishakh, As an acknowledgment of my years. Heartfelt blessings from me to you. As I prepare to take leave, my human idol Remains in your heart. As the future is unknown, I cannot be arrogant.
Then give me your leave In this lifetime from all relationships Strung with black and white threads. Lonely, nameless, solitary – Let me look for a melody amidst Many tunes, many instruments, In the depth of all songs.
*Ektara-Bengal folk instrument
Palash flowersKokils or Asian KoelsFrom Public Domain
Tagore celebrated his birthdays by the Bengali Calendar on Pochishe Boisakh with poetry. This poem was dedicated to Amiya Chandra Chakravarty (1901-1986), a critic, academic and poet. He was a close associate of Tagore. The Pochishe Boisakh arrived in late spring as he mentions in this poem.
From Public Domain: The long stringed instrument is an ektara and the other another folk instrument called dugdugi
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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An excerpt from Professor Fakrul Alam’s unpublished translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s Raktakarabi or Red Oleanders (1924) from Bengali: It was first published in Prabasimagazine. This play rebels against totalitarianism.
Roktokorobi (Red Oeander) by TagoreRed Oleanders. From Public Domain
Introduction
This play is based on truth. However, any reader who turns only to historians to ascertain the authenticity of events is bound to be left unfulfilled by it. Let this suffice then as an explanation: as far as this poet is concerned, they are based fully on truth.
It is possible also that geographers will differ on the play’s actual setting. But everyone knows that the setting is informally known as Lucre Land. Scholars say that the mythical Lucre Land was the site of the gilded throne of Mammon, the God of Wealth. But it will not be right to see this play as one set entirely in a mythical period; it should not be classified as a fable either. The land that it deals with it has in its mines the most precious of minerals. Its discovery led to tunnel-digging. This is why people fondly calls it Lucre Land. We will get acquainted with some of the diggers involved in due course.
No one can expect historians to agree on the real name of the monarch of Lucre Land either. The one thing that I know is that the moniker used for him is “The Dreaded”. In due course it will be clear why this is the name by which he is called.
Outside the king’s palace walls are latticed windows. It is from a room with such windows that The Dreaded One chooses to meet any number of people he wants to talk to. Why he acts so bizarrely is something that we know nothing more about than what becomes apparent from the exchanges taking place between the main characters of this play.
The chieftains who run the kingdom on the king’s behalf are well-suited to carry out their work. They are also supposed to be far-seeing—all of them are members of the King’s inner council. Their carefully taken measures ensure that there are no lapses in the work being done by the diggers. And so this is how Lucre Land has developed steadily. The supervisors, once diggers themselves, have earned on their own merit the titles they now have. Indeed, in efficiency they often surpass the chieftains they once worked for. If the laws governing Lucre Land can be called euphemistically “The Full Moon’s Beams”, the responsibility of enforcing them are entrusted to the supervisors manning what can be called its Department of Disgrace.
In addition, there is the “Holy One”. He always swears by God but lives off what is allotted to him by the chieftains. He is believed to be responsible for a lot of the “good things” that are benefitting Lucre Land.
From time to time, inedible marine animals get stuck in the net of the fishermen casting their nets here. They are of no value though—either as edible creatures or as ones that can be traded for cash. On the contrary, every now and then they leave behind holes in the nets they get entangled in. In a net flung in the course of the plot of the play, however, a girl called Nandini shows up—a girl seemingly destined to tear apart the intricate net that separates the King of Lucre Land from the rest of the world.
As far as we can see at the start of the play, the events it dramatizes take place outside the room with the latticed windows where the king lives. We get to know very little of what is happening inside the palace though.
This play is set in the country called Lucre Land. The workers here are employed to dig gold. Its king remains hidden behind a thick screen. Only one scene of the play, however, is set behind the screen. The remaining scenes all take place outside.
From Public Domain
Enter Nandini and Kishore—a young man employed in digging mines
Kishore: Nandini! Nandini! Nandini!
Nandini: Why keep calling my name again and again young man? Do you think I have a hearing problem?
Kishore: I know you have no hearing problem. I keep calling you by your name because I like doing so. Do you need more flowers? If you do, let me go and get some.
Nandini: Go, go back to work. Don’t waste any more time here.
Kishore: What I do all day long is dig for gold. Whenever I can steal some time away from such digging to search for flowers for you. That makes me feel alive.
Nandini: Young man—don’t you know they’ll punish you if they find you not at work?
Kishore: But didn’t you say you really, really want the red oleanders? What delights me is that you can’t find them easily anywhere nearby. I found only one red oleander tree behind the rubbish dumped all over the place and that too after searching hard for it.
Nandini: Show me the place and I’ll go pluck the flowers myself.
Kishore: Please don’t say such a thing again. Don’t be so cruel Nandini! Let the tree remain as my one secret. Bishu sings for you songs he composed himself. From now on, I’ll get you the flowers you want and flowers that I can call my own.
Nandini: But the beastly people of this place keep punishing you. My heart breaks whenever they do so.
Kishore: The pain I endure makes the flowers that blossom even more dearly mine. They are the harvests of my sorrow!
Nandini: But how will I endure the pain and the suffering you have to endure on my account?
Kishore: What pain? That there will come a day when I’ll sacrifice myself fully for you is the thought that comes to my mind again and again.
Nandini: You keep giving me so much. Tell me, what can I give you in return?
Kishore: Make this pledge to me—every morning you’ll take the flowers from me.
Nandini: Fine, I’ll do that. But careful….
Kishore: No way I’m going to restrain myself! No way! I’ll bring you flowers even if I have to face their lashes every day!
Exit Kishore
The Professor Enters
Professor: Nandini! Don’t go; look at me!
Nandini: What for Professor?
Professor: Why do you keep surprising me again and again only to disappear afterwards? Since you succeed in stirring my mind, why don’t you then stir it up fully? Just stay for a minute and let me say a few things to you.
Nandini: Why do you need to talk to me?
Professor: If I’m to talk about what is of importance, just take a look! Our diggers climb up to the top from the tunnel with what they have mined from the heart of the earth and then carry burdens on their head like termites do. All the wealth of Lucre Land comes from that dust-mixed source—gold is the outcome! But beautiful one, you are golden not because of such dust but because of the light you emit. How can only the need for wealth detain you?
Nandini: You keep saying the same thing again and again. What amazes you so whenever you look at me Professor?
Professor: There is nothing surprising about the light that brightens the flower gardens in the morning. The light that comes through cracks in the wall are something else though. In Lucre Land you are that kind of unexpected light! Tell me—what could you for be possibly thinking about as far as this place is concerned?
Nandini: I am amazed to see the whole city’s focus to explore what is underground and all the groping in the dark that goes on. They keep digging in these underground tunnels for treasures that have been fossilising there for ages. These are treasures earth buried there.
Professor: What we do is exhume the corpses of such resources devotedly. We want to tame the ghosts within them. If we can tie the golden lumps up and retain them so that they don’t seem strange, we’ll have the world in our grasp.
Nandini: What is more shocking is that you have your king covered up in a wall made up of weird nets. It is as if you wouldn’t like people to find out that he is human. I feel like either opening the cover of that dark tunnel or flooding it with light. I feel like tearing up such a weird net and rescuing the man trapped inside.
Professor: Just as the ghost of fossilised wealth can be scary, the king we have can terrify us because of the power he has to scare his subjects.
Nandini: Everything you keep saying is so concocted.
Professor: Yes, I’ve made them up for sure. A nude need not be identified; only his tailored clothes will mark him as a king or a beggar! Come to my house—I’ll be delighted to make you wise with words of wisdom.
Nandini: Just as your diggers bury themselves when digging the soil, you seem to be digging deeper and deeper into your books. Why would you waste time on someone like me?
Professor: We are dense, thick-headed creatures, submerged in opaque scholarly work. You are the evening star we see when we have nothing else to do; seeing you makes our wings restless. Come home with me; let me spoil myself for a change.
Nandini: No, not now—I’ve come to see your king seated in his chamber.
Professor: He stays within his latticed wall; he won’t let you in for sure.
Nandini: No wall can block me; I’m here to spend time with your king in his chamber.
Professor: You know what Nandini—I too live inside a wall. I’ve sacrificed a lot of my human side; only my scholarship stirs in me. Just as our king is awesome, I’m an awe-inspiring scholar.
Nandini: You must be joking! You don’t seem frightening at all. Let me ask you this question: If they could bring me here, why didn’t they bring Ranjan to this place as well?
Professor: Their strategy is to tear up everything. In any case, let me say this: why bring your precious soul to a place so full of lifeless treasures?
Nandini: If Ranjan is brought here, their dead hearts will stir again.
Professor: Nandini alone has been enough to strike the chiefs of Lucre Land dumb; imagine what will happen if Ranjan is brought here as well.
Nandini: They have no idea how strange they can be. If God could make them smile, the spell they are in would be broken. Ranjan’s smile is God’s smile!
Professor: The smile of God is like sunlight—it melts ice but doesn’t move boulders. If you want to stir our chieftains, you need to be forceful.
Nandini: Ranjan’s strength is like your Shankhini River. Just like that river, he’ll be all smiles at one moment and a destructive force in another. Professor, let me tell you what has been a secret till now. I’ll be meeting Ranjan later today!
Professor: How do you know this?
Nandini: We’ll meet, for sure we will. The news has come that we’ll be united soon.
Professor: How can such news travel without attracting the attention of the chiefs?
Nandini: They’ll come through the same route that ushers news about spring. It’s touched with the colour of the sky and the lilt of the wind.
Professor: In other words, the colours of the sky lilt the breeze that ushers in spring.
Nandini: When Ranjan comes, I’ll be able to show you how news that has been flying can land on earth.
Professor: Once the subject of conversation turns to Ranjan, there is no stopping Nandini from talking. Never mind! Since I’ve mastered real knowledge, let me enter its depths; I myself don’t dare do anything now.
He comes back after advancing a little.
Nandini, aren’t you frightened at the thought of being in Lucre Land?
Nandini: Why should I be?
Professor: Animals fear solar eclipses but not the round sun. Lucre Land is a place where an eclipse of sorts has taken place. The sun was bitten when it got into a gilded crater during an eclipse. Since it itself wasn’t full, it didn’t want anything else to be fully developed. Let me advise you—don’t hang around this place. When you leave these craters, they will be yawning before us—but I’ll keep insisting—flee! Be happy with Ranjan anywhere else where people don’t shred the borders of Mother Earth’s sari into bits!
He goes some distance and then returns
Professor: Nandini, won’t you give me one of the red oleander flowers you are carrying in your right hand?
Nandini: Why? What do you want to do with it?
Professor: On many occasions it occurred to me that the red oleanders you wear have some significance for you.
Nandini: I have no idea what they could possibly mean.
Professor: Perhaps the Divine Dispenser of your fate does. The red color emits mysterious negative vibes and not only ones that delight.
Nandini: Things that can frighten me?
Professor: God has in this case painted beauty with a brush dipped in blood! I have no clue to what you were scribbling in red as you came. There are malati, mallika, chameli flowers aplenty that you overlooked. What made you pluck flowers only from this particular flowering tree? Know that people only do unthinkingly what they are fated to do.
Nandini: Every now and then Ranjan will fondly call me “Red Oleander”. I don’t know why the thought occurs to me that my Ranjan’s love is of that colour. It’s the colour I wear on my neck, my bosom and my hand.
Professor: So why not offer me a flower only for a while so that I can figure out the essence of that flower?
Nandini: Here, take this one. Ranjan will be here today. I’m so happy that I’ve decided to gift you this red oleander.
The Professor departs.
Gokul, a Tunnel Digger, Enters
Gokul: Turn your face this way for once. I can’t seem to figure you out! Who could you be?
Nandini: I’m exactly what you see. Nothing else! Why do you need to know anything more?
Gokul: Not a good idea to not know. Has the King of this realm summoned you here for any reason?
Nandini: For no good reason!
Gokul: What a thing to say! He is trapping us all. You are the cause of the danger we all are in.
Anyone bewitched by your beautiful face is doomed. Let’s take a look—what is that swinging there where you hair is parting?
Nandini: Red Oleander flowers!
Gokul: What do they signify?
Nandini: Nothing!
Gokul: I don’t believe you at all. You must be up to something. There is bound to be trouble before the day is over. That is why you decked yourself so. What a dreadful trick!
Nandini: What makes you think I’m so terrifying just by looking at me?
Gokul: You remind me of a torch lighted up in many colors. Go and fool innocent ones by telling them— “Take care! Beware!”
Gokul Exits
Nandini is now outside a latticed window
Nandini (Striking the latticed window): Can you hear me?
Voice: I hear you Nanda! But don’t keep calling me again and again; I have no time left, not a bit.
Nandini: I feel very happy today! So happy that I’d like to enter your room.
Voice: No need to come in. If you have anything to say, do so from outside the room.
Nandini: I’ve brought you a garland made of jasmine flowers. It’s covered with lotus leaves.
Voice: Wear it yourself!
Nandini: It doesn’t suit me. I wear red oleander garlands
Voice: I am like a mountain peak. I look best unadorned.
Nandini: From such peaks waterfall stream. A garland will sway in your neck as well. Open the net—I’d like to go in.
Voice: I won’t let you in. Say what you want to now. I don’t have any time to lose.
Nandini: Can you hear any song from where you are?
Voice: What song?
Nandini: A song about the winter month of Poush[1]! A song calling all to harvesting!
Poush calls us all Come, come away Its tray is full this day With harvested crops galore Come, come away
Don’t you see how the harvested rice’s loveliness mingles with the wintry sky?
In the heady wind Goddesses work Across rice fields All over the land A golden hue spreads So good to see. Ah me!
Come outside King! Let me take you to the field.
The sky is happy to hear in fields flutes play. Who’d want to stay indoors any longer today? Open, open all doors
Voice: I go to work? What work am I good for?
Nandini: Harvesting is much easier than the kind of work you do for Lucre Land.
Voice: The work which seems easy to you is actually hard for me to do. Can a lake dance like the foams of a waterfall?
Nandini: Your strength is truly amazing. The day you let me enter your treasury, I wasn’t a bit startled by your gold piles. What truly fascinated me then is the way you managed to put things into an orderly heap effortlessly despite your immense strength. Nevertheless, I’ll have to say this: can lumped up golden balls respond to the amazing rhythms of your hands as well as a rice field? Tell me O King, aren’t you at all afraid to handle the fossilised resources of the world day after day?
Voice: Why, what is there to fear?
Nandini: The earth bestows on us joyfully things it holds dear. But when even dead bones are snatched away by those who value them merely as precious things what they really do is dig up from the dark depths things a blind giant had cursed. Don’t you see that everyone here is edgy? Either that or they are scared.
Voice: Scared of what?
Nandini: The fear that things will be snatched away and of the killings that might follow.
Voice: I don’t know of any curse involved. What I know is about the power we can evoke. Does my immense strength make you happy Nandini?
Nandini: Very happy indeed. That is why I’ll insist: come out into the light; put your feet on the soil; let earth rejoice.
The light joy brings Daubs ears of corn with dew Why not feel the joy of touch? Nature’s joy knows no bounds A sight so good to see —ah me!
[1] Ninth month of the Bengali calendar coincides with December-January of the Gregorian calendar.
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