This etext was produced by Alev Akman.
The Hungry Stones And Other Stories
by Rabindranath Tagore
Contents:
The Hungry Stones
The Victory
Once There Was A King
The Home-coming
My Lord, The Baby
The Kingdom Of Cards
The Devotee
Vision
The Babus Of Nayanjore
Living Or Dead?
"We Crown Thee King"
The Renunciation
The Cabuliwallah
[The Fruitseller from Cabul]
Preface: The stories contained in this volume were translated by
several hands. The version of The Victory is the author's own work. The
seven stories which follow were translated by Mr. C. F. Andrews, with
the help of the author's help. Assistance has also been given by the
Rev. E. J. Thompson, Panna Lal Basu, Prabhat Kumar Mukerjii, and the
Sister Nivedita.
THE HUNGRY STONES
My kinsman and myself were returning to Calcutta from our Puja trip when
we met the man in a train. From his dress and bearing we took him at
first for an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we heard him
talk. He discoursed upon all subjects so confidently that you might
think the Disposer of All Things consulted him at all times in all that
He did. Hitherto we had been perfectly happy, as we did not know that
secret and unheard-of forces were at work, that the Russians had
advanced close to us, that the English had deep and secret policies,
that confusion among the native chiefs had come to a head. But our
newly-acquired friend said with a sly smile: "There happen more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers." As
we had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the man
struck us dumb with wonder. Be the topic ever so trivial, he would
quote science, or comment on the Vedas, or repeat quatrains from some
Persian poet; and as we had no pretence to a knowledge of science or the
Vedas or Persian, our admiration for him went on increasing, and my
kinsman, a theosophist, was firmly convinced that our fellow-passenger
must have been supernaturally inspired by some strange magnetism" or
"occult power," by an "astral body" or something of that kind. He
listened to the tritest saying that fell from the lips of our
extraordinary companion with devotional rapture, and secretly took down
notes of his conversation. I fancy that the extraordinary man saw this,
and was a little pleased with it.
When the train reached the junction, we assembled in the waiting room
for the connection. It was then 10 P.M., and as the train, we heard,
was likely to be very late, owing to something wrong in the lines, I
spread my bed on the table and was about to lie down for a comfortable
doze, when the extraordinary person deliberately set about spinning the
following yarn. Of course, I could get no sleep that night.
When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrative
policy, I threw up my post at Junagarh, and entered the service of the
Nizam of Hydria, they appointed me at once, as a strong young man,
collector of cotton duties at Barich.
Barich is a lovely place. The Susta "chatters over stony ways and
babbles on the pebbles," tripping, like a skilful dancing girl, in
through the woods below the lonely hills. A flight of 150 steps rises
from the river, and above that flight, on the river's brim and at the
foot of the hills, there stands a solitary marble palace. Around it
there is no habitation of man - the village and the cotton mart of Barich
being far off.
About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. had built this lonely
palace for his pleasure and luxury. In his days jets of rose-water
spurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of its spray-
cooled rooms young Persian damsels would sit, their hair dishevelled
before bathing, and, splashing their soft naked feet in the clear water
of the reservoirs, would sing, to the tune of the guitar, the ghazals of
their vineyards.
The fountains play no longer; the songs have ceased; no longer do
snow-white feet step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is but the vast
and solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed with
solitude and deprived of the society of women. Now, Karim Khan, the old
clerk of my office, warned me repeatedly not to take up my abode
there. "Pass the day there, if you like," said he, "but never stay the
night." I passed it off with a light laugh. The servants said that
they would work till dark and go away at night. I gave my ready assent.
The house had such a bad name that even thieves would not venture near
it after dark.
At first the solitude of the deserted palace weighed upon me like a
nightmare. I would stay out, and work hard as long as possible, then
return home at night jaded and tired, go to bed and fall asleep.
Before a week had passed, the place began to exert a weird fascination
upon me. It is difficult to describe or to induce people to believe;
but I felt as if the whole house was like a living organism slowly and
imperceptibly digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastric
juice.
Perhaps the process had begun as soon as I set my foot in the house, but
I distinctly remember the day on which I first was conscious of it.
It was the beginning of summer, and the market being dull I had no work
to do. A little before sunset I was sitting in an arm-chair near the
water's edge below the steps. The Susta had shrunk and sunk low; a
broad patch of sand on the other side glowed with the hues of evening;
on this side the pebbles at the bottom of the clear shallow waters were
glistening. There was not a breath of wind anywhere, and the still air
was laden with an oppressive scent from the spicy shrubs growing on the
hills close by.
As the sun sank behind the hill-tops a long dark curtain fell upon the
stage of day, and the intervening hills cut short the time in which
light and shade mingle at sunset. I thought of going out for a ride,
and was about to get up when I heard a footfall on the steps behind. I
looked back, but there was no one.
As I sat down again, thinking it to be an illusion, I heard many
footfalls, as if a large number of persons were rushing down the steps.
A strange thrill of delight, slightly tinged with fear, passed through
my frame, and though there was not a figure before my eyes, methought I
saw a bevy of joyous maidens coming down the steps to bathe in the Susta
in that summer evening. Not a sound was in the valley, in the river, or
in the palace, to break the silence, but I distinctly heard the maidens'
gay and mirthful laugh, like the gurgle of a spring gushing forth in a
hundred cascades, as they ran past me, in quick playful pursuit of each
other, towards the river, without noticing me at all. As they were
invisible to me, so I was, as it were, invisible to them. The river was
perfectly calm, but I felt that its still, shallow, and clear waters
were stirred suddenly by the splash of many an arm jingling with
bracelets, that the girls laughed and dashed and spattered water at one
another, that the feet of the fair swimmers tossed the tiny waves up in
showers of pearl.
I felt a thrill at my heart - I cannot say whether the excitement was due
to fear or delight or curiosity. I had a strong desire to see them more
clearly, but naught was visible before me; I thought I could catch all
that they said if I only strained my ears; but however hard I strained
them, I heard nothing but the chirping of the cicadas in the woods. It
seemed as if a dark curtain of 250 years was hanging before me, and I
would fain lift a corner of it tremblingly and peer through, though the
assembly on the other side was completely enveloped in darkness.
The oppressive closeness of the evening was broken by a sudden gust of
wind, and the still surface of the Suista rippled and curled like the
hair of a nymph, and from the woods wrapt in the evening gloom there
came forth a simultaneous murmur, as though they were awakening from a
black dream. Call it reality or dream, the momentary glimpse of that
invisible mirage reflected from a far-off world, 250 years old,
vanished in a flash. The mystic forms that brushed past me with their
quick unbodied steps, and loud, voiceless laughter, and threw themselves
into the river, did not go back wringing their dripping robes as they
went. Like fragrance wafted away by the wind they were dispersed
by a single breath of the spring.
Then I was filled with a lively fear that it was the Muse that had taken
advantage of my solitude and possessed me - the witch had evidently come
to ruin a poor devil like myself making a living by collecting cotton
duties. I decided to have a good dinner - it is the empty stomach that
all sorts of incurable diseases find an easy prey. I sent for my cook
and gave orders for a rich, sumptuous moghlai dinner, redolent of spices
and ghi.
Next morning the whole affair appeared a queer fantasy. With a light
heart I put on a sola hat like the sahebs, and drove out to my work. I
was to have written my quarterly report that day, and expected to return
late; but before it was dark I was strangely drawn to my house - by what
I could not say - I felt they were all waiting, and that I should delay
no longer. Leaving my report unfinished I rose, put on my sola hat, and
startling the dark, shady, desolate path with the rattle of my carriage,
I reached the vast silent palace standing on the gloomy skirts of the
hills.
On the first floor the stairs led to a very spacious hall, its roof
stretching wide over ornamental arches resting on three rows of massive
pillars, and groaning day and night under the weight of its own intense
solitude. The day had just closed, and the lamps had not yet been
lighted. As I pushed the door open a great bustle seemed to follow
within, as if a throng of people had broken up in confusion, and rushed
out through the doors and windows and corridors and verandas and rooms,
to make its hurried escape.
As I saw no one I stood bewildered, my hair on end in a kind of ecstatic
delight, and a faint scent of attar and unguents almost effected by age
lingered in my nostrils. Standing in the darkness of that vast desolate
hall between the rows of those ancient pillars, I could hear the gurgle
of fountains plashing on the marble floor, a strange tune on the guitar,
the jingle of ornaments and the tinkle of anklets, the clang of bells
tolling the hours, the distant note of nahabat, the din of the crystal
pendants of chandeliers shaken by the breeze, the song of bulbuls from
the cages in the corridors, the cackle of storks in the gardens, all
creating round me a strange unearthly music.
Then I came under such a spell that this intangible, inaccessible,
unearthly vision appeared to be the only reality in the world - and all
else a mere dream. That I, that is to say, Srijut So-and-so, the eldest
son of So-and-so of blessed memory, should be drawing a monthly salary
of Rs. 450 by the discharge of my duties as collector of cotton duties,
and driving in my dog-cart to my office every day in a short coat and
soia hat, appeared to me to be such an astonishingly ludicrous illusion
that I burst into a horse-laugh, as I stood in the gloom of that vast
silent hall.
At that moment my servant entered with a lighted kerosene lamp in his
hand. I do not know whether he thought me mad, but it came back to me
at once that I was in very deed Srijut So-and-so, son of So-and-so of
blessed memory, and that, while our poets, great and small, alone could
say whether inside of or outside the earth there was a region where
unseen fountains perpetually played and fairy guitars, struck by
invisible fingers, sent forth an eternal harmony, this at any rate was
certain, that I collected duties at the cotton market at Banch, and
earned thereby Rs. 450 per mensem as my salary. I laughed in great glee
at my curious illusion, as I sat over the newspaper at my camp-table,
lighted by the kerosene lamp.
After I had finished my paper and eaten my moghlai dinner, I put out the
lamp, and lay down on my bed in a small side-room. Through the open
window a radiant star, high above the Avalli hills skirted by the
darkness of their woods, was gazing intently from millions and millions
of miles away in the sky at Mr. Collector lying on a humble camp-
bedstead. I wondered and felt amused at the idea, and do not knew when
I fell asleep or how long I slept; but I suddenly awoke with a start,
though I heard no sound and saw no intruder - only the steady bright star
on the hilltop had set, and the dim light of the new moon was stealthily
entering the room through the open window, as if ashamed of its
intrusion.
I saw nobody, but felt as if some one was gently pushing me. As I awoke
she said not a word, but beckoned me with her five fingers bedecked with
rings to follow her cautiously. I got up noiselessly, and, though not a
soul save myself was there in the countless apartments of that deserted
palace with its slumbering sounds and waiting echoes, I feared at every
step lest any one should wake up. Most of the rooms of the palace were
always kept closed, and I had never entered them.
I followed breathless and with silent steps my invisible guide - I cannot
now say where. What endless dark and narrow passages, what long
corridors, what silent and solemn audience-chambers and close secret
cells I crossed!
Though I could not see my fair guide, her form was not invisible to my
mind's eye, - an Arab girl, her arms, hard and smooth as marble, visible
through her loose sleeves, a thin veil falling on her face from the
fringe of her cap, and a curved dagger at her waist! Methought that one
of the thousand and one Arabian Nights had been wafted to me from the
world of romance, and that at the dead of night I was wending my way
through the dark narrow alleys of slumbering Bagdad to a trysting-place
fraught with peril.
At last my fair guide stopped abruptly before a deep blue screen, and
seemed to point to something below. There was nothing there, but a
sudden dread froze the blood in my heart-methought I saw there on the
floor at the foot of the screen a terrible negro eunuch dressed in rich
brocade, sitting and dozing with outstretched legs, with a naked sword
on his lap. My fair guide lightly tripped over his legs and held up a
fringe of the screen. I could catch a glimpse of a part of the room
spread with a Persian carpet - some one was sitting inside on a bed - I
could not see her, but only caught a glimpse of two exquisite feet in
gold-embroidered slippers, hanging out from loose saffron-coloured
paijamas and placed idly on the orange-coloured velvet carpet. On one
side there was a bluish crystal tray on which a few apples, pears,
oranges, and bunches of grapes in plenty, two small cups and a gold-
tinted decanter were evidently waiting the guest. A fragrant
intoxicating vapour, issuing from a strange sort of incense that burned
within, almost overpowered my senses.
As with trembling heart I made an attempt to step across the
outstretched legs of the eunuch, he woke up suddenly with a start, and
the sword fell from his lap with a sharp clang on the marble floor. A
terrific scream made me jump, and I saw I was sitting on that camp-
bedstead of mine sweating heavily; and the crescent moon looked pale in
the morning light like a weary sleepless patient at dawn; and our crazy
Meher Ali was crying out, as is his daily custom, "Stand back! Stand
back!!" while he went along the lonely road.
Such was the abrupt close of one of my Arabian Nights; but there were
yet a thousand nights left.
Then followed a great discord between my days and nights. During the
day I would go to my work worn and tired, cursing the bewitching night
and her empty dreams, but as night came my daily life with its bonds and
shackles of work would appear a petty, false, ludicrous vanity.
After nightfall I was caught and overwhelmed in the snare of a strange
intoxication, I would then be transformed into some unknown personage of
a bygone age, playing my part in unwritten history; and my short English
coat and tight breeches did not suit me in the least. With a red velvet
cap on my head, loose paijamas, an embroidered vest, a long flowing silk
gown, and coloured handkerchiefs scented with attar, I would complete my
elaborate toilet, sit on a high-cushioned chair, and replace my
cigarette with a many-coiled narghileh filled with rose-water, as if in
eager expectation of a strange meeting with the beloved one.
I have no power to describe the marvellous incidents that unfolded
themselves, as the gloom of the night deepened. I felt as if in the
curious apartments of that vast edifice the fragments of a beautiful
story, which I could follow for some distance, but of which I could
never see the end, flew about in a sudden gust of the vernal breeze.
And all the same I would wander from room to room in pursuit of them the
whole night long.
Amid the eddy of these dream-fragments, amid the smell of henna and the
twanging of the guitar, amid the waves of air charged with fragrant
spray, I would catch like a flash of lightning the momentary glimpse of
a fair damsel. She it was who had saffron-coloured paijamas, white
ruddy soft feet in gold-embroidered slippers with curved toes, a close-
fitting bodice wrought with gold, a red cap, from which a golden frill
fell on her snowy brow and cheeks.
She had maddened me. In pursuit of her I wandered from room to room,
from path to path among the bewildering maze of alleys in the enchanted
dreamland of the nether world of sleep.
Sometimes in the evening, while arraying myself carefully as a prince of
the blood-royal before a large mirror, with a candle burning on either
side, I would see a sudden reflection of the Persian beauty by the side
of my own. A swift turn of her neck, a quick eager glance of intense
passion and pain glowing in her large dark eyes, just a suspicion of
speech on her dainty red lips, her figure, fair and slim crowned with
youth like a blossoming creeper, quickly uplifted in her graceful
tilting gait, a dazzling flash of pain and craving and ecstasy, a smile
and a glance and a blaze of jewels and silk, and she melted away. A
wild glist of wind, laden with all the fragrance of hills and woods,
would put out my light, and I would fling aside my dress and lie down on
my bed, my eyes closed and my body thrilling with delight, and there
around me in the breeze, amid all the perfume of the woods and hills,
floated through the silent gloom many a caress and many a kiss and many
a tender touch of hands, and gentle murmurs in my ears, and fragrant
breaths on my brow; or a sweetly-perfumed kerchief was wafted again and
again on my cheeks. Then slowly a mysterious serpent would twist her
stupefying coils about me; and heaving a heavy sigh, I would lapse into
insensibility, and then into a profound slumber.
One evening I decided to go out on my horse - I do not know who implored
me to stay-but I would listen to no entreaties that day. My English hat
and coat were resting on a rack, and I was about to take them down when
a sudden whirlwind, crested with the sands of the Susta and the dead
leaves of the Avalli hills, caught them up, and whirled them round and
round, while a loud peal of merry laughter rose higher and higher,
striking all the chords of mirth till it died away in the land of
sunset.
I could not go out for my ride, and the next day I gave up my queer
English coat and hat for good.
That day again at dead of night I heard the stifled heart-breaking sobs
of some one - as if below the bed, below the floor, below the stony
foundation of that gigantic palace, from the depths of a dark damp
grave, a voice piteously cried and implored me: "Oh, rescue me! Break
through these doors of hard illusion, deathlike slumber and fruitless
dreams, place by your side on the saddle, press me to your heart, and,
riding through hills and woods and across the river, take me to the warm
radiance of your sunny rooms above!"
Who am I? Oh, how can I rescue thee? What drowning beauty, what
incarnate passion shall I drag to the shore from this wild eddy of
dreams? O lovely ethereal apparition! Where didst thou flourish and
when?" By what cool spring, under the shade of what date-groves, wast
thou born - in the lap of what homeless wanderer in the desert? What
Bedouin snatched thee from thy mother's arms, an opening bud plucked
from a wild creeper, placed thee on a horse swift as lightning, crossed
the burning sands, and took thee to the slave-market of what royal city?
And there, what officer of the Badshah, seeing the glory of thy bashful
blossoming youth, paid for thee in gold, placed thee in a golden
palanquin, and offered thee as a present for the seraglio of his master?
And O, the history of that place! The music of the sareng, the jingle
of anklets, the occasional flash of daggers and the glowing wine of
Shiraz poison, and the piercing flashing glance! What infinite
grandeur, what endless servitude!
The slave-girls to thy right and left waved the chamar as diamonds
flashed from their bracelets; the Badshah, the king of kings, fell on
his knees at thy snowy feet in bejewelled shoes, and outside the
terrible Abyssinian eunuch, looking like a messenger of death, but
clothed like an angel, stood with a naked sword in his hand! Then, O,
thou flower of the desert, swept away by the blood-stained dazzling
ocean of grandeur, with its foam of jealousy, its rocks and shoals of
intrigue, on what shore of cruel death wast thou cast, or in what other
land more splendid and more cruel?
Suddenly at this moment that crazy Meher Ali screamed out: "Stand back!
Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!" I opened my eyes and saw
that it was already light. My chaprasi came and handed me my letters,
and the cook waited with a salam for my orders.
I said; "No, I can stay here no longer." That very day I packed up, and
moved to my office. Old Karim Khan smiled a little as he saw me. I
felt nettled, but said nothing, and fell to my work.
As evening approached I grew absent-minded; I felt as if I had an
appointment to keep; and the work of examining the cotton accounts
seemed wholly useless; even the Nizamat of the Nizam did not appear to
be of much worth. Whatever belonged to the present, whatever was moving
and acting and working for bread seemed trivial, meaningless, and
contemptible.
I threw my pen down, closed my ledgers, got into my dog-cart, and drove
away. I noticed that it stopped of itself at the gate of the marble
palace just at the hour of twilight. With quick steps I climbed the
stairs, and entered the room.
A heavy silence was reigning within. The dark rooms were looking
sullen as if they had taken offence. My heart was full of contrition,
but there was no one to whom I could lay it bare, or of whom I could ask
forgiveness. I wandered about the dark rooms with a vacant mind. I
wished I had a guitar to which I could sing to the unknown: "O fire,
the poor moth that made a vain effort to fly away has come back to thee!
Forgive it but this once, burn its wings and consume it in thy flame!"
Suddenly two tear-drops fell from overhead on my brow. Dark masses of
clouds overcast the top of the Avalli hills that day. The gloomy woods
and the sooty waters of the Susta were waiting in terrible suspense and
in an ominous calm. Suddenly land, water, and sky shivered, and a wild
tempest-blast rushed howling through the distant pathless woods, showing
its lightning-teeth like a raving maniac who had broken his chains. The
desolate halls of the palace banged their doors, and moaned in the
bitterness of anguish.
The servants were all in the office, and there was no one to light the
lamps. The night was cloudy and moonless. In the dense gloom within I
could distinctly feel that a woman was lying on her face on the carpet
below the bed - clasping and tearing her long dishevelled hair with
desperate fingers. Blood was tricking down her fair brow, and she was
now laughing a hard, harsh, mirthless laugh, now bursting into violent
wringing sobs, now rending her bodice and striking at her bare bosom, as
the wind roared in through the open window, and the rain poured in
torrents and soaked her through and through.
All night there was no cessation of the storm or of the passionate cry.
I wandered from room to room in the dark, with unavailing sorrow. Whom
could I console when no one was by? Whose was this intense agony of
sorrow? Whence arose this inconsolable grief?
And the mad man cried out: "Stand back! Stand back!! All is false!
All is false!!"
I saw that the day had dawned, and Meher Ali was going round and
round the palace with his usual cry in that dreadful weather. Suddenly
it came to me that perhaps he also had once lived in that house, and
that, though he had gone mad, he came there every day, and went round
and round, fascinated by the weird spell cast by the marble demon.
Despite the storm and rain I ran to him and asked: "Ho, Meher Ali, what
is false?"
The man answered nothing, but pushing me aside went round and round with
his frantic cry, like a bird flying fascinated about the jaws of a
snake, and made a desperate effort to warn himself by repeating: "Stand
back! Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!"
I ran like a mad man through the pelting rain to my office, and asked
Karim Khan: "Tell me the meaning of all this!"
What I gathered from that old man was this: That at one time countless
unrequited passions and unsatisfied longings and lurid flames of wild
blazing pleasure raged within that palace, and that the curse of all the
heart-aches and blasted hopes had made its every stone thirsty and
hungry, eager to swallow up like a famished ogress any living man who
might chance to approach. Not one of those who lived there for three
consecutive nights could escape these cruel jaws, save Meher Ali, who
had escaped at the cost of his reason.
I asked: "Is there no means whatever of my release?" The old man said:
"There is only one means, and that is very difficult. I will tell you
what it is, but first you must hear the history of a young Persian girl
who once lived in that pleasure-dome. A stranger or a more bitterly
heart-rending tragedy was never enacted on this earth."
Just at this moment the coolies announced that the train was coming. So
soon? We hurriedly packed up our luggage, as the tram steamed in. An
English gentleman, apparently just aroused from slumber, was looking out
of a first-class carriage endeavouring to read the name of the station.
As soon as he caught sight of our fellow-passenger, he cried, "Hallo,"
and took him into his own compartment. As we got into a second-class
carriage, we had no chance of finding out who the man was nor what was
the end of his story.
I said; "The man evidently took us for fools and imposed upon us out of
fun. The story is pure fabrication from start to finish." The
discussion that followed ended in a lifelong rupture between my
theosophist kinsman and myself.
THE VICTORY
She was the Princess Ajita. And the court poet of King Narayan had
never seen her. On the day he recited a new poem to the king he would
raise his voice just to that pitch which could be heard by unseen
hearers in the screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up his
song towards the star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light,
the planet who ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken.
He would espy some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound
would come to his car from afar, and would set him dreaming of the
ankles whose tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy red
tender feet that walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the
fallen! The poet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he
wove his songs to the tune of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in
his mind as to whose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and
whose anklets they were that sang to the time of his beating heart.
Manjari, the maid of the princess, passed by the poet's house on her way
to the river, and she never missed a day to have a few words with him on
the sly. When she found the road deserted, and the shadow of dusk on
the land, she would boldly enter his room, and sit at the corner of his
carpet. There was a suspicion of an added care in the choice of the
colour of her veil, in the setting of the flower in her hair.
People smiled and whispered at this, and they were not to blame. For
Shekhar the poet never took the trouble to hide the fact that these
meetings were a pure joy to him.
The meaning of her name was the spray of flowers. One must confess that
for an ordinary mortal it was sufficient in its sweetness. But Shekhar
made his own addition to this name, and called her the Spray of Spring
Flowers. And ordinary mortals shook their heads and said, Ah, me!
In the spring songs that the poet sang the praise of the spray of
spring flowers was conspicuously reiterated; and the king winked and
smiled at him when he heard it, and the poet smiled in answer.
The king would put him the question; "Is it the business of the bee
merely to hum in the court of the spring?"
The poet would answer; "No, but also to sip the honey of the spray of
spring flowers."
And they all laughed in the king's hall. And it was rumoured that the
Princess Akita also laughed at her maid's accepting the poet's name for
her, and Manjari felt glad in her heart.
Thus truth and falsehood mingle in life - and to what God builds man adds
his own decoration.
Only those were pure truths which were sung by the poet. The theme was
Krishna, the lover god, and Radha, the beloved, the Eternal Man and the
Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from the beginning of time, and the
joy without end. The truth of these songs was tested in his inmost
heart by everybody from the beggar to the king himself. The poet's
songs were on the lips of all. At the merest glimmer of the moon and
the faintest whisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth in
the land from windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows
of the wayside trees, in numberless voices.
Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the
hearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on her
way to the river - the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, and
the tiny golden bells tinkled from afar.
Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path of
conquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He
stood before the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He
had challenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory
had been unbroken.
The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you
welcome."
Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied : "Sire, I ask for war."
Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the
muse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of
the famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his
proud head tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.
With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The
theatre was filled with the crowd.
The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned it
with a slight toss of his head, and turned his face towards his circle
of adoring followers with a meaning smile. Shekhar cast his glance
towards the screened balcony high above, and saluted his lady in his
mind, saying! "If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thy
victorious name shall be glorified."
The trumpet sounded. The great crowd stood up, shouting victory to the
king. The king, dressed in an ample robe of white, slowly came into the
hall like a floating cloud of autumn, and sat on his throne.
Pundarik stood up, and the vast hall became still. With his head raised
high and chest expanded, he began in his thundering voice to recite the
praise of King Narayan. His words burst upon the walls of the hall like
breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle against the ribs of the
listening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied meanings to the
name Narayan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his verses
in all mariner of combinations, took away the breath of his amazed
hearers.
For some minutes after he took his seat his voice continued to vibrate
among the numberless pillars of the king's court and in thousands of
speechless hearts. The learned professors who had come from distant
lands raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo !
The king threw a glance on Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raised
for a moment his eyes full of pain towards his master, and then stood up
like a stricken deer at bay. His face was pale, his bashfulness was
almost that of a woman, his slight youthful figure, delicate in its
outline, seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to break out in music
at the least touch.
His head was bent, his voice was low, when he began. The first few
verses were almost inaudible. Then he slowly raised his head, and his
clear sweet voice rose into the sky like a quivering flame of fire. He
began with the ancient legend of the kingly line lost in the haze of
the past, and brought it down through its long course of heroism and
matchless generosity to the present age. He fixed his gaze on the
king's face, and all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the
royal house rose like incense in his song, and enwreathed the throne on
all sides. These were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat:
"My master, I may be beaten in play of words, but not in my love for
thee,"
Tears filled the eyes of the hearers, and the stone walls shook with
cries of victory.
Mocking this popular outburst of feeling, with an august shake of his
head and a contemptuous sneer, Pundarik stood up, and flung this
question to the assembly; "What is there superior to words?" In a
moment the hall lapsed into silence again.
Then with a marvellous display of learning, he proved that the Word was
in the beginning, that the Word was God. He piled up quotations from
scriptures, and built a high altar for the Word to be seated above all
that there is in heaven and in earth. He repeated that question in his
mighty voice: "What is there superior to words?"
Proudly he looked around him. None dared to accept his challenge, and
he slowly took his seat like a lion who had just made a full meal of its
victim. The pandits shouted, Bravo ! The king remained silent with
wonder, and the poet Shekhar felt himself of no account by the side of
this stupendous learning. The assembly broke up for that day.
Next day Shekhar began his song. It was of that day when the pipings of
love's flute startled for the first time the hushed air of the Vrinda
forest. The shepherd women did not know who was the player or whence
came the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from the heart of the south
wind, and sometimes from the straying clouds of the hilltops. It came
with a message of tryst from the land of the sunrise, and it floated
from the verge of sunset with its sigh of sorrow. The stars seemed to
be the stops of the instrument that flooded the dreams of the night with
melody. The music seemed to burst all at once from all sides, from
fields and groves, from the shady lanes and lonely roads, from the
melting blue of the sky, from the shimmering green of the grass. They
neither knew its meaning nor could they find words to give utterance to
the desire of their hearts. Tears filled their eyes, and their life
seemed to long for a death that would be its consummation.
Shekhar forgot his audience, forgot the trial of his strength with a
rival. He stood alone amid his thoughts that rustled and quivered round
him like leaves in a summer breeze, and sang the Song of the Flute. He
had in his mind the vision of an image that had taken its shape from a
shadow, and the echo of a faint tinkling sound of a distant footstep.
He took his seat. His hearers trembled with the sadness of an
indefinable delight, immense and vague, and they forgot to
applaud him. As this feeling died away Pundarik stood up before the
throne and challenged his rival to define who was this Lover and who was
the Beloved. He arrogantly looked around him, he smiled at his
followers and then put the question again : "Who is Krishna, the lover,
and who is Radha, the beloved?"
Then he began to analyse the roots of those names, - and various
interpretations of their meanings. He brought before the bewildered
audience all the intricacies of the different schools of metaphysics
with consummate skill. Each letter of those names he divided from its
fellow, and then pursued them with a relentless logic till they fell to
the dust in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a meaning
never before imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers.
The pandits were in ecstasy; they applauded vociferously ; and the crowd
followed them, deluded into the certainty that they had witnessed, that
day, the last shred of the curtains of Truth torn to pieces before their
eyes by a prodigy of intellect. The performance of his tremendous feat
so delighted them that they forgot to ask themselves if there was any
truth behind it after all.
The king's mind was overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere was
completely cleared of all illusion of music, and the vision of the world
around seemed to be changed from its freshness of tender green to the
solidity of a high road levelled and made hard with crushed stones.
To the people assembled their own poet appeared a mere boy in comparison
with this giant, who walked with such case, knocking down difficulties
at each step in the world of words and thoughts. It became evident to
them for the first time that the poems Shekhar wrote were absurdly
simple, and it must be a mere accident that they did not write them
themselves. They were neither new, nor difficult, nor instructive, nor
necessary.
The king tried to goad his poet with keen glances, silently inciting him
to make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed
to his seat.
The king in anger came down from his throne - took off his pearl chain
and put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From the
upper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling robes and
waist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and
left the hall.
It was a dark night of waning moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS.
from his shelves and heaped them on the floor. Some of them contained
his earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over
the pages, reading passages here and there. They all seemed to him poor
and trivial - mere words and childish rhymes!
One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel
containing fire, and said : "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire!
Thou hast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life
were a piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is
a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful of
ashes."