The Hungry Stones, The marble palace- II
From Nabob of Junagarh, or the Nizam—
Collecting tax on cotton and its kind,
The taxing job having strained all my calm,
I stayed at a quiet place, though haunted
And scary—a lovely place no less still.
Deserted now, it was a grand retreat:
River Suista telling in many ways
With babbling tales through every single pebble,
Leaping like a skillful dancing damsel—
What unforgettable and fateful days!
I still recall that flight of a plenum
Of hundred fifty steps down to the river;
A solitary marble palace, plumb
Along the bank, and etched as deeply ever
In my mind, amid sprawling green foothills,
No soul around to whisper of its ills.
The palace, over two centuries old,
Built by a ruler of a Muslim mould,
For private pleasures, luxuries enrolled:
Jets of rose water from the fountains spurting
To cool rooms amply made of marbles cold,
Young Persian nymphets there entertaining,
Mohammad the Emperor, too tired, blasé,
Arab maids rendered disheveled before their bathing,
Their soft, bare feet upon the water splashing,
Singing, and trying hard to please him in odd ways,
Whilst wine poured forth as ample as water,
Afar, tears poured forth from a lost daughter.
Fountains no more now found, songs too have ceased,
Nor snow-white feet ever gracefully step
Upon the white marbles that remain cold.
The vast halls now filled with some cess collectors,
And men like me, oppressed with solitude,
Deprived of all the warmth of womanhood.
My old office clerk had me amply warned:
‘Pass days there if you like, but never nights
If you care’. But I had waved him off with a laugh.
Servants agreed to work only till dark,
Which I ignored, a tusk as does a stray dog's bark.
The house of ill repute, spared by all thieves
Like a bad nightmare, I sneezed at that as well,
And worked hard for long hours till lights grew grey,
Returning at night, too jaded and tired,
Sinking deep into bed, unto sleep mired.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
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