The Hungry Stones, The moth in monsoon fury- XII
Heavy and eerie silence reigned therein,
The dark rooms looking sullen, cold, and mean,
As if they had taken serious offence
Against me who had failed in their esteem,
My heart, feeling contrite, was heaving tense,
To have halfway deserted my fond dream.
No one was there my inner thoughts to share,
None who could some forgiveness to me spare,
Aimless I wandered into my blank mind,
And wished I could that royal guitar find
To inveigle my heavy heart to sing:
O Fire, this poor moth that in vain wished once
To fly away, has returned with wrecked wing
To thee, forgive him just this one instance,
Burn away both his wings and make him lame,
Nay, consume him in thy red scorching flame.
As I wailed clue-less, my soul sinking low,
Two warm teardrops fell down upon my brow.
Dark and deep clouds hung overcast on hills
That day, the gloomy woods and bare river
Awaiting in suspense with monsoon drills,
An ominous calm prevailed all over.
And soon it all shivered— land along sky,
A wild storm blew forth and went howling by,
Through pathless woods baring its lightning teeth,
Like a raving maniac snapping chain,
Wishing to unleash hell, terrible pain
To whoso there’s on hills, whoso beneath.
And not a soul around was in the camp
To wipe the dark of heart, nor light a lamp,
I felt: a woman lying on her face—
On a carpet below the bed, clasping
Her wounded heart, and pulling hair in stress,
Blood trickling down, in utter pain, laughing
Still, bursting into a heart-wringing wail,
Now, rend her bodice, now beat breasts gone frail,
And from nowhere winds roared in from windows,
The pouring rains soaked further her sorrows.
Through the night, the storm never ceased to rage,
Nor did my fair lady's passionate cry,
I wandered from room to room, a blind man,
Unremitting sorrows my companion,
And yet none there who could have consoled me,
As I heard the cry: ‘stay back, all is false',
Meher Ali the mad was there, no doubt,
The old tenant of this odd wailing house,
‘Tell me what’s false?' I could not help but ask,
Waving me off was how he responded,
Repeating, ‘stay back, stay back, all is false'.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali, Kshudhaarto Paashaana.
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