The Hungry Stones VII

I saw no one but felt a gentle nudge, As I woke up, she uttered not a word, But beckoned, gravity of time to judge, To follow her— wordless like a mute bird, I got up but saw no soul save what goes, Around nor in the sprawling old palace Of slumbering sounds and waiting echoes, I feared every step lest I stir up space, Past an array of rooms kept ever dark, We then turned to left taking a long arch, I followed nigh breathless walking aside, My still shadow following that mute guide— Not knowing where, how far, nor to what end, But felt no threat from her, a friend or fiend! Invisible to eyes, not to mind's clue, She, an Arab girl, frail but full of grace, Arms marble smooth, from behind sleeves seen through, And a thin veil tried to hide her fair face, A curved dagger hanged from her slender waist, I wondered if it was a quiet heist, As in Arabian Nights and no less sad, Amidst world of romance far too evil, Through dark alleys of slumbering Baghdad, Oh, was this tryst fraught with unknown peril? My fair guide's abrupt stop broke off my thoughts, She pointed a thing below bluish screen, Her finger on nose— one of beauty spots, Yet, little in the dark was ever seen, But probing more at glazing marble floor, A terrible-looking eunuch I saw, As dark as late night was, blocking the door, He dozed with outstretched legs that churned my maw, And blocking most of our ample passage, A naked sword lay there ready to rage. My guide leapt over him in utter ease, I caught a glimpse of inside scene on lease: The room with Persian carpets was well spread, Unseen, someone seated aside on bed In loose saffron dress, two exquisite feet, Sporting slippers embroidered in pure gold, Aside was a blue crystal tray of old Filled with apples, pears, and grapes aplenty, A few bouquets of flowers kept ready, A tinted decanter waiting to greet A guest, if a pair of gold cups could speak, As fragrance wafted by in a path sleek, Intoxicating, over-powering me! _____________________________________________ Narrative |01.04.2024| Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII 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.