The Hungry Stones XI

A pair of slave girls waved chamar to thee, As diamonds flashed with light of lamps well lit, A king of kings must have fallen to knee, To strip out bejewelled shoes from thy fair feet, While Abyssinian eunuch of foulest breath And looking like a harbinger of death, Though clad like a gay angel somewhat odd, And standing guard O with a naked sword, Perhaps, might have secured thy stately room, Then wonder I, what should have caused the doom Of thy death, O thou flower of desert, What swept away glory of thy grandeur? What kind of jealousy O could have hurt Thee? And what kind of intrigue oh ever? To what shore of cruel death wert thou cast? At what damndest of land? I feel aghast. A query riddled in my memory For long as was writhing through reverie, I heard a scream when of Maher Ali, ‘Stand back, stand back, all this is fairy tale', And my servant handed letters to me, While salaam from the cook looked all too stale. ‘No more can I stay in this eerie place', And packed off to move to my work amidst Souls in solid flesh, life alive in grace, My servant smiled, whilst hopeful of the least. Yet, by the eve giddy minded I grew, And felt as if I had a tryst to keep, Office work seemed an act of bread from blue, A better harvest was when there to reap, And I threw all aside to drive away, Not stopping till the palace was in sight, The day as wished sun well, it was twilight, With hurried steps I took stairs to my way. __________________________________________ 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.