The Hungry Stones IX
Let me not delve deep on what panned out thence,
The gloom of nights deepened still further dense,
And there was time I felt a puny pawn,
My wanderings meandered when till dawn—
A pawn being taken for sacrifice,
Through curious halls of the vast edifice,
Where, I would go led by a helping hand,
Chasing an unknown tale, seeing no end.
Amidst the foggy whirlpool of my dreams,
Amidst heavy air charged with fragrant spray,
Amidst heady smell laced with henna there,
Like a flash of lightning, I'd caught the glimpse
Of my fair muse in saffron garments, and gay,
In white ruddy tender feet, soft and fair,
In a close-fitting bodice laced with gold,
The sole object, fulcrum of my dream world,
The wonderland of nether world of sleep,
I sowed wherein seeds— a rich crop to reap.
And I groomed me— a prince of royalty—
Facing mirror, candles on either side,
For a glimpse of that tormenting beauty,
That eager glance, intense passion and pride
Evident in her large dark eyes in pain,
At point of speech, yet with dainty refrain
That made mauve ever more her figure fair,
Young and slim, blossoming like a creeper,
Uplifted in her graceful tilting gait,
What dazzling flash of craving ecstasy!
A suave rich smile surviving until late,
And she would melt away like fantasy—
A wild wisp of wind ah laden with all
The fragrance of hilly wilds of the wood,
And putting out the candle, I would fall
Upon my bed forgetting my knighthood,
Eyes closed, body in thrall with rare delight,
Tinged with silent gloom of my concealed plight,
Many a caress and many a kiss,
Many a tender touch of hands amiss,
Gentle murmurs resounding in my ears,
A feel of fragrant breath still on my brow,
As if a sweet perfume wafted for years,
Over-powering memories do as grow.
Slowly a mysterious serpent would twist,
With its stupefying coils about me,
With heavy sigh I'd succumb to the beast,
Overpowered as if by the fantasy,
In deep insensibility only to lapse
Into profound slumber if all else helps.
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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.
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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