The Hungry Stones III
In scarce a week the place began to weave
A weird fascination upon me,
Nigh hard to bear, harder still to believe,
I felt as if a dragon from a sea
Was slowly digesting me in tight noose,
And melting in its boiling gastric juice—
A state, unknown to me I’d started it
Ever since I’d come, me so indiscreet!
On a dull day, I once came home early—
Well before sunset, and rested in chair
Close to water's edge near a fleet of steps,
The tired sun soon sank, a broad patch of sand
Glowed in the hues of mesmerizing eve,
The pebbles in shallow waters glistened,
There was not a breath, nor wind anywhere,
The stagnant air from spice shrubs on the hills,
As laden was as an oppressive scent
From a despot, all but over-powered me,
And as the sun dived deep behind the hills,
A dark curtain fell ‘pon the daylong stage,
The hills cut short their-light-and-shade’s mute mime,
There was reason for me with a fair rhyme,
Nor was it time to go out for a ride,
Yet, led as if by overwhelming force,
And leaving every reason on wayside,
I was about to venture out on course,
When from a far I heard footfalls behind,
Looking back still not a soul could I find.
I sat down, thinking of an illusion,
And heard again some steps not from too far,
Thence, sound of souls slowly scampering down,
A strange thrill tinged with fear flashed within me,
And though there was no sight before my eyes,
I saw, or thought, a bevy of maidens
Descending for a bath that summer's eve.
The valley all dead was with not a sound
In fast flowing river, or in palace,
Naught stirred to break the sepulchral silence
That surrounded, I heard a girlish, gay,
Mirthful giggle, like gurgle of a spring
Gushing forth into a hundred cascades,
Soon, they ran past me in playful pursuit
Of each other, and towards the river,
Alas, without noticing me ever,
Was I far off in time O for their sight!
I heard their splash, though calm was the river,
While many an arm jingling with bracelets,
The maidens laughing, spattering water,
The fair feet of swimmers tossing tiny
Waves of showers looking to me like pearls.
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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.
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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