A ray of the morning sun lay oblique below the condemned door.
People in the assembly seemed to hear their veins resound
That first and ultimate message of the creation : "Mother, open the door."
The door opened ajar.
The mother sat on the grass-bed, the baby on her lap,
As if the morning star on the lap of dawn.
The patient ray of the sun from the doorway
caressed the baby's head.
The poet struck on the cords of his lute, his song reached the sky :
"Victory to Man, to that New-born, to that eternally living."
Everybody knelt down - kings and beggars,
saints and sinners, wise men and stupids;
They proclaimed loudly : "Victory to Man,
To that New-born, to that eternally living."
[ Punashcha, "Post Scrpitum", 1931]
71. The Bride
In man’s history, an endeavour - foaming and ardent - keeps on roaring;
Arising from the obscure womb of the past a stallion-like wave
Surges in the void; it heralds a great future.
On the shore of Time present, a mountain with its matrix of fire
Waves in its new-born splendour a shining scarf
Welcoming the rising sun. Unforeseen, an unforethought
Human horoscope being composed in an unknown script
Assuming a radiant stature, I saw; in its voice
I heard the message of creation in throbbing fiery notes
Conquering death.
In the upheaval of this epoch’s end I see you, my Child,
In the garment of a bride, a dancing waterfall, all of a sudden
Merging into a lake, all jocund and restless plays
Steering for the depth; confident, staking the world
You are unveiling the mystery of creation in a new life.
The magic of the author of history in cosmic weal and woe
That spreads in a great fun a wonder from land to land
From age to age, in the firmament of the hearts of men and women,
Is also this drama of creation in the luminous history of the world.
[ parishesh, "Epilogue", 1932]
72. ABOUT MUSIC11
You have asked me to speak on music;
Though I feel diffident, yet I shall do it.
Man's knowledge has created its adequate language.
Man's awareness is non-receptive and mute,
As mute as the universe.
That great mute reveals itself through gestures,
Without explanation.
That mute universe has its posture, its rhythm,
its dance from sky to sky.
Each of the infinite atoms and nuclei has created
its own circle for dance,
and dances within its bounds,
constructing endless forms.
A dauntless awareness of fiery impetus lies at its core.
That awareness is seeking its own expression,
Right from the flowers of grass up to
the stars in the sky.
Whenever man's awareness overlooks its limits
and seeks to be conveyed by words,
11 To Dhurjatiprasad Mukhopadhyaya
His words become mute at once,
those words grope for gestures and signals,
grope for dance and melody,
inverts its own signification,
by twisting rules.
Men compose messages of the mute in their poetry.
Whenever men's awareness chooses melody as vehicle
Much like kinetic masses of atoms
They assemble tones within limits,
Furnish them with gestures,
Make them dance in varied revolutions.
That dance imprisoned in limits
Receive a form made of songs.
Troupes of those mute forms reunite
In the sanctuary of creation,
All the ballerinas of the forms
Keep their paces with others
In the nuptial dol 12 with agitated ankle-bells.
I know it, however,
12 The youthful feast of Radha and Krishna on the full-moon night of May
The man who intimates this
Through phrases or melodies or lines
Is an erudite no doubt :
He whose heart can declare
"Sure, I enjoy, I suffer, I contemplate forms",
Does deserve songs.
Even if he ignores doctrines,
Melody flows through his veins.
If you happen to see Narad13,
Ask what he thinks of this,
Not for starting disputes14
But to find the shore of principles beyond all definition.
[ Shesh saptak, "The Last Septet", No. 17, 1935]
13 The celestial bard who is reputed to have created music
14 A popular image of Narad qualifies him as expert in setting people to quarrelling 73. Alter Ego
Since the beginning he has been accompanying me,
That old man of a considerable age,
Indentified with my self.
Today I inform him :
We must separate.
He has come down the flow of blood
Of millions of ancestors :
His thirst, his hunger are age-old,
All his longings since a remote and uninterrupted past
Have perturbed ever so many days and nights.
With that privilege he came and took possession
Of this receptacle indwelling a new-born life,
That ancient one, that beggar.
A celestial message prevailing from above
Gets polluted by his turmoil;
Whenever with offerings I adorn my plate for worship
He tends his hand to usurp them.
The burning of his desire
Wears him out day by day, at every instant,
He envelopes me with his decrepitude,
I who cannot be worn out.
He has won my sympathy from moment to moment,
The reason for which when death clutches him,
I feel worried,
I who am deathless.
I shall now keep apart.
Let him be outside my door,
That old and famished man.
Let him beg and let him enjoy,
Let him pass his days
Mending his torn wrapper;
Let him peck the scattered grains
From the parcel of land that divides
Death and birth.
Sitting near my window I shall observe
That traveler of such a long way,
Who has been coming since such a long time,
Following the meandering path of so many bodies and minds,
Steering on so many barks of death.
Sitting upstairs I shall see him
Inventing several antics
In the heaving of hope and despair
in the light and shade of happiness and woe.
I shall watch him as it were a puppet show,
I shall laugh at him aside.
Free I am, I am transparent, I am master of myself,
I am the light for time eternal,
I am the flow of joy at the source of creation,
I am a midget,
I do not possess anything
Immured in vanity.
[ Shesh saptak, "The Last Septet", No. 22, 1935]