Lotus and Jewel Containing "In an Indian Temple", "A Casket of Gems", "A Queen's Revenge": With Other Poems: By Edwin Arnold |
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IN AN INDIAN TEMPLE. |
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 | Lotus and Jewel |  |
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IN AN INDIAN TEMPLE.
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It was a Temple, white and fair,
Piercing the warm blue Indian air
With painted cupola; and set
High on a hill-side, where there met
Two streams—with sister-kiss of wave—
Which rippled lightly down, to lave
Our Deccan flats, gliding to grow
Beema—and Kistna next—and flow
By many a peopled plain and lea
Into the Coromandel sea.
And all along those shining banks
Neem and acacia trees in ranks
Shaded the flood, making cool homes
Of leafy peace for all that comes
To river-side, the pheasant-crow,
The jay, the coppersmith whose blow—
In his green smithy stoutly plied
Ringing from dawn till eventide—
Falls ‘klink, klank, klink,’ upon the ear;
And social weavers who, from fear
Of thievish snakes, their nests suspend
Swinging from every branchlet's end:
There, too, the nine brown sisters talked;
The silver-feathered egret stalked;
The muchi-baug—“tiger of fish”—
Shot from the air with arrowy swish
And soared again—his pearly prey
Clutched in red talons. All the day
You heard the necklaced jungle-dove
Cooing low songs of ceaseless love;
While, brooding near, his listening wife
With soft breast warmed her eggs to life;
And, from the hot vault of the sky
The circling kite made fierce reply;
For Love and Hate were neighbours still
Even upon that holy hill!
Piercing the warm blue Indian air
With painted cupola; and set
High on a hill-side, where there met
Two streams—with sister-kiss of wave—
Which rippled lightly down, to lave
Our Deccan flats, gliding to grow
Beema—and Kistna next—and flow
By many a peopled plain and lea
Into the Coromandel sea.
And all along those shining banks
Neem and acacia trees in ranks
Shaded the flood, making cool homes
Of leafy peace for all that comes
To river-side, the pheasant-crow,
The jay, the coppersmith whose blow—
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Ringing from dawn till eventide—
Falls ‘klink, klank, klink,’ upon the ear;
And social weavers who, from fear
Of thievish snakes, their nests suspend
Swinging from every branchlet's end:
There, too, the nine brown sisters talked;
The silver-feathered egret stalked;
The muchi-baug—“tiger of fish”—
Shot from the air with arrowy swish
And soared again—his pearly prey
Clutched in red talons. All the day
You heard the necklaced jungle-dove
Cooing low songs of ceaseless love;
While, brooding near, his listening wife
With soft breast warmed her eggs to life;
And, from the hot vault of the sky
The circling kite made fierce reply;
For Love and Hate were neighbours still
Even upon that holy hill!
Yet, in the Temple all seemed peace.
There—sitting upon Shiva's knees—
Parvati, shaped in gold, was seen,—
With great eyes jewelled—Shiva's Queen:
And nigh them, in the inmost dusk,
Ganpati, known by broken tusk
And trunk of elephant. No sound
Stirred the deep quiet of that ground
Where the Gods dwelled, save footfall rare
Of Hindoo wife or maid, with fare
Of coloured rice or honeyed cake
For Shiva's Priest, and vows to make
Before the shrine in some dear name;
Save, also, when the pigeons came,
A blue cloud, whirring from the wood
To peck their daily Temple-food.
If other echo silence broke
'Twas Govind murmuring Sanskrit shloke
From ancient scrolls, or chanting prayers
Three times a day, Govind who bears—
Immeasurably wise—the weight
Of threescore learnëd years and eight,
Shiva's calm servant. Sometimes, you
Would hear within that Temple, too,
Gunga the Nautch-girl's anklets chime
Dancing in some grave measured rhyme
Before the Gods, to throb of drum
And low-played pipe, or, with deft thumb
Twangling the tight-stretched vina-string
To yield shrill notes, while she did sing
Of Love—as Nautchnees know—and praise
Of lovers dead for Love; and lays
Of wounded hearts and piercing eyes;
Which grey Philosophies despise.
There—sitting upon Shiva's knees—
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With great eyes jewelled—Shiva's Queen:
And nigh them, in the inmost dusk,
Ganpati, known by broken tusk
And trunk of elephant. No sound
Stirred the deep quiet of that ground
Where the Gods dwelled, save footfall rare
Of Hindoo wife or maid, with fare
Of coloured rice or honeyed cake
For Shiva's Priest, and vows to make
Before the shrine in some dear name;
Save, also, when the pigeons came,
A blue cloud, whirring from the wood
To peck their daily Temple-food.
If other echo silence broke
'Twas Govind murmuring Sanskrit shloke
From ancient scrolls, or chanting prayers
Three times a day, Govind who bears—
Immeasurably wise—the weight
Of threescore learnëd years and eight,
Shiva's calm servant. Sometimes, you
Would hear within that Temple, too,
Gunga the Nautch-girl's anklets chime
Dancing in some grave measured rhyme
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And low-played pipe, or, with deft thumb
Twangling the tight-stretched vina-string
To yield shrill notes, while she did sing
Of Love—as Nautchnees know—and praise
Of lovers dead for Love; and lays
Of wounded hearts and piercing eyes;
Which grey Philosophies despise.
Good friends were dancing girl and priest
To one I knew, such friends—at least—
As those may be whom Fortune gives
Stars wide apart and differing lives:
And Gunga to the Saheb would sing
Sweet Indian songs for pleasuring;
And Govind—patient with their folly—
Would listen, mild and melancholy,
Till nobler moments rose, and then
Speak wisely on the ways of men,
The worlds of Gods, the wisdom hid
In Upanîshad, Pooran, Ved:
Nay, and sometimes, with careful finger,
On some dark text and comment linger,
Sifting its sacred meanings o'er—
As when in burning Ratnapoor
The ruby-miners wash away
Gravel and dust and yellow clay
To leave at last one jewel bare,
‘Pigeon-blood’ colour, faultless, rare!
Which to the finder freedom brings,
And glows, in seal or crown of kings.
To one I knew, such friends—at least—
As those may be whom Fortune gives
Stars wide apart and differing lives:
And Gunga to the Saheb would sing
Sweet Indian songs for pleasuring;
And Govind—patient with their folly—
Would listen, mild and melancholy,
Till nobler moments rose, and then
Speak wisely on the ways of men,
The worlds of Gods, the wisdom hid
In Upanîshad, Pooran, Ved:
Nay, and sometimes, with careful finger,
On some dark text and comment linger,
Sifting its sacred meanings o'er—
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The ruby-miners wash away
Gravel and dust and yellow clay
To leave at last one jewel bare,
‘Pigeon-blood’ colour, faultless, rare!
Which to the finder freedom brings,
And glows, in seal or crown of kings.
On such a day those sate together
Under the sky of splendent weather
Which shines in Poush, and held debate—
Friendly or petulant—with weight
Of Govind's lore at one time heard,
And then—like some loud “tit-wee” bird—
The Nautch-girl mocking all save Love;
Anon, demure as any dove,
Listening to wisdom; and, again,
Falling with laughter to some strain
Ill-fitted to the theme:
Under the sky of splendent weather
Which shines in Poush, and held debate—
Friendly or petulant—with weight
Of Govind's lore at one time heard,
And then—like some loud “tit-wee” bird—
The Nautch-girl mocking all save Love;
Anon, demure as any dove,
Listening to wisdom; and, again,
Falling with laughter to some strain
Ill-fitted to the theme:
But sit
In Temple-shade, and judge of it!
In Temple-shade, and judge of it!
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Pandit! You promised me to read to-day
That Upanîshad where the Sanskrit tells
The inner meanings of your mystic Word,
The Word we must not utter till we meet
Privately here, with foolish ears away.
P.
Yea! the Mandûkya! hast thou conned the text?
S.
It was so hard and rugged none might read
As little taught as I. The words were plain,
But not the sense. 'Twas like a rain-time cloud
Blown by the wind, sending far thunder forth,
Which seemed to bring some message if man's ear
Had wit to comprehend.
P.
It hath such wit
If it will listen well; and thou may'st learn
More than thy Sages know beyond the seas,
Pondering Mandûkya; for the leaves recite
What lies within that Word we must not speak
Where Mlechchas are.
S.
Well! will you say it now?
P.
I sin—the Book being so majestical,
And thou no twice-born—if I teach thee this;
Save that thou lovest our Land, and lov'st to tread
All paths of knowledge. But is Gunga there?
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I saw her scattering pulse to feed the doves
When I rode in, and—hark! her vina plays!
You will not stay our study for the girl?
[Gunga enters, holding a Vina. She salutes the Priest and the Englishman.]
Gunga.
Swasti! my holy Rishi! Maharaj,
Salaam! Bid me not go—Mahadev's girl—
Who dances for the pleasure of the Gods,
And brings the temple treasure. See, rupees!
I got them singing yesternight: mine eyes
Pierced the Rao Saheb to the heart, which bled
Plentiful gifts; yet had he nought from me
Save one kiss on the brow. Ah, Mera Jan!
My English Lord; I know a song on that: [She plays and sings]
“My Lotus-eyed—my Love that loves me now—
She lets me touch the tilka on her brow,
And mouth as soft as are the bimba-leaves,
And little rounded chin, whence love perceives
The smooth brown neck sink to that tender place
Where the heart beats between two hills of grace.
She lets me touch the tilka on her brow,
And mouth as soft as are the bimba-leaves,
And little rounded chin, whence love perceives
The smooth brown neck sink to that tender place
Where the heart beats between two hills of grace.
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“But, when I would have kissed the rose-red peaks
Of those dear mountains,—as a pilgrim seeks
To worship on the highest spot—she cried:
‘Nay, nay! my choli must not be untied!’
So trips she off, as from the tamarind-spray
A light hen-koïl, in her mate's mid lay.”
Of those dear mountains,—as a pilgrim seeks
To worship on the highest spot—she cried:
‘Nay, nay! my choli must not be untied!’
So trips she off, as from the tamarind-spray
A light hen-koïl, in her mate's mid lay.”
S.
Oh, Gunga! if you vex the Pandit's soul
He will not read, and I shall miss to know
What says Mandûkya. Sit and learn this lore,—
If you may hear it.
P.
Nay, the girl can hear!
I am too old for anger, and she bears
A gentle breast, and serves our Temple well,
Though all too light of mind, and loose of tongue.
G.
Dear Master! make me wise! Gunga is good
When you will teach; and what should Sahebs know
A Nautchnee must not hear? The gates are shut;
The Temple-birds are fed; sometimes I think—
When only they and I are in the Court,
And I sit watching how they pace about,
With red feet like to mine, all henna-stained,
And barred backs, like my striped and painted cloth;
And jewels round their throats, like these I wear!
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Bridling their necks, and making melting eyes,
And sidling here and there, and spreading wings,
And wooing and pursuing, with one song
Of ‘love-love-love,’ and do not fear the Gods,
But pick dropped rice from Shiva's awful feet;—
Oh, then I think these be dead Nautch-dancers
Come back to the glad light to coo, and serve,
And seek old lovers! There's a verse on that: [Gunga sings and plays]
“Resolve me—element by element—
Into the Void, oh God! I am content,
So I may only be, for him I love,
The water in his tank, the winds that rove
Around his brows, the light that serves his needs,
The fire that warms him, and the soil that feeds.”
Say! you two wise ones! is not that as deep
Into the Void, oh God! I am content,
So I may only be, for him I love,
The water in his tank, the winds that rove
Around his brows, the light that serves his needs,
The fire that warms him, and the soil that feeds.”
As your Vedantas?
S.
But you do not tell
Which of past many lovers is to drink
Gunga made water; cool his fevered brows
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With Gunga, blazing bright!
G.
The last, my Lord!
All others I forget!
P.
Thou foolish Soul,
Who, losing thine own house, would'st help to build
Another perishable form! What's he,
Or thou, or any, but a wave which lifts
Out of Brahm's ocean—to sink back again?
Seek to grow one with Him, and rather say:
“Yea! dear Lord! we are one with Thee! since
Thou art all in all!
And our lives in Thy Life must end; yet dare
I never call
Thee mine, as I am Thine, oh God! The Wave
is still the Sea's!
The Sea is not the Wave's, therefor! So I, and
all of these!”
Thou art all in all!
And our lives in Thy Life must end; yet dare
I never call
Thee mine, as I am Thine, oh God! The Wave
is still the Sea's!
The Sea is not the Wave's, therefor! So I, and
all of these!”
S.
That makes you solemn, Gunga! Keep your eyes
Curtained with lashes just one little while!
Now for this dread Word—OM.
P.
Oh!—not like that!—
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My mouth from stain: then, covering one hand,
I raise this other to my lips, and say,
With three half-breaths drawn in,—but slow and low—
The three great matras of this mighty Word
Which is as Silence spoken! Hear'st thou?—OM!—
S.
How are there three?
P.
'Tis made of A,—U,—M:
And last the vindu binding all in one,
Which one is holiest of all uttered speech,
Sweet to the Gods, consummate, good to say
At all the Samdhyas,—when Night joineth Morn,
Morning the Afternoon, and Evening Night;
Good to repeat before we read the Veds,
And when we finish; locking all truths up
As the womb holds the life, as rocks hide gems,
And seeds the leaf, flower, fruit. A Scripture saith
“OM is the bow; the Arrow is the Soul;
Brahm is the object: he who shooteth straight
Pierceth the target of the Uttermost,
Attaineth end.” “Meditate OM!” it saith:
“For, in that mystic light, the knowers know
Brahm without body, parts, or passions—Brahm
Joyful, Eternal, All-embracing, Pure.”
This Word hath all words in it, all three names
Of Brahma, Shiva, Vishnu; all three worlds—
Earths, Ethers, Heavens; and all three modes of Time
Past, Present, Future; all three sexes, too,
Yoni, and Lingam, and what yoketh both;
And all three Veds!
And last the vindu binding all in one,
Which one is holiest of all uttered speech,
Sweet to the Gods, consummate, good to say
At all the Samdhyas,—when Night joineth Morn,
Morning the Afternoon, and Evening Night;
Good to repeat before we read the Veds,
And when we finish; locking all truths up
As the womb holds the life, as rocks hide gems,
And seeds the leaf, flower, fruit. A Scripture saith
“OM is the bow; the Arrow is the Soul;
Brahm is the object: he who shooteth straight
Pierceth the target of the Uttermost,
Attaineth end.” “Meditate OM!” it saith:
“For, in that mystic light, the knowers know
Brahm without body, parts, or passions—Brahm
Joyful, Eternal, All-embracing, Pure.”
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Of Brahma, Shiva, Vishnu; all three worlds—
Earths, Ethers, Heavens; and all three modes of Time
Past, Present, Future; all three sexes, too,
Yoni, and Lingam, and what yoketh both;
And all three Veds!
See! on yon banyan-branch
Which overhangs our wall, two parroquets!
There is a Scripture—third of Mundaka—
Telleth of that, so as a man may read
Who knoweth OM. Two Birds—it sayeth—sit,
Always united, always equal-plumed,
Perched on one fig-tree branch. This pecks the fruit
That feedeth not, but gazeth—witnessing;—
And She who eateth is the Human Soul,
And he who watcheth is the Soul Divine,
And Life the Fig-tree is, and Life's delights
Its too sweet fruit. But, if one knoweth OM,
The feeding bird looks on the watching bird—
Its mate immortal, scorning those false fruits—
And leaveth all, to join the “All of All;”
Saved by right sight, lifted on wiser wings
To better pleasures;—as, see! now they fly—
Those green birds,—high into the stainless Blue!
Oh, look you, Friend! when the great Gods would hear
What Brahm was, unto Indra came they all
Asking this thing, glorious as yonder clouds
Which flock towards the throne of the sinking Sun,
Ruby and amethyst, and pearl and gold;
And Indra bade them sit beneath a tree—
The Nyagrodha tree—nor spake he once,
Through twenty thousand moons, to that bright throng
Of seated Gods; but at the last he spake
Saying, with fingers on his hushed lips, “OM!”
Then all the Gods went to their places wise.
Which overhangs our wall, two parroquets!
There is a Scripture—third of Mundaka—
Telleth of that, so as a man may read
Who knoweth OM. Two Birds—it sayeth—sit,
Always united, always equal-plumed,
Perched on one fig-tree branch. This pecks the fruit
That feedeth not, but gazeth—witnessing;—
And She who eateth is the Human Soul,
And he who watcheth is the Soul Divine,
And Life the Fig-tree is, and Life's delights
Its too sweet fruit. But, if one knoweth OM,
The feeding bird looks on the watching bird—
Its mate immortal, scorning those false fruits—
And leaveth all, to join the “All of All;”
Saved by right sight, lifted on wiser wings
To better pleasures;—as, see! now they fly—
Those green birds,—high into the stainless Blue!
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What Brahm was, unto Indra came they all
Asking this thing, glorious as yonder clouds
Which flock towards the throne of the sinking Sun,
Ruby and amethyst, and pearl and gold;
And Indra bade them sit beneath a tree—
The Nyagrodha tree—nor spake he once,
Through twenty thousand moons, to that bright throng
Of seated Gods; but at the last he spake
Saying, with fingers on his hushed lips, “OM!”
Then all the Gods went to their places wise.
S.
And you are wise, good Pandit! Yet I long
To hear this scroll, and Gunga burns to hear;
She did not glean such treasure from the hand
Of you Rao Saheb! To the Nautch Girl.]
Slack your vina-strings,
And sit in closer! You've no song for that:
G.
How know you, Maharaj? There's drum and dance
For all the moods;—Mahadev's girl can sing
Many like this:
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“Because I have not served Thee right, oh, sweet and mighty Lord!
Thou wilt not less deliverance, and rest with Thee afford;
Who drinks of blessëd Amrit,—though it be with dying lips,—
Lives, and grows well and pure again, at the first drop he sips.”
But let my music sleep!
Thou wilt not less deliverance, and rest with Thee afford;
Who drinks of blessëd Amrit,—though it be with dying lips,—
Lives, and grows well and pure again, at the first drop he sips.”
Now will I listen!
P.
I shall read the text
In brief lines—as it runs—then make all plain.
“Nama Paramâtmane Hari! OM!
OM! Amityêtad Aksharam idan
Sarvvan tasyopavyâkhyânan bhût!”—
Which meaneth, “Glory in the Highest! OM!
The Immeasurable! This is immortal! OM!
This is the One! This word, interpreted,
Is what was in beginning, and is now,
And ever shall be—OM embraceth those—
The threefold modes of Life, and what's beyond
Unmeted by them. OM is that, and all!”
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So spoken of the All, is Brahm: the soul
Is Brahm: yet here this soul goes chatuspât
“Four-footed;” owns conditions four. Observe
How these be packed in OM!
S.
Now, Gunga, list!
Why do you smile?
G.
I wonder why I sang
These wistful words, of late, to one I loved: [She sings and plays]
“What should I say at hour of parting hateful?
If I sigh ‘leave me not!’ that seems ungrateful!
If I should whisper ‘go’ it sounds so coldly;
And to cry ‘stay’ were to command too boldly;
‘Go, if thou wilt,—stay, if thou wilt!’—this savours
Of heedless heart; while full of Fate's ill-favours
'Twould be to murmur, ‘If we part, I die!’
Lest that fall true: alas! I know not—I—
What thing to utter! Teach me some wise word
To say when you must leave me, Dearest Lord!”
Now, had I known—“Om” was the word to speak,
If I sigh ‘leave me not!’ that seems ungrateful!
If I should whisper ‘go’ it sounds so coldly;
And to cry ‘stay’ were to command too boldly;
‘Go, if thou wilt,—stay, if thou wilt!’—this savours
Of heedless heart; while full of Fate's ill-favours
'Twould be to murmur, ‘If we part, I die!’
Lest that fall true: alas! I know not—I—
What thing to utter! Teach me some wise word
To say when you must leave me, Dearest Lord!”
Which all thoughts compasses.
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You feather, blown
From pea-hen's neck at pairing-time, be still!
Now, Pandit! tell us these conditions four.
P.
Prathamah pâdah, Sir! Vaiśvânara.
“The first condition is ‘Vaiśvânara.’”
Now, this word signifieth ‘Consciousness,’
Common to all men (vaiśva-nar), and so
Intendeth common waking life, that state
Wherein we eat and drink, and see and smell,
And hear and touch and taste. The holy script
Sayeth, ‘Vaiśvânara is waking life;
Whereof the knowledge is of outward things
Cheating the sense. Seven organs hath this life,
And mouths nineteen. It feedeth on the Gross.’
G.
Oh, Shiva! Nineteen mouths! How one might kiss!
S.
Which are the organs seven; and which those mouths
Twenty less one?
P.
The books speak diversely;
Yet our chief sages teach the organs seven
Of waking life, are—for the Head the Heavens,
For Eye the Sun, for Breath the moving Wind,
For Heart the Ether, for the Humours, Sea,
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Also those nineteen mouths are nineteen doors
Whereby the world hath access to the Self;
And these be—the five modes of Intellect,
The five Sense-gateways, the five Vital airs;
With Mind, Will, Individual Consciousness,
And Chittam, which is sense behind the sense,
That whereby sight of eye, and touch of skin,
And taste, and smell, and sound are cognited.
Such is Vaiśvânara—the waking Life—
The letter A denoteth it in AUM.
S.
And what is U?
P.
It standeth in the Word
For Taijasa, second of living states,
Which hath its name from tejas—“brilliancy,”
Being that gleam which thou shalt see with eyes
Fast shut, when all the gloom danceth in sparks,
And, on the inner lids the lingering light
Paints stars and rings of spangled phantasy;
For Taijasa is slumber, when we dream,
And the scroll saith: it hath the organs seven,
The gates nineteen, but knoweth inner things,
And—praviviktabhuk—in sightless sleep
It “feedeth on the Subtle.”
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Ah! I know
Your Taijasa! when I have danced all night,
And draw my cloth, at last, across my eyes,
I see the Temple-lamps pale and more pale
Inside my lids, all down the road to sleep;
Till at the end there comes a softer light
Which needs no eyes; and there I lie, and dream!
S.
What dream you of, my Gungabaee?
G.
Of gold
So much it bursts my cloth! of beauteous gems
Hung on my neck by some one loving me;
Or 'tis a Prince who sends me cardamums
Which mean “your breath is Heaven!” or sandal-wood
Chipped small, which is to say, “In seeing you
I become water!” or stick-cinnamon
Which signifies “my life is thine!” Sometimes
I dream the gods rise from their seats, and wink
Their jewelled eyes, and tell me where to find
Blue lotus for their shrines, or where there lies
A buried pot of mohours; sometimes, too,
I see two elephants that fight and fight
Without their mahoots—that means death! or see
Lotuses grown in sand, and that means love
From unexpected places; or I spy
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And those, I know, bring ill! But it is good
To dream of fire-flies, mirrors, thrones, and fish,
And rice, and rainbows: yestereve I dreamed
A black calf sucked a brindled heifer's bag,
And that, be sure, shows losses; so I brought
A jar of milk to-day for Parvati.
P.
Yea, Nautchni, yea! that is the waking light
Glimmering in visions; that is Taijasa!
Yet so—if thou wert wiser—shouldst thou see
Innermost things, ev'n dreaming; nay, and so
Thou, too, dost pass into a deeper sleep,
Life's third Condition.
S.
And the name of this?—
P.
The name, Sahebji! is Prajna, letter M
Of those three letters of the mighty Word.
Here, very plain our ancient writing runs!
Yatra supno na kanchan kamayatê
Kaman, na kanchan svapnan paśyati—
“When he asleep desireth no desire,
Dreameth no dreams, that is the perfect sleep—
Sushupnan—that is Prajna; then he lives!”
“He, lying thus,” it saith, “lieth, grown one
With all which is; that which he knows he knows
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Perfect, except for ceasing; bliss he tastes
As taste the Gods, and—chêtomukh—his mouth
Is Wisdom's portal. He is Lord of all,
All-sharing, ruling inner things, a soul
Whence springeth life as from a Yoni—so
He maketh and unmaketh.” Such is M,
The third great matra.
S.
Yet resolve me this,
How ‘maketh and unmaketh?’ what is life
Its senses chained in sleep?
P.
Suffer me, Sir!
To answer from Brihadâraranyaka
Where Raja Janaka holds deep discourse
With Yajnavalkya, and the good Prince asked,
“By what light lives the Soul?” The Brahman said:
It liveth here by sunlight, using eyes;
And lacking sunlight, by the gleam of the moon;
And, if there be no moon, or sun, by fire;
And if the fire fails, then by sound or touch;
But if no sound is heard, and all be void,
Then is the Soul sufficing light to Soul.
For dwelling in the hollow of the heart,
Girt by the senses as a king by slaves,
Being left alone it riseth, lights its lamp,
And, wandering down the borders of two worlds,
Seemeth to think, yet watcheth what is thought;
Seemeth to move, but stays unchangeable.
Then fall away from Soul the ills it took
Assuming form; like Handmaids, Sleep and Night
Strip it of those; it goes majestical,
And sees two lives, on this and that side; one
Here of this Earth, and in another World
Another not yet known, between which winds—
With banks and shoals that shift, now nearer Life,
Now nearer Death—the placid channel of Sleep,
Like a black, shadowy, hidden, windless stream
Whose silent waters lave both lands, and bear
The Spirit on its tranquil boat of flesh
Hither and thither. Gliding wistfully
Down that dividing flood the Soul, secure,
Seeth both shores, and bringeth what it will
From that to this, and taketh what it will,
And “maketh and unmaketh.” Horses, roads,
Or chariots are there none in Shadow-Land,
Yet the Soul willeth these, and see! it drives,
Horsed, glorious, eager, through the boundless Murk!
No bliss, no kiss, no large delights be there
Of beautiful kind faces lit with love;
Of soft arms shutting into Paradise;
Yet the Soul wills there be, and lo! that Dark
Is filled with companies of Apsarâs,
Lovely and sweet all mortal maids beyond—
Sweeter than Rambha whom Râvana wooed!
There are no tanks, no palaces, no trees,
Nor feasts, nor dances; but the Soul doth will,
And, see! the Dark grows gracious with great walls
Built on the void, ramps of red gold, and domes
Of cloud-poised marble, and fair cloistered courts
Where wave the feathers of the palms, and flit
Swift glistering shoals of fish in lilied pools;
And dancers, rosy-footed, and bright-eyed,
Melt the glad soul to love.
To answer from Brihadâraranyaka
Where Raja Janaka holds deep discourse
With Yajnavalkya, and the good Prince asked,
“By what light lives the Soul?” The Brahman said:
It liveth here by sunlight, using eyes;
And lacking sunlight, by the gleam of the moon;
And, if there be no moon, or sun, by fire;
And if the fire fails, then by sound or touch;
But if no sound is heard, and all be void,
Then is the Soul sufficing light to Soul.
For dwelling in the hollow of the heart,
Girt by the senses as a king by slaves,
23
And, wandering down the borders of two worlds,
Seemeth to think, yet watcheth what is thought;
Seemeth to move, but stays unchangeable.
Then fall away from Soul the ills it took
Assuming form; like Handmaids, Sleep and Night
Strip it of those; it goes majestical,
And sees two lives, on this and that side; one
Here of this Earth, and in another World
Another not yet known, between which winds—
With banks and shoals that shift, now nearer Life,
Now nearer Death—the placid channel of Sleep,
Like a black, shadowy, hidden, windless stream
Whose silent waters lave both lands, and bear
The Spirit on its tranquil boat of flesh
Hither and thither. Gliding wistfully
Down that dividing flood the Soul, secure,
Seeth both shores, and bringeth what it will
From that to this, and taketh what it will,
And “maketh and unmaketh.” Horses, roads,
Or chariots are there none in Shadow-Land,
Yet the Soul willeth these, and see! it drives,
Horsed, glorious, eager, through the boundless Murk!
No bliss, no kiss, no large delights be there
24
Of soft arms shutting into Paradise;
Yet the Soul wills there be, and lo! that Dark
Is filled with companies of Apsarâs,
Lovely and sweet all mortal maids beyond—
Sweeter than Rambha whom Râvana wooed!
There are no tanks, no palaces, no trees,
Nor feasts, nor dances; but the Soul doth will,
And, see! the Dark grows gracious with great walls
Built on the void, ramps of red gold, and domes
Of cloud-poised marble, and fair cloistered courts
Where wave the feathers of the palms, and flit
Swift glistering shoals of fish in lilied pools;
And dancers, rosy-footed, and bright-eyed,
Melt the glad soul to love.
Subduing flesh
By spell of sleep he—not himself asleep—
Sees his sense slumbering, and moves away
Free as the mated bird launching from branch.
The Life-breath keeps the nest—the Soul flies off,
To go and come in that wide Realm of Rest
Making its manifold shapes, unmaking them;
Rejoicing in the arms of Dream-maidens;
Laughing with lovely friends, moving at will
On wondrous wings of thought; arriving swift
At splendid sights, or strange, or tragical,
And sometimes terrible—for fear is dear
As well as joy! Yet, though thou know'st that Land,
Thou shalt not meet the Soul there, nay—nor mark
Where in the viewless vast it wandereth.
Therefore, let no man wake one suddenly,
Lest Soul return not well from its long way!
By spell of sleep he—not himself asleep—
Sees his sense slumbering, and moves away
Free as the mated bird launching from branch.
The Life-breath keeps the nest—the Soul flies off,
To go and come in that wide Realm of Rest
Making its manifold shapes, unmaking them;
Rejoicing in the arms of Dream-maidens;
Laughing with lovely friends, moving at will
25
At splendid sights, or strange, or tragical,
And sometimes terrible—for fear is dear
As well as joy! Yet, though thou know'st that Land,
Thou shalt not meet the Soul there, nay—nor mark
Where in the viewless vast it wandereth.
Therefore, let no man wake one suddenly,
Lest Soul return not well from its long way!
And Yâjnavalkya said: The Soul,—thus roaming,
Thus, like a falcon, flying here and there
From cliff to cliff of sleep's far boundaries,
Seeing the glad and sad, the old and new,
The good and ill,—presently wearieth.
Then doth it fold its pinions and sink down
Into Soul's nest, reaching the dreamless Peace
Prajna. There follow not to that deep state,
Gladness or sadness, good or evil. Life
Is lifted out of living—Soul grows Brahm!
Nor let one say ‘it seeth—heareth not!’
That which doth see and hear is Self;—eye, ear
Were instruments, laid down: who used them keeps
Light of his own, sound of his own, touch, taste
Other than ours!
Thus, like a falcon, flying here and there
From cliff to cliff of sleep's far boundaries,
Seeing the glad and sad, the old and new,
The good and ill,—presently wearieth.
Then doth it fold its pinions and sink down
Into Soul's nest, reaching the dreamless Peace
Prajna. There follow not to that deep state,
Gladness or sadness, good or evil. Life
Is lifted out of living—Soul grows Brahm!
Nor let one say ‘it seeth—heareth not!’
That which doth see and hear is Self;—eye, ear
Were instruments, laid down: who used them keeps
Light of his own, sound of his own, touch, taste
Other than ours!
26
Such is the letter M,
Third matra of the Holy Word.
Third matra of the Holy Word.
S.
I ask,
Right-learnëd Friend! why Good and Evil cease
Because Soul sleeps?
P.
Surely such names subsist
In worlds of ‘thine and mine,’ of ‘this and that,’
Of ‘praise and blame!’ Where all things melt in one
Evil and Good are fled, to plague no more.
S.
Well! who may judge? In England—over-sea,
Our Gunga here, that is so kind and gay;
Who loves the Gods, and gives to all the poor,
And would not hurt a grey gnat, if it stung;
And built the Dharma-Sâla (Nay! you did!),
And knows all dances, and a hundred songs;
And holds her trade as honest as the best:—
With us she would rank viler than with you
Yon Mhar, that must not touch a Brahman's cloth.
G.
By Shiva's snakes! Out there are all so pure?
S.
Not all! Yet we have built the House of Love
With Christian stones, and each man chooses love
Not by some other's will—as here with you—
But for himself; and each will have his love—
27
When first its green cup splits.
G.
And fares it well
With those cold blossoms, in the homes they find?
S.
Yes, Gunga! nobly well in honest homes!
For lovely is the flower of chastity,
Lasting its fragrance, and its fruit more fair
Than chance fruits borne on boughs whence all may pluck.
And goodly is the air of Liberty
For all, but most for lovers, seeing Love
Knows more than Wisdom, and because young hearts
Choose better than their elders, being taught
By Nature, 'ware of inmost sympathy,
And subtle suitings of this blood and that
To blend together for fresh human veins.
So life's long road goes happier for the grace
Of good beginnings! You and I may praise
The white flower on the rock we cannot reach!
Oh, and full well I know what happy hearths
Are here in India, and what stainless wives
Live their sweet lives and die their gentle deaths
Under your suns.
G.
My mother vowed me this—
A Deva-Dasa, servant to the God—
28
Great with me. And my father rose, made whole
After that vow; and, then, they married me—
New-born—with garlands and the mangal-shloke
Wife to the “Dagger;” and they laid red rice
Upon my head, and taught me how to dance,
Play vina, plait my hair with flowers, and make
Great eyes for money. Must I be ashamed?
S.
Not before me, my Sister! It were well
Certain most faultless ones were half as good,
As gentle-souled!
Certain most faultless ones were half as good,
As gentle-souled!
But, Govind! at the last
Is not Good good, and Evil evil? Brahm—
If He be All in All—must deal as Lord
With all three states of OM. Note, too, that verse
Of Katha Upanîshad, “What is here
Visible in our world, is also there
In Brahm's invisible world; and what is there
That same is here unseen.”
Is not Good good, and Evil evil? Brahm—
If He be All in All—must deal as Lord
With all three states of OM. Note, too, that verse
Of Katha Upanîshad, “What is here
Visible in our world, is also there
In Brahm's invisible world; and what is there
That same is here unseen.”
P.
It is so writ!
S.
Then, by good leave, your Indian systems lack
Two points we Westerns boast—the love of man
For God's love, Who hath made him; and this Law—
That because Right is right we follow Right.
29
Give me example, Sir! that I may judge.
S.
Well! I remember one! But tell me first
Is it good Hindoo rule a wife should live
Faithful to death unto her husband's bed?
P.
Yea, by a hundred Shasters!
S.
Yet again,
Is it good Hindoo rule if one who starves
Craves food, the householder shall surely give?
P.
Yea! and our Scriptures say:“If one shall bar
The door against an asker, when he goes
Hungry away, he leaves his own sins there,
And takes the good deeds of the householder.”
S.
But which of these two duties is the first?
P.
Neither is first or last. Both must be kept!
S.
Then judge hereof. There dwelt a householder
In Gaya, where the twin streams wander down—
Nilâjan and Mohâna. Just and mild
This Brahman was, dutiful unto all,
In life's bright prime, a goodly man to view,
Whom fairest wives might worship. So, indeed,
Sita loved Balaram. No new-wed bride
Ever more gladsome paced the seven steps,
Shared the dyed rice, or wore the golden cloth,
And iron bangle: nor, in all that land
30
Stamped with vermilion. These two loved—I say—
Like Krishna and like Radha. Oh, you know!
At coming home, when the white stars peep forth,
And all your Indian sky turns purple peace,
'Twas “Sonarchund! My moon of gold! art safe?
I lived with half my life, whilst thou wert gone!
Ah, didst thou think on me all day?” And he,
“My Pomegranate! my Pearl! whose arms are Heaven,
And mouth as sweet as new Keôra-buds,
How could I think of you, my heart being here?”
G.
Why, that's a song we sing! The air goes so: [She sings and plays]
“Think on me, Dear! you said, at parting;
But this I did not do;
Without my heart I could not think,
And it remained with you.”
But this I did not do;
Without my heart I could not think,
And it remained with you.”
S.
Well! thus they loved. But then the Famine fell:
Indra was angry, and his brazen skies
Cooled with no cloud, and let no sweet rain fall.
In wood and nullah forest creatures died
Pining for drink: the shyest beasts drew in
To lap at village wells; the thirsting snake
Crept to the mud-hole, where the snake-bird drooped
Too parched to strike! The green crops died to grey,
And famished people fed on jungle-meats—
Berries and roots—for half a seer of rice
Sold at two annas, and jowâree went
Thirty rupees the candy! Balaram
Nourished his quarter while the bags held grain,
Then fell to lack and leanness, with the rest;
To sorer lack, because, when there was food
Upon his household fire, the good man lied
A loving lie, saying:“I ate to-day
With Kerupunt—or Lakhsman!”—so that she
Might take her fill, and keep her beauty bright.
Indra was angry, and his brazen skies
Cooled with no cloud, and let no sweet rain fall.
In wood and nullah forest creatures died
Pining for drink: the shyest beasts drew in
31
Crept to the mud-hole, where the snake-bird drooped
Too parched to strike! The green crops died to grey,
And famished people fed on jungle-meats—
Berries and roots—for half a seer of rice
Sold at two annas, and jowâree went
Thirty rupees the candy! Balaram
Nourished his quarter while the bags held grain,
Then fell to lack and leanness, with the rest;
To sorer lack, because, when there was food
Upon his household fire, the good man lied
A loving lie, saying:“I ate to-day
With Kerupunt—or Lakhsman!”—so that she
Might take her fill, and keep her beauty bright.
Was one, inside the city, loved this wife
Unhonestly—Vittoo the wealthy Sett,
Who sold the starving towns-folk pulse, yet kept
His grain-pits filled, hoarding the precious store.
And many a time—when Sita came to buy—
The man would say, measuring less niggard seers,
“Oh, Rose of our sad garden! rice is dear;
Hardly, except to thee, have I to sell!
By Shiva! but I cheapen this for thee!
Yet wouldst thou once—once only—of fair grace—
Be kind to him who worships where he sees
The foot-mark of thy feet; once, only once!—
Lest Death come 'ere my soul's desire be had;—
Then would I load thy cloth with bhat and dall,
Asking no price.” And she would answer, proud,
“I hate thee, Vittoo, for thy wicked love;
My Lord will kill thee if I speak of this,
Or sit and starve rather than buy from thee.
Give me my grain, and let me go!” Whereat
The Sett's heart burned in secret, and his gains
Joyed him no more; for, always, day and night
The face of Sita drew him like a spell.
Unhonestly—Vittoo the wealthy Sett,
Who sold the starving towns-folk pulse, yet kept
His grain-pits filled, hoarding the precious store.
And many a time—when Sita came to buy—
The man would say, measuring less niggard seers,
“Oh, Rose of our sad garden! rice is dear;
Hardly, except to thee, have I to sell!
By Shiva! but I cheapen this for thee!
32
Be kind to him who worships where he sees
The foot-mark of thy feet; once, only once!—
Lest Death come 'ere my soul's desire be had;—
Then would I load thy cloth with bhat and dall,
Asking no price.” And she would answer, proud,
“I hate thee, Vittoo, for thy wicked love;
My Lord will kill thee if I speak of this,
Or sit and starve rather than buy from thee.
Give me my grain, and let me go!” Whereat
The Sett's heart burned in secret, and his gains
Joyed him no more; for, always, day and night
The face of Sita drew him like a spell.
P.
Ah, that a mortal man will sin so deep!
S.
Now—one day—at the worst; when Balaram
Was gone a-seeking bambu-seed to eat;
And Sita's self had tasted nought from dawn,
The last rice being cooked, the last gem sold,
The last poor cowrie spent, there came a Sage
Asking this wife for food. Reverend he seemed,
Of pious mien and speech—a Rishi, sure!
Wearing the saffron-coloured garb, and marked
With Shiva's lines upon his wrinkled brow.
“Give me to eat, Fair Daughter! for I die
33
So craved he, with low voice, blessing the house,
And therewith sank within the threshold-stone,
Piteous to note, so holy and so wan;
This hope his last! Then sprang the bitter tears
To Sita's gentle eyes; faltered her lips;
Beat her true heart as though to burst.—Dear Heaven!
What shall she say? If she shall say, “This house
Is emptied, Father! not one bajri-ear
Is left thy servants!”—then the grief, the shame,
To see him creep away, whom Shastras bid
Succour and honour! And, if she shall say,
“My Lord is absent, he will bring us food!”
Who knows? who knows? Balaram may not find
Till nightfall, or may come bringing no meal;
And ere that hour the Rishi will lie dead!
But oh! if now—to save this life—she say,
“I have no grain, yet, Maharaj! I know
The means to win some;” (Gunga! had you felt
Her veins throb while she thought it!) would he not
Enquire the means, and, learning, choose to die
Rather than she should stain her soul, and truck
Heart's love and household joys and blameless name
For half a maund of rice! She must not tell!
34
Ah, High Gods! help her find the rightful path!
She led that holy man tenderly in,
And, sweetly smiling, wiped her tears away,
And sighed:“Be pleased to rest! thy handmaid goes
To fetch thee food; presently thou shalt eat!”
G.
Now, stay not, Saheb! This is more than songs!
P.
Yes, Nautchni! But, I wonder, did she go?
S.
She drew her sari round her head, and stepped
Into the street. Time was, when Sita passed,
Neighbours would give her greeting, pleased to hear
The music of her anklets, glad to catch
The sunlight of her glance; now went she sad
No friend regarding; for the ways were void;
Or, if a foot-fall sounded, 'twas of men
Haggard and gaunt, who moaned, with lips drawn tight,
“Hast thou to help us, Sister?” stalking on
When, for all answer—with her tears in flood—
She stretched an empty palm. Once and again
A mother with lean arms held high her babe,
Saying:“Buy this, sweet Lady! for so much
As one small pot of rice, before I die!”
And, thrice, in mid-bazaar, she met unveiled
With faces wild, wearing a ragged cloth,
Stripped of their gems, and gnawing food unfit,
Proud purdah women, whom in days gone by
No stranger's eye had looked on; now they walked
Hungry and unabashed, their beauty marred,
Their soft feet stained with mire. No townsman asked,
“Balaram's wife, where goest thou?” The dead
Lay silent, and the dying found no voice;
But unto Sita's throbbing heart it seemed
As though the sun glared hard, as though the wind
Went mocking her, blowing her sari back
To strip the harlot's face. All down the street
House windows gazed upon her; Peepal-trees—
Which know the things men do, and tell the Gods—
Whispered her desperate deed with rustling leaves
One to another, and the clamorous crows
Cawed scorn against her.
Into the street. Time was, when Sita passed,
Neighbours would give her greeting, pleased to hear
The music of her anklets, glad to catch
The sunlight of her glance; now went she sad
No friend regarding; for the ways were void;
Or, if a foot-fall sounded, 'twas of men
Haggard and gaunt, who moaned, with lips drawn tight,
“Hast thou to help us, Sister?” stalking on
When, for all answer—with her tears in flood—
She stretched an empty palm. Once and again
A mother with lean arms held high her babe,
Saying:“Buy this, sweet Lady! for so much
As one small pot of rice, before I die!”
35
With faces wild, wearing a ragged cloth,
Stripped of their gems, and gnawing food unfit,
Proud purdah women, whom in days gone by
No stranger's eye had looked on; now they walked
Hungry and unabashed, their beauty marred,
Their soft feet stained with mire. No townsman asked,
“Balaram's wife, where goest thou?” The dead
Lay silent, and the dying found no voice;
But unto Sita's throbbing heart it seemed
As though the sun glared hard, as though the wind
Went mocking her, blowing her sari back
To strip the harlot's face. All down the street
House windows gazed upon her; Peepal-trees—
Which know the things men do, and tell the Gods—
Whispered her desperate deed with rustling leaves
One to another, and the clamorous crows
Cawed scorn against her.
So with painful steps
Came she to Vittoo's door.
Came she to Vittoo's door.
The Sett salaamed:
“Fortunate day!” he cried. “Good day and glad
Which brings again to us that lotus-face!
In what thing may thy servant pleasure Thee?”
And Sita—hiding all except her eyes—
Made answer, speaking slow and shamedly,
“There is come one who must not be denied
Unto our house; he craveth food:—will die
If none be given; and we have none to give.
Thou hast desired me: measure now for me
Six seers of rice, and tie it in my cloth
Asking no money, for our last is spent:—
And this night, when the houses are all shut
I will come hither,—as thou prayedst me.”
“Fortunate day!” he cried. “Good day and glad
Which brings again to us that lotus-face!
In what thing may thy servant pleasure Thee?”
36
Made answer, speaking slow and shamedly,
“There is come one who must not be denied
Unto our house; he craveth food:—will die
If none be given; and we have none to give.
Thou hast desired me: measure now for me
Six seers of rice, and tie it in my cloth
Asking no money, for our last is spent:—
And this night, when the houses are all shut
I will come hither,—as thou prayedst me.”
No word he spake, but with a trembling mouth
Kissed her feet, bending down; then filled her cloth,
Not measuring the grain. So Sita came
Back to her home, and set the chatty on,
And—boiling rice—served to that holy man;
Who ate with brightening eyes, and took farewell;
First raising to his grateful lips the hem
Of Sita's garment:“Be it well with thee,
Fair Daughter!” said he, “for thy charity,
Here and hereafter!”
Kissed her feet, bending down; then filled her cloth,
Not measuring the grain. So Sita came
Back to her home, and set the chatty on,
And—boiling rice—served to that holy man;
Who ate with brightening eyes, and took farewell;
First raising to his grateful lips the hem
Of Sita's garment:“Be it well with thee,
Fair Daughter!” said he, “for thy charity,
Here and hereafter!”
Entered Balaram
Presently—bringing jungle-roots; but laid
His bitter food aside, smelling the rice.
“Oh, gem of women!” cried he, “whence is this?
How hast thou conjee, when I could not find
One friend in all the town, with half a seer?”
Presently—bringing jungle-roots; but laid
His bitter food aside, smelling the rice.
37
How hast thou conjee, when I could not find
One friend in all the town, with half a seer?”
“Dear Lord!” Sita replied, “judge me herein
Ere thou dost eat! There came a holy man,
Of pious mien and speech—a Rishi, sure—
Reverend to see, wearing the saffron robe,
Who craved for food, and moaned, ‘Give, or I die!’”
All this she told—and how she cast about
Not having food, nor daring to endure
Her Lord's hearth should be shamed by churlish deed—
“For thou, I know,” said she, “had given thy blood
To help a Rishi!”—how—her Lord being gone—
Means must be found. Then piteous she went on:
“Thou did'st not think—I could not tell—forgive!
Vittoo the Sett these many days hath cast
Vile eyes of longing on me, praying me—
Once, and once only,—lest he die unjoyed—
To grant him that—which is for thee alone.
And I have spit upon him, praying thus.
But now—in such sore need—judge me, dear Lord!
Seeing that holy man at point to die,
Thyself away, and nothing left,—save this,
I fetched six seers from Vittoo—promising
That this night, when the houses are all shut,
I would go there, and give—what he hath asked.”
Ere thou dost eat! There came a holy man,
Of pious mien and speech—a Rishi, sure—
Reverend to see, wearing the saffron robe,
Who craved for food, and moaned, ‘Give, or I die!’”
All this she told—and how she cast about
Not having food, nor daring to endure
Her Lord's hearth should be shamed by churlish deed—
“For thou, I know,” said she, “had given thy blood
To help a Rishi!”—how—her Lord being gone—
Means must be found. Then piteous she went on:
“Thou did'st not think—I could not tell—forgive!
Vittoo the Sett these many days hath cast
Vile eyes of longing on me, praying me—
Once, and once only,—lest he die unjoyed—
To grant him that—which is for thee alone.
And I have spit upon him, praying thus.
But now—in such sore need—judge me, dear Lord!
Seeing that holy man at point to die,
Thyself away, and nothing left,—save this,
38
That this night, when the houses are all shut,
I would go there, and give—what he hath asked.”
Silent he stood awhile, with limbs braced hard,
And breath caught back, and blood chilled in his veins,
As when afield th' unwitting antelope
Sees the lithe cheetah spring, and knows it death.
The next fierce instant in his breast his hand
Fumbled the handle of his jungle-knife,
And settled where to strike—there! twixt the breasts!
Straight to that bartered heart! Then, a long sigh
Brake from his soul, and—as she sank, full length,
Sobbing upon his feet—the rage—the hate,
The tempest of his thunderous misery,
His husband's wrath—his man's fond passion—passed
From lips and eyes, as, on a stormy noon
The shadows of the lightning-cloud, which lay
Black on the hill-side, flit; and sunshine gleams.
And breath caught back, and blood chilled in his veins,
As when afield th' unwitting antelope
Sees the lithe cheetah spring, and knows it death.
The next fierce instant in his breast his hand
Fumbled the handle of his jungle-knife,
And settled where to strike—there! twixt the breasts!
Straight to that bartered heart! Then, a long sigh
Brake from his soul, and—as she sank, full length,
Sobbing upon his feet—the rage—the hate,
The tempest of his thunderous misery,
His husband's wrath—his man's fond passion—passed
From lips and eyes, as, on a stormy noon
The shadows of the lightning-cloud, which lay
Black on the hill-side, flit; and sunshine gleams.
“Thou hast done well!” he said, with breaking voice,
“And rightly, Sita! though I would the flames
Had fed on me ere this. It was not meet
To let the Guru die—not possible!
And thou hadst no more means;—and I away.
I thought to kill thee, Dear! whilst thou didst speak;
Then thought to slay the Sett;—but that is past!
Thou hast not sinned, Fair Wife! seeking to pay
My duty's price, and finding nought to give
Save thy sweet self. 'Tis hard we lived for this
Who will be dead anon; yet we should keep—
Must keep—our plighted word. Therefore to-night,
Thou art this man's! I part thy savoury rice
Into two portions; one I bid thee eat—
Thou must not faint before thou payest our debt—
This other I will take to Venkatrao
Whose children famish. Now then, dress thy hair!
No! not i' the old way; not that pretty way
When I was wont to plunge my lips in its silk;
But as they use who do this trade; and scent
Thy breasts with musk, and paint thy lids, and stain
Thy feet and hands with mehndi.”
“And rightly, Sita! though I would the flames
Had fed on me ere this. It was not meet
To let the Guru die—not possible!
39
I thought to kill thee, Dear! whilst thou didst speak;
Then thought to slay the Sett;—but that is past!
Thou hast not sinned, Fair Wife! seeking to pay
My duty's price, and finding nought to give
Save thy sweet self. 'Tis hard we lived for this
Who will be dead anon; yet we should keep—
Must keep—our plighted word. Therefore to-night,
Thou art this man's! I part thy savoury rice
Into two portions; one I bid thee eat—
Thou must not faint before thou payest our debt—
This other I will take to Venkatrao
Whose children famish. Now then, dress thy hair!
No! not i' the old way; not that pretty way
When I was wont to plunge my lips in its silk;
But as they use who do this trade; and scent
Thy breasts with musk, and paint thy lids, and stain
Thy feet and hands with mehndi.”
“See! it rains!
When pity comes too late the skies relent:
There will be plenty soon for all, and peace,
Except for me! Yet, since it is not fit
Thou shouldst go street-stained to the merchant's house,
With mire on thy fair feet—myself will bear
His concubine to Vittoo. Speak not! Dress!”
When pity comes too late the skies relent:
There will be plenty soon for all, and peace,
Except for me! Yet, since it is not fit
Thou shouldst go street-stained to the merchant's house,
40
His concubine to Vittoo. Speak not! Dress!”
And, when Night fell, and all the people slept
Lulled by the blessëd rain—sounded a knock
At Vittoo's door—waiting ajar: a voice
Spake softly:“Kholo! open!—I am here!”
Lulled by the blessëd rain—sounded a knock
At Vittoo's door—waiting ajar: a voice
Spake softly:“Kholo! open!—I am here!”
So,—lighted by the flickering lamp which burned
At Ganpat's shrine—the Sett beheld her stand—
Beautiful Sita, Sita with dove's eyes,
Sita whom all his soul loved and desired,
Come to be his! Joyous he led the way
To where an inner room shone bright with lights,
And gay with painted walls, and richly set
With luxury of yielding beds and shawls
Woven with silk and silver. “Sit, I pray;
And suffer that I fetch thee foot-water,
My goddess! who hast deigned to pace afoot
Unto her worshipper!” Thus quoth the Sett
Half glad, half fearful of his sighing guest,
So silent, and so mournful, and so fair.
But, when he would have laved those beauteous feet
Look! not a journey-stain! not one small speck
Upon them of bazaar-mud!—and such rain!
At Ganpat's shrine—the Sett beheld her stand—
Beautiful Sita, Sita with dove's eyes,
Sita whom all his soul loved and desired,
Come to be his! Joyous he led the way
To where an inner room shone bright with lights,
And gay with painted walls, and richly set
With luxury of yielding beds and shawls
Woven with silk and silver. “Sit, I pray;
And suffer that I fetch thee foot-water,
My goddess! who hast deigned to pace afoot
Unto her worshipper!” Thus quoth the Sett
Half glad, half fearful of his sighing guest,
So silent, and so mournful, and so fair.
But, when he would have laved those beauteous feet
Look! not a journey-stain! not one small speck
Upon them of bazaar-mud!—and such rain!
41
“And thou hast hither flown on hidden wings,
Straight down from Swarga: else, how is there rain
On thy smooth head, but no mire on thy feet?”
Sita gave answer—very sorrowful—
“My husband bore me hither—knowing all!”
What think ye now that Sett did, hearing this?
“My husband bore me hither—knowing all!”
What think ye now that Sett did, hearing this?
P.
I cannot tell. He lived to call in debts!
G.
We cannot tell! Oh, Saheb of Sahebs, go on!
S.
He set the water-pot aside, and bowed
His forehead to her feet—touching his eyes,
His brow, his mouth, his breast, with trembling hands;
Making the eight prostrations. Then, he rose
Clasping his palms together, while he paced
Thrice round her, as ye circle Parvati
Reverently worshipping; then meekly spake:
“I am a sinful man, who dared to grasp
At beauty all beyond me, as is Heaven;
At goodness so above me as the stars
Are higher than my roof; yet, dare I not
Do wrong to him, who did himself this wrong,
Bearing thee hither—out of noblest soul,
Out of such truth that it makes false men true.
Lady! go free of me! and pray thy Lord
That he forgive! Say Vittoo writes thy debt
‘Paid’ in his books—with face upon the dust,
And lips imploring pardon, as from Gods!”
His forehead to her feet—touching his eyes,
His brow, his mouth, his breast, with trembling hands;
Making the eight prostrations. Then, he rose
Clasping his palms together, while he paced
Thrice round her, as ye circle Parvati
Reverently worshipping; then meekly spake:
“I am a sinful man, who dared to grasp
At beauty all beyond me, as is Heaven;
At goodness so above me as the stars
Are higher than my roof; yet, dare I not
Do wrong to him, who did himself this wrong,
42
Out of such truth that it makes false men true.
Lady! go free of me! and pray thy Lord
That he forgive! Say Vittoo writes thy debt
‘Paid’ in his books—with face upon the dust,
And lips imploring pardon, as from Gods!”
So came she spotless home; and the rain fell
Through fifteen days; and rice sold cheap again.
Through fifteen days; and rice sold cheap again.
Now who did well herein, and who did ill?
G.
Oh, Shiva! the sweet tale!—By Chittor's curse
I know it is a sin if holy saints
Ask food and none be given; yet, were I he—
Rather such sin,—whatever Manu says—
And Death, and Narak after! than to lose
Were I that man—the woman I so loved!
P.
I know it is a sin—as Manu saith—
To loose the bond of marriage, and to sell
Love for a gift; but yet—had I been there—
Rather than turn away that saint unfed—
Were I the woman, and his strait so sore—
I had done even as Sita, unabashed!
43
See now, you stand on either side! and Right
Splits midway, on the edge of Manu's rules.
I think—interpreting a Western mind—
The wife did evil, helping life to live
At cost of Love and Fame, dearer than Life:
The husband evil, paying wrongful debt
With coin which none should ask, and no man give:
And most I praise Vittoo the grain-seller,
Who sinned in heart, yet had such heart to see
The loveliness of honour—Manu's sort!
P.
We must observe a promise! Azuf Jah
Marching to war—only a Mussulman!—
Made compact with our Waghur cattle-men;
Wrote it in gold, upon a copper plate,
And kept its every line; even now they sing:—
“Drink full of my rivers;
Graze free in my fields;
Strip grass from my roofs
If no grass the soil yields:
Three murders a day
I forgive you:—but, heed
That your bullocks stand ready
When Azuf hath need!”
Graze free in my fields;
Strip grass from my roofs
If no grass the soil yields:
Three murders a day
I forgive you:—but, heed
That your bullocks stand ready
When Azuf hath need!”
44
My sun-down Mantras in the bhût-khana.
I will return ere Gunga finds her tongue;
That light mind flutters round your story still!
[Exit Govind.
G.
Indeed, I mused, when the grey Pandit rose,
Why I, too, feel—being but a dancing-girl—
Vittoo was best! There must be happiness
In that white world of Virtue, whence you brought
The tender tale: but let hard thought alone!
At Gwalior the Nautchnees killed a tree,
Where Akbar's singer lay, for love of him,
And of his tree—plucking the leaves away
To make their voices beautiful—till—look!
There was no tree! so may we pluck our lives
Leafless with thinking. Shall we laugh again
Till Govind comes? We did not finish OM,
And you look weary:—let me sing you this;—
A young Bihâri taught the words to me:— [Gunga plays and sings]
Choti Gwâlîni—A milkmaid sped
Slender, and bright and brown;
With a chatty of curds on her neat little head,
To sell in Mathura town.
“Rama! ho, Rama! who buys of me
Curds as white as the ivory?”
Slender, and bright and brown;
45
To sell in Mathura town.
“Rama! ho, Rama! who buys of me
Curds as white as the ivory?”
Jahan dharelê—when—at noon-tide,
She set down the chatty, to rest,
Tahan tamua—up to her side,
In silver and satin dressed,
Rama! ho Rama! canters the King;
“Sweet little milkmaid, marketing!”
She set down the chatty, to rest,
Tahan tamua—up to her side,
In silver and satin dressed,
Rama! ho Rama! canters the King;
“Sweet little milkmaid, marketing!”
Agu! hokh agu!—“forwards go!
Ride on your road, my Lord!
If you lay hands on my sari so,
The curds will spatter your sword!
Rama! ho Rama! the curds will fall
On silver, and satin, and jewels, and all!”
Ride on your road, my Lord!
If you lay hands on my sari so,
The curds will spatter your sword!
Rama! ho Rama! the curds will fall
On silver, and satin, and jewels, and all!”
“Tôra lêkhê—you think it is curd
That falls from your milk-pot, Dear!
Môra lêkhê—I call it absurd
A goddess such stuff should bear:
Rama! ho Rama! 'tis amrit instead
Which Heaven rains down on your beautiful head!”
That falls from your milk-pot, Dear!
Môra lêkhê—I call it absurd
A goddess such stuff should bear:
Rama! ho Rama! 'tis amrit instead
Which Heaven rains down on your beautiful head!”
46
Thanks, Gunga! Koïls fluting love in Spring
Pipe nothing softer! but our Sage returns.
[Govind re-enters.
Now, Sir! we know that A, and U, and M,
In this great Word, are three-fold states of life,
Vaiśvânara the first—the waking state;
Next Taijasa, which is the sleep with dreams;
And thirdly Prajna, where man slumbers deep
Seeing no dreams, but floating, quit of flesh,
On that still border-flood whose waters lave
Life on one bank, and on the other Death.
Now would we hear, ap ki mihrbáni se—
Of your kind favour—how the three combine.
P.
I read on from Mandûkya:—The Fourth
Is that which holdeth all the three; being Life
Past living, sleeping, dreaming, dying—OM!
He who is there is Brahman, knowing all—
Not as we know, peeping inside and out—
Not as we understand. ‘Wise’ or ‘unwise’
Are words without a meaning for the Soul
Lifted so high! It seeth, all unseen;
Perceiveth unperceived; not understood,
It comprehendeth; never to be named,
Never made palpable; not limited;
The testimony of it being Itself,
Itself made one with the One Soul, wherein
Those states are each transcended and absorbed,
Changeless, rejoicing, passionless, pervading!
Is that which holdeth all the three; being Life
Past living, sleeping, dreaming, dying—OM!
He who is there is Brahman, knowing all—
Not as we know, peeping inside and out—
Not as we understand. ‘Wise’ or ‘unwise’
Are words without a meaning for the Soul
Lifted so high! It seeth, all unseen;
Perceiveth unperceived; not understood,
It comprehendeth; never to be named,
47
The testimony of it being Itself,
Itself made one with the One Soul, wherein
Those states are each transcended and absorbed,
Changeless, rejoicing, passionless, pervading!
And this Eternal Soul of Life, the Self,
Is named in naming OM; and OM is named
From those three matras, A and U and M.
A is Vaiśvânara, the Waking-State;
And U is Taijasa, the State of Dreams;
And M is Prajna, sleep deeper than dream,
Where the soul wakes, and moves in larger light,
Knowing a farther knowledge; growing one
With HIM WHO IS!
Is named in naming OM; and OM is named
From those three matras, A and U and M.
A is Vaiśvânara, the Waking-State;
And U is Taijasa, the State of Dreams;
And M is Prajna, sleep deeper than dream,
Where the soul wakes, and moves in larger light,
Knowing a farther knowledge; growing one
With HIM WHO IS!
OM indivisible,
Embracing those divisions,—hereby grasped—
Is Soul, the Life of Life, the All, the True,
Changeless, rejoicing, passionless.
Embracing those divisions,—hereby grasped—
Is Soul, the Life of Life, the All, the True,
Changeless, rejoicing, passionless.
Say OM
Solemnly, with stilled lips, and mouth made clean!
Solemnly, with stilled lips, and mouth made clean!
He with his Soul entereth the Soul of Souls
Who hath perceived these things—who hath perceived!
Who hath perceived these things—who hath perceived!
48
Pandit! I humbly thank you for my part
In this most ancient lore, and mystical!
I make namaskar with a grateful heart;
Keep me in yours! Peace go with you! My horse
Waits near the gate, bid them lead Wurdah round.
[Exit Govind.
And, Gunga! till he comes, wind up your strings
And sing some last things now of love and tears.
For if those Scripts are right our lives are wrong;
Yours Chand ki tookri! yours, my ‘Beam of the Moon,’
And mine, who toil to teach so foolishly,
Being untaught. Yet what a goodly earth
To seem all nought! What skies of vaulted gold
Vainly to roof the lives so mocked and scorned!
What furniture of beauty and delight
Embellishes this world we are to hate
At high command of old Philosophies!
Samajhta? Sister!—did you understand?
These pearls which you do sweetly take of me,
And the small hands that clutch them, and the eyes
Which shine so bright, counting the pretty beads,
Are false as fancy—void—things that be not!
Yet, how much surer than the surest joy
Of Taijasa, or Prajna, seem your lips,
49
Your quick brown fingers toying on the strings;
And what neat feet to be illusions! Play!
Find something sad but sweet; for Life is false,
And Love is false, and only shadows live!
And we must—little Gunga!—melt to Gods,
Who were so well-content, women and men;
Must part, and pass, and dream: I know not—OM!
G.
Jo hukhm, Maharaj! thy slave obeys: [Gunga sings and plays]
“Nay! if thou must depart, thou shalt depart;
But why so soon—oh, Heart-blood of my heart?
Go then! yet—going—turn and stay thy feet,
That I may once more see that face so sweet:
Once more—if never more; for swift days go
As hastening waters from their fountains flow;
And whether yet again shall meeting be
Who knows? who knows? Ah! once more turn to me!”
But why so soon—oh, Heart-blood of my heart?
Go then! yet—going—turn and stay thy feet,
That I may once more see that face so sweet:
Once more—if never more; for swift days go
As hastening waters from their fountains flow;
And whether yet again shall meeting be
Who knows? who knows? Ah! once more turn to me!”
S.
Who knows,—who knows? Life a vain breeze that blows!
50
G.
“Blow, gentle Breeze! from my Beloved's place;
And let the airs touch mine, which touched her face:
For this is much to the fond lover—this
Is food to live on—one wind-wafted kiss!”
S.
Oh, Bulbul of the hill, sing one verse more
And then—Salaam!
G.
And then Salaam! my Lord! [She lays aside her Vina, and sighing, sings]
“Not seeing you, I pine to see! and, when I see, to know
That you will go away again fills me with fear and woe;
No joy of love I find in love, if you be near or far;
Longing to have you by me, and dreading when you are!
Life is not life, if we must live thinking of love's last day;
Oh, never come, my Love and Life! or never go away!”
That you will go away again fills me with fear and woe;
No joy of love I find in love, if you be near or far;
Longing to have you by me, and dreading when you are!
Life is not life, if we must live thinking of love's last day;
Oh, never come, my Love and Life! or never go away!”
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