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The Fugitive By: Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) |
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THE FUGITIVE BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE TO W.W. PEARSON CONTENTS
THE FUGITIVE I. KACHA AND DEVAYANI TRANSLATIONS THE FUGITIVE II. AMA AND VINAYAKA THE MOTHER'S PRAYER TRANSLATIONS THE FUGITIVE III. SOMAKA AND RITVIK KARNA AND KUNTI TRANSLATIONS 1
Darkly you sweep on, Eternal Fugitive, round whose bodiless rush stagnant
space frets into eddying bubbles of light. Is your heart lost to the Lover calling you across his immeasurable
loneliness? Is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason why your tangled
tresses break into stormy riot and pearls of fire roll along your path as
from a broken necklace?
Your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness, sweeping
aside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs shakes the
sacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth. Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumble
into a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least
speck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with an
unbearable pressure.
My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which the
anklets of light are shaken. They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalm
of the ancient sea. I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form
to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings
and songs.
The tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances like thine own desire,
my heart! Leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed dark towards
limitless light. 2
We came hither together, friend, and now at the cross roads I stop to bid
you farewell. Your path is wide and straight before you, but my call comes up by ways
from the unknown. I shall follow wind and cloud; I shall follow the stars to where day breaks
behind the hills; I shall follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their days
into a wreath on a single thread of song, "I love." 3
It was growing dark when I asked her, "What strange land have I come to?" She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar,
as she walked away. The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it
already belonged to the past. The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against
the water jar from down the lane.
Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree, for I love the look of this
land. The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the
marble landing haunts the dark water. Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into
the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet
tinkles against the water jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the
lane littered with leaves. The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre like, and the town hums
wearily. Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree. Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where
darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a
water jar. 4
O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds a
secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with. O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that
doze in the sun. The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the
cause of my tears. I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from
me. 5
For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way;
wide awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in
mist. Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road,
where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water
heaves in the troubled sea... Continue reading book >>
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