day of the monsoon blues?
My eyes wide open,
I can only stare at the distance,
while my soul weeps and wanders
with the storm-wind’s roar.
Why do you keep me sitting alone
by the door?
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, rainy season, 1909 (Ashadh, 1316). No. 16 of Gitanjali (1910).]
9.
Where’s the light? Where, where is the light?
Kindle it in separation’s blaze!
A lamp exists, but has no flame –
was this written in my fate?
Death, surely, would be better than this state!
Light the lamp in separation’s blaze!
Pain, she-messenger, croons:
‘Listen, soul, for your sake God wakes,
in deepest darkness
calls you to keep love’s tryst,
tests you with affliction to uphold your nobleness.
For your sake God wakes!’
The dome of the heavens has filled with heaps of clouds,
the rain continues to fall, does not abate.
In such a night for what
does my soul awake with a start
feeling tender yearning’s sudden onslaught?
The rain continues to fall, does not abate.
The lightning’s gleam just casts a moment’s brightness,
only to plunge the eyes in denser darkness.
Far away – don’t know exactly where –
a melody in bass notes commences,
tugging all my soul towards the road’s distance,
plunging the eyes in even denser darkness.
Where’s the light? Where, where is the light?
Kindle it in separation’s blaze!
The thunder calls. Loudly the tempest bawls.
If the hour is missed, the tryst will not be kept.
Well-advanced and touchstone-black is the night.
Light love’s lamp with your soul, let it blaze!
[Bolpur-Santiniketan? Rainy season, 1909 (Ashadh 1316). No. 17 of Gitanjali (1910).]
10.
It is a stormy night
and you are coming to meet me,
o my friend, my soul-mate!
The sky weeps like
someone in despair,
my eyes know no sleep.
Beloved, I throw open my door
and look out again and again.
O my friend, my soul-mate!
Outside I can see
nothing at all, nothing!
I wonder what kind of
track you might be treading.
Along the bank of
what distant river,
skirting the edge of
what dense-knit forest,
in what depth of darkness
are you coming across,
o my friend, my soul-mate!
[Houseboat on the Padma, July-August 1909 (Srabon 1316). No. 20 of Gitanjali (1910).]
11.
O master singer, how marvellously you sing!
All I can do is listen to you, entranced.
Melody’s light overspreads the earth’s expanse,
gales of melody scale the sky’s ramparts;
bursting rocks, melody’s Ganga flows
torrential in its speed.
In my heart of hearts I wish to sing like you,
but such rich notes elude my vocal cords.
I want to say something, but falter in my speech.
I am trumped! My inmost being weeps.
What a trap this is, where I find myself ensnared,
with your web of melodies woven all around me!
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, night of 26 August 1909. No. 22 of Gitanjali (1910).]
12.
No! It won’t do to evade me like this!
Steal secretly into my heart’s seat:
nobody will know it, or talk about it!
No matter where I roam, abroad or at home,
your game of hide-and-seek is patent to me.
Say now
you won’t trick me,
will let yourself be caught
in an obscure corner of my mind’s retreat!
It won’t do to evade me like this!
Yes, yes, my heart is hard, I know,
not soft enough for your feet!
Yet should your breeze blow upon it, friend,
wouldn’t it thaw a bit?
I may lack self-discipline’s grit,
but should your tender mercy’s droplets fall,
wouldn’t blossoms unfold in an instant,
fruits ripen, too, in a sudden burst of heat?
It won’t do to evade me like this!
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, night of 27 August 1909. No. 23 of Gitanjali (1910).]
13.
If I don’t see you, Lord, in this life,
let me remember that fact –
that I never had the chance to meet and get to know you.
Let me not forget it. Let it hurt my sleep and dreams.
I may spend days in this world’s market-place,
my two hands may get piled with stupendous riches.
Yet let me remember that I haven’t gained anything at all.
Let me not forget it. Let it hurt my sleep and dreams.
If I sit down idly on the road,
carefully spread my bed-roll in the dust,
let me remember all my paths are still untrod.
Let me not forget it. Let it hurt my sleep and dreams.
No matter how loudly peals of laughter ring
or how long the flute plays in my house,
no matter how lavishly I decorate all the rooms,
let me remember that I haven’t had you as my guest.
Let me not forget it. Let it hurt my sleep and dreams.
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, 28 August 1909. No. 24 of Gitanjali (1910).]
14.
My eyes keep vigil for you, Lord,
but I don’t see you.
I scan the road:
and I like that too!
Sitting in the dust by the gate,
my beggar’s heart
solicits your mercy, alas!
Your pity I don’t get,
I just ask for it:
and I like that too!
Today in this world
so many, so busy, so happy,
have rushed past me and sped ahead of me.
I can’t find a companion,
it’s you I want:
and I like that too!
Around me the green
yearning honeyed earth
draws from me such tears of tenderness!
No sign of you, none!
O yes, it hurts:
but I like that too!
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, night of 30 August 1909. No. 28 of Gitanjali (1910).]
15.
My heart’s ravisher,
this is your love indeed:
this light’s golden dance
upon the leaves!
These clouds, sweetly sluggish,
drifting in the heavens,
this breeze dripping manna
on my skin:
my heart’s ravisher,
these are your love indeed!
Streams of morning light
have flooded my eyes.
Your words of love
have entered my inmost being.
I’ve seen your face bend down
and fix its gaze on my face.
Today my heart has touched
your very feet.
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, 1 September 1909. No. 30 of Gitanjali (1910).]
16.
For how many aeons
have you been coming towards me –
to be united with me!
Where possibly could your suns and moons
keep you hidden!
In the mornings and evenings
of how many ages
have your footsteps reverbera
ted!
And a secret messenger
has etched your call on my breast!
O wayfarer,
today in all my being
I think I sense
joy’s fitful shivers.
It is as if the hour had finally come,
and all I had to do was at last done.
O great king, how the wind does blow
with your perfume on itself!
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, 1 September 1909. No. 34 of Gitanjali (1910).]
17.
The song I came to sing here stays unsung.
It’s still the scales, just the wish carrying me along.
I haven’t yet hit the notes. I haven’t yet fixed the words.
Within me there’s just a song’s disquiet.
The bud’s still closed. Just a breath of air has stirred.
I haven’t yet seen his face. I haven’t yet heard his speech.
From time to time I just hear his pacing feet.
He comes and goes just without my door.
The whole day’s gone in just preparing a seat.
My room’s unlit. How can I ask him in?
I hope to have him, for I haven’t had him yet.
[Calcutta, 12 September 1909. No. 39 of Gitanjali (1910).]
18.
That is why
you take such pleasure in me,
why you have come down!
Lord of the three worlds,
were it not for me,
your love would have been naught!
Here with me
you have framed a fairground’s play;
inside my heart the emotions are swaying;
within my life in diverse manifestations
your will is in wave motion.
That is why,
though you are a king of kings,
you still seek my heart
and wander in such captivating costumes,
always alert.
That is why
it is your love that pours
in the love of one who adores:
it is where two are united
that your likeness
is fully manifest.
[Janipur, River Gorai, 12 July 1910. No. 121 of Gitanjali (1910).]
19.
All life’s acts of worship
not completed –
even those, I know,
aren’t utterly lost, forfeited.
The flower that fell to earth
before opening its eye,
the river that lost its way
in desert sands –
even those, I know,
aren’t utterly lost, forfeited.
Jobs undone that
trail behind me still –
I don’t believe
they’ll only add up to nil.
I hear them ring
on your own lute-strings,
which I haven’t reached
or plucked with my fingers yet.
I just don’t believe
they’re totally trashed, defeated.
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, 8 August 1910. No. 147 of Gitanjali (1910).]
20.
She won’t take no for an answer.
I look away. She says, ‘No, no, no!’
I tell her, ‘It’s day. The lamp is pale.’
Her eyes on my face, she says, ‘No, no, no!’
Wild and flustered in the blustering wind,
Phalgun yawls in the flower-garden.
I tell her, ‘Well then, time for me to go.’
She stands at the door, says, ‘No, no, no!’
[Spring 1909? In the play Prayashchitta (1909).]
21.
The dawn in which you called me
is known to none.
That my mind weeps to itself
is allowed by none.
Restless, I stalk
and stare at others’ faces.
Traction such as yours
is matched by none.
The fifth note quakes,
the shuttered room vibrates.
But, without, my door
is knocked by none.
Whose unquiet in the sky
and news in the wind that flies?
Along this path that secret
is borne by none.
[Shilaidaha? Rainy season 1911? In the play Achalayatan, which was first published in the magazine Prabasi in September–October 1911 (Ashwin 1318), then in book form in 1912.]
22.
When my pain escorts me to your door,
come, open the door yourself and call her in.
Starved of your arms, all else has she forsworn
and runs to meet you along a path of thorns.
When pain plucks my strings, my notes vibrate.
That song pulls you so, you gravitate.
It flounders down like a bird in a night of storm.
Come you then. Come out into the darkness.
[Calcutta, 28 February 1914. In Gitimalya (1914).]
23.
That fire of music you ignited in me –
how its flames have reached out everywhere!
All around me on branches of dead trees
tarum tarum it dances in rhythmic beats
and stretches its hands skyward to someone above.
The stars are stunned. They look on in the darkness.
And from somewhere a mad wind charges at us.
See: in the midnight’s bosom this immaculate
lotus unfolding its petals – so aureate –
this fire –
who knows its power?
[Santiniketan, 7 April 1914. In Gitimalya (1914).]
24.
Not just your words,
o my friend, my beloved,
please give my spirit
your touch as well at times!
My long day’s thirst,
long journey’s weariness
I can’t figure out
how to slake or alleviate:
assure me, please, that this darkness
is filled with you!
My heart doesn’t just want to take,
it also longs to give!
It toils and trudges,
carrying all it’s hoarded.
Extend your hand
and place it, please, in mine –
let me hold it, let me fill it,
let me keep it with me
to charge my lonely wayfaring
with beauty!
[Santiniketan, 4 September 1914. In Gitali (1914).]
25.
There’s no end to it,
so who’s to say the last word?
What came as a blow
will later glow as a fire.
When clouds have had their show,
rain will pour.
When snow has piled,
it’ll melt into a river.
What comes to an end
ends only to the eyes,
walks through the door of darkness
into light.
Bursting the heart of the old,
the new will of itself unfold.
When life’s flowering’s over,
death’s fruits will appear.
[Surul, 14 September 1914. In Gitali (1914).]
26.
I shall not beguile you with my beauty,
I shall beguile you with my love.
I shall not open the door with my hand,
but with my song I shall make it come open.
I shall not load you with the weight of jewels,
nor cover you with chains of flowers.
My tenderness will be the garland
which I shall swing from your throat.
No one will know what typhoon it is
that makes waves heave within you.
Like a moon by invisible pull
I shall raise the tide.
[Date of composition unknown. Though it is stated in some sources that this song was first published as part of the pl
ay Raja, it is in fact not in the first edition of the play (1911). It was first added to Raja in a special edition of various works of Tagore published from Allahabad, Kavyagrantha, vol. 9, 1916, and was thereafter included in the play Arupratan (1920) and the second official edition of Raja (1921) which became the standard text of the play.]
27.
I couldn’t keep them in the golden cage –
my days, my many-coloured days.
They couldn’t take it – the bondage of laughter and tears –
my days, my many-coloured days.
The language of my heart’s very own songs
they might pick up: even such was my hope.
But they flew away before learning all the words –
my days, my many-coloured days.
Now I dream that expecting someone there,
they hop around that broken cage of mine –
my days, my many-coloured days.
So much feeling – could it have been in vain?
Were they all made of shadows – those birds?
Did they take nothing at all with them to the skies –
my days, my many-coloured days?
[Santiniketan, 1918/1919? First published with notation in Gitibithika in April–May 1919 (Baishakh 1326).]