And set him to work promptly, under his watchful eyes,
And make him ply his tools, as he considered it wise.
Sometimes, he would order the young lad to prepare
Some tiny little trinkets for a small girl’s dolls to wear.
At firing and melding, if the boy was ever slack,
He’d yank him by the hair, and shower blows upon his back.
If Madho ever got the chance, he would try to disappear;
The folks at home couldn’t find him, though they hunted far and near.
Beyond the town there was a lake that belonged to the days of yore;
Madho would call some naughty boys to gather by its shore.
They played at guli-danda, swung from boughs above the ground,
And knew the orchards nearby, where the best fruits could be found.
Madho would fashion fishing rods and staves from shishu wood,
And when astride a pony, he’d make it run as fast as it could.
Botu, Madho’s very own dog, was always by his side,
Attacking lizards, chasing squirrels till they were terrified.
In the world of mynahs, Madho enjoyed great fame.
He fed them chhatu morsels, and the birds became quite tame.
When it came to errands, Madho surpassed everyone,
But as his father’s trainee, his work just wouldn’t get done.
Dulal was the nickname of Kishanlal’s own son;
The boy was such a terror, he was feared by everyone.
A rich man’s pampered offspring, he was arrogant and vain,
He dominated others, by subjecting them to pain.
Botu once felt like a swim; to the lake he made his way,
But when he reached the football field where Dulal was at play,
The boy chased him with whip upraised, for reasons quite unclear.
‘Strike the dog,’ cried Madho, ‘and I’ll knock you down, d’you hear?’
But still flailing his whip, at Botu young Dulal flew.
Madho snatched the whip from him, and broke it into two.
Madho stood his ground, his body trembling with outrage.
‘Do what you like!’ he shouted. ‘I am past caring, at this stage.’
But Dulal was a coward, despite his domineering streak;
He drew power from his parentage, but was physically weak.
Dulal’s father Kishanlal sent out some twenty men;
They caught Madho, and tied him to a bedpost, there and then.
‘Ungrateful wretch!’ cried Kishanlal. ‘You owe us the rice you live on!
How could you dare to lay your hands upon your master’s son?
This evening they will drag you through the streets, in pure disgrace;
Dulal himself will flog you, in the public marketplace.’
Armed men from the master’s house arrived at the end of day;
The ropes that bound Madho lay there, but he had gone away.
‘What’s this!’ they asked his mother, and she answered them with pride:
‘I myself, with my own hands, my son’s bonds have untied.
Madho was keen to go away, and I urged him to fly.
“Better death than shame,” I said, and bade the boy goodbye.’
She turned upon her husband, with a sharp, disdainful glance,
And said: ‘A thousand times I curse your abject, slavish stance.’
Five-and-twenty years went by. To Bengal Madho had gone.
He married a girl belonging to the place where he was born.
With growing children, Madho became a settled family man;
Employed as a foreman now, a jute-mill’s work he ran.
Then came a time when the market price of jute began to fall.
When employers cut their wages, the workers sent out a call
For a general strike; in thousands, they rose up in protest.
‘Fear not!’ the saheb said, ‘Madho, just stay aloof; it’s best.
But join the mob and you’ll be thrashed, I warn you! Wait and see.’
‘I’d rather die,’ Madho replied, ‘but a traitor I will not be.’
The police arrived at last, and brutal blows upon them rained.
Some skulls were smashed, while many men in fetters were enchained.
‘I cannot serve you, saheb,’ said Madho, ‘I’ll have to go.
To stomach the rice that’s earned with shame—I cannot stoop so low.’
He set out for the land that was a home to him no more.
His mother dead, his father too—gone were the ties of yore.
They set forth on the road, their hearts shored up by hope anew;
Would their wrenched-out roots now find the soil where they once grew?
The Wise One
Your Khuki, Ma, is really very silly,
Your little girl is too childish by far!
We floated a paper lantern in the sky,
But she mistakes it for a rising star.
If we serve pebbles on a toy plate
And pretend it’s a fancy meal,
She stuffs the stones into her mouth,
Thinking the feast is real.
Opening the pages of her primer,
If I tell her, ‘Khuki, you must read,’
Your Khuki starts to tear the text to shreds—
Now that’s the way to treat a book, indeed!
If I put a cloth over my face,
And inch towards her in a menacing crawl,
Your Khuki takes me for a wicked witch,
And loudly at once begins to bawl.
Sometimes when I am angry, if I glare,
And wag my head, and rave and rant and bark,
Your Khuki squeals in unrestrained delight—
Does she think the whole thing is a lark?
We know that Baba’s gone to some far-off place,
But if I suddenly cry out, ‘There he is!’
She quickly looks around, to search for him—
Your Khuki is such a foolish little miss!
When the washerman comes, if I attempt to teach
His baby donkey how to write and read,
‘I’m Gurumoshai the schoolmaster,’ I state,
But she still calls me ‘Dada’, paying no heed.
Your Khuki wants to catch hold of the moon,
And for ‘Ganesh’ she says ‘Ganush’ instead,
Your Khuki, Ma, is really very childish,
There’s no sense in her silly little head.
The Supreme Gift
The day the Pathans brought in a band
Of captive Sikhs, enchained,
By the victims’ scarlet blood, the land
Of Suhidganj was stained.
‘O Tarusingh!’ the nawab said, ‘I
Would like to let you go.’
Asked Tarusingh, ‘O brother, but why
Must you dishonour me so?’
The nawab declared, ‘No grudge I bear
Against a warrior so true!
Just let them cut off your braided hair,
That is all I ask of you.’
‘Your kindness I shall ever admire
In my heart,’ brave Tarusingh said.
‘I’ll give you more than what you desire—
With my hair-braid, my severed head!’
Two Bighas of Land
Just two bighas, that’s all there was, once debts claimed the rest of my lands.
Said the Babu to me, ‘Upen, do you see? This plot must come into my hands.’
‘But you own the terrain!’ I cried, in pain. ‘Your lands are limitless.
‘While it’s plain to the eye, that space to die is all that I possess.’
‘Bapu,’ said he, ‘I’m growing this garden, you see, I’m sure you are aware.
With two bighas more, its sides, all four, will make a perfect square.
Concede you must.’ ‘But is it just?’ I pleaded, hands clasped to my breast,
In tears, ‘O spa
re this poor man’s lair! This is my humble request.
Where my own forebears had spent their years, the soil is more precious than gold!
Though in dire need, I’d be a wretch, indeed, to let this land, my mother, be sold.’
At this reply, fury reddening his eye, the lord was quiet awhile.
‘Well, we shall see what the outcome will be,’ he declared, with a cruel smile.
Six weeks on, my land was gone, I left home for the open road.
It was their decree unjust, that sell out I must, to pay a debt that I never owed.
In this world, alas, those who wealth amass are the ones who prove most greedy.
Whenever they please, the masters seize what belongs to the poor and needy.
To myself I thought, the Almighty would not keep me cooped in the well of desire.
So in two bighas’ place, He grants me the space of the great, wide world, entire.
With a saint as my guide, in lands far and wide, I roamed in a sadhu’s guise.
While on my way, I passed an array of sights to delight the eyes!
But where’er I’d go, at sea or onshore, in lonely or crowded spots,
Day and night, try hard as I might, those two bighas haunted my thoughts.
Roaming in open spaces, river shores, marketplaces, fifteen-odd years went past,
Until I felt one day compelled to return to my land, at last.
I salute you now, to your beauty I bow, O Bengal, motherland mine!
The breeze that blows on your Ganga shores fills my heart with bliss divine.
The sky bends its brow to your fields below, it bows at your feet to be blest;
Beneath the shady trees, in your hamlets, peace makes her quiet, tranquil nest.
Your mango grove green, with its leafy screen, is the cowherds’ secret playground.
Like the night-sky above, the deep, silent love of your lakes is dark and profound.
Their hearts replete with grace, honey-sweet, rural belles with their pitchers return.
I feel tears arise in my aching eyes; to call out ‘Ma!’ aloud, I yearn.
Two days went by, the sun was high, when my very own village I found.
The potter’s den I passed, and then, the chariot-festival ground.
Past the market I sped, past the granary shed, and the temple shrine as well.
With thirst aflame, at last I came to the place where I once used to dwell.
In anguish profound, I gazed all around, turning this way and that, to see.
Could it be true? By the wall, there still grew that familiar mango tree!
As I wept in its shade, my pain was allayed, my heart found a sense of peace.
In my mind’s eye, I saw scenes roll by, of my days of childhood delight.
I could now recall many a summer squall that kept us awake at night—
When dawn broke at last, we would race so fast, to pick the fruit strewn on the ground!
The afternoon heat, so quiet and sweet, when we would play truant from class!
I wondered: Alack! Can we turn the clock back? Can such things come to pass?
A sudden breeze now sighed in the trees, making the branches sway;
Two mangoes fell off, they were ripe enough: there, close to my lap, they lay.
At last, I see! I thought, in glee, my mother has recognized me.
Bestowed from above, this gift of her love I accepted reverently.
Alas, just then, like an evil omen, the gardener appeared on the scene.
The top-knotted man from elsewhere, began to rant in language obscene.
‘But without protest, I gave all I possessed!’ it was my turn to reply.
‘If I claim just a pair of fruits from here, must you raise such a hue and cry?’
The man didn’t know who I was, and so, stick upraised, he marched off with me
To the lord, who then, with all his men, was out on a fishing spree.
Hearing the tale, the lord began to rail. ‘I’ll thrash you to death!’ he swore.
For every word pronounced by the lord, his friends uttered ten times more.
‘Two mangoes, O sire, that’s all I desire!’ I pleaded, ‘Please grant my plea!’
‘A thief so wise, in a saintly disguise!’ sneered the Babu. ‘You rascal!’ cried he.
I laughed, I cried, and wondered aside: ‘Is this what my fate has decreed?
You’re righteous today, my lord, as you say, and I am a thief, indeed!’
The Boy
I was then of tender age, and slight,
Like a wingless bird, my frame was ever so light.
From the neighbouring rooftop, pigeon-flocks would rise
And crows on our balcony rails would utter raucous cries.
From across the street came the hawker’s cry,
His gamchha-covered fish basket full of topshe fry.
There was Dada on the terrace, his vision fixed afar,
His violin tuned to the strains of the evening star.
Casting English books aside, to Boudidi we’d race,
A red-bordered sari framed her lovely face.
Hiding her keys in a flowerpot, like a prankster from hell,
I would try her temper, and test her love for me, as well.
Kishori Chatujje would arrive at nightfall,
In his left hand a hookah, on his shoulder a shawl.
The tale of Lav and Kush he would recite, at speed;
To my textbooks and notes I paid no more heed.
How I wished, that by whatever means at hand,
I could somehow join a minstrel-band!
Travelling with my songs from place to place,
I wouldn’t have a care about examinations to face.
When the schoolday was over, homewards I’d go,
And over our rooftop, I’d see the clouds hanging low.
In torrents of rain the street was sunk,
The pipes spouted water, like Airavat’s trunk.
In the darkness, I listened to the music of the rain,
And thought of the prince, lost in a boundless terrain.
Of Kuyenloon, Mississippi and Yangtse Kiang I’d heard—
The mountains and rivers that in maps appeared.
The known, the half-known and the far-far-away,
Wove a web of many colours, so bright and gay!
A myriad movements, and sounds of myriad kinds,
In a flimsy universe, encircled by my mind.
Inside that world, my thoughts would lightly glide,
Like birds beneath a cloud, or flotsam on a tide.
Sparks
The dark cloud hides the stars
And thinks its power is proved.
But when the cloud has faded away,
The stars shine on, unmoved.
***
That cloud above the skyline—
As it passes by,
With its shadow, watch it sign
Its name across the sky.
***
High in the sky
See the new moon shine
Like the bejewelled fragment
Of a poetic line.
***
The whispered words
Of the stars at night
Flower in the forest
As blossoms bright.
***
When our shores are touched by a distant breeze
That wafts in from the far-off seas,
Then spring will ignite a fiery blaze,
And golden blooms will fill the trees.
Plays
The Post Office
Cast:
Madhabdatta
Amal (Madhabdatta’s adopted son)
Kobiraj (medicine man)
Dahiwala (curd seller)
Prahari (watchman)
Thakurda (an old man)
Fakir (a wandering mystic)
Morol (village headman)
Sudha (a flower girl)
Village boys
Royal messe
nger
Rajkobiraj (king’s physician)
1
Enter Madhabdatta and Kobiraj
Madhabdatta:This is a difficult situation. When he wasn’t here, he wasn’t here at all—one had no worries. But now that he has arrived, who knows from where, and occupied my entire home, this home won’t remain a home any more, once he’s gone. Kobirajmoshai, do you think he can be . . .
Kobiraj:If he’s destined to live long, he might even survive for a long time, but from what they say in Ayurveda it seems . . .
Madhabdatta:What!
Kobiraj:They say in the holy shastras, ‘Bile or palsy, cold or phlegm, all alike . . .’
Madhabdatta:Let it be, let it be, please don’t recite those shlokas any more . . . those scriptural rhymes make me even more fearful. Please tell me, what is to be done now?
Kobiraj(taking a pinch of snuff): He must be tended to very carefully.
Madhabdatta:That’s right; but before you leave, please determine what one must be careful about.
Kobiraj:I have already told you, he must not be allowed out at all.
Madhabdatta:But he is so young; it’s very hard to confine him indoors day and night.
Kobiraj:Tell me, how can that be helped? This is sharat, early autumn; both sunshine and the open breeze are poison for this boy at present . . . for they say in the shastras, ‘In epilepsy, fever or wheezing fit, in jaundice or in swollen . . .’
Madhabdatta:Stop, stop, no more about your shastras. So, confine him one must—is there no other way?
Kobiraj:None at all, for in wind and sun . . .
Madhabdatta:What use is all this to me, I ask you! Forget about it . . . tell me instead, what is to be done? But your line of treatment is very harsh. The poor boy endures all the pains of his ailment in silence—but it breaks my heart to watch his suffering when he takes the medicine you prescribe.
Kobiraj:The harsher his ordeal, the more effective it will be—that is why Maharishi Chyavan has said, ‘In medicine as in advice, the bitterest is the most effective.’ I’ll take your leave then, Dattamoshai!