The unheeded pageant


Ah, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered
your sweet limbs with that little red tunic?

You have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard,
tottering and tumbling as you run.

But who was it coloured that little frock, my child?

What is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud?

Mother smiles at you standing on the threshold.

She claps her hands and her bracelets jingle, and you dance with
your bamboo stick in your hand like a tiny little shepherd.

But what is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud?

O beggar, what do you beg for, clinging to your mother's neck
with both your hands?

O greedy heart, shall I pluck the world like a fruit from the sky
to place it on your little rosy palm?

O beggar, what are you begging for?

The wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells.

The sun smiles and watches your toilet.  The sky watches over you
when you sleep in your mother's arms, and the morning comes
tiptoe to your bed and kisses your eyes.

The wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells.

The fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying
through the twilight sky.

The world-mother keeps her seat by you in your mother's heart.

He who plays his music to the stars is standing at your window
with his flute.

And the fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying
through the twilight sky.

Sleep -stealer


Who stole sleep from baby's eyes?  I must know.

Clasping her pitcher to her waist mother went to fetch water from
the village near by.

It was noon.  The children's playtime was over; the ducks in the
pond were silent.

The shepherd boy lay asleep under the shadow of the <i>banyan</i>
tree.

The crane stood grave and still in the swamp near the mango
grove.

In the meanwhile the Sleep-stealer came and, snatching sleep from
baby's eyes, flew away.

When mother came back she found baby travelling the room over on
all fours.

Who stole sleep from our baby's eyes?  I must know.  I must find
her and chain her up.

I must look into that dark cave, where, through boulders and
scowling stones, trickles a tiny stream.

I must search in the drowsy shade of the <i>bakula</i> grove,
where pigeons coo in their corner, and fairies' anklets tinkle in
the stillness of starry nights.

In the evening I will peep into the whispering silence of the
bamboo forest, where fireflies squander their light, and will ask
every creature I meet, "Can anybody tell me where the
Sleep-stealer lives?"

Who stole sleep from baby's eyes?  I must know.

Shouldn't I give her a good lesson if I could only catch her!

I would raid her nest and see where she hoards all her stolen
sleep.

I would plunder it all, and carry it home.

I would bind her two wings securely, set her on the bank of the
river, and then let her play at fishing with a reed among the
rushes and water-lilies.

When the marketing is over in the evening, and the village
children sit in their mothers' laps, then the night birds will
mockingly din her ears with:

"Whose sleep will you steal now?"

The begining


"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?"  the baby
asked its mother.

She answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to
her breast,-- "You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my
darling.

You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; and when with clay
I made the image of my god every morning, I made and unmade you
then.

You were enshrined with our household deity, in his worship I
worshipped you.

In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in the life of my
mother you have lived.

In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home you have
been nursed for ages.

When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, you hovered as
a fragrance about it.

Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, like a glow in
the sky before the sunrise.

Heaven's first darling, twin-born with the morning light, you
have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you
have stranded on my heart.

As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to
all have become mine.

For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast.  What magic
has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?"

Baby's world


I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.

I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down
to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.

Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and
with trays crowded with bright toys.

I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and
out beyond all bounds;

Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of
kings of no history;

Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.

When and why


When I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there
is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers
are painted in tints--when I give coloured toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music in
leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of
the listening earth--when I sing to make you dance.

When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands, I know why there
is honey in the cup of the flower, and why fruits are secretly
filled with sweet juice--when I bring sweet things to your greedy
hands.

When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely
understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
and what delight the summer breeze brings to my body--when I kiss
you to make you smile.

Defamation


Why are those tears in your eyes, my child?

How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?

You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing--is
that why they call you dirty?

O, fie!  Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it
has smudged its face with ink?

For every little trifle they blame you, my child.  They are ready
to find fault for nothing.

You tore your clothes while playing--is that why they call you
untidy?

O, fie!  What would they call an autumn morning that smiles
through its ragged clouds?

Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.

Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.

They make a long list of your misdeeds.  Everybody knows how you
love sweet things--is that why they call you greedy?

O, fie!  What then would they call us who love you?

The judge


Say of him what you please, but I know my child's failings.

I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my little
child.

How should you know how dear he can be when you try to weigh his
merits against his faults?

When I must punish him he becomes all the more a part of my
being.

When I cause his tears to come my heart weeps with him.

I alone have a right to blame and punish, for he only may
chastise who loves.

Playthings


Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a
broken twig all the morning.

I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.

I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.

Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil
your morning with!"

Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and
mud-pies.

I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and
silver.

With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both
my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.

In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and
forget that I too am playing a game.

The astronomer


I only said, "When in the evening the round full moon gets
entangled among the branches of that <i>Kadam</i> tree, couldn't
somebody catch it?"

But dâdâ [<i>elder brother</i>] laughed at me and said, "Baby,
you are the silliest child I have ever known.  The moon is ever
so far from us, how could anybody catch it?"

I said, "Dâdâ how foolish you are!  When mother looks out of her
window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far
away?"

Still said, "You are a stupid child!  But, baby, where could you
find a net big enough to catch the moon with?"

I said, "Surely you could catch it with your hands."

But dâdâ laughed and said, "You are the silliest child I have
known.  If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is."

I said, "Dâdâ, what nonsense they teach at your school!  When
mother bends her face down to kiss us does her face look very
big?"

But still dâdâ says, "You are a stupid child."

Clouds and waves


Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me--

"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.

We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.

I ask, "But, how am I to get up to you?"  They answer, "Come to
the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you
will be taken up into the clouds."

"My mother is waiting for me at home," I say.  "How can I leave
her and come?"

Then they smile and float away.

But I know a nicer game than that, mother.

I shall be the cloud and you the moon.

I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be
the blue sky.

The folk who live in the waves call out to me--

"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."

I ask, "But, how am I to join you?"  They tell me, "Come to the
edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you
will be carried out upon the waves."

I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the evening--how can
I leave her and go?"

Then they smile, dance and pass by.

But I know a better game than that.

I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.

I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.

And no one in the world will know where we both are.