The champa flower


Supposing I became a <i>champa</i> flower, just for fun, and
grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with
laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know
me, mother?

You would call, "Baby, where are you?"  and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.

I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.

When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you
walked through the shadow of the <i>champa</i> tree to the
little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the
scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
<i>Ramayana</i>, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and
your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of
your book, just where you were reading.

But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little
child?

When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again
and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.

"Where have you been, you naughty child?"

"I won't tell you, mother."  That's what you and I would say
then.

Fairyland


If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.

The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.

The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she wears
a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.

But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's palace
is.

It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the
<i>tulsi</i> plant stands.

The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.

There is none in the world who can find her but myself.

She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.

She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand, and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.

But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the <i>tulsi</i> plant
stands.

When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step up
to that terrace on the roof.

I sit in the corner where the shadows of the walls meet together.

Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she knows where the
barber in the story lives.

But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in the
story lives.

It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the
<i>tulsi</i> plant stands.

The land of exile


Mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; I do not know what
the time is.

There is no fun in my play, so I have come to you.  It is
Saturday, our holiday.

Leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell me
where the desert of Tepântar in the fairy tale is?

The shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end.

The fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails.

When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid in my
heart and cling to you.

When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves, and
our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to sit
alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about the
desert of Tepântar in the fairy tale.

Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of
what hills, in the kingdom of what king?

There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath across
it by which the villagers reach their village in the evening, or
the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can bring her load
to the market.  With patches of yellow grass in the sand and only
one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies
the desert of Tepântar.

I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of
the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in
search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace
across that unknown water.

When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and
lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember
his unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall
and wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of
Tepântar in the fairy tale?

See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and there
are no travellers yonder on the village road.

The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men
have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their
huts, watching the scowling clouds.

Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf--do not ask me to
do my lessons now.

When I grow up and am big like my father, I shall learn all that
must be learnt.

But just for to-day, tell me, mother, where the desert of
Tepântar in the fairy tale is?

The rainy day


Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the
forest.

O child, do not go out!

The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their draggled wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the
river is haunted by a deepening gloom.

Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence.

O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.

Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as
they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain water is running
in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run
away from his mother to tease her.

Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.

O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is
closed.

The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water
in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.

The evening lamps must be made ready.

O child, do not go out!

The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery.  The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.

Paper boats


Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running
stream.

In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the
village where I live.

I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know
who I am.

I load my little boats with <i>shiuli</i> flowers from our
garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried
safely to land in the night.

I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the
little clouds setting their white bulging sails.

I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the
air to race with my boats!

When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my
paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.

The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their
baskets full of dreams.

The sailor


The boat of the boatman Madhu is moored at the wharf of Rajgunj.

It is uselessly laden with jute, and has been lying there idle
for ever so long.

If he would only lend me his boat, I should man her with a
hundred oars, and hoist sails, five or six or seven.

I should never steer her to stupid markets.  I should sail the
seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.

But, mother, you won't weep for me in a corner.

I am not going into the forest like Ramachandra to come back only
after fourteen years.

I shall become the prince of the story, and fill my boat with
whatever I like.

I shall take my friend Ashu with me.  We shall sail merrily
across the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.

We shall set sail in the early morning light.

When at noontide you are bathing at the pond, we shall be in the
land of a strange king.

We shall pass the ford of Tirpurni, and leave behind us the
desert of Tepântar.

When we come back it will be getting dark, and I shall tell you
of all that we have seen.

I shall cross the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of
fairyland.

The further bank


I long to go over there to the further bank of the river,

Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;

Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with ploughs
on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;

Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the
riverside pasture;

Whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the
jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds,

Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman of
the ferry when I am grown up.

They say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank,

Where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and
thick reeds grow round the margins where waterbirds lay their
eggs;

Where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny footprints
upon the clean soft mud;

Where in the evening the tall grasses crested with white flowers
invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves.

Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman of
the ferryboat when I am grown up.

I shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the boys
and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are
bathing.

When the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon, I
shall come running to you, saying, "Mother, I am hungry!"

When the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees, I
shall come back in the dusk.

I shall never go away from you into the town to work like father.

Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman of
the ferryboat when I am grown up.

The flower - school


When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
bagpipes among the bamboos.

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come
out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a
corner.

When the rains come they have their holidays.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in
the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.

Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there?  Don't you know
why they are in such a hurry?

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have
their mother as I have my own.

The merchant


Imagine, mother, that you are to stay at home and I am to travel
into strange lands.

Imagine that my boat is ready at the landing fully laden.

Now think well, mother, before you say what I shall bring for you
when I come back.

Mother, do you want heaps and heaps of gold?

There, by the banks of golden streams, fields are full of golden
harvest.

And in the shade of the forest path the golden <i>champa</i>
flowers drop on the ground.

I will gather them all for you in many hundred baskets.
Mother, do you want pearls big as the raindrops of autumn?

I shall cross to the pearl island shore.  There in the early
morning light pearls tremble on the meadow flowers, pearls drop
on the grass, and pearls are scattered on the sand in spray by
the wild sea-waves.

My brother shall have a pair of horses with wings to fly among
the clouds.

For father I shall bring a magic pen that, without his knowing,
will write of itself.

For you, mother, I must have the casket and jewel that cost seven
kings their kingdoms.

Symphathy


If I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would
you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?

Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty
little puppy?"

Then go, mother, go!  I will never come to you when you call me,
and never let you feed me any more.

If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother
dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away?

Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful
wretch of a bird!  It is gnawing at its chain day and night?"

Then, go, mother, go!  I will run away into the woods; I will
never let you take me in your arms again.