8


When the lamp went out by my bed I woke up with the early birds.
I sat at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair.
The young traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the
  morning.
A pearl chain was on his neck, and the sun's rays fell on his
  crown.  He stopped before my door and asked me with an eager
  cry, "Where is she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, young traveller, she
  is I."

It was dusk and the lamp was not lit.
I was listlessly braiding my hair.
The young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the
  setting sun.
His horses were foaming at the mouth, and there was dust on his
  garment.
He alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice, "Where is
  she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, weary traveller, she
  is I."

It is an April night.  The lamp is burning in my room.
The breeze of the south comes gently.  The noisy parrot sleeps in
  its cage.
My bodice is of the colour of the peacock's throat, and my mantle
  is green as young grass.
I sit upon the floor at the window watching the deserted street.
Through the dark night I keep humming, "She is I, despairing
  traveller, she is I."

9


When I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the
  wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street
  stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am
  ashamed.

When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do
  not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river
  like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly--I do not know how to quiet
  it.

When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and
  my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the
  lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light.  I
  do not know how to hide it.

10


Let your work be, bride.  Listen, the guest has come.
Do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the
  door?
See that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is
  not over-hurried at meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening.

No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the
  courtyard; the sky overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the
  door if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.

Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door
  when you meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your
  eyes in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him
  in.
Have no word with him if you are shy.

Have you not finished your work yet, bride?  Listen, the guest
  has come.
Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed?
Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening
  service?
Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair,
  and done your toilet for the night?
O bride, do you hear, the guest has come?
Let your work be!

11


Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If your braided hair has loosened, if the parting of your hair be
  not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do
  not mind.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

Come, with quick steps over the grass.
If the raddle come from your feet because of the dew, if the
  rings of bells upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop out of
  your chain, do not mind.
Come with quick steps over the grass.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?
Flocks of cranes fly up from the further river-bank and fitful
  gusts of wind rush over the heath.
The anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?

In vain you light your toilet lamp--it flickers and goes out in
  the wind.
Who can know that your eyelids have not been touched with lamp-
  black?  For your eyes are darker than rain-clouds.
In vain you light your toilet lamp--it goes out.

Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If the wreath is not woven, who cares; if the wrist-chain has not
  been linked, let it be.
The sky is overcast with clouds--it is late.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

12


If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my
  lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.
The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds
  hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair
  above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my
  heart.
Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.

If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float
  on the water, come, O come to my lake.
The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number.
Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from
  their nests.
Your veil will drop to your feet.
Come, O come to my lake if you must sit idle.

If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, O
  come to my lake.
Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover
  you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in
  your ears.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.

If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my
  lake.
It is cool and fathomlessly deep.
It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.
There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are
  silence.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.

13


I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the
  tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the
  air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the
  earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands,
  tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.

I did not say a word.  It was the bird that sang unseen from the
  thicket.
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road,
  and the bees came humming one by one.
On the side of the pond the gate of _Shiva's_ temple was
  opened and the worshipper had begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
I stood with my empty can.


I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven
  cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the
  river.
Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar.
The morning wore on and I did not come near you.

14


I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday
  was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.
The prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet
  of the hurrying light.
The _koels_ were weary of their songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not know why.

The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging
  tree.
Some one was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in
  the corner.
I stood before this hut, I know not why.

The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a
  mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the
  river landing place.
I stopped by this hut, I do not know why.

Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the
  spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the
  dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood
  on the landing step.
I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why.

Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are
  waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.

15


I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with
  his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of
  the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what
  I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.
The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

16


Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the
  record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of _henna_
  is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your
  garland of flowers in unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like
  praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening
  again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet
  useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no
  shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not
  raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the
  wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

17


The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with
  gladness.
We both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of
  joy.
Her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden
  trees.
If they stray into our barley field, I take them up in my arms.
The name of our village is Khanjan\u0101, and Anjan\u0101 they call our
  river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan\u0101.

Only one field lies between us.
Bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs.
Flowers launched from their landing-stairs come floating by the
  stream where we bathe.
Baskets of dried _kusm_ flowers come from their fields to
  our market.
The name of our village is Khanjan\u0101, and Anjan\u0101 they call our
  river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan\u0101.

The lane that winds to their house is fragrant in the spring with
  mango flowers.
When their linseed is ripe for harvest the hemp is in bloom in
  our field.
The stars that smile on their cottage send us the same twinkling
  look.
The rain that floods their tank makes glad our _kadam_
  forest.
The name of our village is Khanjan\u0101, and Anjan\u0101 they call our
  river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan\u0101.