In the spring breeze the mango-blossoms launch their
messages
to the
unknown
And the new leaves dream aloud all day.
unknown
And the new leaves dream aloud all day.
Tagore - Creative Unity
When we feel for certain that we are
alive, then we know for certain that we shall go on living. Those
who have never put life to the test, in all possible ways, these
keep on crying out:
_Life is fleeting, Life is waning,
Life is like a dew-drop on a lotus leaf. _
But, isn't life inconstant?
Only because its movement is unceasing. The moment you stop this
movement, that moment you begin to play the drama of Death.
Poet, are you speaking the truth? Shall we really go on living?
Yes, we shall really go on living.
Then, Poet, if we are going to go on living, we must make our
life worth its eternity. Is not that so?
Yes, indeed.
Ho, Guard.
Yes, Your Royal Highness.
Call the Vizier at once.
Yes, Your Royal Highness.
(_Vizier enters. _)
What is Your Majesty's pleasure?
Vizier! Why on earth have you kept me waiting so long?
I was very busy, Your Majesty.
Busy? What were you busy about?
I was dismissing the General.
Why should you dismiss the General? We have got to discuss war
matters with him.
And arrangements had to be made for the state-departure of the
Chinese Ambassador.
What do you mean by his state-departure?
If it please Your Majesty, you did not grant him an interview. So
he----
Vizier! You surprise me. Is this the way you manage state
affairs? What has happened to you? Have you lost your senses?
Then, again. Sire, I was trying to find a way to pull down the
Poet's house. At first, no one would undertake it. Then, at last,
all the Pundits of the Royal School of Grammar and Logic came up
with their proper tools and set to work.
Vizier! Are you mad this morning? Pull down the Poet's house?
Why, you might as well kill all the birds in the garden and make
them up into a pie.
If it please Your Majesty, you need not be annoyed. We shan't have to
pull down the house after all; for the moment Sruti-bhushan heard it
was to be demolished, he decided to take possession of it himself.
What, Vizier! That's worse still. Why! The Goddess of Music would
break her harp in pieces against my head, if she even heard of
such a thing. No, that can't be.
Then, Your Majesty, there was another thing to be got through. We
had to deliver over the province of Kanchanpur to the Pundit.
No, Vizier! What a mess you are making. That must go to our Poet.
To me, King? No. My poetry never accepts reward.
Well, well. Let the Pundit have it.
And, last of all, Sire. I have issued orders to the soldiers to
disperse the crowd of famine-stricken people.
Vizier, you are doing nothing but blunder. The best way to
disperse the famished people is with food, not force.
(_Guard enters. _)
May it please Your Royal Highness.
What's the matter, Guard?
May it please Your Royal Highness, here is Sruti-bhushan, the
Pundit, coming back with his _Book of Devotions_.
Oh, stop him, Vizier, stop him. He will undo everything. Don't
let him come upon me unawares like this. In a moment of weakness,
I may suddenly find myself out of my depths in the _Ocean of
Renunciation_. Poet! Don't give me time for that. Do something.
Do anything. Have you got anything ready to hand? Any play
toward? Any poem? Any masque? Any----
Yes, King. I have got the very thing. But whether it is a drama,
or a poem, or a play, or a masque, I cannot say.
Shall I be able to understand the sense of what you have written?
No, King, what a poet writes is not meant to have any sense.
What then?
To have the tune itself.
What do you mean? Is there no philosophy in it?
No, none at all, thank goodness.
What does it say, then?
King, it says "I exist. " Don't you know the meaning of the first
cry of the new-born child? The child, when it is born, hears at
once the cries of the earth and water and sky, which surround
him,--and they all cry to him, "We exist," and his tiny little
heart responds, and cries out in its turn, "I exist. " My poetry
is like the cry of that new-born child. It is a response to the
cry of the Universe.
Is it nothing more than that, Poet?
No, nothing more. There is life in my song, which cries, "In joy
and in sorrow, in work and in rest, in life and in death, in
victory and in defeat, in this world and in the next, all hail to
the 'I exist. '"
Well, Poet, I can assure you, if your play hasn't got any
philosophy in it, it won't pass muster in these days.
That's true, King. The newer people, of this modern age, are more
eager to amass than to realize. They are, in their generation,
wiser than the children of light.
Whom shall we ask, then, for an audience? Shall we ask the young
students of our royal school?
No, King, they cut up poetry with their logic. They are like the
young-horned deer trying their new horns on the flower-beds.
Whom should I ask, then?
Ask those whose hair is turning grey.
What do you mean, Poet?
The youth of these middle-aged people is a youth of detachment.
They have just crossed the waters of pleasure, and are in sight
of the land of pure gladness. They don't want to eat fruit, but
to produce it.
I, at least, have now reached that age of discretion, and ought
to be able to appreciate your songs. Shall I ask the General?
Yes, ask him.
And the Chinese Ambassador?
Yes, ask him too.
I hear my father-in-law has come.
Well, ask him too, but I have my doubts about his youthful sons.
But don't forget his daughter.
Don't worry about her. She won't let herself be forgotten.
And Sruti-bhushan? Shall I ask him?
No, King, no. Decidedly, no. I have no grudge against him. Why
should I inflict this on him?
Very well, Poet. Off with you. Make your stage preparations.
No, King. We are going to act this play without any special
preparations. Truth looks tawdry when she is overdressed.
But, Poet, there must be some canvas for a background.
No. Our only background is the mind. On that we shall summon up
a picture with the magic wand of music.
Are there any songs in the play?
Yes, King. The door of each act will be opened by the key of
song.
What is the subject of the songs?
The Disrobing of Winter.
But, Poet, we haven't read about that in any Mythology.
In the world-myth this song comes round in its turn. In the play
of the seasons, each year, the mask of the Old Man, Winter, is
pulled off, and the form of Spring is revealed in all its beauty.
Thus we see that the old is ever new.
Well, Poet, so much for the songs: but what about the remainder?
Oh, that is all about life.
Life? What is life?
This is how it runs: A band of young companions has run off in
pursuit of one Old Man. They have taken a vow to catch him. They
enter into a cave; they take hold of him, and then----
Then, what? What did they see?
Ah. That will be told in its own good time.
But, I haven't understood one thing. Your drama and your
songs,--have they different subjects, or the same?
The same, King. The play of Spring in nature is the counterpart
of the play of Youth in our lives. It is simply from the lyrical
drama of the World Poet that I have stolen this plot.
Who, then, are the chief characters?
One is called the Leader.
Who is he, Poet?
He is the guiding impulse in our life. Another is Chandra.
Who is he?
He who makes life dear to us.
And who else?
Then there is Dada, to whom duty is the essence of life, not joy.
Is there any one else?
Yes, the blind Minstrel.
Blind?
Because he does not see with his eyes, therefore he sees with his
whole body and mind and soul.
Who else is there, in your play, among the chief actors?
You are there, King.
I?
Yes, you, King. For if you stayed out of it, instead of coming
into it, then the King would begin to abuse the Poet and send
for Sruti-bhushan again. And then there would be no hope of
salvation for him. For the World Poet himself would be defeated.
And the South Wind of Spring would have to retire, without
receiving its homage.
ACT I
_The Heralds of Spring are abroad. There are songs in the
rustling bamboo leaves, in birds' nests, and in blossoming
branches. _
SONG-PRELUDE
_The purple secondary curtain[1] goes up, disclosing the elevated
rear stage with a skyey background of dark blue, on which appear
the horn of the crescent moon and the silver points of stars.
Trees in the foreground, with two rope swings entwined with
garlands of flowers. Flowers everywhere in profusion. On the
extreme left the mouth of a dark cavern dimly seen. Boys
representing the "Bamboo" disclosed, swinging. _
[Footnote 1: Neither the secondary curtain nor the drop is again
used during the play. The action is continuous, either on the
front stage, or on the rear stage, the latter being darkened when
not actually in use. ]
SONG OF THE BAMBOO
_O South Wind, the Wanderer, come and rock me,
Rouse me into the rapture of new leaves.
I am the wayside bamboo tree, waiting for your breath
To tingle life into my branches. _
_O South Wind, the Wanderer, my dwelling is in the end of the lane.
I know your wayfaring, and the language of your footsteps.
Your least touch thrills me out of my slumber,
Your whisper gleans my secrets. _
(_Enter a troop of girls, dancing, representing birds. _)
SONG OF THE BIRD
_The sky pours its light into our hearts,
We fill the sky with songs in answer.
We pelt the air with our notes
When the air stirs our wings with its madness.
O Flame of the Forest,
All your flower-torches are ablaze;
You have kissed our songs red with the passion of your youth.
In the spring breeze the mango-blossoms launch their messages to the
unknown
And the new leaves dream aloud all day.
O Sirish, you have cast your perfume-net round our hearts,
Drawing them out in songs. _
(_Disclosed among the branches of trees, suddenly lighted up,
boys representing champak blossoms. _)
SONG OF THE BLOSSOMING CHAMPAK
_My shadow dances in your waves, everflowing river,
I, the blossoming champak, stand unmoved on the bank, with my
flower-vigils.
My movement dwells in the stillness of my depth,
In the delicious birth of new leaves,
In flood of flowers,
In unseen urge of new life towards the light.
Its stirring thrills the sky, and the silence of the dawn is moved. _
_Morning_
[_The rear stage is now darkened. On the main stage, bright,
enter a band of youths whose number may be anything between three
and thirty. They sing. _]
_The fire of April leaps from forest to forest,
Flashing up in leaves and flowers from all nooks and corners.
The sky is thriftless with colours,
The air delirious with songs.
The wind-tost branches of the woodland
Spread their unrest in our blood.
The air is filled with bewilderment of mirth;
And the breeze rushes from flower to flower, asking their names. _
[In the following dialogue only the names of the principal
characters are given. Wherever the name is not given the speaker
is one or other of the Youths. ]
April pulls hard, brother, April pulls very hard.
How do you know that?
If he didn't, he would never have pulled Dada outside his den.
Well, I declare. Here is Dada, our cargo-boat of moral-maxims,
towed against the current of his own pen and ink.
_Chandra_
But you mustn't give April all the credit for that. For I,
Chandra, have hidden the yellow leaves of his manuscript book
among the young buds of the _pial_ forest, and Dada is out
looking for it.
The manuscript book banished! What a good riddance!
We ought to strip off Dada's grey philosopher's cloak also.
_Chandra_
Yes, the very dust of the earth is tingling with youth, and yet
there's not a single touch of Spring in the whole of Dada's
body.
_Dada_
Oh, do stop this fooling. What a nuisance you are making of
yourselves! We aren't children any longer.
_Chandra_
Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet
it is not ashamed to look fresh.
Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours,
full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the
water are ever striving to be new.
Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that,
sitting in your den?
_Dada_
Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener
cultivates flowers. _My_ poems have substance and weight in
them.
Yes, they are like the turnips, which cling to the ground.
_Dada_
Well, then, listen to me----
How awful! Here's Dada going to run amuck with his quatrains.
Oh dear, oh dear! The quatrains are let loose. There's no holding
them in.
To all passers-by I give notice that Dada's quatrains have gone
mad, and are running amuck.
_Chandra_
Dada! Don't take any notice of their fun. Go on with your
reading. If no one else can survive it, I think I can. I am not a
coward like these fellows.
Come on, then, Dada. We won't be cowards. We will keep our
ground, and not yield an inch, but only listen.
We will receive the spear-thrusts of the quatrains on our breast,
not on our back.
But for pity's sake, Dada, give us only one--not more.
_Dada_
Very well. Now listen:
_If bamboos were made only into flutes,
They would droop and die with very shame,
They hold their heads high in the sky,
Because they are variously useful. _
Please, gentlemen, don't laugh. Have patience while I explain.
The meaning is----
The meaning?
What? Must the infantry charge of meaning follow the cannonading
of your quatrains, to complete the rout?
_Dada_
Just one word to make you understand. It means, that if the
bamboos were no better than those noisy instruments----
No, Dada, we must not understand.
I defy you to make us understand.
Dada, if you use force to make us understand we shall use force
to force ourselves not to understand.
_Dada_
The gist of the quatrain is this, that if we do no good to the
world, then----
Then the world will be very greatly relieved.
_Dada_
There is another verse that makes it clearer:
_There are numerous stars in the midnight sky,
Which hang in the air for no purpose;
If they would only come down to earth,
For the street lighting they might be useful. _
I see we must make clearer our meaning. Catch him. Let's raise
him up, shoulder high, and take him back to his den.
_Dada_
Why are you so excited to-day? Have you any particular business
to do?
Yes, we have very urgent business,--very urgent indeed.
_Dada_
What is your business about?
We are out to seek a play for our Spring festival.
_Dada_
Play! Day and night, play!
(_They sing. _)
_We are free, my friends, from the fear of work,
For we know that work is play,--the play of life.
It is Play, to fight and toss, between life and death;
It is Play that flashes in the laughter of light in the infinite
heart;
It roars in the wind, and surges in the sea. _
Oh, here comes our Leader. Brothers--our Leader, our Leader.
_Leader_
Hallo! What a noise you make!
Was it that which made you come out of doors?
_Leader_
Yes.
Well, we did it for that very purpose.
_Leader_
You don't want me to remain indoors?
Why remain indoors? This outer world has been made with a lavish
expenditure of sun and moon and stars. Let us enjoy it, and then
we can save God's face for indulging in such extravagance.
_Leader_
What were you discussing?
This:
(_They sing_. )
_Play blooms in flower and ripens in fruit
In the sunshine of eternal youth.
Play bursts up in the blood-red fire, and licks into ashes the
decaying and the dead. _
Our Dada's objection was about this play.
_Dada_
Shall I tell you the reason why?
Yes, Dada, you may tell us, but we shan't promise to listen.
_Dada_
Here it is:
_Time is the capital of work,
And Play is its defalcation.
Play rifles the house, and then wastes its spoil,
Therefore the wise call it worse than useless. _
_Chandra_
But surely, Dada, you are talking nonsense. Time itself is Play.
Its only object is Pas-time.
_Dada_
Then what is Work?
_Chandra_
Work is the dust raised by the passing of Time.
_Dada_
Leader, you must give us your answers.
_Leader_
No. I never give answers. I lead on from one question to another.
That is my leadership.
_Dada_
Everything else has its limits, but your childishness is
absolutely unbounded.
Do you know the reason? It is because we are really nothing but
children. And everything else has its limitations except the
child.
_Dada_
Won't you ever attain Age?
No, we shall never attain Age.
We shall die old, but never attain Age.
_Chandra_
When we meet Age, we shall shave his head, and put him on a
donkey, and send him across the river.
Oh, you can save yourself the trouble of shaving his head for Age
is bald.
(_They sing_. )
_Our hair shall never turn grey,
Never.
There is no blank in this world for us, no break in our road,
It may be an illusion that we follow,
But it shall never play us false,
Never. _
(_The Leader sings_. )
_Our hair shall never turn grey,
Never.
We will never doubt the world and shut our eyes to ponder.
Never.
We will not grope in the maze of our mind.
We flow with the flood of things, from the mountain to the sea,
We will never be lost in the desert sand,
Never. _
We can tell, by his looks, that Dada will some day go to that Old
Man, to receive his lessons.
_Leader_
Which Old Man?
The Old Man of the line of Adam.
He dwells in a cave, and never thinks of dying.
_Leader_
Where did you learn about him?
Oh, every one talks about him, And it is in the books also.
_Leader_
What does he look like?
Some say he is white, like the skull of a dead man. And some say
he is dark, like the socket of a skeleton's eye.
But haven't you heard any news of him, Leader?
_Leader_
I don't believe in him at all.
Well, that goes entirely against current opinion. That Old Man is
more existent than anything else. He lives within the ribs of
creation.
According to our Pundit, it is we who have no existence. You
can't be certain whether we are, or are not.
_Chandra_
We? Oh, we are too brand new altogether. We haven't yet got our
credentials to prove that we exist.
_Leader_
Have you really gone and opened communication with the Pundits?
Why? What harm is there in that, Leader?
_Leader_
You will become pale, like the white mist in autumn. Even the
least colour of blood will disappear from your mind. I have a
suggestion.
What, Leader? What?
_Leader_
You were looking out for a play?
Yes, yes, we got quite frantic about it.
We thought it over so vigorously, that people had to run to the
King's court to lodge a complaint.
_Leader_
Well, I can suggest a play which will be new.
What? --What? --Tell us.
_Leader_
Go and capture the Old Man.
That is new, no doubt, but we very much doubt if it's a play.
_Leader_
I am sure you won't be able to do it.
Not do it? We shall.
_Leader_
No, never.
Well then, suppose we do capture him, what will you give us?
_Leader_
I shall accept you as my preceptor.
Preceptor! You want to make us grey, and cold, and old, before
our time.
_Leader_
Then, what do you want me to do?
If we capture him, then we shall take away your leadership.
_Leader_
That will be a great relief to me. You have made all my bones out
of joint already. Very well, then it's all settled?
Yes, settled. We shall bring him to you by the next full moon of
Spring.
But what are we going to do with him?
_Leader_
You shall let him join in your Spring Festival.
Oh no, that will be outrageous. Then the mango flowers will run
to seed at once.
And all the cuckoos will become owls.
And the bees will go about reciting Sanskrit verses, making the
air hum with m's and n's.
_Leader_
And your skull will be so top-heavy with prudence, that it will
be difficult for you to keep on your feet.
How awful!
_Leader_
And you will have rheumatics in all your joints.
How awful!
_Leader_
And you will become your own elder brothers, pulling your own
ears to set yourselves right.
How awful!
_Leader_
And----
No more "ands. " We are ready to surrender.
We will abandon our game of capturing the Old Man.
We will put it off till the cold weather. In this Springtime,
your company will be enough for us.
_Leader_
Ah, I see! You have already got the chill of the Old Man in your
bones.
Why? What are the symptoms?
_Leader_
You have no enthusiasm. You back out at the very start. Why
don't you make a trial?
Very well.
alive, then we know for certain that we shall go on living. Those
who have never put life to the test, in all possible ways, these
keep on crying out:
_Life is fleeting, Life is waning,
Life is like a dew-drop on a lotus leaf. _
But, isn't life inconstant?
Only because its movement is unceasing. The moment you stop this
movement, that moment you begin to play the drama of Death.
Poet, are you speaking the truth? Shall we really go on living?
Yes, we shall really go on living.
Then, Poet, if we are going to go on living, we must make our
life worth its eternity. Is not that so?
Yes, indeed.
Ho, Guard.
Yes, Your Royal Highness.
Call the Vizier at once.
Yes, Your Royal Highness.
(_Vizier enters. _)
What is Your Majesty's pleasure?
Vizier! Why on earth have you kept me waiting so long?
I was very busy, Your Majesty.
Busy? What were you busy about?
I was dismissing the General.
Why should you dismiss the General? We have got to discuss war
matters with him.
And arrangements had to be made for the state-departure of the
Chinese Ambassador.
What do you mean by his state-departure?
If it please Your Majesty, you did not grant him an interview. So
he----
Vizier! You surprise me. Is this the way you manage state
affairs? What has happened to you? Have you lost your senses?
Then, again. Sire, I was trying to find a way to pull down the
Poet's house. At first, no one would undertake it. Then, at last,
all the Pundits of the Royal School of Grammar and Logic came up
with their proper tools and set to work.
Vizier! Are you mad this morning? Pull down the Poet's house?
Why, you might as well kill all the birds in the garden and make
them up into a pie.
If it please Your Majesty, you need not be annoyed. We shan't have to
pull down the house after all; for the moment Sruti-bhushan heard it
was to be demolished, he decided to take possession of it himself.
What, Vizier! That's worse still. Why! The Goddess of Music would
break her harp in pieces against my head, if she even heard of
such a thing. No, that can't be.
Then, Your Majesty, there was another thing to be got through. We
had to deliver over the province of Kanchanpur to the Pundit.
No, Vizier! What a mess you are making. That must go to our Poet.
To me, King? No. My poetry never accepts reward.
Well, well. Let the Pundit have it.
And, last of all, Sire. I have issued orders to the soldiers to
disperse the crowd of famine-stricken people.
Vizier, you are doing nothing but blunder. The best way to
disperse the famished people is with food, not force.
(_Guard enters. _)
May it please Your Royal Highness.
What's the matter, Guard?
May it please Your Royal Highness, here is Sruti-bhushan, the
Pundit, coming back with his _Book of Devotions_.
Oh, stop him, Vizier, stop him. He will undo everything. Don't
let him come upon me unawares like this. In a moment of weakness,
I may suddenly find myself out of my depths in the _Ocean of
Renunciation_. Poet! Don't give me time for that. Do something.
Do anything. Have you got anything ready to hand? Any play
toward? Any poem? Any masque? Any----
Yes, King. I have got the very thing. But whether it is a drama,
or a poem, or a play, or a masque, I cannot say.
Shall I be able to understand the sense of what you have written?
No, King, what a poet writes is not meant to have any sense.
What then?
To have the tune itself.
What do you mean? Is there no philosophy in it?
No, none at all, thank goodness.
What does it say, then?
King, it says "I exist. " Don't you know the meaning of the first
cry of the new-born child? The child, when it is born, hears at
once the cries of the earth and water and sky, which surround
him,--and they all cry to him, "We exist," and his tiny little
heart responds, and cries out in its turn, "I exist. " My poetry
is like the cry of that new-born child. It is a response to the
cry of the Universe.
Is it nothing more than that, Poet?
No, nothing more. There is life in my song, which cries, "In joy
and in sorrow, in work and in rest, in life and in death, in
victory and in defeat, in this world and in the next, all hail to
the 'I exist. '"
Well, Poet, I can assure you, if your play hasn't got any
philosophy in it, it won't pass muster in these days.
That's true, King. The newer people, of this modern age, are more
eager to amass than to realize. They are, in their generation,
wiser than the children of light.
Whom shall we ask, then, for an audience? Shall we ask the young
students of our royal school?
No, King, they cut up poetry with their logic. They are like the
young-horned deer trying their new horns on the flower-beds.
Whom should I ask, then?
Ask those whose hair is turning grey.
What do you mean, Poet?
The youth of these middle-aged people is a youth of detachment.
They have just crossed the waters of pleasure, and are in sight
of the land of pure gladness. They don't want to eat fruit, but
to produce it.
I, at least, have now reached that age of discretion, and ought
to be able to appreciate your songs. Shall I ask the General?
Yes, ask him.
And the Chinese Ambassador?
Yes, ask him too.
I hear my father-in-law has come.
Well, ask him too, but I have my doubts about his youthful sons.
But don't forget his daughter.
Don't worry about her. She won't let herself be forgotten.
And Sruti-bhushan? Shall I ask him?
No, King, no. Decidedly, no. I have no grudge against him. Why
should I inflict this on him?
Very well, Poet. Off with you. Make your stage preparations.
No, King. We are going to act this play without any special
preparations. Truth looks tawdry when she is overdressed.
But, Poet, there must be some canvas for a background.
No. Our only background is the mind. On that we shall summon up
a picture with the magic wand of music.
Are there any songs in the play?
Yes, King. The door of each act will be opened by the key of
song.
What is the subject of the songs?
The Disrobing of Winter.
But, Poet, we haven't read about that in any Mythology.
In the world-myth this song comes round in its turn. In the play
of the seasons, each year, the mask of the Old Man, Winter, is
pulled off, and the form of Spring is revealed in all its beauty.
Thus we see that the old is ever new.
Well, Poet, so much for the songs: but what about the remainder?
Oh, that is all about life.
Life? What is life?
This is how it runs: A band of young companions has run off in
pursuit of one Old Man. They have taken a vow to catch him. They
enter into a cave; they take hold of him, and then----
Then, what? What did they see?
Ah. That will be told in its own good time.
But, I haven't understood one thing. Your drama and your
songs,--have they different subjects, or the same?
The same, King. The play of Spring in nature is the counterpart
of the play of Youth in our lives. It is simply from the lyrical
drama of the World Poet that I have stolen this plot.
Who, then, are the chief characters?
One is called the Leader.
Who is he, Poet?
He is the guiding impulse in our life. Another is Chandra.
Who is he?
He who makes life dear to us.
And who else?
Then there is Dada, to whom duty is the essence of life, not joy.
Is there any one else?
Yes, the blind Minstrel.
Blind?
Because he does not see with his eyes, therefore he sees with his
whole body and mind and soul.
Who else is there, in your play, among the chief actors?
You are there, King.
I?
Yes, you, King. For if you stayed out of it, instead of coming
into it, then the King would begin to abuse the Poet and send
for Sruti-bhushan again. And then there would be no hope of
salvation for him. For the World Poet himself would be defeated.
And the South Wind of Spring would have to retire, without
receiving its homage.
ACT I
_The Heralds of Spring are abroad. There are songs in the
rustling bamboo leaves, in birds' nests, and in blossoming
branches. _
SONG-PRELUDE
_The purple secondary curtain[1] goes up, disclosing the elevated
rear stage with a skyey background of dark blue, on which appear
the horn of the crescent moon and the silver points of stars.
Trees in the foreground, with two rope swings entwined with
garlands of flowers. Flowers everywhere in profusion. On the
extreme left the mouth of a dark cavern dimly seen. Boys
representing the "Bamboo" disclosed, swinging. _
[Footnote 1: Neither the secondary curtain nor the drop is again
used during the play. The action is continuous, either on the
front stage, or on the rear stage, the latter being darkened when
not actually in use. ]
SONG OF THE BAMBOO
_O South Wind, the Wanderer, come and rock me,
Rouse me into the rapture of new leaves.
I am the wayside bamboo tree, waiting for your breath
To tingle life into my branches. _
_O South Wind, the Wanderer, my dwelling is in the end of the lane.
I know your wayfaring, and the language of your footsteps.
Your least touch thrills me out of my slumber,
Your whisper gleans my secrets. _
(_Enter a troop of girls, dancing, representing birds. _)
SONG OF THE BIRD
_The sky pours its light into our hearts,
We fill the sky with songs in answer.
We pelt the air with our notes
When the air stirs our wings with its madness.
O Flame of the Forest,
All your flower-torches are ablaze;
You have kissed our songs red with the passion of your youth.
In the spring breeze the mango-blossoms launch their messages to the
unknown
And the new leaves dream aloud all day.
O Sirish, you have cast your perfume-net round our hearts,
Drawing them out in songs. _
(_Disclosed among the branches of trees, suddenly lighted up,
boys representing champak blossoms. _)
SONG OF THE BLOSSOMING CHAMPAK
_My shadow dances in your waves, everflowing river,
I, the blossoming champak, stand unmoved on the bank, with my
flower-vigils.
My movement dwells in the stillness of my depth,
In the delicious birth of new leaves,
In flood of flowers,
In unseen urge of new life towards the light.
Its stirring thrills the sky, and the silence of the dawn is moved. _
_Morning_
[_The rear stage is now darkened. On the main stage, bright,
enter a band of youths whose number may be anything between three
and thirty. They sing. _]
_The fire of April leaps from forest to forest,
Flashing up in leaves and flowers from all nooks and corners.
The sky is thriftless with colours,
The air delirious with songs.
The wind-tost branches of the woodland
Spread their unrest in our blood.
The air is filled with bewilderment of mirth;
And the breeze rushes from flower to flower, asking their names. _
[In the following dialogue only the names of the principal
characters are given. Wherever the name is not given the speaker
is one or other of the Youths. ]
April pulls hard, brother, April pulls very hard.
How do you know that?
If he didn't, he would never have pulled Dada outside his den.
Well, I declare. Here is Dada, our cargo-boat of moral-maxims,
towed against the current of his own pen and ink.
_Chandra_
But you mustn't give April all the credit for that. For I,
Chandra, have hidden the yellow leaves of his manuscript book
among the young buds of the _pial_ forest, and Dada is out
looking for it.
The manuscript book banished! What a good riddance!
We ought to strip off Dada's grey philosopher's cloak also.
_Chandra_
Yes, the very dust of the earth is tingling with youth, and yet
there's not a single touch of Spring in the whole of Dada's
body.
_Dada_
Oh, do stop this fooling. What a nuisance you are making of
yourselves! We aren't children any longer.
_Chandra_
Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet
it is not ashamed to look fresh.
Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours,
full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the
water are ever striving to be new.
Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that,
sitting in your den?
_Dada_
Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener
cultivates flowers. _My_ poems have substance and weight in
them.
Yes, they are like the turnips, which cling to the ground.
_Dada_
Well, then, listen to me----
How awful! Here's Dada going to run amuck with his quatrains.
Oh dear, oh dear! The quatrains are let loose. There's no holding
them in.
To all passers-by I give notice that Dada's quatrains have gone
mad, and are running amuck.
_Chandra_
Dada! Don't take any notice of their fun. Go on with your
reading. If no one else can survive it, I think I can. I am not a
coward like these fellows.
Come on, then, Dada. We won't be cowards. We will keep our
ground, and not yield an inch, but only listen.
We will receive the spear-thrusts of the quatrains on our breast,
not on our back.
But for pity's sake, Dada, give us only one--not more.
_Dada_
Very well. Now listen:
_If bamboos were made only into flutes,
They would droop and die with very shame,
They hold their heads high in the sky,
Because they are variously useful. _
Please, gentlemen, don't laugh. Have patience while I explain.
The meaning is----
The meaning?
What? Must the infantry charge of meaning follow the cannonading
of your quatrains, to complete the rout?
_Dada_
Just one word to make you understand. It means, that if the
bamboos were no better than those noisy instruments----
No, Dada, we must not understand.
I defy you to make us understand.
Dada, if you use force to make us understand we shall use force
to force ourselves not to understand.
_Dada_
The gist of the quatrain is this, that if we do no good to the
world, then----
Then the world will be very greatly relieved.
_Dada_
There is another verse that makes it clearer:
_There are numerous stars in the midnight sky,
Which hang in the air for no purpose;
If they would only come down to earth,
For the street lighting they might be useful. _
I see we must make clearer our meaning. Catch him. Let's raise
him up, shoulder high, and take him back to his den.
_Dada_
Why are you so excited to-day? Have you any particular business
to do?
Yes, we have very urgent business,--very urgent indeed.
_Dada_
What is your business about?
We are out to seek a play for our Spring festival.
_Dada_
Play! Day and night, play!
(_They sing. _)
_We are free, my friends, from the fear of work,
For we know that work is play,--the play of life.
It is Play, to fight and toss, between life and death;
It is Play that flashes in the laughter of light in the infinite
heart;
It roars in the wind, and surges in the sea. _
Oh, here comes our Leader. Brothers--our Leader, our Leader.
_Leader_
Hallo! What a noise you make!
Was it that which made you come out of doors?
_Leader_
Yes.
Well, we did it for that very purpose.
_Leader_
You don't want me to remain indoors?
Why remain indoors? This outer world has been made with a lavish
expenditure of sun and moon and stars. Let us enjoy it, and then
we can save God's face for indulging in such extravagance.
_Leader_
What were you discussing?
This:
(_They sing_. )
_Play blooms in flower and ripens in fruit
In the sunshine of eternal youth.
Play bursts up in the blood-red fire, and licks into ashes the
decaying and the dead. _
Our Dada's objection was about this play.
_Dada_
Shall I tell you the reason why?
Yes, Dada, you may tell us, but we shan't promise to listen.
_Dada_
Here it is:
_Time is the capital of work,
And Play is its defalcation.
Play rifles the house, and then wastes its spoil,
Therefore the wise call it worse than useless. _
_Chandra_
But surely, Dada, you are talking nonsense. Time itself is Play.
Its only object is Pas-time.
_Dada_
Then what is Work?
_Chandra_
Work is the dust raised by the passing of Time.
_Dada_
Leader, you must give us your answers.
_Leader_
No. I never give answers. I lead on from one question to another.
That is my leadership.
_Dada_
Everything else has its limits, but your childishness is
absolutely unbounded.
Do you know the reason? It is because we are really nothing but
children. And everything else has its limitations except the
child.
_Dada_
Won't you ever attain Age?
No, we shall never attain Age.
We shall die old, but never attain Age.
_Chandra_
When we meet Age, we shall shave his head, and put him on a
donkey, and send him across the river.
Oh, you can save yourself the trouble of shaving his head for Age
is bald.
(_They sing_. )
_Our hair shall never turn grey,
Never.
There is no blank in this world for us, no break in our road,
It may be an illusion that we follow,
But it shall never play us false,
Never. _
(_The Leader sings_. )
_Our hair shall never turn grey,
Never.
We will never doubt the world and shut our eyes to ponder.
Never.
We will not grope in the maze of our mind.
We flow with the flood of things, from the mountain to the sea,
We will never be lost in the desert sand,
Never. _
We can tell, by his looks, that Dada will some day go to that Old
Man, to receive his lessons.
_Leader_
Which Old Man?
The Old Man of the line of Adam.
He dwells in a cave, and never thinks of dying.
_Leader_
Where did you learn about him?
Oh, every one talks about him, And it is in the books also.
_Leader_
What does he look like?
Some say he is white, like the skull of a dead man. And some say
he is dark, like the socket of a skeleton's eye.
But haven't you heard any news of him, Leader?
_Leader_
I don't believe in him at all.
Well, that goes entirely against current opinion. That Old Man is
more existent than anything else. He lives within the ribs of
creation.
According to our Pundit, it is we who have no existence. You
can't be certain whether we are, or are not.
_Chandra_
We? Oh, we are too brand new altogether. We haven't yet got our
credentials to prove that we exist.
_Leader_
Have you really gone and opened communication with the Pundits?
Why? What harm is there in that, Leader?
_Leader_
You will become pale, like the white mist in autumn. Even the
least colour of blood will disappear from your mind. I have a
suggestion.
What, Leader? What?
_Leader_
You were looking out for a play?
Yes, yes, we got quite frantic about it.
We thought it over so vigorously, that people had to run to the
King's court to lodge a complaint.
_Leader_
Well, I can suggest a play which will be new.
What? --What? --Tell us.
_Leader_
Go and capture the Old Man.
That is new, no doubt, but we very much doubt if it's a play.
_Leader_
I am sure you won't be able to do it.
Not do it? We shall.
_Leader_
No, never.
Well then, suppose we do capture him, what will you give us?
_Leader_
I shall accept you as my preceptor.
Preceptor! You want to make us grey, and cold, and old, before
our time.
_Leader_
Then, what do you want me to do?
If we capture him, then we shall take away your leadership.
_Leader_
That will be a great relief to me. You have made all my bones out
of joint already. Very well, then it's all settled?
Yes, settled. We shall bring him to you by the next full moon of
Spring.
But what are we going to do with him?
_Leader_
You shall let him join in your Spring Festival.
Oh no, that will be outrageous. Then the mango flowers will run
to seed at once.
And all the cuckoos will become owls.
And the bees will go about reciting Sanskrit verses, making the
air hum with m's and n's.
_Leader_
And your skull will be so top-heavy with prudence, that it will
be difficult for you to keep on your feet.
How awful!
_Leader_
And you will have rheumatics in all your joints.
How awful!
_Leader_
And you will become your own elder brothers, pulling your own
ears to set yourselves right.
How awful!
_Leader_
And----
No more "ands. " We are ready to surrender.
We will abandon our game of capturing the Old Man.
We will put it off till the cold weather. In this Springtime,
your company will be enough for us.
_Leader_
Ah, I see! You have already got the chill of the Old Man in your
bones.
Why? What are the symptoms?
_Leader_
You have no enthusiasm. You back out at the very start. Why
don't you make a trial?
Very well.
