No More Learning

My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

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, and Anjan they call our
river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

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, and Anjan they call our
river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.



18


When the two sisters go to fetch water, they come to this spot
and they smile.
They must be aware of somebody who stands behind the trees
whenever they go to fetch water.

The two sisters whisper to each other when they pass this spot.
They must have guessed the secret of that somebody who stands
behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

Their pitchers lurch suddenly, and water spills when they reach
this spot.
They must have found out that somebody's heart is beating who
stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

The two sisters glance at each other when they come to this spot,
and they smile.
There is a laughter in their swift-stepping feet, which makes
confusion in somebody's mind who stands behind the trees
whenever they go to fetch water.



19


You walked by the riverside path with the full pitcher upon your
hip.
Why did you swiftly turn your face and peep at me through your
fluttering veil?
That gleaming look from the dark came upon me like a breeze that
sends a shiver through the rippling water and sweeps away to
the shadowy shore.
It came to me like the bird of the evening that hurriedly flies
across the lampless room from the one open window to the other,
and disappears in the night.
You are hidden as a star behind the hills, and I am a passer-by
upon the road.
But why did you stop for a moment and glance at my face through
your veil while you walked by the riverside path with the full
pitcher upon your hip?



20


Day after day he comes and goes away.
Go, and give him a flower from my hair, my friend.
If he asks who was it that sent it, I entreat you do not tell him
my name--for he only comes and goes away.

He sits on the dust under the tree.
Spread there a seat with flowers and leaves, my friend.
His eyes are sad, and they bring sadness to my heart.
He does not speak what he has in mind; he only comes and goes
away.



21


Why did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when
the day dawned?
As I come in and out I pass by him every time, and my eyes are
caught by his face.
I know not if I should speak to him or keep silent. Why did he
choose to come to my door?

The cloudy nights in July are dark; the sky is soft blue in the
autumn; the spring days are restless with the south wind.
He weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time.
I turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist. Why did he
choose to come to my door?



22


When she passed by me with quick steps, the end of her skirt
touched me.
From the unknown island of a heart came a sudden warm breath of
spring.
A flutter of a flitting touch brushed me and vanished in a
moment, like a torn flower petal blown in the breeze.
It fell upon my heart like a sigh of her body and whisper of her
heart.



23


Why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets in mere idle
sport?
Fill your pitcher. It is time for you to come home.

Why do you stir the water with your hands and fitfully glance at
the road for some one in mere idle sport?
Fill your pitcher and come home.

The morning hours pass by--the dark water flows on.
The waves are laughing and whispering to each other in mere idle
sport.

The wandering clouds have gathered at the edge of the sky on
yonder rise of the land.
They linger and look at your face and smile in mere idle sport.
Fill your pitcher and come home.



24


Do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend!
Say it to me, only to me, in secret.
You who smile so gently, softly whisper, my heart will hear it,
not my ears.

The night is deep, the house is silent, the birds' nests are
shrouded with sleep.
Speak to me through hesitating tears, through faltering smiles,
through sweet shame and pain, the secret of your heart!



25


"Come to us, youth, tell us truly why there is madness in your
eyes? "
"I know not what wine of wild poppy I have drunk, that there is
this madness in my eyes. "
"Ah, shame! "
"Well, some are wise and some foolish, some are watchful and some
careless. There are eyes that smile and eyes that weep--and
madness is in my eyes. "

"Youth, why do you stand so still under the shadow of the tree? "
"My feet are languid with the burden of my heart, and I stand
still in the shadow. "
"Ah, shame! "
"Well, some march on their way and some linger, some are free and
some are fettered--and my feet are languid with the burden of
my heart. "



26


"What comes from your willing hands I take. I beg for nothing
more. "
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one
has. "

"If there be a stray flower for me I will wear it in my heart. "
"But if there be thorns? "
"I will endure them. "
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one
has. "

"If but once you should raise your loving eyes to my face it
would make my life sweet beyond death. "
"But if there by only cruel glances? "
"I will keep them piercing my heart. "
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one
has. "



27


"Trust love even if it brings sorrow. Do not close up your
heart. "
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
them. "

"The heart is only for giving away with a tear and a song, my
love. "
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
them. "

"Pleasure is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies. But
sorrow is strong and abiding. Let sorrowful love wake in your
eyes. "
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
them. "

"The lotus blooms in the sight of the sun, and loses all that it
has. It would not remain in bud in the eternal winter mist. "
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
them. "



28


Your questioning eyes are sad. They seek to know my meaning as
the moon would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your eyes from end to end, with
nothing hidden or held back. That is why you know me not.
If it were only a gem I could break it into a hundred pieces and
string them into a chain to put on your neck.
If it were only a flower, round and small and sweet, I could
pluck it from its stem to set it in your hair.
But it is a heart, my beloved. Where are its shores and its
bottom?
You know not the limits of this kingdom, still you are its queen.
If it were only a moment of pleasure it would flower in an easy
smile, and you could see it and read it in a moment.
If it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears,
reflecting its inmost secret without a word.
But it is love, my beloved.
Its pleasure and pain are boundless, and endless its wants and
wealth.
It is as near to you as your life, but you can never wholly know
it.



29


Speak to me, my love! Tell me in words what you sang.
The night is dark. The stars are lost in clouds. The wind is
sighing through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue cloak will cling round me like
night. I will clasp your head to my bosom; and there in the
sweet loneliness murmur on your heart. I will shut my eyes and
listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will sit still and silent. Only
the trees will whisper in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will dawn. We shall look at each
other's eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in words what you sang.



30


You are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams.
I paint you and fashion you ever with my love longings.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my endless dreams!

Your feet are rosy-red with the glow of my heart's desire,
Gleaner of my sunset songs!
Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine of pain.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my lonesome dreams!

With the shadow of my passion have I darkened your eyes, Haunter
of the depth of my gaze!
I have caught you and wrapt you, my love, in the net of my music.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my deathless dreams!



31


My heart, the bird of the wilderness, has found its sky in your
eyes.
They are the cradle of the morning, they are the kingdom of the
stars.
My songs are lost in their depths.
Let me but soar in that sky, in its lonely immensity.
Let me but cleave its clouds and spread wings in its sunshine.



32


Tell me if this be all true, my lover, tell me if this be true.
When these eyes flash their lightning the dark clouds in your
breast make stormy answer.
Is it true that my lips are sweet like the opening bud of the
first conscious love?
Do the memories of vanished months of May linger in my limbs?
Does the earth, like a harp, shiver into songs with the touch of
my feet?
Is it then true that the dewdrops fall from the eyes of night
when I am seen, and the morning light is glad when it wraps my
body round?
Is it true, is it true, that your love travelled alone through
ages and worlds in search of me?
That when you found me at last, your age-long desire found utter
peace in my gentle speech and my eyes and lips and flowing
hair?
Is it then true that the mystery of the Infinite is written on
this little forehead of mine?
Tell me, my lover, if all this be true.



33


I love you, beloved. Forgive me my love.
Like a bird losing its way I am caught.
When my heart was shaken it lost its veil and was naked. Cover
it with pity, beloved, and forgive me my love.

If you cannot love me, beloved, forgive me my pain.
Do not look askance at me from afar.
I will steal back to my corner and sit in the dark.
With both hands I will cover my naked shame.
Turn your face from me, beloved, and forgive me my pain.

If you love me, beloved, forgive me my joy.
When my heart is borne away by the flood of happiness, do not
smile at my perilous abandonment.
When I sit on my throne and rule you with my tyranny of love,
when like a goddess I grant you my favour, bear with my pride,
beloved, and forgive me my joy.



34


Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep.
I fear lest I lose you when I am sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.

I start up and stretch my hands to touch you. I ask myself, "Is
it a dream? "
Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them fast
to my breast!
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.



35


Lest I should know you too easily, you play with me.
You blind me with flashes of laughter to hide your tears.
I know, I know your art.
You never say the word you would.

Lest I should not prize you, you elude me in a thousand ways.
Lest I should confuse you with the crowd, you stand aside.
I know, I know your art,
You never walk the path you would.

Your claim is more than that of others, that is why you are
silent.
With playful carelessness you avoid my gifts.
I know, I know your art,
You never will take what you would.



36


He whispered, "My love, raise your eyes. "
I sharply chid him, and said "Go! "; but he did not stir.
He stood before me and held both my hands. I said, "Leave me! ";
but he did not go.

He brought his face near my ear. I glanced at him and said,
"What a shame! "; but he did not move.
His lips touched my cheek. I trembled and said, "You dare too
much;" but he had no shame.

He put a flower in my hair. I said, "It is useless! "; but he
stood unmoved.
He took the garland from my neck and went away. I weep and ask
my heart, "Why does he not come back? "



37


Would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck, fair one?
But you must know that the one wreath that I had woven is for the
many, for those who are seen in glimpses, or dwell in lands
unexplored, or live in poets' songs.

It is too late to ask my heart in return for yours.
There was a time when my life was like a bud, all its perfume was
stored in its core.
Now it is squandered far and wide.
Who knows the enchantment that can gather and shut it up again?
My heart is not mine to give to one only, it is given to the
many.



38


My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic in his
mind.
Alas, I was not careful, and it struck your ringing anklets and
came to grief.
It broke up into scraps of songs and lay scattered at your feet.
All my cargo of the stories of old wars was tossed by the
laughing waves and soaked in tears and sank.
You must make this loss good to me, my love.
If my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered, make me
immortal while I live.
And I will not mourn for my loss nor blame you.



39


I try to weave a wreath all the morning, but the flowers slip and
they drop out.
You sit there watching me in secret through the corner of your
prying eyes.
Ask those eyes, darkly planning mischief, whose fault it was.

I try to sing a song, but in vain.
A hidden smile trembles on your lips, ask of it the reason of my
failure.
Let your smiling lips say on oath how my voice lost itself in
silence like a drunken bee in the lotus.

It is evening, and the time for the flowers to close their
petals.
Give me leave to sit by your side, and bid my lips to do the work
that can be done in silence and in the dim light of stars.



40


An unbelieving smile flits on your eyes when I come to you to
take my leave.
I have done it so often that you think I will soon return.
To tell you the truth I have the same doubt in my mind.
For the spring days come again time after time; the full moon
takes leave and comes on another visit, the flowers come again
and blush upon their branches year after year, and it is likely
that I take my leave only to come to you again.
But keep the illusion awhile; do not send it away with ungentle
haste.
When I say I leave you for all time, accept it as true, and let a
mist of tears for one moment deepen the dark rim of your eyes.
Then smile as archly as you like when I come again.



41


I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you; but I
dare not, for fear you should laugh.
That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.
I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I
dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.
That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of
what I mean.
I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

I long to use the most precious words I have for you; but I dare
not, fearing I should not be paid with like value.
That is why I gave you hard names and boast of my callous
strength.
I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain.

I long to sit silent by you; but I dare not lest my heart come
out at my lips.
That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart
behind words.
I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so.

I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my
cowardice should become known to you.
That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your
presence.
Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.



42


O mad, superbly drunk;
If you kick open your doors and play the fool in public;
If you empty your bag in a night, and snap your fingers at
prudence;
If you walk in curious paths and play with useless things;
Reck not rhyme or reason;
If unfurling your sails before the storm you snap the rudder in
two,
Then I will follow you, comrade, and be drunken and go to the
dogs.

I have wasted my days and nights in the company of steady wise
neighbours.
Much knowing has turned my hair grey, and much watching has made
my sight dim.
For years I have gathered and heaped up scraps and fragments of
things;
Crush them and dance upon them, and scatter them all to the
winds.
For I know 'tis the height of wisdom to be drunken and go to the
dogs.

Let all crooked scruples vanish, let me hopelessly lose my way.
Let a gust of wild giddiness come and sweep me away from my
anchors.
The world is peopled with worthies, and workers, useful and
clever.
There are men who are easily first, and men who come decently
after.
Let them be happy and prosper, and let me be foolishly futile.
For I know 'tis the end of all works to be drunken and go to the
dogs.

I swear to surrender this moment all claims to the ranks of the
decent.
I let go my pride of learning and judgment of right and of wrong.
I'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering the last drop of tears.
With the foam of the berry-red wine I will bathe and brighten my
laughter.
The badge of the civil and staid I'll tear into shreds for the
nonce.
I'll take the holy vow to be worthless, to be drunken and go to
the dogs.



43


No, my friends, I shall never be an ascetic, whatever you may say.
I shall never be an ascetic if she does not take the vow with me.
It is my firm resolve that if I cannot find a shady shelter and a
companion for my penance, I shall never turn ascetic.

No, my friends, I shall never leave my hearth and home, and
retire into the forest solitude, if rings no merry laughter in
its echoing shade and if the end of no saffron mantle flutters
in the wind; if its silence is not deepened by soft whispers.
I shall never be an ascetic.



44


Reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners. Spring winds to-day
are blowing in wild eddies, driving dust and dead leaves away,
and with them your lessons are all lost.
Do not say, father, that life is a vanity.
For we have made truce with death for once, and only for a few
fragrant hours we two have been made immortal.

Even if the king's army came and fiercely fell upon us we should
sadly shake our heads and say, Brothers, you are disturbing us.
If you must have this noisy game, go and clatter your arms
elsewhere. Since only for a few fleeting moments we have been
made immortal.

If friendly people came and flocked around us, we should humbly
bow to them and say, This extravagant good fortune is an
embarrassment to us. Room is scarce in the infinite sky where
we dwell. For in the springtime flowers come in crowds, and
the busy wings of bees jostle each other. Our little heaven,
where dwell only we two immortals, is too absurdly narrow.



45


To the guests that must go bid God's speed and brush away all
traces of their steps.
Take to your bosom with a smile what is easy and simple and near.
To-day is the festival of phantoms that know not when they die.
Let your laughter be but a meaningless mirth like twinkles of
light on the ripples.
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the
tip of a leaf.
Strike in chords from your harp fitful momentary rhythms.



46


You left me and went on your way.
I thought I should mourn for you and set your solitary image in
my heart wrought in a golden song.
But ah, my evil fortune, time is short.

Youth wanes year after year; the spring days are fugitive; the
frail flowers die for nothing, and the wise man warns me that
life is but a dew-drop on the lotus leaf.
Should I neglect all this to gaze after one who has turned her
back on me?
That would be rude and foolish, for time is short.

Then, come, my rainy nights with pattering feet; smile, my golden
autumn; come, careless April, scattering your kisses abroad.
You come, and you, and you also!
My loves, you know we are mortals. Is it wise to break one's
heart for the one who takes her heart away? For time is short.

It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes that
you are all my world.
It is heroic to hug one's sorrow and determine not to be
consoled.
But a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to my
eyes.
I cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song.
For time is short.



47


If you would have it so, I will end my singing.
If it sets your heart aflutter, I will take away my eyes from
your face.
If it suddenly startles you in your walk, I will step aside and
take another path.
If it confuses you in your flower-weaving, I will shun your
lonely garden.
If it makes the water wanton and wild, I will not row my boat by
your bank.



48


Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! No more of
this wine of kisses.
This mist of heavy incense stifles my heart.
Open the doors, make room for the morning light.
I am lost in you, wrapped in the folds of your caresses.
Free me from your spells, and give me back the manhood to offer
you my freed heart.



49


I hold her hands and press her to my breast.
I try to fill my arms with her loveliness, to plunder her sweet
smile with kisses, to drink her dark glances with my eyes.
Ah, but, where is it? Who can strain the blue from the sky?
I try to grasp the beauty, it eludes me, leaving only the body in
my hands.
Baffled and weary I come back.
How can the body touch the flower which only the spirit may
touch?



50


Love, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you--for
the meeting that is like all-devouring death.
Sweep me away like a storm; take everything I have; break open my
sleep and plunder my dreams. Rob me of my world.
In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let us
become one in beauty.
Alas for my vain desire! Where is this hope for union except in
thee, my God?



51


Then finish the last song and let us leave.
Forget this night when the night is no more.
Whom do I try to clasp in my arms? Dreams can never be made
captive.
My eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises my
breast.



52


Why did the lamp go out?
I shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is why
the lamp went out.

Why did the flower fade?
I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the
flower faded.

Why did the stream dry up?
I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the
stream dried up.

Why did the harp-string break?
I tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is why
the harp-string is broken.



53


Why do you put me to shame with a look?
I have not come as a beggar.
Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard
outside the garden hedge.
Why do you put me to shame with a look?

Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I
pluck.
I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every
strange traveller may stand.
Not a rose did I pluck.

Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down.
The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.
The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from
defeat.
My feet were tired.

I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at
your door.
Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes.
How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?
I know not what you thought of me.

The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.
I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this
seat on the grass.
It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.
The day is ended.



54


Where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when the
marketing is over?
They all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps from
above the village trees.
The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the
dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?

Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth.
The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the
bamboo leaves are silent.
The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the
courtyards.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?



55


It was mid-day when you went away.
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went
away.

Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant
fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my
room humming the news of many distant fields.

The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died.
I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I
had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.

I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played with
it upon my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.

It was mid-day when you went away.
The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting.
The doves cooed among the dense leaves.
I was alone in my balcony when you went away.



56


I was one among many women busy with the obscure daily tasks of
the household.
Why did you single me out and bring me away from the cool shelter
of our common life?

Love unexpressed in sacred. It shines like gems in the gloom of
the hidden heart. In the light of the curious day it looks
pitifully dark.
Ah, you broke through the cover of my heart and dragged my
trembling love into the open place, destroying for ever the
shady corner where it hid its nest.

The other women are the same as ever.
No one has peeped into their inmost being, and they themselves
know not their own secret.
Lightly they smile, and weep, chatter, and work. Daily they go
to the temple, light their lamps, and fetch water from the
river.

I hoped my love would be saved from the shivering shame of the
shelterless, but you turn your face away.
Yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off my
return, and left me stripped naked before the world with its
lidless eyes staring night and day.



57


I plucked your flower, O world!
I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.
When the day waned and it darkened, I found that the flower had
faded, but the pain remained.

More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!
But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark
night I have not my rose, only the pain remains.



58


One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me a
flower chain in the cover of a lotus leaf.
I put it round my neck, and tears came to my eyes.
I kissed her and said, "You are blind even as the flowers are.
You yourself know not how beautiful is your gift. "



59


O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God, but also of
men; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their hearts.
Poets are weaving for you a web with threads of golden imagery;
painters are giving your form ever new immortality.
The sea gives its pearls, the mines their gold, the summer
gardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make you
more precious.
The desire of men's hearts has shed its glory over your youth.