No More Learning

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.
You are one half woman and one half dream.



60


Amidst the rush and roar of life, O Beauty, carved in stone, you
stand mute and still, alone and aloof.
Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and murmurs:
"Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my bride! "
But your speech is shut up in stone, O Immovable Beauty!



61


Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings
over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the
night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last
words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.



62


In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was mine
in a former life.

Her house stood at the end of a desolate street.
In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch,
and the pigeons were silent in their corner.

She set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me.
She raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, "Are you
well, my friend? "
I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten.

I thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind.
Tears shone in her eyes. She held up her right hand to me. I
took it and stood silent.

Our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died.



63


Traveller, must you go?
The night is still and the darkness swoons upon the forest.
The lamps are bright in our balcony, the flowers all fresh, and
the youthful eyes still awake.
Is the time for your parting come?
Traveller, must you go?

We have not bound your feet with our entreating arms.
Your doors are open. Your horse stands saddled at the gate.
If we have tried to bar your passage it was but with our songs.
Did we ever try to hold you back it was but with our eyes.
Traveller, we are helpless to keep you. We have only our tears.

What quenchless fire glows in your eyes?
What restless fever runs in your blood?
What call from the dark urges you?
What awful incantation have you read among the stars in the sky,
that with a sealed secret message the night entered your heart,
silent and strange?

If you do not care for merry meetings, if you must have peace,
weary heart, we shall put our lamps out and silence our harps.
We shall sit still in the dark in the rustle of leaves, and the
tired moon will shed pale rays on your window.
O traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart
of the mid-night?



64


I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road.
Now, in the cool of the evening, I knock at the door of the inn.
It is deserted and in ruins.
A grim _ashath_ tree spreads its hungry clutching roots
through the gaping fissures of the walls.

Days have been when wayfarers came here to wash their weary feet.
They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the
early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands.
They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and
friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside.

But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here.
The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp
stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo
branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path.
I am the guest of no one at the end of my day.
The long night is before me, and I am tired.



65


Is that your call again?
The evening has come. Weariness clings around me like the arms
of entreating love.
Do you call me?

I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob
me of my night?
Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the
dark is one's own.
Must your voice cut through it and smite me?

Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate?
Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your
pitiless tower?
Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your
garden?

Must you call me, you unquiet one?
Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep.
Let the lamp burn in the lonely house.
Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home.
I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.



66


A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks
tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips
tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning
eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate.

Before him the endless ocean roared.
The garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures,
mocking the ignorance that knew not their meaning.
Maybe he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for
the search had become his life,--
Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the
unattainable--
Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can
never be reached--
Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks
still roamed in search of the touchstone.

One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you
come at this golden chain about your waist? "
The madman started--the chain that once was iron was verily gold;
it was not a dream, but he did not know when it had changed.
He struck his forehead wildly--where, O where had he without
knowing it achieved success?
It had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the
chain, and to throw them away without looking to see if a
change had come; thus the madman found and lost the touchstone.
The sun was sinking low in the west, the sky was of gold.
The madman returned on his footsteps to seek anew the lost
treasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart
in the dust, like a tree uprooted.



67


Though the evening comes with slow steps and has signalled for
all songs to cease;
Though your companions have gone to their rest and you are tired;
Though fear broods in the dark and the face of the sky is veiled;
Yet, bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

That is not the gloom of the leaves of the forest, that is the
sea swelling like a dark black snake.
That is not the dance of the flowering jasmine, that is flashing
foam.
Ah, where is the sunny green shore, where is your nest?
Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

The lone night lies along your path, the dawn sleeps behind the
shadowy hills.
The stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moon
swims the deep night.
Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

There is no hope, no fear for you.
There is no word, no whisper, no cry.
There is no home, no bed for rest.
There is only your own pair of wings and the pathless sky.
Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.



68


None lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long. Keep
that in mind and rejoice.
Our life is not the one old burden, our path is not the one long
journey.
One sole poet has not to sing one aged song.
The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to
mourn for it for ever.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.
There must come a full pause to weave perfection into music.
Life droops toward its sunset to be drowned in the golden
shadows.
Love must be called from its play to drink sorrow and be borne to
the heaven of tears.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

We hasten to gather our flowers lest they are plundered by the
passing winds.
It quickens our blood and brightens our eyes to snatch kisses
that would vanish if we delayed.
Our life is eager, our desires are keen, for time tolls the bell
of parting.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

There is not time for us to clasp a thing and crush it and fling
it away to the dust.
The hours trip rapidly away, hiding their dreams in their skirts.
Our life is short; it yields but a few days for love.
Were it for work and drudgery it would be endlessly long.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

Beauty is sweet to us, because she dances to the same fleeting
tune with our lives.
Knowledge is precious to us, because we shall never have time to
complete it.
All is done and finished in the eternal Heaven.
But earth's flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh by
death.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.



69


I hunt for the golden stag.
You may smile, my friends, but I pursue the vision that eludes
me.
I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands,
because I am hunting for the golden stag.
You come and buy in the market and go back to your homes laden
with goods, but the spell of the homeless winds has touched me
I know not when and where.
I have no care in my heart; all my belongings I have left far
behind me.
I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands--
because I am hunting for the golden stag.



70


I remember a day in my childhood I floated a paper boat in the
ditch.
It was a wet day of July; I was alone and happy over my play.
I floated my paper boat in the ditch.

Suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, and
rain poured in torrents.
Rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk my
boat.
Bitterly I thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose to
spoil my happiness; all its malice was against me.

The cloudy day of July is long today, and I have been musing over
all those games in life wherein I was loser.
I was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, when
suddenly I remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch.



71


The day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on the
river-bank.
I had feared that my time had been squandered and my last penny
lost.
But no, my brother, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

The selling and buying are over.
All the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is time
for me to go home.
But, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll?
Do not fear, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

The lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds in
the west bode no good.
The hushed water waits for the wind.
I hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me.
O ferryman, you want your fee!
Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

In the wayside under the tree sits the beggar. Alas, he looks at
my face with a timid hope!
He thinks I am rich with the day's profit.
Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

The night grows dark and the road lonely. Fireflies gleam among
the leaves.
Who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps?
Ah, I know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains. I will
not disappoint you!
For I still have something left, and my fate has not cheated me
of everything.

At midnight I reach home. My hands are empty.
You are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless and
silent.
Like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love.
Ay, ay, my God, much remains still. My fate has not cheated me
of everything.



72


With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors or
windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.
I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt
contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.
It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.
The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.
Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy
bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces,
women with limbs like serpents.
No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song
of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.
The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of
incantations which I chanted.
My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses
swooned in ecstasy.
I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the
temple, and a pain stung me through the heart.

The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like
chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would
fain hide themselves.
I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alive
with the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned had
spread its wings and vanished.



73


Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!
You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce.
The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.
The toys that you make for your children are fragile.
You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you
for that?
Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes.
Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart.
From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality,
that is why your eyes are ever wakeful.
For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is
not built, but only its sad suggestion.
Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears.
I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your
love.
I will worship you with labour.
I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust,
Mother Earth.



74


In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on
the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight.
Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with
the music of the clouds and forests.
But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple
grandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the
musing moon.
The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it.
And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into
dust.



75


At midnight the would-be ascetic announced:
"This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who
has held me so long in delusion here? "
God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped.
With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully
sleeping on one side of the bed.
The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long? "
The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not.
The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother.
God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he
heard not.
God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seek
me, forsaking me? "



76


The fair was on before the temple. It had rained from the early
morning and the day came to its end.
Brighter than all the gladness of the crowd was the bright smile
of a girl who bought for a farthing a whistle of palm leaf.
The shrill joy of that whistle floated above all laughter and
noise.
An endless throng of people came and jostled together. The road
was muddy, the river in flood, the field under water in
ceaseless rain.
Greater than all the troubles of the crowd was a little boy's
trouble--he had not a farthing to buy a painted stick.
His wistful eyes gazing at the shop made this whole meeting of
men so pitiful.



77


The workman and his wife from the west country are busy digging
to make bricks for the kiln.
Their little daughter goes to the landing-place by the river;
there she has no end of scouring and scrubbing of pots and
pans.
Her little brother, with shaven head and brown, naked, mud-
covered limbs, follows after her and waits patiently on the
high bank at her bidding.
She goes back home with the full pitcher poised on her head, the
shining brass pot in her left hand, holding the child with her
right--she the tiny servant of her mother, grave with the
weight of the household cares.

One day I saw this naked boy sitting with legs outstretched.
In the water his sister sat rubbing a drinking-pot with a handful
of earth, turning it round and round.
Near by a soft-haired lamb stood gazing along the bank.
It came close to where the boy sat and suddenly bleated aloud,
and the child started up and screamed.
His sister left off cleaning her pot and ran up.
She took up her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, and
dividing her caresses between them bound in one bond of
affection the offspring of beast and man.



78


It was in May. The sultry noon seemed endlessly long. The dry
earth gaped with thirst in the heat.
When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, "Come, my
darling! "
I shut my book and opened the window to look out.
I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the
river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep in
water, calling it to its bath.
I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.



79


I often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognition
between man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language.
Through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ran
the simple path by which their hearts visited each other.
Those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced though
their kinship has been long forgotten.
Yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up and
the beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, and
the man looks down into its eyes with amused affection.
It seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know each
other through the disguise.



80


With a glance of your eyes you could plunder all the wealth of
songs struck from poets' harps, fair woman!
But for their praises you have no ear, therefore I come to praise
you.
You could humble at your feet the proudest heads in the world.
But it is your loved ones, unknown to fame, whom you choose to
worship, therefore I worship you.
The perfection of your arms would add glory to kingly splendour
with their touch.
But you use them to sweep away the dust, and to make clean your
humble home, therefore I am filled with awe.



81


Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears, O Death, my Death?
When the flowers droop in the evening and cattle come back to
their stalls, you stealthily come to my side and speak words
that I do not understand.
Is this how you must woo and win me with the opiate of drowsy
murmur and cold kisses, O Death, my Death?

Will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding?
Will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks?
Is there none to carry your banner before you, and will not the
night be on fire with your red torch-lights, O Death, my Death?

Come with your conch-shells sounding, come in the sleepless
night.
Dress me with a crimson mantle, grasp my hand and take me.
Let your chariot be ready at my door with your horses neighing
impatiently.
Raise my veil and look at my face proudly, O Death, my Death!



82


We are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.
The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the
waves are raving at sea.
We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out,
my bride and I.
We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from
behind.
My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings
to my breast.
Long have I served her tenderly.
I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shut
out the rude light from her eyes.
I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears
till she half swooned in languor.
She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.
She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.
To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild.
My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and
come out.
Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her
garland rustles over her breast.
The push of death has swung her into life.
We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.



83


She dwelt on the hillside by the edge of a maize-field, near the
spring that flows in laughing rills through the solemn shadows
of ancient trees. The women came there to fill their jars, and
travellers would sit there to rest and talk. She worked and
dreamed daily to the tune of the bubbling stream.

One evening the stranger came down from the cloud-hidden peak;
his locks were tangled like drowsy snakes. We asked in wonder,
"Who are you? " He answered not but sat by the garrulous stream
and silently gazed at the hut where she dwelt. Our hearts
quaked in fear and we came back home when it was night.

Next morning when the women came to fetch water at the spring by
the _deodar_ trees, they found the doors open in her hut,
but her voice was gone and where was her smiling face? The
empty jar lay on the floor and her lamp had burnt itself out in
the corner. No one knew where she had fled to before it was
morning--and the stranger had gone.

In the month of May the sun grew strong and the snow melted, and
we sat by the spring and wept. We wondered in our mind, "Is
there a spring in the land where she has gone and where she can
fill her vessel in these hot thirsty days? " And we asked each
other in dismay, "Is there a land beyond these hills where we
live? "

It was a summer night; the breeze blew from the south; and I sat
in her deserted room where the lamp stood still unlit. When
suddenly from before my eyes the hills vanished like curtains
drawn aside. "Ah, it is she who comes. How are you, my child?
Are you happy? But where can you shelter under this open sky?
And, alas, our spring is not here to allay your thirst. "

"Here is the same sky," she said, "only free from the fencing
hills,--this is the same stream grown into a river,--the same
earth widened into a plain. " "Everything is here," I sighed,
"only we are not. " She smiled sadly and said, "You are in my
heart. " I woke up and heard the babbling of the stream and the
rustling of the _deodars_ at night.



84


Over the green and yellow rice-fields sweep the shadows of the
autumn clouds followed by the swift chasing sun.
The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with light they
foolishly hover and hum.
The ducks in the islands of the river clamour in joy for mere
nothing.
Let none go back home, brothers, this morning, let none go to
work.
Let us take the blue sky by storm and plunder space as we run.
Laughter floats in the air like foam on the flood.
Brothers, let us squander our morning in futile songs.



85


Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the
spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the
vanished flowers of an hundred years before.