Epithalamion

BY EDMUND SPENSER
Ye learned sisters which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyed in theyr prayse.
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment.
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound,
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I unto my selfe alone will sing,
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
Early before the worlds light giving lampe,
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake, and with fresh lusty hed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove,
Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore and soone her dight,
For lo the wished day is come at last,
That shall for al the paynes and sorrowes past,

Pay to her usury of long delight:

And whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene:
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare,
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay girland
For my fayre love of lillyes and of roses,
Bound truelove wize with a blew silke riband.
And let them make great store of bridale poses,
And let them eeke bring store of other flowers
To deck the bridale bowers.
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapred lyke the discolored mead.
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,
For she will waken strayt,
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer and your Eccho ring.
Ye Nymphes of Mulla which with carefull heed,
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed,
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell)
And ye likewise which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take,
Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,
And in his waters which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,
That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spie.

And eke ye lightfoot mayds which keepe the deere,

That on the hoary mountayne use to towre,
And the wylde wolves which seeke them to devoure,
With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer,
Be also present heere,
To helpe to decke her and to help to sing,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
Wake, now my love, awake; for it is time,
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her silver coche to clyme,
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies
And carroll of loves praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft,
The thrush replyes, the Mavis descant playes,
The Ouzell shrills, the Ruddock warbles soft,
So goodly all agree with sweet consent,
To this dayes merriment.
Ah my deere love why doe ye sleepe thus long,
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T'awayt the comming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds lovelearned song,
The deawy leaves among.
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring.
My love is now awake out of her dreames,
And her fayre eyes like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beames
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight,
But first come ye fayre houres which were begot
In Joves sweet paradice, of Day and Night,
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,

And al that ever in this world is fayre

Doe make and still repayre.
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:
And as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene,
And as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer and your eccho ring.
Now is my love all ready forth to come,
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt,
And ye fresh boyes that tend upon her groome
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.
Set all your things in seemely good aray
Fit for so joyfull day,
The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.
Faire Sun, shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull heat not fervent be
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fayrest Phoebus, father of the Muse,
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing, that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse,
But let this day let this one day be myne,
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud will sing,
That all the woods shal answer and theyr eccho ring.
Harke how the Minstrels gin to shrill aloud
Their merry Musick that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar.
But most of all the Damzels doe delite,
When they their tymbrels smyte,

And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,

That all the sences they doe ravish quite,
The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street,
Crying aloud with strong confused noyce,
As if it were one voyce.
Hymen io Hymen, Hymen they do shout,
That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill,
To which the people standing all about,
As in approvance doe thereto applaud
And loud advaunce her laud,
And evermore they Hymen Hymen sing,
That al the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring.
Loe where she comes along with portly pace
Lyke Phoebe from her chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.
So well it her beseemes that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres a tweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre,
And being crowned with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.
Her modest eyes abashed to behold
So many gazers, as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixed are.
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
Tell me ye merchants daughters did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before?

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,

Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store,
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,
Her forehead yvory white,
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,
Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,
Her paps lyke lyllies budded,
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre,
And all her body like a pallace fayre,
Ascending uppe with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer and your eccho ring.
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonisht lyke to those which red
Medusaes mazeful hed.
There dwels sweet love and constant chastity,
Unspotted fayth and comely womenhed,
Regard of honour and mild modesty,
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,
And giveth lawes alone.
The which the base affections doe obay,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will,
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,
And unrevealed pleasures,
Then would ye wonder and her prayses sing,
That al the woods should answer and your eccho ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,

Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behove,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to recyve this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.
With trembling steps and humble reverence,
She commeth in, before th'almighties vew:
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces;
Bring her up to th'high altar that she may,
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make,
And let the roring Organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes,
The whiles with hollow throates
The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere and their eccho ring.
Behold whiles she before the altar stands
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne,
Like crimsin dyde in grayne,
That even th'Angels which continually,
About the sacred Altare doe remaine,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face that seemes more fayre,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsownd.

Why blush ye love to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band?
Sing ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,
That all the woods may answere and your eccho ring.
Now al is done; bring home the bride againe,
Bring home the triumph of our victory,
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine,
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyfull day then this,
Whom heaven would heape with blis.
Make feast therefore now all this live long day,
This day for ever to me holy is,
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,
Poure out to all that wull,
And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine,
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest;
For they can doo it best:
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,
To which the woods shal answer and theyr eccho ring.
Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
With Barnaby the bright,
From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordained was,
To chose the longest day in all the yeare,

And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:

Yet never day so long, but late would passe.
Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,
And bonefiers make all day,
And daunce about them, and about them sing:
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
Ah when will this long weary day have end,
And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Hast thee O fayrest Planet to thy home
Within the Westerne fome:
Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.
Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of love
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nightes dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light
As joying in the sight
Of these glad many which for joy doe sing,
That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.
Now ceasse ye damsels your delights forepast;
Enough is it, that all the day was youres:
Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast:
Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures.
Now night is come, now soone her disaray,
And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lillies and in violets,
And silken courteins over her display,
And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly

In proud humility;
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her tooke,
In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras,
Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,
And leave my love alone,
And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shal answere, nor your echo ring.
Now welcome night, thou night so long expected,
That long daies labour doest at last defray,
And all my cares, which cruell love collected,
Hast sumd in one, and cancelled for aye:
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see,
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,
From feare of perrill and foule horror free.
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy:
But let the night be calme and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome:
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie,
And begot Majesty.
And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing:
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.
Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights
Make sudden sad affrights;

Ne let housefyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,

Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,
Fray us with things that be not.
Let not the shriech Oule, nor the Storke be heard:
Nor the night Raven that still deadly yels,
Nor damned ghosts cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard:
Ne let th'unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.
But let stil Silence trew night watches keepe,
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,
The whiles an hundred little winged loves,
Like divers fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stelthes shal worke, and snares shal spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through covert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will,
For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.
All night therefore attend your merry play,
For it will soone be day:
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing,
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.
Who is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face, that shines so bright,

Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,

But walkes about high heaven al the night?
O fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy
My love with me to spy:
For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of woll, which privily,
The Latmian shephard once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.
Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline thy will t'effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing,
Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring.
And thou great Juno, which with awful might
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize:
And eeke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart,
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou glad Genius, in whose gentle hand,
The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine,
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight
With secret ayde doest succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny,
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou fayre Hebe, and thou Hymen free,
Grant that it may so be.
Til which we cease your further prayse to sing,
Ne any woods shal answer, nor your Eccho ring.

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,

In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods,
In dreadful darknesse lend desired light;
And all ye powers which in the same remayne,
More then we men can fayne,
Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,
And happy influence upon us raine,
That we may raise a large posterity,
Which from the earth, which they may long possesse,
With lasting happinesse,
Up to your haughty pallaces may mount,
And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing,
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring.
Song made in lieu of many ornaments,
With which my love should duly have bene dect,
Which cutting off through hasty accidents,
Ye would not stay your dew time to expect,
But promist both to recompens,
Be unto her a goodly ornament,
And for short time an endlesse moniment.

The Flea
BY JOHN DONNE
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou knowst that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this

Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumphst, and say'st that thou
Findst not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yieldst to me,
Will waste, as this fleas death took life from thee.

The Canonization
BY JOHN DONNE
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,

Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phnix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.
And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!"

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

BY JOHN DONNE

As virtuous men pass mildly away,

And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do.
And though it in the center sit,

Yet when the other far doth roam,

It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

To His Coy Mistress

BY ANDREW MARVELL
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long loves day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Times wingd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The graves a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
The Pulley
BY GEORGE HERBERT
When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
Let us, said he, pour on him all we can.
Let the worlds riches, which dispersd lie,
Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure.
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should, said he,
Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.
The Collar
BY GEORGE HERBERT
I struck the board, and cried, "No more;
I will abroad!
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free, free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it,
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

Away! take heed;

I will abroad.
Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears;
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need
Deserves his load."
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, Child!
And I replied My Lord.

The Retreat
BY HENRY VAUGHAN
Happy those early days! when I
Shined in my angel infancy.
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back, at that short space,
Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense
A several sin to every sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O, how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain
Where first I left my glorious train,
From whence th enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm trees.
But, ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way.

Some men a forward motion love;

But I by backward steps would move,
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.
Christs Nativity
BY HENRY VAUGHAN
Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!
It is the birth-day of thy King.
Awake! awake!
The Sun doth shake
Light from his locks, and all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.
Awake, awake! hark how th wood rings;
Winds whisper, and the busy springs
A concert make;
Awake! awake!
Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.
I would I were some bird, or star,
Fluttring in woods, or lifted far
Above this inn
And road of sin!
Then either star or bird should be
Shining or singing still to thee.
I would I had in my best part
Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart
Were so clean as
Thy manger was!
But I am all filth, and obscene;
Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.
Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more
This leper haunt and soil thy door!
Cure him, ease him,
O release him!
And let once more, by mystic birth,
The Lord of life be born in earth.

Of Truth
by Francis Bacon
What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.
Certainly there be, that delight in giddiness, and count it a bondage to
fix a belief; affecting free-will in thinking, as well as in acting. And
though the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone, yet there remain
certain discoursing wits, which are of the same veins, though there be
not so much blood in them, as was in those of the ancients. But it is
not only the difficulty and labor, which men take in finding out of truth,
nor again, that when it is found, it imposeth upon men's thoughts, that
doth bring lies in favor; but a natural though corrupt love, of the lie
itself. One of the later school of the Grecians, examineth the matter,
and is at a stand, to think what should be in it, that men should love
lies; where neither they make for pleasure, as with poets, nor for
advantage, as with the merchant; but for the lie's sake. But I cannot
tell; this same truth, is a naked, and open day-light, that doth not show
the masks, and mummeries, and triumphs, of the world, half so stately
and daintily as candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come to the price of a
pearl, that showeth best by day; but it will not rise to the price of a
diamond, or carbuncle, that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture of
a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were
taken out of men's minds, vain opinions, flattering hopes, false
valuations, imaginations as one would, and the like, but it would leave
the minds, of a number of men, poor shrunken things, full of
melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves?

One of the fathers, in great severity, called poesy vinum doemonum,

because it filleth the imagination; and yet, it is but with the shadow of
a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth through the mind, but the lie that
sinketh in, and settleth in it, that doth the hurt; such as we spake of
before. But, howsoever these things are thus in men's depraved
judgments, and affections, yet truth, which only doth judge itself,
teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making, or wooing
of it, the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief
of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human
nature. The first creature of God, in the works of the days, was the light
of the sense; the last, was the light of reason; and his sabbath work
ever since, is the illumination of his Spirit. First he breathed light, upon
the face of the matter or chaos; then he breathed light, into the face of
man; and still he breatheth and inspireth light, into the face of his
chosen. The poet, that beautified the sect, that was otherwise inferior
to the rest, saith yet excellently well: It is a pleasure, to stand upon the
shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure, to stand in the
window of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures thereof
below: but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage
ground of truth (a hill not to be commanded, and where the air is
always clear and serene), and to see the errors, and wanderings, and
mists, and tempests, in the vale below; so always that this prospect be
with pity, and not with swelling, or pride. Certainly, it is heaven upon
earth, to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in providence, and
turn upon the poles of truth.
To pass from theological, and philosophical truth, to the truth of civil
business; it will be acknowledged, even by those that practise it not,
that clear, and round dealing, is the honor of man's nature; and that
mixture of falsehoods, is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may
make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For these winding,
and crooked courses, are the goings of the serpent; which goeth basely
upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no vice, that doth so
cover a man with shame, as to be found false and perfidious. And
therefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquired the reason, why
the word of the lie should be such a disgrace, and such an odious
charge? Saith he, If it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as
much to say, as that he is brave towards God, and a coward towards
men. For a lie faces God, and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness
of falsehood, and breach of faith, cannot possibly be so highly
expressed, as in that it shall be the last peal, to call the judgments of
God upon the generations of men; it being foretold, that when Christ
cometh, he shall not find faith upon the earth.

Of Death
by Francis Bacon
Men fear death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural
fear in children, is increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly, the
contemplation of death, as the wages of sin, and passage to another
world, is holy and religious; but the fear of it, as a tribute due unto
nature, is weak. Yet in religious meditations, there is sometimes
mixture of vanity, and of superstition. You shall read, in some of the
friars' books of mortification, that a man should think with himself,
what the pain is, if he have but his finger's end pressed, or tortured,
and thereby imagine, what the pains of death are, when the whole
body is corrupted, and dissolved; when many times death passeth, with
less pain than the torture of a limb; for the most vital parts, are not the
quickest of sense. And by him that spake only as a philosopher, and
natural man, it was well said, Pompa mortis magis terret, quam mors
ipsa. Groans, and convulsions, and a discolored face, and friends
weeping, and blacks, and obsequies, and the like, show death terrible.
It is worthy the observing, that there is no passion in the mind of man,
so weak, but it mates, and masters, the fear of death; and therefore,
death is no such terrible enemy, when a man hath so many attendants
about him, that can win the combat of him. Revenge triumphs over
death; love slights it; honor aspireth to it; grief flieth to it; fear
preoccupateth it; nay, we read, after Otho the emperor had slain
himself, pity (which is the tenderest of affections) provoked many to
die, out of mere compassion to their sovereign, and as the truest sort
of followers. Nay, Seneca adds niceness and satiety: Cogita quamdiu
eadem feceris; mori velle, non tantum fortis aut miser, sed etiam
fastidiosus potest. A man would die, though he were neither valiant,
nor miserable, only upon a weariness to do the same thing so oft, over
and over. It is no less worthy, to observe, how little alteration in good
spirits, the approaches of death make; for they appear to be the same
men, till the last instant. Augustus Caesar died in a compliment; Livia,
conjugii nostri memor, vive et vale. Tiberius in dissimulation; as Tacitus

saith of him, Jam Tiberium vires et corpus, non dissimulatio,

deserebant. Vespasian in a jest, sitting upon the stool; Ut puto deus fio.
Galba with a sentence; Feri, si ex re sit populi Romani; holding forth his
neck. Septimius Severus in despatch; Adeste si quid mihi restat
agendum. And the like. Certainly the Stoics bestowed too much cost
upon death, and by their great preparations, made it appear more
fearful. Better saith he qui finem vitae extremum inter munera ponat
naturae. It is as natural to die, as to be born; and to a little infant,
perhaps, the one is as painful, as the other. He that dies in an earnest
pursuit, is like one that is wounded in hot blood; who, for the time,
scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind fixed, and bent upon
somewhat that is good, doth avert the dolors of death. But, above all,
believe it, the sweetest canticle is, Nunc dimittis; when a man hath
obtained worthy ends, and expectations. Death hath this also; that it
openeth the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth envy. -Extinctus
amabitur idem
Of Adversity by Francis Bacon
It was an high speech of Seneca (after the manner of the Stoics), that
the good things, which belong to prosperity, are to be wished; but the
good things, that belong to adversity, are to be admired. Bona rerum
secundarum optabilia; adversarum mirabilia. Certainly if miracles be
the command over nature, they appear most in adversity. It is yet a
higher speech of his, than the other (much too high for a heathen), It is
true greatness, to have in one the frailty of a man, and the security of a
God. Vere magnum habere fragilitatem hominis, securitatem Dei. This
would have done better in poesy, where transcendences are more
allowed. And the poets indeed have been busy with it; for it is in effect
the thing, which figured in that strange fiction of the ancient poets,
which seemeth not to be without mystery; nay, and to have some
approach to the state of a Christian; that Hercules, when he went to
unbind Prometheus (by whom human nature is represented), sailed the
length of the great ocean, in an earthen pot or pitcher; lively describing
Christian resolution, that saileth in the frail bark of the flesh, through
the waves of the world. But to speak in a mean. The virtue of
prosperity, is temperance; the virtue of adversity, is fortitude; which in
morals is the more heroical virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old
Testament; adversity is the blessing of the New; which carrieth the
greater benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet even
in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as
many hearse-like airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath
labored more in describing the afflictions of Job, than the felicities of
Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; and

adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needle-works

and embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work, upon a sad
and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work, upon a
lightsome ground: judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart, by the
pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odors, most
fragrant when they are incensed, or crushed: for prosperity doth best
discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.

Of Revenge

by Francis Bacon

Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the more man's nature runs to,
the more ought law to weed it out. For as for the first wrong, it doth but
offend the law; but the revenge of that wrong, putteth the law out of
office. Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy;
but in passing it over, he is superior; for it is a prince's part to pardon.
And Solomon, I am sure, saith, It is the glory of a man, to pass by an
offence. That which is past is gone, and irrevocable; and wise men
have enough to do, with things present and to come; therefore they do
but trifle with themselves, that labor in past matters. There is no man
doth a wrong, for the wrong's sake; but thereby to purchase himself
profit, or pleasure, or honor, or the like. Therefore why should I be
angry with a man, for loving himself better than me? And if any man
should do wrong, merely out of ill-nature, why, yet it is but like the
thorn or briar, which prick and scratch, because they can do no other.
The most tolerable sort of revenge, is for those wrongs which there is
no law to remedy; but then let a man take heed, the revenge be such
as there is no law to punish; else a man's enemy is still before hand,
and it is two for one. Some, when they take revenge, are desirous, the
party should know, whence it cometh. This is the more generous. For
the delight seemeth to be, not so much in doing the hurt, as in making
the party repent. But base and crafty cowards, are like the arrow that
flieth in the dark. Cosmus, duke of Florence, had a desperate saying
against perfidious or neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were
unpardonable; You shall read (saith he) that we are commanded to
forgive our enemies; but you never read, that we are commanded to
forgive our friends. But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune: Shall
we (saith he) take good at God's hands, and not be content to take evil
also? And so of friends in a proportion. This is certain, that a man that
studieth revenge, keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would
heal, and do well. Public revenges are for the most part fortunate; as
that for the death of Caesar; for the death of Pertinax; for the death of

Henry the Third of France; and many more. But in private revenges, it is
not so. Nay rather, vindictive persons live the life of witches; who, as
they are mischievous, so end they infortunate.

Of Envy
by Francis Bacon
There be none of the affections, which have been noted to fascinate or
bewitch, but love and envy. They both have vehement wishes; they
frame themselves readily into imaginations and suggestions; and they
come easily into the eye, especially upon the present of the objects;
which are the points that conduce to fascination, if any such thing
there be. see likewise, the Scripture calleth envy an evil eye; and the
astrologers, call the evil influences of the stars, evil aspects; so that
still there seemeth to be acknowledged, in the act of envy, an
ejaculation or irradiation of the eye. Nay, some have been so curious,
as to note, that the times when the stroke or percussion of an envious
eye doth most hurt, are when the party envied is beheld in glory or
triumph; for that sets an edge upon envy: and besides, at such times
the spirits of the person envied, do come forth most into the outward
parts, and so meet the blow.
But leaving these curiosities (though not unworthy to be thought on, in
fit place), we will handle, what persons are apt to envy others; what
persons are most subject to be envied themselves; and what is the
difference between public and private envy.
A man that hath no virtue in himself, ever envieth virtue in others. For
men's minds, will either feed upon their own good, or upon others' evil;
and who wanteth the one, will prey upon the other; and whoso is out of
hope, to attain to another's virtue, will seek to come at even hand, by
depressing another's fortune.
A man that is busy, and inquisitive, is commonly envious. For to know
much of other men's matters, cannot be because all that ado may
concern his own estate; therefore it must needs be, that he taketh a
kind of play-pleasure, in looking upon the fortunes of others. Neither
can he, that mindeth but his own business, find much matter for envy.
For envy is a gadding passion, and walketh the streets, and doth not
keep home: Non est curiosus, quin idem sit malevolus.
Men of noble birth, are noted to be envious towards new men, when
they rise. For the distance is altered, and it is like a deceit of the eye,

that when others come on, they think themselves, go back.

Deformed persons, and eunuchs, and old men, and bastards, are
envious. For he that cannot possibly mend his own case, will do what
he can, to impair another's; except these defects light upon a very
brave, and heroical nature, which thinketh to make his natural wants
part of his honor; in that it should be said, that an eunuch, or a lame
man, did such great matters; affecting the honor of a miracle; as it was
in Narses the eunuch, and Agesilaus and Tamberlanes, that were lame
men.
The same is the case of men, that rise after calamities and misfortunes.
For they are as men fallen out with the times; and think other men's
harms, a redemption of their own sufferings.
They that desire to excel in too many matters, out of levity and vain
glory, are ever envious. For they cannot want work; it being impossible,
but many, in some one of those things, should surpass them. Which
was the character of Adrian the Emperor; that mortally envied poets,
and painters, and artificers, in works wherein he had a vein to excel.
Lastly, near kinsfolks, and fellows in office, and those that have been
bred together, are more apt to envy their equals, when they are raised.
For it doth upbraid unto them their own fortunes, and pointeth at them,
and cometh oftener into their remembrance, and incurreth likewise
more into the note of others; and envy ever redoubleth from speech
and fame. Cain's envy was the more vile and malignant, towards his
brother Abel, because when his sacrifice was better accepted, there
was no body to look on. Thus much for those, that are apt to envy.
Concerning those that are more or less subject to envy: First, persons
of eminent virtue, when they are advanced, are less envied. For their
fortune seemeth, but due unto them; and no man envieth the payment
of a debt, but rewards and liberality rather. Again, envy is ever joined
with the comparing of a man's self; and where there is no comparison,
no envy; and therefore kings are not envied, but by kings. Nevertheless
it is to be noted, that unworthy persons are most envied, at their first
coming in, and afterwards overcome it better; whereas contrariwise,
persons of worth and merit are most envied, when their fortune
continueth long. For by that time, though their virtue be the same, yet
it hath not the same lustre; for fresh men grow up that darken it.
Persons of noble blood, are less envied in their rising. For it seemeth
but right done to their birth. Besides, there seemeth not much added to
their fortune; and envy is as the sunbeams, that beat hotter upon a

bank, or steep rising ground, than upon a flat. And for the same reason,
those that are advanced by degrees, are less envied than those that
are advanced suddenly and per saltum.
Those that have joined with their honor great travels, cares, or perils,
are less subject to envy. For men think that they earn their honors
hardly, and pity them sometimes; and pity ever healeth envy.
Wherefore you shall observe, that the more deep and sober sort of
politic persons, in their greatness, are ever bemoaning themselves,
what a life they lead; chanting a quanta patimur! Not that they feel it
so, but only to abate the edge of envy. But this is to be understood, of
business that is laid upon men, and not such, as they call unto
themselves. For nothing increaseth envy more, than an unnecessary
and ambitious engrossing of business. And nothing doth extinguish
envy than for a great person to preserve all other inferior officers, in
their full rights and pre-eminences of their places. For by that means,
there be so many screens between him and envy.
Above all, those are most subject to envy, which carry the greatness of
their fortunes, in an insolent and proud manner; being never well, but
while they are showing how great they are, either by outward pomp, or
by triumphing over all opposition or competition; whereas wise men
will rather do sacrifice to envy, in suffering themselves sometimes of
purpose to be crossed, and overborne in things that do not much
concern them. Notwithstanding, so much is true, that the carriage of
greatness, in a plain and open manner (so it be without arrogancy and
vain glory) doth draw less envy, than if it be in a more crafty and
cunning fashion. For in that course, a man doth but disavow fortune;
and seemeth to be conscious of his own want in worth; and doth but
teach others, to envy him.
Lastly, to conclude this part; as we said in the beginning, that the act of
envy had somewhat in it of witchcraft, so there is no other cure of
envy, but the cure of witchcraft; and that is to remove the lot (as they
call it) and to lay it upon another. For which purpose, the wiser sort of
great persons, bring in ever upon the stage somebody upon whom to
derive the envy, that would come upon themselves; sometimes upon
ministers and servants; sometimes upon colleagues and associates;
and the like; and for that turn there are never wanting, some persons
of violent and undertaking natures, who, so they may have power and
business, will take it at any cost.
Now, to speak of public envy. There is yet some good in public envy,
whereas in private, there is none. For public envy, is as an ostracism,
that eclipseth men, when they grow too great. And therefore it is a

bridle also to great ones, to keep them within bounds.

This envy, being in the Latin word invidia, goeth in the modern
language, by the name of discontentment; of which we shall speak, in
handling sedition. It is a disease, in a state, like to infection. For as
infection spreadeth upon that which is sound, and tainteth it; so when
envy is gotten once into a state, it traduceth even the best actions
thereof, and turneth them into an ill odor. And therefore there is little
won, by intermingling of plausible actions. For that doth argue but a
weakness, and fear of envy, which hurteth so much the more, as it is
likewise usual in infections; which if you fear them, you call them upon
you.
This public envy, seemeth to beat chiefly upon principal officers or
ministers, rather than upon kings, and estates themselves. But this is a
sure rule, that if the envy upon the minister be great, when the cause
of it in him is small; or if the envy be general, in a manner upon all the
ministers of an estate; then the envy (though hidden) is truly upon the
state itself. And so much of public envy or discontentment, and the
difference thereof from private envy, which was handled in the first
place.
We will add this in general, touching the affection of envy; that of all
other affections, it is the most importune and continual. For of other
affections, there is occasion given, but now and then; and therefore it
was well said, Invidia festos dies non agit: for it is ever working upon
some or other. And it is also noted, that love and envy do make a man
pine, which other affections do not, because they are not so continual.
It is also the vilest affection, and the most depraved; for which cause it
is the proper attribute of the devil, who is called, the envious man, that
soweth tares amongst the wheat by night; as it always cometh to pass,
that envy worketh subtilly, and in the dark, and to the prejudice of
good things, such as is the wheat.

The Indian Gipsy - Poem by Sarojini Naidu

In tattered robes that hoard a glittering trace
Of bygone colours, broidered to the knee,
Behold her, daughter of a wandering race,
Tameless, with the bold falcon's agile grace,

And the lithe tiger's sinuous majesty.

With frugal skill her simple wants she tends,
She folds her tawny heifers and her sheep
On lonely meadows when the daylight ends,
Ere the quick night upon her flock descends
Like a black panther from the caves of sleep.
Time's river winds in foaming centuries
Its changing, swift, irrevocable course
To far off and incalculable seas;
She is twin-born with primal mysteries,
And drinks of life at Time's forgotten source

The Young Captive - Poem by Toru Dutt

The budding shoot ripens unharmed by the scythe,
Without fear of the press, on vine branches lithe,
Through spring-tide the green clusters bloom.
Is't strange, then, that I in my life's morning hour,
Though troubles like clouds on the dark present lower,
Half-frighted shrink back from my doom ?
Let the stern-hearted stoic run boldly on death!
I - I weep and I hope; to the north wind's chill breath
I bend, - then erect is my form!
If days there are bitter, there are days also sweet,
Enjoyment unmixed where on earth may we meet?
What ocean has never a storm?
Illusions the fairest assuage half my pain,
The walls of a prison enclose me in vain,
The strong wings of hope bear me far;
So escapes from the net of the fowler the bird,
So darts he through ether, while his music is heard
Like showers of sweet sound from a star.
Comes Death unto me? I sleep tranquil and calm.
And Peace when I waken stands by with her balm.
Remorse is the offspring of crimes;
My welcome each morning smiles forth in all eyes,
My presence is here, to sad brows, a surprise
Which kindles to pleasure at times.
The end of my journey seemed so far to my view;
Of the elm-trees which border the long avenue,
The nearest are only past by;

At the banquet of life I have barely sat down.

My lips have but pressed the bright foaming crown
Of the wine in my cup bubbling high.
I am only in spring, - the harvest I'd see,
From season to season like the sun I would be
Intent on completing my round;
Shining bright in the garden, - its honour and queen;
As yet but the beams of the morning I've seen,
I wait for eve's stillness profound.
O Death, thou canst wait; leave, leave me to dream,
And strike at the hearts where Despair is supreme,
And Shame hails thy dart as a boon!
For me, Pales has arbours unknown to the throngs,
The world has delights, the Muses have songs,
I wish not to perish too soon.
A prisoner myself, broken-hearted and crushed,
From my heart to my lips all my sympathies rushed,
And my lyre from its slumbers awoke;
At these sorrows, these wishes, of a captive, I heard,
And to rhyme and to measure I married each word
As softly and simply she spoke.
Should this song of my prison hereafter inspire
Some student with leisure her name to inquire,
This answer at least may be given, That grace marked her figure, her action, her speech,
And such as lived near her, blameless might teach
That life is the best gift of heaven
Note: Captive: Aime de Coigny, duchess of Fleury.

My Grandmothers Houses by Kamala Das

There is a house now far away where once

I received love. That woman died,
The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved
Among books, I was then too young
To read, and my blood turned cold like the moon
How often I think of going
There, to peer through blind eyes of windows or
Just listen to the frozen air,
Or in wild despair, pick an armful of
Darkness to bring it here to lie
Behind my bedroom door like a brooding

Dogyou cannot believe, darling,

Can you, that I lived in such a house and
Was proud, and loved. I who have lost
My way and beg now at strangers' doors to
Receive love, at least in small change?

Tagore - Gitanjali
Verse 2
When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with
pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony---and
my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I
come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I
could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my
lord.
Verse 8

The child who is decked with prince's robes and who has jewelled chains
round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every
step.
In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the
world, and is afraid even to move.
Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one shut off from the
healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great
fair of common human life.
Verse 9

O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come beg
at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind
in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.
It is unholy---take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept only what is
offered by sacred love.
Verse 19
If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will
keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with
patience.
The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour
down in golden streams breaking through the sky.
Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests,
and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.
If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will
keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with
patience.
The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour
down in golden streams breaking through the sky.
Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests,
and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.
Verse 31

`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?'

`It was my master,' said the prisoner. `I thought I could outdo everybody in
the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house the

money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that was
for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasurehouse.'
`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?'
`It was I,' said the prisoner, `who forged this chain very carefully. I thought
my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom
undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and
cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links were
complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.'
Verse 35

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic
walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert
sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and
action--Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic
walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert
sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and
action--Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Verse 36
This is my prayer to thee, my lord---strike, strike at the root of penury in my
heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before
insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
Verse 41

Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while
passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly
empty.
The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are
drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with

shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when
they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast
promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this
poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour
of thy coming---all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and
they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from
thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl
a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a
procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only
thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I
who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?
Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while
passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly
empty.
The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are
drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with
shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when
they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast
promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this
poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour
of thy coming---all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and
they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from
thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl
a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a
procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only

thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I
who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?

Verse 45

Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes,
ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have
always proclaimed, `He comes, comes, ever comes.'
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes,
ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he
comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the
golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
Verse 50
I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden
chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who
was this King of all kings!

My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood
waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in
the dust.
The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest
down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then of a
sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say `What hast thou to give to
me?'
Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was
confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the
least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.
But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the
floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept
and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all.
The Professor
Remember me? I am Professor Sheth.
Once I taught you geography. Now
I am retired, though my health is good. My wife died some years back.
By God's grace, all my children
Are well settled in life.
One is Sales Manager,
One is Bank Manager,
Both have cars.
Other also doing well, though not so well.
Every family must have black sheep.
Sarala and Tarala are married,
Their husbands are very nice boys.
You won't believe but I have eleven grandchildren.
How many issues you have? Three?
That is good. These are days of family planning.
I am not against. We have to change with times.
Whole world is changing. In India also
We are keeping up. Our progress is progressing.
Old values are going, new values are coming.
Everything is happening with leaps and bounds.
I am going out rarely, now and then

Only, this is price of old age

But my health is O.K. Usual aches and pains.
No diabetes, no blood pressure, no heart attack.
This is because of sound habits in youth.
How is your health keeping?
Nicely? I am happy for that.
This year I am sixty-nine
and hope to score a century.
You were so thin, like stick,
Now you are man of weight and consequence.
That is good joke.
If you are coming again this side by chance,
Visit please my humble residence also.
I am living just on opposite house's backside.
The Striders by A.K.Ramanujan
And search
For certain thin __
Stemmed, bubble- eyed water bugs.
See them perch On dry capillary legs
Weightless
On the ripple skin
Of a stream
Not only prophets
Walk in water.
The bug sits
On a landslide of lights
And drowns eye
Deep Into its tiny strip

Of sky.

Map-Maker - Poem by Keki Daruwalla

Perhaps I'll wake up on some alien shore
In the shimmer of an aluminium dawn,
to find the sea talking to itself
and rummaging among the lines I've drawn;
looking for something, a voyager perhaps,
gnarled as a thorn tree in whose loving hands,
these map lines of mine, somnambulant,
will wake and pulse and turn to shoreline, sand.
The spyglass will alight on features I've forecast cape, promontory - he'll feel he's been here,
that voyaging unlocks the doorways of the past.
And deep in the night, in the clarity of dream,
The seafarer will garner his rewards,
raking in his islands like pebbles from a stream.
2.Does the world need maps, where sign and symbol,
standing as proxies, get worked into scrolls?
You see them, mountain chains with raingods in their armpits
and glaciers locked like glass-slivers in their folds.
Desert, scrub, pasture - do they need shading?
They're all there for the eye to apprehend.
A family of cactus and camelthorn tells you
where one begins and the other ends.
These questions confound me, I'd rather paint
for a while - a ship on the skyline,
or cloud-shadow moving like a spreading stain.
Yet they live, pencil strokes that speak for rain
and thunder; and die - maplines ghosting round
a cycloned island that has gone under.

3.Forget markings, forget landfall and sea.

Go easy Man, I tell myself; breathe.
Gulls will mark the estuary for you,
bubbles will indicate where the swamps seethe.
Map the wrinkles on the ageing skin of love.
Forget Eastings, Northings - they stand for order.
Cry, if you must, over that locust line
flayed open into a barbarized border.
Mark a poem that hasn't broken forth, map the undefined,
the swamp within, the hedge between love and hate.
Forget the coastal casuarinas line.
Reefs one can handle. It's lust that seeks
out its quarry that one cannot map, nor that
heaving salt of desire that floods the creeks.
4.If you map the future, while a millennium
moves on its hinges, you may find
the present turned into an anachronism.
This too is important - what is yours and mine,
The silk of these shared moments. But having stuck
to love and poetry, heeding the voice of reason;
and experiencing the different textures of
a season of love and love's eternal season,
I put a clamp on yearning, shun latitudes, renounce form.
And turn my eye to the far kingdom
of bloodless Kalinga battling with a storm.
Dampen your fires, turn from lighthouse, spire, steeple.
Forget maps and voyaging, study instead
the parched earth horoscope of a brown people.
Short Story: A Devoted Son by Anita Desai
When the results appeared in the morning papers, Rakesh scanned them
barefoot and in his pajamas, at the garden gate, then went up the steps to
the verandah where his father sat sipping his morning tea and bowed down
to touch his feet.
A first division, son? his father asked, beaming, reaching for the papers.
At the top of the list, papa, Rakesh murmured, as if awed. First in the
country.

Bedlam broke loose then. The family whooped and danced. The whole day
long visitors streamed into the small yellow house at the end of the road to
congratulate the parents of this Wunderkind, to slap Rakesh on the back and
fill the house and garden with the sounds and colors of a festival. There were
garlands and halwa, party clothes and gifts (enough fountain pens to last
years, even a watch or two), nerves and temper and joy, all in a multicolored
whirl of pride and great shining vistas newly opened: Rakesh was the first
son in the family to receive an education, so much had been sacrificed in
order to send him to school and then medical college, and at last the fruits of
their sacrifice had arrived, golden and glorious.
To everyone who came to him to say Mubarak, Varmaji, your son has
brought you glory, the father said, Yes, and do you know what is the first
thing he did when he saw the results this morning? He came and touched my
feet. He bowed down and touched my feet. This moved many of the women
in the crowd so much that they were seen to raise the ends of their saris and
dab at their tears while the men reached out for the betel-leaves and
sweetmeats that were offered around on trays and shook their heads in
wonder and approval of such exemplary filial behavior. One does not often
see such behavior in sons any more, they all agreed, a little enviously
perhaps. Leaving the house, some of the women said, sniffing, At least on
such an occasion they might have served pure ghee sweets, and some of
the men said, Dont you think old Varma was giving himself airs? He neednt
think we dont remember that he comes from the vegetable market himself,
his father used to sell vegetables, and he has never seen the inside of a
school. But there was more envy than rancor in their voices and it was, of
course, inevitablenot every son in that shabby little colony at the edge of
the city was destined to shine as Rakesh shone, and who knew that better
than the parents themselves?
And that was only the beginning, the first step in a great, sweeping ascent to
the radiant heights of fame and fortune. The thesis he wrote for his M.D.
brought Rakesh still greater glory, if only in select medical circles. He won a
scholarship. He went to the USA (that was what his father learnt to call it and
taught the whole family to saynot America, which was what the ignorant
neighbors called it, but, with a grand familiarity, the USA) where he
pursued his career in the most prestigious of all hospitals and won
encomiums from his American colleagues which were relayed to his admiring
and glowing family. What was more, he came back, he actually returned to
that small yellow house in the once-new but increasingly shabby colony,
right at the end of the road where the rubbish vans tipped out their stinking
contents for pigs to nose in and rag-pickers to build their shacks on, all
steaming and smoking just outside the neat wire fences and welltended
gardens. To this Rakesh returned and the first thing he did on entering the
house was to slip out of the embraces of his sisters and brothers and bow
down and touch his fathers feet.

As for his mother, she gloated chiefly over the strange fact that he had not
married in America, had not brought home a foreign wife as all her neighbors
had warned her he would, for wasnt that what all Indian boys went abroad
for? Instead he agreed, almost without argument, to marry a girl she had
picked out for him in her own village, the daughter of a childhood friend, a
plump and uneducated girl, it was true, but so old-fashioned, so placid, so
complaisant that she slipped into the household and settled in like a charm,
seemingly too lazy and too good-natured to even try and make Rakesh leave
home and set up independently, as any other girl might have done. What
was more, she was prettyreally pretty, in a plump, pudding way that only
gave way to fatsoft, spreading fat, like warm waxafter the birth of their
first baby, a son, and then what did it matter?
For some years Rakesh worked in the city hospital, quickly rising to the top of
the administrative organization, and was made a director before he left to
set up his own clinic. He took his parents in his cara new, sky-blue
Ambassador with a rear window full of stickers and charms revolving on
stringsto see the clinic when it was built, and the large sign-board over the
door on which his name was printed in letters of red, with a row of degrees
and qualifications to follow it like so many little black slaves of the regent.
Thereafter his fame seemed to grow just a little dimmeror maybe it was
only that everyone in town had grown accustomed to it at lastbut it was
also the beginning of his fortune for he now became known not only as the
best but also the richest doctor in town.
However, all this was not accomplished in the wink of an eye. Naturally not.
It was the achievement of a lifetime and it took up Rakeshs whole life. At the
time he set up his clinic his father had grown into an old man and retired
from his post at the kerosene dealers depot at which he had worked for forty
years, and his mother died soon after, giving up the ghost with a sigh that
sounded positively happy, for it was her own son who ministered to her in
her last illness and who sat pressing her feet at the last momentsuch a son
as few women had borne.
For it had to be admittedand the most unsuccessful and most rancorous of
neighbors eventually did sothat Rakesh was not only a devoted son and a
miraculously good-natured man who contrived somehow to obey his parents
and humor his wife and show concern equally for his children and his
patients, but there was actually a brain inside this beautifully polished and
formed body of good manners and kind nature and, in between ministering
to his family and playing host to many friends and coaxing them all into
feeling happy and grateful and content, he had actually trained his hands as
well and emerged an excellent doctor, a really fine surgeon. How one man
and a man born to illiterate parents, his father having worked for a kerosene
dealer and his mother having spent her life in a kitchenhad achieved,

combined and conducted such a medley of virtues, no one could fathom , but
all acknowledged his talent and skill.
It was a strange fact, however, that talent and skill, if displayed for too long,
cease to dazzle. It came to pass that the most admiring of all eyes eventually
faded and no longer blinked at his glory. Having retired from work and having
lost his wife, the old father very quickly went to pieces, as they say. He
developed so many complaints and fell ill so frequently and with such
mysterious diseases that even his son could no longer make out when it was
something of significance and when it was merely a peevish whim. He sat
huddled on his string bed most of the day and developed an exasperating
habit of stretching out suddenly and lying absolutely still, allowing the whole
family to fly around him in a flap, wailing and weeping, and then suddenly
sitting up, stiff and gaunt, and spitting out a big gob of betel-juice as if to
mock their behavior.
He did this once too often: there had been a big party in the house, a
birthday party for the youngest son, and the celebrations had to be suddenly
hushed, covered up and hustled out of the way when the daughter-in-law
discovered, or thought she discovered, that the old man, stretched out from
end to end of his string bed, had lost his pulse; the party broke up, dissolved,
even turned into a band of mourners, when the old man sat up and the
distraught daughter-in-law received a gob of red spittle right on the hem of
her organza sari. After that no one much cared if he sat up crosslegged on
his bed, hawking and spitting, or lay down flat and turned gray as a corpse.
Except, of course, for that pearl amongst pearls, his son Rakesh.
It was Rakesh who brought him his morning tea, not in one of the china cups
from which the rest of the family drank, but in the old mans favorite brass
tumbler, and sat at the edge of his bed, comfortable and relaxed with the
string of his pajamas dangling out from under his fine lawn night-shirt, and
discussed or, rather, read out the morning news to his father. It made no
difference to him that his father made no response apart from spitting. It was
Rakesh, too, who, on returning from the clinic in the evening, persuaded the
old man to come out of his room, as bare and desolate as a cell, and take the
evening air out in the garden, beautifully arranging the pillows and bolsters
on the divan in the corner of the open verandah. On summer nights he saw
to it that the servants carried out the old mans bed onto the lawn and
himself helped his father down the steps and onto the bed, soothing him and
settling him down for a night under the stars.
All this was very gratifying for the old man. What was not so gratifying was
that he even undertook to supervise his fathers diet. One day when the
father was really sick, having ordered his daughter-in-law to make him a dish
ofsoojie halwa and eaten it with a saucerful of cream, Rakesh marched into
the room, not with his usual respectful step but with the confident and rather

contemptuous stride of the famous doctor, and declared, No more halwa for
you, papa. We must be sensible, at your age. If you must have something
sweet, Veena will cook you a little kheer, thats light, just a little rice and
milk. But nothing fried, nothing rich. We cant have this happening again.
The old man who had been lying stretched out on his bed, weak and feeble
after a days illness, gave a start at the very sound, the tone of these words.
He opened his eyesrather, they fell open with shockand he stared at his
son with disbelief that darkened quickly to reproach. A son who actually
refused his father the food he craved? No, it was unheard of, it was
incredible. But Rakesh had turned his back to him and was cleaning up the
litter of bottles and packets on the medicine shelf and did not notice while
Veena slipped silently out of the room with a little smirk that only the old
man saw, and hated.
Halwa was only the first item to be crossed off the old mans diet. One
delicacy after the other wenteverything fried to begin with, then
everything sweet, and eventually everything, everything that the old man
enjoyed.
The meals that arrived for him on the shining stainless steel tray twice a day
were frugal to say the leastdry bread, boiled lentils, boiled vegetables and,
if there were a bit of chicken or fish, that was boiled too. If he called for
another helpingin a cracked voice that quavered theatricallyRakesh
himself would come to the door, gaze at him sadly and shake his head,
saying, Now, papa, we must be careful, we cant risk another illness, you
know, and although the daughter-in-law kept tactfully out of the way, the
old man could just see her smirk sliding merrily through the air. He tried to
bribe his grandchildren into buying him sweets (and how he missed his wife
now, that generous, indulgent and illiterate cook), whispering, Heres fifty
paise, as he stuffed the coins into a tight, hot fist. Run down to the shop at
the crossroads and buy me thirty paise worth of jalebis, and you can spend
the remaining twenty paise on yourself. Eh? Understand? Will you do that?
He got away with it once or twice but then was found out, the conspirator
was scolded by his father and smacked by his mother and Rakesh came
storming into the room, almost tearing his hair as he shouted through
compressed lips, Now papa, are you trying to turn my little son into a liar?
Quite apart from spoiling your own stomach, you are spoiling him as well
you are encouraging him to lie to his own parents. You should have heard the
lies he told his mother when she saw him bringing back
those jalebis wrapped up in filthy newspaper. I dont allow anyone in my
house to buy sweets in the bazaar, papa, surely you know that. Theres
cholera in the city, typhoid, gastroenteritisI see these cases daily in the
hospital, how can I allow my own family to run such risks? The old man
sighed and lay down in the corpse position. But that worried no one any
longer.

There was only one pleasure left in the old man now (his sons early morning
visits and readings from the newspaper could no longer be called that) and
those were visits from elderly neighbors. These were not frequent as his
contemporaries were mostly as decrepit and helpless as he and few could
walk the length of the road to visit him any more. Old Bhatia, next door,
however, who was still spry enough to refuse, adamantly, to bathe in the
tiled bathroom indoors and to insist on carrying out his brass mug and towel,
in all seasons and usually at impossible hours, into the yard and bathe noisily
under the garden tap, would look over the hedge to see if Varma were out on
his verandah and would call to him and talk while he wrapped his dhoti about
him and dried the sparse hair on his head, shivering with enjoyable
exaggeration. Of course these conversations, bawled across the hedge by
two rather deaf old men conscious of having their entire households
overhearing them, were not very satisfactory but Bhatia occasionally came
out of his yard, walked down the bit of road and came in at Varmas gate to
collapse onto the stone plinth built under the temple tree. If Rakesh was at
home he would help his father down the steps into the garden and arrange
him on his night bed under the tree and leave the two old men to chew
betel-leaves and discuss the ills of their individual bodies with combined
passion.
At least you have a doctor in the house to look after you, sighed Bhatia,
having vividly described his martyrdom to piles.
Look after me? cried Varma, his voice cracking like an ancient clay jar. He
he does not even give me enough to eat.
What? said Bhatia, the white hairs in his ears twitching. Doesnt give you
enough to eat? Your own son?
My own son. If I ask him for one more piece of bread, he says no, papa, I
weighed out the ata myself and I cant allow you to have more than two
hundred grams of cereal a day. He weighs the food he gives me, Bhatiahe
has scales to weigh it on. That is what it has come to.
Never, murmured Bhatia in disbelief. Is it possible, even in this evil age,
for a son to refuse his father food?
Let me tell you, Varma whispered eagerly. Today the family was having
fried fishI could smell it. I called to my daughter-in-law to bring me a piece.
She came to the door and said no. . . .
Said no? It was Bhatias voice that cracked. A drongo shot out of the tree
and sped away. No?

No, she said no, Rakesh has ordered her to give me nothing fried. No butter,
he says, no oil. . . .
No butter? No oil? How does he expect his father to live?
Old Varma nodded with melancholy triumph. That is how he treats me
after I have brought him up, given him an education, made him a great
doctor. Great doctor! This is the way great doctors treat their fathers,
Bhatia, for the sons sterling personality and character now underwent a
curious sea change. Outwardly all might be the same but the interpretation
had altered: his masterly efficiency was nothing but cold heartlessness, his
authority was only tyranny in disguise.
There was cold comfort in complaining to neighbors and, on such a miserable
diet, Varma found himself slipping, weakening and soon becoming a
genuinely sick man. Powders and pills and mixtures were not only brought in
when dealing with a crisis like an upset stomach but became a regular part
of his dietbecame his diet, complained Varma, supplanting the natural
foods he craved. There were pills to regulate his bowel movements, pills to
bring down his blood pressure, pills to deal with his arthritis and, eventually,
pills to keep his heart beating. In between there were panicky rushes to the
hospital, some humiliating experience with the stomach pump and enema,
which left him frightened and helpless. He cried easily, shriveling up on his
bed, but if he complained of a pain or even a vague, gray fear in the night,
Rakesh would simply open another bottle of pills and force him to take one.
I have my duty to you papa, he said when his father begged to be let off.
Let me be, Varma begged, turning his face away from the pills on the
outstretched hand. Let me die. It would be better. I do not want to live only
to eat your medicines.
Papa, be reasonable.
I leave that to you, the father cried with sudden spirit. Leave me alone, let
me die now, I cannot live like this.
Lying all day on his pillows, fed every few hours by his daughter-in-laws
own hand, visited by every member of his family dailyand then he says he
does not want to live like this, Rakesh was heard to say, laughing, to
someone outside the door.
Deprived of food, screamed the old man on the bed, his wishes ignored,
taunted by his daughter-in-law, laughed at by his grandchildrenthat is how
I live. But he was very old and weak and all anyone heard was an
incoherent croak, some expressive grunts and cries of genuine pain. Only
once, when old Bhatia had come to see him and they sat together under the

temple tree, they heard him cry, God is calling meand they wont let me
go.
The quantities of vitamins and tonics he was made to take were not
altogether useless. They kept him alive and even gave him a kind of strength
that made him hang on long after he ceased to wish to hang on. It was as
though he were straining at a rope, trying to break it, and it would not break,
it was still strong. He only hurt himself, trying.
In the evening, that summer, the servants would come into his cell, grip his
bed, one at each end, and carry it out to the verandah, there sitting it down
with a thump that jarred every tooth in his head. In answer to his agonized
complaints they said the doctor sahib had told them he must take the
evening air and the evening air they would make him takethump. Then
Veena, that smiling, hypocritical pudding in a rustling sari, would appear and
pile up the pillows under his head till he was propped up stiffly into a sitting
position that made his head swim and his back ache.
Let me lie down, he begged. I cant sit up any more.
Try, papa, Rakesh said you can if you try, she said, and drifted away to the
other end of the verandah where her transistor radio vibrated to the lovesick
tunes from the cinema that she listened to all day.
So there he sat, like some stiff corpse, terrified, gazing out on the lawn where
his grandsons played cricket, in danger of getting one of their hard-spun
balls in his eye, and at the gate that opened onto the dusty and rubbishheaped lane but still bore, proudly, a newly touched-up signboard that bore
his sons name and qualifications, his own name having vanished from the
gate long ago.
At last the sky-blue Ambassador arrived, the cricket game broke up in haste,
the car drove in smartly and the doctor, the great doctor, all in white,
stepped out. Someone ran up to take his bag from him, others to escort him
up the steps. Will you have tea? his wife called, turning down the transistor
set. Or a Coca-Cola? Shall I fry you some samosas? But he did not reply or
even glance in her direction. Ever a devoted son, he went first to the corner
where his father sat gazing, stricken, at some undefined spot in the dusty
yellow air that swam before him. He did not turn his head to look at his son.
But he stopped gobbling air with his uncontrolled lips and set his jaw as hard
as a sick and very old man could set it.
Papa, his son said, tenderly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and
reaching out to press his feet.

Old Varma tucked his feet under him, out of the way, and continued to gaze
stubbornly into the yellow air of the summer evening.
Papa, Im home.
Varmas hand jerked suddenly, in a sharp, derisive movement, but he did not
speak.
How are you feeling, papa?
Then Varma turned and looked at his son. His face was so out of control and
all in pieces, that the multitude of expressions that crossed it could not make
up a whole and convey to the famous man exactly what his father thought of
him, his skill, his art.
Im dying, he croaked. Let me die, I tell you.
Papa, youre joking, his son smiled at him, lovingly. Ive brought you a new
tonic to make you feel better. You must take it, it will make you feel stronger
again. Here it is. Promise me you will take it regularly, papa.
Varmas mouth worked as hard as though he still had a gob of betel in it (his
supply of betel had been cut off years ago). Then he spat out some words, as
sharp and bitter as poison, into his sons face. Keep your tonicI want none
I want noneI wont take any more ofof your medicines. None. Never,
and he swept the bottle out of his sons hand with a wave of his own,
suddenly grand, suddenly effective.
His son jumped, for the bottle was smashed and thick brown syrup had
splashed up, staining his white trousers. His wife let out a cry and came
running. All around the old man was hubbub once again, noise, attention.
He gave one push to the pillows at his back and dislodged them so he could
sink down on his back, quite flat again. He closed his eyes and pointed his
chin at the ceiling, like some dire prophet, groaning, God is calling menow
let me go.
The Journey:
In addition to novels and poems, Indira Goswami also writes short stories.
Her collection of short stories The Shadow of Kamakhya, describing life in the
province of Assam, where she was born, was published in 2001. The story
The Journey is exemplary for Goswami's style. It is poetic despite the serious
themes of poverty and the struggle for independence. Two travellers are
stranded with an impoverished family, and observe how life has taken its toll.
The Journey - Indira Goswami

DECEMBER 2008 This area falls in the territory of the militants. It is entirely covered by thick
forest. Professor Mirajkar and I were returning after a visit to the Kaziranga
National Park. Both of us work in Delhi University in the Department of
Modern Indian Languages and Literary Studies and had to come to attend a
conference organized by the students of Assam. We were anxious to reach
Guwahati before dark. Mirajkar was not afraid of wild animals, he said, but he
was definitely afraid of terrorists. One of his best friends had been killed by
the extremists in Punjab. He kept asking me, Have you been able to control
terrorism in this beautiful land of yours? I really did not know what to tell
him especially since on our way we crossed quite a few checkposts where we
were examined and had torches shone on our faces.
I sat in the car, looking out of the window, trying to imagine myself back on
the verandah of the Kaziranga tourist lodge, listening to the wind rustling the
thick clumps of bijuli bamboo, as if it were muga silk. I remembered the
moon spotlight a huge owl that sat on a chatyan tree, its head
disproportionately large, like that of a newborn baby. Mirajkar sat worrying
about terrorists. Someone had told him that terrorists owing allegiance to
Babbar Khalsa and the JKLF had managed to infiltrate the jungles of Assam
to join local groups of extremists.
We were speeding along the National Highway. On either side were distant
hills. The paddy fields were a riot of brilliant colours, flaunting gold; then they
would grow modest and hide in Buddhist ochre, or shrink and fold into
darkness. Every now and then Mirajkar would jump up, straining his ears for
the sound of gunfire. Then hed lapse into a reverie again, looking gloomily
out of the window at the fields or at forests that teemed with cotton, khaira,
sisoo, holong, poma, bogi poma, bokul and teak trees. Evening wrapped the
teak in shreds of silk that the stippling sun seemed to turn magically into
deer skin.
The driver broke the silence. Last year, this road was smeared with blood.
There was always crossfire of machine guns, exploding grenades. Now its all
quiet. No one is seen with a gun anymore. Yes, no guns. As if a soft carpet
covered it al l- the blood stains, the dumps of arms and ammunitions, the
smell of gunpowder.
Mirajkar said, Maybe we cant see firearms, but didnt the officer of the
forest department at Kaziranga, Mr. Ahmed, say that the poachers were
carrying foreign arms 303s, 500 double barrels and 470 US carbines; that
some smugglers had been caught at Mori Diphu; that two poachers were
shot dead?

Mirajkar had made a serious study of firearms and now started telling us
stories about the First World War. Ramakanta, the driver, also became
eloquent with various tales of poachers from the bordering areas. He was a
middle-aged man with a Nepali cap to protect his balding head from the sun.
He was sturdy and short with a neck that disappeared into his shirt collar. He
had small eyes, like the other Bodos of the valley, and a thin moustache. He
was a good driver; he rarely used the brake or the clutch.
But my mind was elsewhere and I did not pay any attention to the talks of
the guns and terrorists. I was watching the forest flit past outside the car
window. I saw the grand veloe trees draped in moss that grew like hair on the
legs of long-tailed monkeys. There were many different trees, some with wild
creepers twining themselves around trunks of muga silk. Some trees looked
like majestic ruins dressed in shimmering gossamer. All around was
monochromatic green, ranging from the richly succulent to those that
reminded me of puthi, the tiny fish. Some leaves were round, like the heavy
silver coins with Queen Victoria emblazoned on them. And the birina trees
were smothered in white blossoms that looked like clouds flirting with the
earth.
Mirajkar was still staring through the window. The sound of gunfire here? No,
impossible! Compared to Delhi, this was heaven! Delhi, ah, who can live
there any more? The bountiful Yamuna of the Afghan and Turk Poets has
turned into a sinking sewer. Sadar Bazar, with its teeming crowds, is a
battlefield.
Gently, almost invisibly, the suns rays turned mild, as if a huge python had
shed its glistening skin and was slipping away into the darkness.
Hrr, hrr, kut, kut, krrr! The car jerked to a halt in front of a thatched shop
by the wayside. Ramakanta jumped out of the car. He opened the bonnet
and then came to tell us that the radiator was leaking and all the water in it
had evaporated. Nothing else to do but take the car to a garage.
Mirajkar and I got down from the car to walk towards two small dimly-lit
shops that sold tender coconuts and tea. Mirajkar said, Itd have been
terrible if the car had broken down in the forest. Look how dark it is already.
I nodded in agreement, while Ramakanta paced up and down and in and out
of the small roadside shops making enquiries about a garage.
All of a sudden a scrawny figure came out of a shop a little further down the
National Highway. He held a kerosene lamp in his hand and wore a loose
kurta and a dhoti that stopped at his knee. I couldnt make out if he wore
slippers. He came up to our car and stopped. He looked old and feeble.
Raising his lantern he said, You have a breakdown? The workshop is seven
miles away. Wait Ill stop a car for you. The driver can go and fetch a

mechanic, while you will sit in my shop and have a cup of hot tea - maybe
some betel-nuts, too?
He stood right in the middle of the road swinging his lantern, his hairknot
loose on his shoulders. In the flickering light he looked spectral.
Mirajkar and I walked into his shop. One hurricane lamp hung from a bamboo
pole. Its chimney was cracked and dirty. Under a wooden bench we could see
an old stove, some rusted tins. On the mud wall was a calendar with a
picture of a white woman smoking a cigarette.
We sat on the bench. An old woman emerged from the room inside holding a
lamp. She said, The whole of today went by as if we were fishing at sea
not a soul in sight.
No customers? I asked, surprised.She said, There are many shops now on
either side of the road. They know how to attract customers. They even play
music! She sidled up to me and whispered. They sell evil stuff. But we are
Bhakats. Even that picture there. My husband and I had a bitter quarrel with
our children about it.
She then took a kettle and shuffled out of the room to fetch water for our tea.
In the light of her lantern we could see her torn blouse. She was wearing a
cotton mekhala and an old embroidered chaddar stained with betel-juice.
She came back and lit the stove. Perhaps it had no kerosene and soon a
pungent smell filled the room.
I felt bad when I saw the old woman arranging the glasses and pouring the
tea and the milk with quivering hands.
Grandma, I said, Is there no one to help you?
My daughter-in-law used to, my elder sons wife. He died during the floods
last year, of some unknown disease. We couldnt get any medicine for him.
The doctors have turned dacoits. She was pregnant when he died and now
she has a son. Shes very weakcant even stand on her own feet!
Is there no one else?
I have two sons and a daughter. They used tot go to school. Once. Ah,
things are different now. The girl fell in love with a soldier in the Indian army
which had to come here to flush out the terrorists. The local boys beat her
up. Shes limping back to normal health. The last seven years have been hell,
daughter! The treacherous river had eaten our land. Now there is no rice
to
The old man returned, still holding on to his lantern. Perhaps he had been
successful in stopping a car and sending the driver to fetch a mechanic. He
called out to his wife from where he stood. Ai, mother of Nirmali, dont bore
the guests with your sad tales. Theyre tired. Get some tea
The old woman got up abruptly on seeing him. She went to him and
whispered, Manohar and some others have seen him near the railway tracks

today.
The old man froze for a second. Then, Last time too, some people said
theyd seen him near the railway tracks. Dont listen to such rubbish! he
said. Go and get the tea for our customers. Theyre returning from
Kaziranga and must be very tired. Are there some biscuits?
Biscuits? All the money went into buying sugar and tea leaves last week.
Mirajkar and I cried out together, No, no dont bother. Even black tea will
do.
The old woman mumbled to herself as she prepared the tea, God alone
knows how I run this shop. Over the last seven years, the river has swallowed
up so much land. That Flood Relief Committee set up their office by the
roadside and stopped the mouths of us people with a mere one hundred
rupees."
The old man shouted, "Hold your tongue, you old woman!"
She continued as if he had not spoken, "This old man feels ashamed to touch
the feet of those officials, who have gobbled up the money sanctioned by the
government for flood relief. Oh! Wat hasn't happened to this family in the last
seven years and this man struts around, his head stuffed with past glories.
So what if there was a Borbarua in the family who went about with a goldtipped walking stick and an umbrella with a silver handle, who sat on a
magnificent couch...so what? I prod him constantly yet can't get him to go
see the government officials...and so we've been suffering for seven years...
Please tell the government about our pitiable condition. When you..."
The old man lokked angrily at her. Turning to us he said, "Please ignore her.
She starts babbling whenever she sees customers. She'd rather have tourists
go see the wretched flood-affected people who live like animals than go to
Kaziranga." He glared at her. "Go, get the tea, fast. Don't forget to add
crushed ginger. If there's no ginger, put in one or two cassia leaves."
It was at that moment that I caught sight of a dotara, hanging from the wall.
I had not noticed it till then because it was behind the bench on which we
sat. I was surprised to see it in the midst of other odds and ends like sacks,
tins and coconut shells. The traditional two-stringed instrument had carvings
on it and looked well cared for.
"Who plays this dotara, dada?"
A beatific smile spread on the face of the old man. I couldn't have imagined a
little while ago that he could smile like that. He said, "All the people visiting
the Namghars on the bank of the Dipholu were familiar with this instrument
of mine. Alas, the river has swallowed up many of the Namghars on its bank Arimrah, Holapar, Kohara, Mihimukh...people in all these places knew my
dotara. Why, even the people of Behali, beyond the Brahmaputra,
appreciated my songs."

The old woman had finished crushing the ginger. She said peevishly, "The old
man will now start bragging about the carved and mirror-studded
palanquin.... The lad has been gone for two months now and might be
waiting near the railway tracks, hungry and emaciated. This fossil doesn't
want to hear about that!"
The old man snarled. "Shut up, you old hag. Taking eons to make two cups of
tea!"
Professor Mirajkar spoke up. "I'd like to hear you play the dotara."
"Sure," said the old man as if he'd been waiting for such a request. "Your
mechanic will take some time to some. All those who come here for tea listen
to my songs."
"Customers? No one's come here for the last many days, though so many
cars went past." grumbled his wife. She turned to the old man and said,
"While I give tea to the customers, go to the railway tracks with the lamp for
a look. God knows you won't get up if you sit down to gossip and sing."
"I've heard this story before. Some months back, didn't we hear the same
rumour?" The old man mumbled as he took the two glasses from his wife and
handed them over to us respectfully. Then he said in a relaxed tone, "Have
your tea, please. I'll sing now." Suddenly a young girl entered the room,
limping, she could walk only with the help of a stick. She had long silky hair.
It was unattended. Seeing her the old couple shouted, "Why have you come
here, you bitch!" We could at once guess that this was the girl who had an
affair with the soldier from the Indian army, who had come to flush out the
militants from this area.
The tea was excellent. The old man brought the dotara. As he started turning
it, he said, "Did you have a chance to see tigers in Kaziranga? People say
there were only twenty tigers there in 1966. Now there are about sixty.
Rhinos have grown in number from three hundred to one thousand and five
hundred. There are some five hundred elephants too. "
"We saw some elephants," I said. "Do they come here, ever?"
"Not these days, because of the traffic. Earlier, before the floods, they would
descend on our paddy fields and all of us farmers would work together to
drive them away. But tigers do come. Do you know what happened just the
other day? Dimuiguria Mahanta's elephant was tied to a tree beside a
roadside pond. The elephant is very gentle. Whenever he's taken for a bath
in the Dipholu, he plays with teh boys and girls there. He was lying by the
pond that day when a tiger jumped on him and tore away a whole chunk of
flesh from his back!"
"Oh God!" We cried out in horror. "And then?"
"Elephants are omniscient creatures. Did you know that ou Moamaria
revolution where the Vaishnavites fought against the Ahorn kings started
because of an elepant?"

"An elephant?"
"Yes. A thin and tottering elephant. It happened during the time of King
Lakshminath Singha who came to the throne only in his old age. He was very
friendly with his minister, Kirtinath Borbarua. Two friends. Now, among the
Ahom kings, Lakshminath and Gaurinath Singha were the most ugly. Opium
eaters, they coud barely keep their eyes open. Gaurinath fancied a
fisherwoman who lived on the banks of the Dipholu. His palanquin would wait
and wait outside her place while..."
"What about the elephant?" I asked.
"Kirtinath the Borbarua had a tussle with the Moamaria mahantas. There was
this law that said that the mahantas must make a present of elephants to the
royal court as tribute every year. Once these mahantas gave an old, sick
elephant to Borbarua. A mahanta went with this tottering elephant to the
Borbarua. When he saw the rickety old animal the minister was wild with
rage. He cut off het mahanta leader's ear."
The old woman interrupted him impatiently. "Lopping off ears indeed! Old
man, for God's sake, take the lamp and have a look around. The boy might
be lying somewhere, hit by military bullets."
The old man continued as if she had not spoken. "In this month of Aghon,
nine thousand Moamaria soldiers made Kirtinath a prisoner while he was on
his way to Rongpur. And all because of a deformed elephant, as I said!"
We sat there sipping tea and listening to the old man. Ramakanta dropped in
for a while, had his tea and left. He daid, "It'll take at least one and half hours
to finish the work. The mechanic has taken the radiator to the workshop."
The old woman approached me. "Only a couple of customers have come
today. Daughter, mtake one more glass of tea each. There's sugar and tea
leaves."
We asked for two more cups of tea. Meanwhile the old man was tightening
the two strings of the dotara. "I barely managed to save this dotara from the
flood. There's no one in this area who can make a dotara like this anymore."
The old woman prodded him once more. "I'll look after the customers. Take
the lamp. Go to the railway tracks. Who knows... who knows."
The old man explained, "I've gone almost blind and this woman wants me to
go in the dark looking for the boy. The other day I fell down near the railway
tracks when I went searching for him and my knees are still aching and
bruised. My chest hurts too.... Listen daughter, we weren't always like this.
It's the floods. It's a pity that we have had to take shelter by the highway and
wait for customers day after day! We were respectable people. We had two
granaries, full of paddy. Even strangers were sure of a meal with scented rice
and kaoi fish. We come from a Borbarua family who had the power to punish
criminals by crushing their kneecaps. But my father was kind-hearted. If this
had been daytime, I could have taken you to my house and shown you the

ceremonial hat which I have managed to hold on to, his umbrella and silver
vessel; a decorated couch, the silver betel-nut holder. But our paddy fields,
which were as dear to me as my own flesh and blood, producing gold and
pearls, and no more.
The old woman was furious. Why are you digging up those old graves? I'll
myself go to the railway tracks to see...
Shut up, old woman. How many times have we heard this talk of his coming
back? But nothing! He didn't come back or show his face to us. These two
good people have come to my shop today. i must serve them well, make
them feel comfortable. The old man started to sing a song composed by
Padmapriya the Vaishnavee:
This world is futile
Like drops of water
on a lotus leaf
Fate will make us
a heap of ashes...
This life, this youth
is all a fleeting dream...
I could see the crisscrossing lines under his eyes. His teeth were missing, his
cheeks sunken, making his nose look longer than it actually was. He sang as
if the songs would never come to an end. After Padmapriya's composition he
sang several other songs composed by the Vaishnava saints. I felt as if I was
sitting on the bank of the Dipholu, watching the moon playing in the waters.
We listened to his song for about an hour, punctuated by his wife's
restlessness. She sat muttering, "People came to say that he was seen near
the railway tracks.... Even if the lad falls a prey to army bullets, he won't
care."
Suddenly the old man stopped singing. Mirajkar hastily pulled out some
money from the pocket of this coat and placed it in the betel-nut tray in front
of the old man. "o mother of Nirmali," the old man called out. "Keep what you
charge for the tea and return the rest." Turning to Mirajkar he said, "Why did
you give so much money, my dear sir. My songs are an echo of the songs of
the saints. It hurts me if anyone pays me money for it. No one understands
my feelings! No one!"
The old woman was staring at the money. She didn't touch it. She didn't
speak.
At that moment, we heard a big bang from outside, as if a bomb had
exploded! We felt as if we were being thrown violently to the ground. From
the shadow of a tree nearby someone emerged and walked slowly towards

the shop to stand before us. Everything had happened in a fraction of a

second and seeing his face now my throat went suddenly dry.
He was a young boy. Across his cheek ran a deep gash, from eye to lip made by a bullet or a sharp knife. There was blood and pus in it. The flesh
under his lip looked as if it been ripped open and we could see his teeth in
the quavering light.
I went to the old woman and took her hand in mine, gripping it tightly. We
were both shivering. The boy was wearing black jeans and a khaki jacket.
And what was that in his hand? A revolver? Even in the smokey light of the
kerosene lamp the barrel shone. The old woman burst into a hysterical cry.
"Oh my Kanbap, my son! I told your father a thousand times to bring you
from the railway track. Oh my son, what has happened to you? Why are you
bleeding like this?"
Suddenly the boy's eye fell on the girl. Sitting in the corner and trembling
with fear. He sped like a bullet towards the girl and grabbing her hair, rained
blows and kicks on her stomach, shouting: "I will smash your womb! I will kill
the bastard child of that soldier you are carrying.... Making love with an
Indian soldier, dirty bitch! Phooh! Phooh!
He kicked her viciously on the stomach
"Oh my, Oh my! He will kill the girl...." The old parents tried to pull away the
enraged youth. The boy didn't even look at his mother. He stared at the
money lying before the old man. He pounced on it like a vulture.
The old man shouted. "This is not my money, son. Give it back to our revered
customers...."
The boy ignored his father's words. He spoke as if to himself. "Those
poachers are selling a US carbine. It's an old gun, but sturdy. With this
money."
He had come like a cyclone. He disappeared as swiftly, like a flash of
lightning in a dark, still night. While wiping of the blood running out of the
wounds of the girls, something like a smile hovered on the lips of the old
man. I had never seen such a painful smile in my life ...
Mirajkar and I resumed our journey towards Guwahati. Neither of us spoke. It
was as if we were travelling through a dark tunnel, endlessly.
Translated from Assamese by the author and M. Asaduddin
Indira Goswami