_Voice_
The rhythm that lightens the enormous weight of matter. To that
rhythm the bands of stars and planets go about dancing from sky to
sky, like so many minstrel boys. It is that rhythm, Nandini, that
makes you so simple, so perfect. How small you are compared to me,
yet I envy you.
_Nandini_
You have cut yourself off from everybody and so deprived yourself.
_Voice_
I keep myself apart, that it may become easy for me to plunder the
world’s big treasure-houses. Nevertheless there are gifts that your
little flower-like fingers can easily reach, but not all the strength
of my body,--gifts hidden in God’s closed hand. That hand I must
force open some day.
_Nandini_
When you talk like that, I don’t follow you. Let me go.
_Voice_
Go then; but here, I stretch out this hand of mine from my window,
place your hand on it for a moment.
_Nandini_
Only a hand, and the rest of you hidden? It frightens me!
_Voice_
Everybody flies from me because they only see my hand.
But if I wished to hold you with all of me, would you come to me,
Nandini?
_Nandini_
Why talk like this when you wouldn’t even let me come into your room?
_Voice_
My busy time, overloaded with work, dragged along against
obstruction, is not for you. On the day when you can arrive, full
sail before the wind, into the bosom of my full leisure, the hour of
welcome will strike. Even if that wind be a storm, all will be well.
That hour is not yet come.
_Nandini_
Rañjan will bring that delightful wind here, I tell you. He carries
his holiday-time with him, even in his work.
_Voice_
He has the red wine of oleanders to fill up his cup. But to me you
want to pass on an empty leisure. Where is the wine?
_Nandini_
Let me go now.
_Voice_
Answer me first.
_Nandini_
How to fulfil leisure you will learn from Rañjan. He is so beautiful.
_Voice_
Beauty only responds to beauty. Its lute strings break when force
tries to snatch an answer. But no more of this. Go, go away, or else
there will be trouble.
_Nandini_
I go. But I tell you, my Rañjan is coming to-day. You cannot prevent
him.
[_She goes._
(_Phágulal, the digger, and his wife
Chandrá, come in._)
_Phágulal_
My bottle, Chandrá? Out with it!
_Chandrá_
What! Drink from early morning?
_Phágulal_
Isn’t it our holiday? Yesterday was the fast day of the War Goddess.
To-day they worship the Flag.
_Chandrá_
Must you drink just because it’s a holiday? In our village home, on
feast days, you never----
_Phágulal_
Freedom itself was enough for the holidays in our village. The caged
bird spends its holiday knocking against the bars. In Yaksha Town
holidays are more of a nuisance than work.
_Chandrá_
Let’s go back home, then.
_Phágulal_
The road to our home is closed for ever.
_Chandrá_
How’s that?
_Phágulal_
Our homes don’t yield them any profit.
_Chandrá_
But are we closely fitted to their profits only,--like husks to
grains of corn,--with nothing of us left over?
_Phágulal_
Our mad Bishu says: to remain whole is useful only for the lamb
itself; those who eat it prefer to leave out its horns and hooves,
and even object to its bleating when butchered.
There’s the madcap, singing as he goes.
_Chandrá_
It’s only the last few days that his songs have burst forth.
_Phágulal_
That’s true.
_Chandrá_
He’s been possessed by Nandini. She draws his heart and his songs too.
_Phágulal_
No wonder.
_Chandrá_
Indeed! You’d better be careful. She’ll next be bringing out songs
from _your_ throat,--which would be rough on our neighbours. The
witch is up to all kinds of tricks, and is sure to bring misfortune.
_Phágulal_
Bishu’s misfortune is nothing recent, he knew Nandini long before
coming here.
_Chandrá_
(_Calling out_) I say, Bishu, come this way. Maybe you’ll find
somebody here also to listen to your singing,--it won’t be altogether
thrown away.
(_Bishu comes in, singing._)
_Bishu_ (_sings_)
_Boatman of my dreams,
The sail is filled with a boisterous breeze and my mad heart sings
to the lilt of the rocking of thy boat,
at the call of the far away landing._
_Chandrá_