When midnight hours know not the peace of sleep_Anthology of modern Indian poetry

But drudge in trembling hope for envied fame,

In ghostly solitude before a flame

Of glimmering light, whose sombre rays out-peep

To view the city wrapped in silence deep,

Midst weird and darkly waving groves of palm;

When wizard clocks ring out and rend the calm

With strides of Time--their thrilling voices creep

Along the soul; my mind with labour worn,

Or grappling with a knot, delights to stand

In stillness, yearning forth to clasp with love

Thy beauteous form--and then, Spring opes above!

With blossom’d flow’r and chirping bird, the land

Smiles ’neath the sunlit hues the heavens adorn!

_P. Seshadri._

THE LOVERS

From the rose-gardens of Time, fragrant and fresh, in ecstasies of

light--Day has come! How many an age of silent love hath breathed and

breathed upon his cheeks that tender flush of rose?

The blue in his eyes--from what lakes of enchantment hath he drunk? The

radiant colours of his thought--from what infinite wonder hath he made?

The glory of his love for whom, for whom hath he brought? For whom, for

whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds? The secrets of his

soul for whom, for whom?

* * * * *

A Lotus-bud has opened; ere she was born the pain of a vast music did

fill and fill her soul with a vain constant hope; in the ecstasy of that

pain she bloomed into flower.

The Lotus dreams upon the lyric melodies of Day.

In the sunset hush of evening she folds her petals upon the memories of

Day, enwoven with her fragrant devotions.

In the secrecy of Night she sings her praise, making the deeps of the

dark melodious.

* * * * *

The glory of his love for whom, for whom doth he bring? For whom, for

whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds?

The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?

_Fredoon Kabraji._

A BLUE DREAM

Where her two lips

Meet or part,

Leaps all my heart

Like the swift ship’s

Lurch on the lucent wave--

Past peril and the grave!

Where her two eyes open or close

Upon the rose-kissed snows

Of her face,

From my soul doth rise

Of its grace

A white star in their skies!

But if she smile ...

Or weave of her mouth a word,

Swiftly a light steals

Half my mind, while

Her word falls all unheard!

And a blue mist reels

Half curtaining my mind,

As a blue dream reels

In the heart of the blind:

Circling a remembrance

Of meadows and streams,

Of blossoms that open and lights that dance,

And passions that struggle to live in dreams!

_Fredoon Kabraji._

TULIP

Tulip, tell me, what do you hold in your cup?

I hold in my cup the magic that swells the thirst of your soul, O

Mother, when you look on the form of your child; the opiate that fills

your dream, Mother, with the awe of the Unknown!

But, Tulip, tell me, why do you guard your magic beyond the wing of

melody?

Because, ere Thought was, a kiss of Love did capture Death in the Seed

of Life. That is why no melody of Life can hold all the magic in my cup,

Mother; that is why Love cannot hold your child in Life alone!

_Fredoon Kabraji._

RETURN TO KHAIRPUR

Thy greens grow pearls, thy sunsets roses fair;

My wandering heart returned to stay with thee,

In shades of eve, to breathe thy cooler air,

That brings refreshment, promised long to me.

I love thy water-wheels, that sing to sleep

The playful twilight, Autumn’s moody child,

The flames that from thy fields and pinfolds leap

Like lights that lead the hearts by Pan beguiled.

I love thy country maids with water-jars

Whose graceful coveys rural charms enhance.

I love thy palms that gaze at distant stars,

And upward draw the earth-encumbered glance.

I love thy lake with silver trailing flowers,

Whose wavelets fondly hold the starry skies;

The moon, entranced by calm of midnight hours,

In violet bed on lily-petals lies.

No more the eyes of homesick longings pine

To watch the sphere remote where stars abound,

But, like thy lake that holds its love divine,

My heart within hath longed-for heaven found.

_Elsa Kazi._

INDIA--ENTERTAINING TWILIGHT

To India’s comely cottage Twilight hied:

“Salam, my lass!” resplendent Twilight cried:

“A sumptuous fare prepare! ... since noon I tried

To come this way ... but ah! the glowing day did stay

With thee!... Fresh milk and fried chapatis bring;

Do not forget thy hubble-bubble, dear,

For lots of dreamy cheer!

From out thy hair the withered lily fling;

Don fine array, with pearls thy tresses lay, and play

Thy vīnā, dance and sing!

One stolen hour is mine; that little while

With haunting notes of _suri-raag_ beguile ...

And let me see thy flaming eyes, as thunder skies

So deep and dark, with mystic lightnings bright;

With ‘Duhals’ wake what slumbering lies, the past let rise

All yesterdays to pageant gay, invite ...

Be swift, my sweet!

The meat and chutney let us eat ...

The hour, my sweet,

Is fleet; from night I must retreat!

Already muezzin’s mellow call resounds in mango grove;

And temple bells, that wake the gods, the hearts to worship move;

Come hither, dear!... The moments flee!

Salam, my love,

Salam!”

And India, sun-burnt India, sweetly blushed;

“Salam! I’ll hasten!” answered she; and brushed

From off her braid the faded lily--crushed

By day’s embrace; she sped, with joy, her face a-blaze,

To milk the goats, to fry the cakes in ghee;

Cabob, pullau, the dates and honey brought

And hubble-bubble sought

With smiles of Sindian hospitality.

With peri-grace she soared about the place, to trace

Each thing that added glee

To Twilight’s hour ... a rich repast she spread

Before her guest, who sliced the mangoes red

’Neath palms, beside the well and stream ... his eyes a-gleam

With dusk, he watched where night in forests hid

And vexed with prying silver beam his crimson dream,

While India, humming low, her braids undid.

With rustling sound

Unbound, her tresses sought the ground;

With silvery sound

She wound her pearls in orient found ...

Her silk-apparel jasmin-decked, kissed rugs of golden cloth;

With henna’d hands she swirled her veil, as frail as wings of moth;

Her vīnā struck, with bended knee:

“Salam,” she quoth:

“Salam!”

She shot as lightning up ... then paused and smiled;

Then round she spun in trance, as dervish wild;

In rainbow hue she flew, with flowers piled;

A flame a-whirl, with passion red, each curl a-twirl,

As Indra’s temple-dancer, maddening hearts

Her lips with kisses scarlet!--Eyes aglow

Now moved she sly and slow

As Punjab tigress ere for prey she starts ...

Then did unfurl a smock as white as pearl ... a girl

Of pious Southern parts

She turned, gazellean-soft and meek her glance,

The rosary and censer graced her dance;

A fragrant bud of womanhood, divinely good;

But soon her measure ceased ... with rhythmic thrill

In Delhi’s wealth arrayed she stood, in soaring mood

Then danced again, to show her perfect skill!

With flourish bold

And gold a-flash, now anklets told,

Her footsteps bold

Controlled a battle march of old!

She forward dashed as amazon of Rajput’s desert side,

Her eyes with valour all a-flame, so proudly did she stride:

“Wah! Wah!” so Twilight cheered ... and she:

“Salam,” replied:

“Salam!”

Her Jadoo-veil now changed the scene ... and lo!

In clouds she danced thro’ Kashmeer’s mountainsnow,

Thro’ jungle glooms and tombs of gold below;

By Ganges led, where orchards blossoms shed, she sped

’Mid Koels as Gopi, or as Rama’s queen ...

With shimmering ivory limbs, and rubied brow

As Moghul princess now

She sat ’mid slaves on throne of Jasper sheen.

Now made her bed on elephant’s broad head, and fled

As Jin thro’ plantains green.

Then rose as butterfly from out her shawl

All poised o’er lucid lakes of Taj Mahal.--

The hour had slipped, and night at last approached so fast;

And Twilight donned his turban, chilled with fright ...

The hookah-stick, he dropped aghast, and India cast

Her jewelled slipper at her guardian Night

Who gently sailed,

And trailed the stars ... but Twilight quailed

And westward sailed!

All veiled in mists he drooped and paled!

Her lacquered cradle India spread for moonlit night to rest,

Namaskar made with folded hands! ... half serious, half a-jest,

She fibbered: “Twilight hit at thee ...

Salam, my best

Salam!”

_Elsa Kazi._

ROSHANARA

The Queen Roshanara is sad and weeps in the absence of her lord in

battle. Her maidens strive to comfort her:

With this, to the couch

Whereon lay the Queen, so shaken

With voices she heard

And dreams she dreamt

And visions she saw.

To her they brought rose-petals

In their hands, and musks in baskets,

Perfuming her. But she was

Terror-stricken still.

Then with a wild clash of

Tambourines they fell to

An air of joyous happiness,

Sweetly soared the voice,

Like that of a nightingale,

Of the chief maiden who

Sang of the wind:

“North wind and south wind,

West wind and east wind,

Thou shalt not moan,

But blow, blow

Gently on my Lady’s cheeks, blow.

And thou, O great sea,

Thou shalt not wail,

But sweetly lull my Lady to sleep.

“Red leaf and green leaf, and all ye withered leaves,

Ye shall not turn the lawns into a wilderness,

For my Lady is sad,

And to see ye thus would make her sadder still.

Great trees and small trees,

Ye shall not shake and shiver

When my Lady walks,

But ye shall serve her as a good shade.

“Great birds and small birds and all ye humming birds,

Ye shall not wail mourning elegies,

But shall twitter and your little throats shall quiver

In an ecstasy of delight.

Ye shall sing of sweet joy,

Ye shall make my Lady happy.

“And ye Fairies and Cherubs,

Ye Queens of the Dreams,

And Kings of the Shadows,

Of the hidden people and the Unknown,

Ye shall not approach my Lady,

For her heart sinks with fright,

And she trembles like a leaf

That is thrown from the branches

With the wind’s force.

All ye unknown, be banished

From my Lady, to your land

Of Mystery and Heart’s Desire,

To your land of Eternal Youth.”

_Adi K. Sett._

IN PRAISE OF HENNA

A kokila called from a henna-spray:

_Lira! liree! Lira! liree!_

Hasten, maidens, hasten away

To gather the leaves of the henna tree.

Send your pitchers afloat on the tide,

Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old,

Grind them in mortars of amber and gold,

The fresh green leaves of the henna tree.

A kokila called from a henna-spray:

_Lira! liree! Lira! liree!_

Hasten, maidens, hasten away

To gather the leaves of the henna tree.

The _tilka’s_ red for the brow of a bride,

And betel-nut’s red for lips that are sweet;

But, for lily-like fingers and feet,

The red, the red of the henna tree.

_Sarojini Naidu._

IMPERIAL DELHI

Imperial City! dowered with sovereign grace,

To thy renascent glory still there clings

The splendid tragedy of ancient things,

The regal woes of many a vanquished race;

And memory’s tears are cold upon thy face

E’en while thy heart’s returning gladness rings

Loud on the sleep of thy forgotten Kings,

Who in thine arms sought Life’s last resting-place.

Thy changing Kings and Kingdoms pass away,

The gorgeous legends of a bygone day,

But thou dost still immutably remain

Unbroken symbol of proud histories,

Unageing priestess of old mysteries

Before whose shrine the spells of Death are vain.

_Sarojini Naidu._

DIRGE

(_In sorrow of her bereavement_)

What longer need hath she of loveliness,

Whom Death has parted from her lord’s caress?

Of glimmering robes like rainbow-tangled mist,

Of gleaming glass or jewels on her wrist,

Blossoms or fillet-pearls to deck her head,

Or jasmine garlands to adorn her bed?

Put by the mirror of her bridal days....

Why needs she now its counsel or its praise,

Or happy symbol of the henna leaf

For hands that know the comradeship of grief,

Red spices for her lips that drink of sighs,

Or black collyrium for her weeping eyes?

Shatter her shining bracelets, break the string

Threading the mystic marriage-beads that cling

Loth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet,

Unbind the golden anklets on her feet,

Divest her of her azure veils and cloud

Her living beauty in a living shroud.

Nay, let her be! ... what comfort can we give

For joy so frail, for hope so fugitive?

The yearning pain of unfulfilled delight,

The moonless vigils of her lonely night,

For the abysmal anguish of her tears,

And flowering springs that mock her empty years?

_Sarojini Naidu._

SPRING

Young leaves grow green on the banyan twigs,

And red on the peepul tree,

The honey-birds pipe to the budding figs,

And honey-blooms call to the bee.

Poppies squander their fragile gold

In the silvery aloe-brake;

Coral and ivory lilies unfold

Their delicate lives on the lake.

Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge,

And all the vivid air thrills

With butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge,

And the luminous blue of the hills.

_Sarojini Naidu._

CRADLE-SONG

From groves of spice,

O’er fields of rice,

Athwart the lotus-stream,

I bring for you,

Aglint with dew,

A little lovely dream.

Sweet, shut your eyes,

The wild fire-flies

Dance through the fairy _neem_;

From the poppy-hole

For you I stole

A little lovely dream.

Dear eyes, good-night,

In golden light

The stars around you gleam;

On you I press

With soft caress

A little lovely dream.

_Sarojini Naidu._

JUNE SUNSET

Here shall my heart find its haven of calm,

By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streams

That glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm.

Here shall my soul find its true repose

Under a sunset sky of dreams

Diaphanous, amber, and rose.

The air is aglow with the glint and whirl

Of swift wild wings in their homeward flight,

Sapphire, emerald, topaz, and pearl,

Afloat in the evening light.

A brown quail cries from the tamarisk bushes,

A bulbul calls from the cassia-plume,

And thro’ the wet earth the gentian pushes

Her spikes of silvery bloom.

Where’er the foot of the bright shower passes

Fragrant and fresh delights unfold;

The wild fawns feed on the scented grasses,

Wild bees on the cactus-gold.

An ox-cart stumbles upon the rocks,

And a wistful music pursues the breeze,

From a shepherd’s pipe as he gathers his flocks

Under the pipal-trees.

And a young Banjara driving her cattle

Lifts up her voice as she glitters by

In an ancient ballad of love and battle

Set to the beat of a mystic tune,

And the faint stars gleam in the eastern sky

To herald a rising moon.

_Sarojini Naidu._

BUNKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJI

How hast thou lost, O month of honey and flowers,

The voice that was thy soul! Creative showers,

The cuckoo’s daylong cry and moan of bees,

Zephyrs and streams and tender-blossoming trees,

And murmuring laughter and heart-easing tears

And tender thoughts and great, and the compeers

Of lily and jasmine and melodious birds,

All these thy children into lovely words

He changed at will and made soul-moving books

From hearts of men and women’s honeyed looks.

O master of delicious words! the bloom

Of _champak_ and the breath of king-perfume

Have made each musical sentence with the noise

Of women’s ornaments and sweet household joys

And laughter tender as the voice of leaves

Playing with vernal winds. The eye receives,

That reads these lines, an image of delight,

A world with shapes of spring and summer, noon and night;

All nature in a page, no pleasing show

But men more real than the friends we know.

O plains, O hills, O rivers of sweet Bengal,

O land of love and flowers, the spring-bird’s call

And southern wind are sweet among your trees:

Your poet’s words are sweeter far than these.

Your heart was this man’s heart. Subtly he knew

The beauty and divinity in you.

His nature kingly was and as a god

In large serenity and light he trod

His daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowers

Wreathing a hero’s sword, ruled all his hours.

Thus moving in these iron times and drear,

Barren of bliss and robbed of golden cheer,

He sowed the desert with ruddy-hearted rose,

The sweetest voice that ever spoke in prose.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

A ROSE OF WOMEN

Now lilies blow upon the windy height,

Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain,

Narcissus builds his house of self-delight

And Love’s own fairest flower blooms again;

Vainly your gems, O meadows, you recall;

One simple girl breathes sweeter than you all.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

(_Meleager._)

THE ISLAND GRAVE

Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moan

Of the blue waves that like a shaken robe

Two heard together once, one hears alone.

Now gliding white and hushed towards our globe

Keen January with cold eyes and clear

And snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobe

Ushers the firstborn of the radiant year.

Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould,

May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier;

Haply his joyless fingers wan and cold

Caress the ruined masses of thy hair,

Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.

Art thou so desolate in that bitter air

That even his breath feels warm upon thy face?

Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear,

And I will meet thee in that lonely place,

Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days

And death admit me to the silent ways.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

INVITATION

With wind and the weather beating round me

Up to the hill and the moorland I go.

Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?

Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?

Not in the petty circle of cities

Cramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;

Over me God is blue in the welkin,

Against me the wind and the storm rebel.

I sport with solitude here in my regions,

Of misadventure have made me a friend.

Who would live largely? who would live freely?

Here to the wind-swept uplands ascend.

I am the lord of tempest and mountain,

I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.

Stark must he be and a kinsman to danger

Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

A CHILD’S IMAGINATION

O thou golden image,

Miniature of bliss,

Speaking sweetly, speaking meetly!

Every word deserves a kiss.

Strange, remote, and splendid

Childhood’s fancy pure

Thrills to thoughts we cannot fathom,

Quick felicities obscure.

When the eyes grow solemn

Laughter fades away,

Nature of her mighty childhood

Recollects the Titan play;

Woodlands touched by sunlight

Where the elves abode,

Giant meetings, Titan greetings,

Fancies of a youthful God.

These are coming on thee

In thy secret thought;

God remembers in thy bosom

All the wonders that He wrought.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

EVENING

A golden evening, when the thoughtful sun

Rejects its usual pomp in going, trees

That bend down to their green companion

And fruitful mother, vaguely whispering--these

And a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God,

Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

THE SEA AT NIGHT

The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed,

And grasps with its innumerable hands

These silent walls. I see beyond a rough

Glimmering infinity, I feel the wash

And hear the sibilation of the waves

That whisper to each other as they push

To shoreward side by side--long lines and dim

Of movement flecked with quivering spots of foam,

The quiet welter of a shifting world.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

LACHHI

_From a well-known Panjābī folk-song_

Aha! When Lachhi spills water,

Spills water, spills water, spills water,

There sandal grows--where Lachhi spills water.

Aha! Lachhi asks the girls,

The girls, the girls, the girls,

Oh, what coloured veil suits a fair complexion?

Aha! The girls said truly,

Said truly, said truly, said truly,

A veil that is black becomes a fair complexion.

What then your fortune, Lachhi?

Your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi?

Ho! your boy like the moon, what then your fortune?

Who’ll give you milk to drink, Lachhi?

Drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi?

Your friendship with the goatherds is sundered!

Who’ll give you milk to drink?

[This song is sung to a purely folk-air, not in any definite _rāg_.]

AZMĒ

_Note._--The story goes that Gāmī wrote the song about a girl of Kutahār

(a village in the Maraz pargana of Kāshmīr) named Azmē, and that it

became the occasion of trouble for its author. Complaints were made

about Gāmī, and his father reported the matter to the Tahsildār of the

district; but the poet explained that Azmē meant “to-day” and that the

whole song had only a Sufī significance.

Azmē, love of thee came to me, fortunate vision!

Azmē, show me thy face, O darling.

_Azmē, love of thee, etc._

Say where shall I wait, in Shāngas or Naugām?

An ill name I got in Kutahār!

_Azmē, love of thee, etc._

I sought thee in Achhaval, Brang, Kutahār--

Lakhs of hardships I suffered, my darling.

Pomegranate thy cheeks, or _saza-posh_--

How dark are thine eyes, my darling!

Shining thy brows as though with sweat--

How many a one thy nose has slain, my darling!

Sitting by the door, choosing saffron flowers,

I know not for whom, my darling!

What a famous spinning-wheel is there in Kolgām,

Matchless its handle, my darling!

Silver are the strings of thy spinning-wheel,

Those who see it fall ill with wonder, my darling!

Skilfully pounding the rice so fine,

The good shape of the cypress has Azmē, my darling!

Bright is her dress as a pearl,

Short are the plaits of Azmē, my darling!

Slowly combing her hair so fine--

I will count up thy plaits, my darling!

Kāmader has passed through Kutahār,

All folk to him must yield (?), my darling!

Hapless Māhmud, where shall he wait for thee?

An ill name I won in Kutahār, my darling!

_Māhmud Gāmī._

AWAKE, MY FRIEND

Awake, my friend!

Be glad, spring has come!

Spread jasmine on the balconies,

Lasting is the glory of jasmine!

From afar I saw the Beloved come hither,

That _Hourī_ came to my courtyard!

Breast to breast he embraced me before the people,

Openly was his coming to be seen by any!

Ah, burn my blood to clots of fondness,

Accomplish (in my heart) the love of Islam!

These things thou shouldst not reveal among drunkards,

Lest to-morrow there be reproach!

Māhmud Vāzah will tell the secret of Love,

Hans Rāja shall he be named!

_Māhmud Vāzah._

MARRIAGE SONG

Spring has come, with almond blossom,

All about Shārikā Dēvī!

Flower-beds are walled about--

Flowers I’ll offer, night and morn!

Spring has come, with almond blossom,

All about Rāginyā Dēvī!

Lotus flowers are walled about--

Milk I’ll pour her, night and morn!

Spring has come, with almond blossom,

All about Zālā Dēvī!

Mint-plants are walled about--

Pūjā I’ll make, night and morn!

Spring has come, with almond blossom,

All about Shivajī!

Sandal trees are walled about--

I will anoint Him night and morn!

Spring has come, with almond blossom,

All about Nārāyan!

Tulsi plants are walled about--

Saffron I’ll rub night and morn!

_Ananda Coomaraswamy._

_Note._--By the names Shārikā, Rāginyā, etc., are meant places as well

as the divinities worshipped. Thus Shārikā (Satī, Pārvatī) is Hari

Parbat, where there is a festival to Shārikā in March; Rāginyā (Kīr

Bavānī) is an island at Inlamul, where there is a festival in May; Zālā

(another form of Pārvatī) is a hill where there is a festival in June;

Shivajī is a village in the Zainager pargana; Nārāyan is a _tīrtha_ near

Bāramuta.

MYSTIC LOVE SONG FROM “THIRTY INDIAN SONGS”