Hungry Stones - 11 Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

(A poetic translation of a story by Rabindranath Tagore, kśhdhārto pāśhāņa, Hungry Stones, for convenience split in 13 parts) . It is set in blank verse with stanzas that rhymed in between.

XI

Yet, by the eve giddy minded I grew,
And felt as if I had a tryst to keep,
Office work seemed an act of bread from blue,
A better harvest was when there to reap,
I threw all work aside to drive away,
Not stopping till the palace was in sight,
The day as wished sun well, it was twilight,
With hurried steps I took stairs to my way.

Heavy and eerie silence reigned therein,
The dark rooms looking as sullen as mean,
As if they had taken serious offence

Against me who had failed in their esteem,
My heart feeling contrite was heaving tense,
To have half way deserted my fond dream.
No one was there to lay my heart nigh bare,
None who could some forgiveness to me spare,
Aimless I wandered into my blank mind,
And wished I could that royal guitar find
To render my heavy heart O to sing:
‘O Fire, this poor moth, vainest that wished once
‘To fly away, hast come back, broken wing
‘To thee, forgive him just this one instance,
‘Burn away both his wings, put him to shame,
‘Nay, consume him in thine red scorching flame'.

Me, wailing like a clue-less cunning crow,
Two warm tear-drops fell from above on brow.
Dark and deep clouds hung overcast on hills
That day, the gloomy woods and bare river
Waiting were in suspense with monsoon drills,
An ominous calm prevailed all over.
And soon enough all shivered— land and sky,
A wild tempest blew forth O howling by,
Through the pathless woods glaring lightning teeth,
Like a raving maniac snapping chain,
Wishing to unleash hell, terrible pain
To whoso be on hills, whoso beneath!

And not a soul around was in the camp,
To rid darkness from heart, nor light a lamp,
I could sense a woman lay there on face—
On a carpet below the bed, clasping
Her wounded heart, and pulling hair sans grace,
Blood trickling down, in utter pain, laughing
Still, bursting into a hard wringing wail,
Now rending her bodice, now beating her breasts so frail,
And from nowhere winds roared in from windows,
The pouring rains soaked further her sorrows.

Through night the storm never did cease to rage,
Nor did my fair lady's passionate cry,
I wandered from room to room, a blind man,
Unremitting sorrows my companion,
Yet, no one there, whom could I have consoled?

And then I heard the same cry: ‘stay back, it's all false',
Maher Ali the mad was there, no doubt,
The old tenant of this odd wailing house,
‘What, what is false? ' I could not help but ask,
Waiving me off was how he responded,
Repeating, ‘stay back, stay back, all is false'.
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Translations | 11.03.13 |