remember in your dark eyes sweeping shadows of passion, like the wings of a home-seeking bird in the dusk.
I forget that you do not remember, and I come.
17
The rain fell fast. The river rushed and hissed. It licked up and swallowed the island, while I waited alone on the lessening bank with my sheaves of corn in a heap.
From the shadows of the opposite shore the boat crosses with a woman at the helm.
I cry to her, "Come to my island coiled round with hungry water, and take away my year's harvest."
She comes, and takes all that I have to the last grain; I ask her to take me.
But she says, "No"—the boat is laden with my gift and no room is left for me.
18
The evening beckons, and I would fain follow the travellers who sailed in the last ferry of the ebb-tide to cross the dark.
Some were for home, some for the farther shore, yet all have ventured to sail.
But I sit alone at the landing, having left my home and missed the boat: summer is gone and my winter harvest is lost.
I wait for that love which gathers failures to sow them in tears on the dark, that they may bear fruit when day rises anew.
19
On this side of the water there is no landing; the girls do not come here to fetch water; the land along its edge is shaggy with stunted shrubs; a noisy flock of saliks dig their nests in the steep bank under whose frown the fisher-boats find no shelter.
You sit there on the unfrequented grass, and the morning wears on. Tell me what you do on this bank so dry that it is agape with cracks?
She looks in my face and says, "Nothing, nothing whatsoever."
On this side of the river the bank is deserted, and no cattle come to water. Only some stray goats from the village browse the scanty grass all day, and the solitary water-hawk watches from an uprooted peepal aslant over the mud.
You sit there alone in the miserly shade of a shimool, and the morning wears on.
Tell me, for whom do you wait?
She looks in my face and says, "No one, no one at all!"
KACHA AND DEVAYANI
Young Kacha came from Paradise to learn the secret of immortality from a Sage who taught the Titans, and whose daughter Devayani fell in love with him.
KACHA. The time has come for me to take leave, Devayani; I have long sat at your father's feet, but to-day he completed his teaching. Graciously allow me to go back to the land of the Gods whence I came.
DEVAYANI. You have, as you desired, won that rare knowledge coveted by the Gods;—but think, do you aspire after nothing further?
KACHA. Nothing.
DEVAYANI. Nothing at all! Dive into the bottom of your heart; does no timid wish lurk there, fearful lest it be blighted?
KACHA. For me the sun of fulfilment has risen, and the stars have faded in its light. I have mastered the knowledge which gives life.
DEVAYANI. Then you must be the one happy being in creation. Alas! now for the first time I feel what torture these days spent in an alien land have been to you, though we offered you our best.
KACHA. Not so much bitterness! Smile, and give me leave to go.
DEVAYANI. Smile! But, my friend, this is not your native Paradise. Smiles are not so cheap in this world, where thirst, like a worm in the flower, gnaws at the heart's core; where baffled desire hovers round the desired, and memory never ceases to sigh foolishly after vanished joy.
KACHA. Devayani, tell me how I have offended?
DEVAYANI. Is it so easy for you to leave this forest, which through long years has lavished on you shade and song? Do you not feel how the wind wails through these glimmering shadows, and dry leaves whirl in the air, like ghosts of lost hope;—while you alone, who part from us, have a smile on your lips?
KACHA. This forest has been a second mother to me, for here I have been born again. My love for it shall never dwindle.
DEVAYANI. When you had driven the cattle to graze on the lawn, yonder banyan tree spread a hospitable shade for your tired limbs against the mid-day heat.
KACHA. I bow to thee, Lord of the Forest! Remember me, when under thy shade other students chant their lessons to an accompaniment of bees humming and leaves rustling.
DEVAYANI. And do not forget our Venumati, whose swift water is one stream of singing love.
KACHA. I shall ever remember her, the dear companion of my exile, who, like a busy village girl, smiles on her errand of ceaseless service and croons a simple song.
DEVAYANI. But, friend, let me also remind you that you had another companion whose thoughts were vainly busy to make you forget an exile's cares.
KACHA. The memory of her has become a part of my life.
DEVAYANI. I recall the day when, little more than a boy, you first arrived. You stood there, near the hedge of the garden, a smile in your eyes.
KACHA. And I saw you gathering flowers—clad in white, like the dawn bathed in radiance. And I said, "Make me proud by allowing me to help you!"
DEVAYANI. I asked in surprise who you were, and you meekly answered that you were the son of Vrihaspati, a divine sage at the court of the God Indra, and desired to learn from my father that secret spell which can revive the dead.
KACHA. I feared lest the Master, the teacher of the Titans, those rivals of the
Gods, should refuse to accept me for a disciple.
DEVAYANI. But he could not refuse me when I pleaded your cause, so greatly he loves his daughter.
KACHA. Thrice had the jealous Titans slain me, and thrice you prevailed on your father to bring me back to life; therefore my gratitude can never die.
DEVAYANI. Gratitude! Forget all—I shall not grieve. Do you only remember benefits? Let them perish! If after the day's lessons, in the evening solitude, some strange tremor of joy shook your heart, remember that—but not gratitude. If, as some one passed, a snatch of song got tangled among your texts or the swing of a robe fluttered your studies with delight, remember that when at leisure in your Paradise. What, benefits only!—and neither beauty nor love nor…?
KACHA. Some things are beyond the power of words.
DEVAYANI. Yes, yes, I know. My love has sounded your heart's deepest, and makes me bold to speak in defiance of your reserve. Never leave me! remain here! fame gives no happiness.
