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Diamond Books - Rabindranath Tagore

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86 pages

English

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Rabindranath Tagore was such a poet whose passion was to depict human emotions and sentiment as such. He was a poet who knew the pulse of humankind. He made us ever aware of life's unending saga. Since childhood he used to be immersed in the world of poetry and dreamt of the natural beauty outside the four walls of his house. He never acquired any training in the art of Painting.

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Publié par	Diamond Books
Date de parution	06 avril 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9789352619412
Langue	English

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Hungry Stones And Other Stories

eISBN: 9789352619412
© Publisher
Publisher: Diamond Pocket Books (P) Ltd.
X-30, Okhla Industrial Area, Phase-II New Delhi-110020
Phone: 011-40712100, 41611861
E-mail: ebooks@dpb.in
Website: www.diamondbook.in
Edition: 2017
Hungry Stones and Other Stories
By - Rabindranath Tagore
Preface
The stories contained in this volume were translated by several hands. The version of ‘The Victory’ is the author’s own work. The seven stories which follow it were translated by Mr. C.F. Andrews, with the author’s help. Assistance has also been given by the Rev. E.J. Thompson, Panna Lai Basu, Prabhat Kumar Mukerji, and the Sister Nivedita.
CONTENTS The Hungry Stones The Victory Once There Was A King The Home-Coming My Lord, The Baby The Kingdom of Cards The Devotee Vision The Babus of Nayanjore Living or Dead? “We Crown Thee King” The Renunciation The Cabuliwallah
The Hungry Stones
M y relative and myself were returning to Calcutta from our Puja trip when we met the man in the train. From his dress and bearing we considered him at first as an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we heard him talk. He discussed all subjects so confidently that you might think the Disposer of All Things consulted him at all times in all that He did. Until now we had been perfectly happy, as we did not know that secret and unheard-of forces were at work that the Russians had advanced close to us, that the English had deep and secret policies that confusion among the native chiefs had come to a head. But our newly acquired friend said with a sly smile: “There exist more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers.” As we had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the man amazed us. Even on the most trivial topic he would quote science or comment on the Vedas or repeat verses from some Persian poet, and as we had no knowledge of science or the Vedas or Persian, our admiration for him increased, and my relative, a theosophist, was convinced that our fellow-passenger was certainly supernaturally inspired by some strange magnetism or occult power or astral body. He listened with devotional rapture to even the most ordinary saying of our extraordinary companion, and secretly took notes of the conversation. I think that the man noticed this and was pleased by it. When the train reached its junction, we stood in the waiting-room for our connection. It was 10 p.m., and since we heard that the train was likely to be quite late, due to some problems in the lines, I spread my bed on the table and was about to lie down for a comfortable doze, when this extraordinary person began spinning the following yarn. Of course, I got no sleep that night.
“When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrative policy, I quit my post at Junagarh and entered the service of the Nizam of Hyderabad, they appointed me at once, as a strong young man, collector of cotton duties at Barich.
“Barich is a lovely place. The Susta chatters over stones and babbles on the pebbles, tripping through the woods like a skilful dancing girl. A flight of 150 steps rises from the river, above which, at the foot of the hills, stands a solitary marble palace. Nobody lives nearby; the village and the cotton market are far away.
“About 250 years ago, Emperor Mahmud Shah II built this lonely palace for his pleasure and luxury. In those days jets of rose-water spurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of its spray-cooled rooms young Persian women sat, their hair messed up before bathing, and splashing their soft naked feet in the clear water of the reservoirs, would sing the ghazals of their vineyards, to the tune of a guitar.
“The fountains no longer play, the songs have ceased, white feet no longer step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is now the lonely home of men oppressed with loneliness and deprived of the society of women. Karim Khan, my old office clerk, repeatedly warned me not to take up my abode there. ‘Pass the day there if you like,’ said he, ‘but never stay the night.’ I laughed it off. The servants said that they would work till dark and then go away. I gave my assent. The house had such a bad reputation that even thieves would not venture near it after dark.
“At first the solitude of the deserted palace weighed upon me like a nightmare. I would stay out, and work hard as long as possible, then return home at night, tired and exhausted, go to bed and fall asleep.
“Before a week had passed, the place began to exert a weird fascination upon me. It is difficult to describe or to induce people to believe; but I felt as if the whole house was like a living organism slowly and gradually digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastric juice.
“Perhaps the process had begun as soon as I set my foot in the house, but I distinctly remember the day on which I first became conscious of it.
“It was the beginning of summer, and the market being dull I had no work to do. A little before sunset I was sitting in an arm-chair near the water’s edge below the steps. The Susta had shrunk and sunk low; a broad patch of sand on the other side glowed with the hues of evening; on this side the pebbles at the bottom of the clear shallow waters were glistening. There was no sign of wind, and the still air was filled with an oppressive scent from the spicy shrubs growing on the hills close by.
“As the sun sank behind the hill-tops a long dark curtain fell upon the stage of day, and the intervening hills cut short the time in which light and shade blend at sunset. I thought of going out for a ride, and was about to get up when I heard a footfall on the steps behind. I looked back, but there was no one.
“As I sat down again, thinking it to be an illusion, I heard many footfalls, as if many people were rushing down the steps. A strange thrill of delight, slightly tinged with fear, passed through my frame, and though there was not a figure before my eyes, I thought I saw a group of joyous maidens coming down the steps to bathe in the Susta in that summer evening. There was no sound in the valley, in the river, or in the palace, to break the silence, but I distinctly heard the maidens’ gay and mirthful laugh, like the gurgle of a spring gushing forth in a hundred streams, as they ran past me, in quick playful pursuit of each other, towards the river, without noticing me at all. As they were invisible to me, so was I, invisible to them. The river was perfectly calm, but I felt that its still, shallow, and clear waters were stirred suddenly by the splash of many arms jingling with bracelets, that the girls laughed and dashed and spattered water at one another, that the feet of the fair swimmers tossed the tiny waves up in showers of pearl.
I felt a thrill at my heart—I cannot say whether the excitement was due to fear or delight or curiosity. I had a strong desire to see them more clearly, but nothing was visible to me. I thought I could catch all that they said if I only strained my ears; but however hard I strained them, I heard nothing but the chirping of the cicadas in the woods. It seemed as if a dark curtain of 250 years was hanging before me, and I would fain lift a corner of it tremblingly and peer through, though the gathering on the other side was completely enveloped in darkness.
“The oppressive closeness of the evening was broken by a sudden gust of wind, and the still surface of the Susta rippled and curled like the hair of a maiden, and from the woods, wrapt in the evening gloom, there came forth a simultaneous murmur, as if they were awakening from a black dream. Call it reality or dream, the momentary glimpse of that invisible mirage reflected from a far-off world, 250 years old, vanished in a flash. The mystic forms that brushed past me with their quick aerial steps, and loud, voiceless laughter, and threw themselves into the river, did not go back squeezing their dripping robes as they went. Like fragrance carried by the wind they were dispersed by a single breath of the spring.
“Then I was filled with a lively fear that it was the stimulus that had taken advantage of my solitude and possessed me — the witch had evidently come to ruin a poor devil like myself making a living by collecting cotton duties. I decided to have a good dinner—it is the empty stomach that all sorts of incurable diseases find an easy prey. I sent for my cook and gave orders for a rich, sumptuous moghlai dinner, scented spices and ghi.
“Next morning the whole affair appeared a queer fantasy. With a light heart I put on a sola hat like the sahebs , and drove out to my work. I was supposed to write my quarterly report that day, and expected to return late; but before it was dark I was strangely drawn to my house—by what I could not say — I felt they were all waiting and that I should not delay anymore. Leaving my report unfinished I rose, put on my sola hat, and startling the dark, shady, deserted path with the rattle of my carriage, I reached the vast silent palace standing on the gloomy skirts of the hills.
“On the first floor, the stairs led to a very spacious hall, its roof stretching wide over ornamental arches supported by three rows of massive pillars, and groaning day and night under the weight of its own intense loneliness. The day had just closed, and the lamps had not yet been lighted. As I pushed the door open a great bustle seemed to follow within, as if a throng of people had broken up in confusion, and rushed out through the doors and windows and corridors and verandas and rooms, to make its hurried escape.
“As I saw no one I stood bewildered, my hair on end in a kind of ecstatic delight, and a faint scent of attar and unguents almost erased by age lingered in my nostrils. Standing in the darkness of that vast desolate hall between the rows of those ancient pillars, I could hear the gurgle of fountains splashing on the marble floor, a strange tune on the