The Gardener by Rabindranath Tagore

[Dark Saint Alaick]

70.



I remember a day in my childhood I floated a paper boat in the
ditch.
It was a wet day of July; I was alone and happy over my play.
I floated my paper boat in the ditch.

Suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, and
rain poured in torrents.
Rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk my
boat.
Bitterly I thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose to
spoil my happiness; all its malice was against me.

The cloudy day of July is long today, and I have been musing over
all those games in life wherein I was loser.
I was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, when
suddenly I remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

71.




The day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on the
river-bank.
I had feared that my time had been squandered and my last penny
lost.
But no, my brother, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

The selling and buying are over.
All the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is time
for me to go home.
But, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll?
Do not fear, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

The lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds in
the west bode no good.
The hushed water waits for the wind.
I hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me.
O ferryman, you want your fee!
Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

In the wayside under the tree sits the beggar. Alas, he looks at
my face with a timid hope!
He thinks I am rich with the day's profit.
Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has not
cheated me of everything.

The night grows dark and the road lonely. Fireflies gleam among
the leaves.
Who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps?
Ah, I know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains. I will
not disappoint you!
For I still have something left, and my fate has not cheated me
of everything.

At midnight I reach home. My hands are empty.
You are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless and
silent.
Like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love.
Ay, ay, my God, much remains still. My fate has not cheated me
of everything.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

72.




With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors or
windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.
I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt
contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.
It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.
The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.
Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy
bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces,
women with limbs like serpents.
No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song
of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.
The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of
incantations which I chanted.
My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses
swooned in ecstasy.
I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the
temple, and a pain stung me through the heart.

The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like
chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would
fain hide themselves.
I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alive
with the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned had
spread its wings and vanished.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

73.



Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!
You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce.
The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.
The toys that you make for your children are fragile.
You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you
for that?
Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes.
Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart.
From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality,
that is why your eyes are ever wakeful.
For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is
not built, but only its sad suggestion.
Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears.
I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your
love.
I will worship you with labour.
I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust,
Mother Earth.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

74.



In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on
the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight.
Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with
the music of the clouds and forests.
But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple
grandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the
musing moon.
The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it.
And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into
dust.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

75.



At midnight the would-be ascetic announced:
"This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who
has held me so long in delusion here?"
God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped.
With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully
sleeping on one side of the bed.
The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long?"
The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not.
The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother.
God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he
heard not.
God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seek
me, forsaking me?"

[Dark Saint Alaick]

76.



The fair was on before the temple. It had rained from the early
morning and the day came to its end.
Brighter than all the gladness of the crowd was the bright smile
of a girl who bought for a farthing a whistle of palm leaf.
The shrill joy of that whistle floated above all laughter and
noise.
An endless throng of people came and jostled together. The road
was muddy, the river in flood, the field under water in
ceaseless rain.
Greater than all the troubles of the crowd was a little boy's
trouble--he had not a farthing to buy a painted stick.
His wistful eyes gazing at the shop made this whole meeting of
men so pitiful.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

77.



The workman and his wife from the west country are busy digging
to make bricks for the kiln.
Their little daughter goes to the landing-place by the river;
there she has no end of scouring and scrubbing of pots and
pans.
Her little brother, with shaven head and brown, naked, mud-
covered limbs, follows after her and waits patiently on the
high bank at her bidding.
She goes back home with the full pitcher poised on her head, the
shining brass pot in her left hand, holding the child with her
right--she the tiny servant of her mother, grave with the
weight of the household cares.

One day I saw this naked boy sitting with legs outstretched.
In the water his sister sat rubbing a drinking-pot with a handful
of earth, turning it round and round.
Near by a soft-haired lamb stood gazing along the bank.
It came close to where the boy sat and suddenly bleated aloud,
and the child started up and screamed.
His sister left off cleaning her pot and ran up.
She took up her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, and
dividing her caresses between them bound in one bond of
affection the offspring of beast and man.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

78.



It was in May. The sultry noon seemed endlessly long. The dry
earth gaped with thirst in the heat.
When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, "Come, my
darling!"
I shut my book and opened the window to look out.
I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the
river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep in
water, calling it to its bath.
I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

79.



I often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognition
between man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language.
Through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ran
the simple path by which their hearts visited each other.
Those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced though
their kinship has been long forgotten.
Yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up and
the beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, and
the man looks down into its eyes with amused affection.
It seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know each
other through the disguise.