Read I Won't Let You Go Online
Authors: Rabindranath Tagore Ketaki Kushari Dyson
The carriage stands at the door. It is midday.
The autumn sun is gradually gathering strength.
The noon wind blows the dust on the deserted
village path. Beneath a cool peepul
an ancient, weary beggar-woman sleeps
on a tattered cloth. All is hushed and still
and shines brilliantly – like a sun-lit night.
Only in my home there’s neither siesta nor rest.
Ashwin’s gone. The Puja vacation’s ended.
I’ve to return to the far-off place where I work.
Servants, busybodies, shout and fuss
with ropes and strings, tying packages sprawled
in this room and that, all over the house.
The lady of the house, her heart heavy as a stone,
her eyes moist, nevertheless has no time
to shed tears, no, not a minute: she has
too much to organise, rushes about,
extremely busy, and though there already is
too much baggage, she reckons it’s not enough.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘what on earth shall I do with these –
so many stewpots, jugs, bowls, casseroles,
bedclothes, bottles, boxes? Let me take
a few and leave the rest behind.’
Nobody pays
the slightest attention to what I say. ‘You might
suddenly feel the need for this or that
and where then would you find it far from home?
Golden moong beans, long-grain rice, betel leaves,
areca-nuts; in that bowl, covered, a few blocks
of date-palm molasses; firm ripe coconuts;
two containers of fine mustard oil;
dried mango, mango-cakes; milk – two seers –
and in these jars and bottles your medicines.
Some sweet goodies I’ve left inside this bowl.
For goodness’s sake, do eat them, don’t forget them.’
I realise it would be useless to argue with her.
There it is, my luggage, piled high as a mountain.
I look at the clock, then look back at the face
of my beloved, and gently say, ‘Bye then.’
Quickly she turns her face away, head bent,
and pulls the end of her sari over her eyes
to hide her tears, for tears are inauspicious.
By the front door sits my daughter, four years old,
low in spirits, who, on any other day,
would have had her bath well completed by now,
and with two mouthfuls of lunch would have succumbed
to drowsiness in her eyelids, but who, today,
neglected by her mother, has neither bathed
nor lunched yet. Like a shadow she has
kept close to me all morning, observing
the fuss of the packing, silent, wide-eyed.
Weary now, and sunk in some thought of hers,
she sits by the front door quietly, without a word.
‘Goodbye then, poppet,’ when I say,
she simply replies, sad-eyed, her face grave:
‘I won’t let you go.’ That is all.
She sits where she is, makes not the slightest attempt
to either hold my arm or close the door,
but only with her heart’s right, given by love,
proclaims her stand: ‘I won’t let you go.’
Yet in the end the time comes when, alas,
she has to let me go.
Foolish girl, my
daughter, who gave you the strength
to make such a statement, so bold, so self-assured –
‘I won’t let you go’? Whom will you,
in this universe, with two little hands
hold back, proud girl, and against whom fight,
with that tiny weary body of yours by the door,
that stock of love in your heart your only arms?
Nervously, shyly, urged by our pain within,
we can but express our innermost desire,
just say, ‘I do not wish
to let you go.’ But who can
say such a thing as ‘I won’t let you go’!
Hearing such a proud assertion of love
from your little mouth, the world, with a mischievous smile,
dragged me from you, and you, quite defeated,
sat by the door like a picture, tears in your eyes.
All I could do was mop my own eyes and leave.
On either side of the road as I move on
fields of autumn, bent by the weight of their crops,
bask in the sun; trees, indifferent to others,
stand on either side, staring all day
at their own shadows. Full, autumnal,
Ganga flows rapidly. In the blue heavens
white cloudlets lie like delicate new-born calves,
fully satisfied with their mother’s milk
and blissfully asleep. I sigh,
looking at the earth, stretching to the horizon,
weary of the passing epochs, bare in the brilliant sun.
In what a profound sadness are sky and earth
immersed! The further I go,
the more I hear the same piteous note:
‘I won’t let you go!’ From the earth’s edge
to the outermost limits of the blue heavens rings
this perennial cry, without beginning, without end:
‘I won’t let you go! I won’t let you go!’ That’s what
they all say – ‘I won’t let you go!’ Mother earth,
holding the littlest grass-stalk to her breast,
says with all her power: ‘I won’t let you go!’
And in a lamp about to go out, someone seems
to pull the dying flame from darkness’s grasp,
saying a hundred times, ‘Ah, I won’t let you go!’
From heaven to earth in this infinite universe
this is the oldest statement, the deepest cry –
‘I won’t let you go!’ And yet, alas,
we have to let go of everything, and they go.
Thus it has been since time without beginning.
In creation’s torrent, carrier of deluging seas,
they all rush past with fierce velocity,
eyes burning, eager arms outstretched,
moaning, calling – ‘Won’t, won’t let you go!’ –
filling the shores of the cosmos with their clamour.
‘Won’t, won’t let you go,’ declares the rear wave
to the front wave, but none listens
or responds.
From all directions today
that sad heart-rending wail reaches my ears,
ringing without pause, and in my daughter’s voice:
a cry of the cosmos quite as importunate
as a child’s. Since time began
all it gets it loses. Yet its grasp
of things hasn’t slackened, and in the pride
of undiminished love, like my daughter of four,
ceaselessly it sends out this cry: ‘I won’t let you go!’
Face wan, tears streaming,
its pride is shattered each hour, every minute.
Yet such is love, it never concedes defeat
and in a choked voice rebelliously repeats:
‘I won’t let you go!’ Each time it loses,
each time it blurts, ‘How can what I
love be ever alienated from me?
Is there anything in this whole universe
as full of yearning, as superlative,
as mighty, as boundless as my desire?’
So saying, it arrogantly proclaims:
‘I won’t let you go’, only to see at once
its cherished treasure blown away by a breath
like trivial dry dust, whereupon
eyes overflowing, like a tree uprooted,
it collapses on the ground, pride crushed, head bent.
Yet this remains love’s plea:
‘I won’t let the Creator break His promise to me.
A great pledge, sealed and signed, to me was given,
a charter of rights in perpetuity.’
Thus, though thin and frail, and face to face
with almighty death, it says, swollen with pride,
‘Death, you don’t exist!’ What cheek!
Death sits, smiling. And that eternal love,
so death-tormented, for ever in a flutter
with restless anxiety, has quite overpowered
this infinite universe, like the dampness of tears
suffusing sad eyes. A weary hope against hope
has drawn a mist of dejection over the whole
universe. Yes, I think I see
two hapless imploring arms lie quietly,
encircling the world, in a vain attempt
to bind it in its embrace, like a still reflection
lying in a flowing stream – some illusion
of a cloud charged with raindrops and tears.
Wherefore today I can hear
so much yearning in the rustling of the trees,
as the noonday’s hot wind, idly unmindful, plays
meaningless games with dry leaves, and as the day wanes,
lengthening the shadows under the peepul trees.
The cosmos is a field where the infinite’s flute
plays a pastoral lament. And she sits and listens,
earth, her hair down, and it fills her with longing,
there, in the far cornfields, by Ganga’s borders,
a golden cloth-end, sunlight-yellow, drawn
over her breast. Her eyes are still,
fixed on the far blue sky, and she says nothing.
Yes, I’ve seen her pale face,
no different from the face of my daughter of four,
so quiet, so hurt, and nearly lost in the door-edge.
[Calcutta, 29 October 1892]
Earth, take me back,
your lap-child back to your lap
in the shelter of your sari’s voluminous end.
Mother made of earth, may I
live diffused in your soil; spread
myself in every direction like spring’s joy;
burst this breast-cage, shatter this stone-closed
narrow wall, this blind dismal jail
of self; swing, hum, shake,
flop, radiate, disperse,
shudder, be startled by
sudden lights and thrills,
flow through the whole globe –
edge to edge, north to south,
east to west; burgeon
with secret sap in moss, lichen, grass,
branch, bark, leaf; touch
with rippling fingers cornfields bent with the weight
of golden ears; privily fill
new blossoms with colour, aroma, nectar;
fill too, with blue, waters of vast seas,
and dance to ceaseless waves on quiet beaches;
hurrah language from wave to wave everywhere;
lay myself like a white scarf on mountain-tops,
in lofty regions of solitude, lands of hushed
unsullied snow.
The desire that unawares to me
has long been welling in me like a secret spring,
now, having brimmed the heart, wants to get out
in a flow that will be free, generous, bold,
uncontrolled – in order to bedew you.
How shall I crack this heart, how unfetter
that anguished wish, send it in a million streams
to all lands and directions!
Therefore, simply sitting at home,
I’m always greedily devouring travelogues,
tales of those whom curiosity has driven
to roam in strange places. And with them
I girdle you in my imagination’s meshes.
Far lands difficult of access,
endless savannahs with neither trees nor tracks,
theatres of dire thirst, where the glare
from burning sand-heaps pierces eyes like needles,
beds of dust to the horizon upon which
earth, flushed with fever, lies and pants,
breath inflamed, throat parched, body on fire,
ruthless, taciturn, all alone.
Many a time sitting at home by my window,
looking out, I’ve imagined scenes far away:
say, a blue lake, hushed, secluded,
clear as crystal, circled by sierras,
cloudlets clinging to the peaks like suckling infants;
snow-lines, visible above the mountains’ blue,
block our sight, like row upon row
of immobile barricades mushroomed through heaven,
sentries posted at yoga-immersed
matted-hair Shiva’s hermitage.
In my mind I’ve roamed
on far-off polar beaches where earth’s vowed
eternal virginity in chill attire,
bereft of jewels, desires, company;
where at long night’s end, day returns,
but without sound or music; and night comes,
with none to sleep, stays steadfastly awake
in the endless sky, like a mother whose sleep’s been murdered,
whose bed is empty, whose child is dead.
The more I study the names of new countries
and their varied accounts, the more my mind
rushes forward, wanting to touch all; say, by a sea,
between small blue hills there lies a hamlet where
fishing-nets lie on the beach, drying in the sun,
a boat hovers on the waters, a sail stirs,
a fisherman fishes, and through a steep ravine
a narrow stream winds its way, twists and turns.
How I wish I could
embrace with my arms, press to my heart that nest
of human habitation, cosily ensconced
in the lap of hills and resonant with the waves!
Whatever exists anywhere I wish to make mine,
melt myself into a river’s current,
to village after village on either bank
offer myself as water to quench men’s thirst,
sing my murmuring song both day and night;
become a chain of lofty mountains stretching
from the sea where the sun rises to the sea where it sets,
rim to rim, a cincture to the earth,
noble in my mystery, which none may fathom,
and on my hard stone lap, where the chill wind sharply blows,
secretly cradle, rear to manhood new
unknown nations. Deep is my desire
in country after country to identify
myself with all men; to be born
as an Arab child in the desert, fearless and free,
raised on camel’s milk; to explore
cold stone mansions, Buddhist monasteries
on Tibet’s plateau; to drink grape-wine
as a Persian in a rose-garden; to ride
horses as an intrepid Tartar; to be polite
and vigorous as a Japanese; to toil
with dedication as in the ancient Chinese land;
to experience existence in all homes.
Oh, to be a naked barbarian, sturdy, robust, fierce,
neither to duties nor to prohibitions geared,
bound by nothing – neither customs, nor scruples, nor doubts,
nor a sense of mine and thine, nor the fever of thought;
one whose life-flow always rushes unchecked,
colliding with what’s in front, bearing clouts
without a whimper, never looking back –
stung by conscience or in vain remorse –
nor regarding the future with false hopes,
but on the wave-peaks of the here and the now
dancing and moving on in thrilled delight!
Yes, that life’s unruly, but I still love it,
and how often have I wished I could submit
to that vitality’s storm, hurtling like a light-weight
boat in full sail!
The forest’s ferocious tiger
easily bears his own enormous heft
by his immense strength. His body, vivid and bright
like thunder within which fire lurks, beneath
forests which are like clouds, with a mighty roar
as deep as thunder springs suddenly upon his prey
with lightning’s speed. Effortless is that greatness,
violence-keen that joy, that proud triumph:
even such things I wish to savour once!
I would, if I could, drink again and again
the manifold wines of joy that overflow
all the goblets that this cosmos holds.
Beautiful earth, as I have looked upon you,
how often has my spirit leapt into song
with huge happiness! How I have craved
to get a firm grip on your ocean-girdled waist
and keep it pressed to my breast;
to spread myself in every direction, as pervasive
and boundless as the morning sun; to dance
all day long upon forests, upon mountains,
on the undulations of trembling leaves; to kiss
every flower that buds; to embrace
all the tender densely growing greenswards;
to oscillate as on a swing of delight
on every wave; and quietly at night
with hushed footsteps to come as cosmic sleep,
stroking the eyes of all your birds and beasts
with my own fingers, entering every bed,
nest, home, cave, den that there is, spreading myself
like a gigantic sari-end upon
all that exists, cloaking it
with the gentlest darkness!
My earth, you are
so many years old; with me mixed in your clay,
unwearied in the limitless firmament,
you have orbited the sun; and for nights and days
spanning millennia within me your grass has grown,
flowers in clusters have opened,
so many trees have shed their leaves, buds, fruits,
odoriferous pollen! Hence in the present time,
maybe one day, sitting alone with a drifting mind
on Padma’s bank, gazing with charmed eyes,
with all my limbs and awareness I can sense
how grass-seeds sprout with shivers within your soil,
how, inside you, streams of vital fluids
circulate night and day, how flower-buds
appear with blind ecstatic delight,
shielded by lovely calyces, how in the morning sun
grass-blades, climbers, trees, shrubs rejoice,
with a concealed thrill and almost foolish elation,
like infants wearied by suckling at mothers’ breasts,
fully satisfied, smiling at pleasant dreams.
Likewise some day when post-rains sunrays
fall on fields of ripened golden crops,
rows of coconut palms quiver in the breeze,
shimmer in the sun, there rises within me such
an immense yearning, as if in remembrance
of bygone days when my sentience was dispersed
everywhere – in land, water, leaves,
the sky’s azure. And the entire world
seems to send me a hundred inarticulate calls,
like the familiar hubbub of manifold
gladsome games played by my perennial
companions, a happy commingled murmur
issuing from a vast, varied nursery.
Take me back
once more to that refuge, remove that hurt
of separation that throbs from time to time
within my mind, when in the evening’s rays
I look at a big meadow, as cows return
from far pastures, kicking dust from field-paths,
smoke curls from tree-encircled hamlets
up to the evening sky, far off the moon
appears slowly, slowly like a weary farer,
and on the deserted sandbank by the river
I feel so lonely, such an alien,
like an exile, and with arms outstretched
I rush out to receive the entire outer world
within myself: sky, earth, river-nestled
heaps of sleeping calm white moonlight. But I can’t
touch anything and just stare at an emptiness
in utter despondence. Take me back
to the centre of that wholeness, whence continually
life germinates in a hundred thousand ways,
sends out shoots and buds, whence songs burst
in a million melodies, dances emanate
in countless gestures, where the mind flows
in torrents of ideas and emotions, where every hole
belongs to a flute that plays, and where you stand,
black mythic cow of plenty, being milked
from a thousand angles by plants, birds, beasts,
numberless thirsty creatures, the juice of joy
raining in so many ways and all the directions
echoing to that murmuring music. I wish
to taste that various, universal bliss
in one moment, all elements together,
united with all. And will not your groves
be even greener, mingled with my gladness?
Will not a few new trembling rays invade
the morning sunshine? Surely my ecstasy
will dye both earth and sky with the heart’s pigments,
gazing at which, within a poet’s mind
poems shall rise, lovers’ eyes shall fill
with emotion’s intoxication, and from bird-beaks
sudden songs shall spring. O earth,
all your limbs are dyed with the happiness
of so many thousands!
Floods of creatures have again and again
enveloped you with their lives, gone and returned,
mixing their hearts’ affection with your humus,
writing so many scripts, spreading in so many directions
such yearning eager embraces! With them I shall
mingle all my love with diligent care,
dye your sari’s end with vivid colours.
Yes, I shall
deck you with my all. And will not
some enchanted ear on a river-bank
hear my song in the water’s murmur? Will not
some earth-dweller rise from sleep, perceive
my song in the dawn-light? A hundred years hence
will not my spirit quiver in this lovely forest’s
layers of leaves? In home after home
hundreds of men and women will for long
play their games of domesticity, and will not
something of myself remain in their loves?
Tell me, will I not
descend as laughter on their faces or as lush
youth on all their limbs? Will I not be
their sudden pleasure on a spring day or a young
keen bud of love sprouting in a nook
of their minds? Could you, motherland,
abandon me altogether? Could the tough
earthen cord that has endured for ages
suddenly be severed? Might I have to leave
the soft lap that has cradled me a million years?
Rather, from all sides won’t they pull me to them:
all these trees, shrubs, mountains, rivers, glens,
this deep blue sky that belongs to eternity,
this generous breeze that wafts such vitality,
light that wakes, the knitted social lives
within which all creatures live enmeshed?
Yes, I’ll circle you; I shall dwell among
your own kinsfolk; as birds, beasts, worms,
trees, shrubs, creepers you’ll call me again and again,
draw me to your warm throbbing bosom;
age after age, life after life you’ll press
your breasts to my mouth, assuage the million
hungers of my lives with the dripping ambrosial milk
of a million delights, emptying yourself
and making me drink with your deepest tenderness.
Then shall I, a young man, earth’s grown up son,
travel the world, traverse continents,
venture far, far among constellations
along inaccessible tracks. But as yet
I’ve not had enough; thirst for your nectar-milk
still clings to my mouth; your face
still brings lovely dreams before my eyes;
nothing of you have I finished yet;
all is mysterious, and my steady gaze
hasn’t yet plumbed the depth of its own amazement.
Like a child I still cling to your bosom,
my eyes on your face. Mother, hold me, please,
within the firmest embrace of your arms.
Make me your own, one who belongs to your breast:
that secret source from where the fountain rises –
of your vast vitality and varied delights –
do take me there. Don’t keep me away.