I Won't Let You Go (19 page)

Though the evening’s coming with slow and languid steps,

    all music’s come to a halt, as if at a cue,

in the endless sky there’s none else to fly with you,

    and weariness is descending on your breast,

though a great sense of dread throbs unspoken,

    and all around you the horizon is draped,

        yet bird, o my bird,

            already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.

No, this is no susurrus of a forest,

    but the sea swelling with a slumber-snoring thunder.

No, this is no grove of kunda flowers,

    but crests of foam heaving with fluid palaver.

Where’s that shore, dense with blossoms and leaves?

    Where’s that nest, branch that offers shelter?

        Yet bird, o my bird,

           already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.

Ahead of you still stretches a long, long night;

    the sun has gone to sleep behind a mountain.

The universe – it seems to hold its breath,

    sitting quietly, counting the passing hours.

And now on the dim horizon a thin curved moon,

    swimming against obscurity, appears.

        Bird, o my bird,

            already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.

Above you the stars have spread their fingers,

    as in a mime, with a meaning in their gaze.

Below you death – deep, leaping, restless –

    snarls at you in a hundred thousand waves.

But on a far shore some are pleading with you.

    ‘Come, come’: their wailing prayer says.

        So bird, o my bird,

            already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.

Ah, there’s no fear, no bonds of love’s illusion;

    there’s no hope, for hope is mere deceit.

There’s no speech, no useless lamentation,

    neither home nor flower-strewn nuptial sheet.

You’ve only your wings, and painted in deepest black,

    this vast firmament where dawn’s direction’s lost.

        Then bird, o my bird,

           already blind, don’t fold your wings yet.

A long, long way away

in a dream-world, in the city of Ujjain,

by River Shipra I once went to find

my first love

from a previous life of mine.

Lodhra-pollen on her face,

dalliance-lotus in her hand,

kunda-buds perched on her ears,

kurubaks pinned to her hair;

on her slim body

a red cloth waist-knot-bound;

ankle-bells making a

faint ringing sound.

On a spring day

I wandered far,

figuring out my way.

In the Shiva-temple

in solemn tones just then

the evening service

began to resound.

Above the empty

shopping arcades gleamed

on darkened buildings

the last of the evening sun.

At last I reached

by a narrow winding road

my love’s house,

secluded and remote.

Conch-shell and wheel were

painted on her door.

On either side stood a

young kadamba tree –

growing like sons.

A carved lion,

majestic and proud,

sat above the white

columns of the gate.

All her pet doves

returned to their dovecot.

Her peacock slept,

perched on a golden rod.

At such a time

a lighted lamp in her hand,

slowly, slowly

my Malavika came down.

She appeared outside the door,

above the stairs,

like a goddess of evening

holding the evening star.

Her saffron-scented limbs

and incensed hair

shed all over me

gusts of their restless breath.

Her drapery, slightly slipped,

by chance revealed

tracery of sandal

Like a statue she stood

in that quiet evening

when the humming city was mute.

Seeing me, my love

slowly, ever so slowly

put her lamp down,

came before me,

put her hand in mine,

and without words

asked with her tender eyes,

‘Hope you’re well, my friend?’

I looked at her face,

tried to speak,

but found no words.

That language was lost to us:

we tried so hard

to recall each other’s name,

but couldn’t remember.

We thought so hard

as we gazed at each other,

and the tears streamed from

our unflickering eyes.

We thought so hard

by that door

beneath a tree!

And I don’t know when

under what pretext

her soft hand slid into my

right hand like a bird

of evening seeking its nest,

and slowly her face

like a drooping lotus

came to rest on my breast.

Keen with yearning,

they mingled quietly –

her breath and my breath.

Night’s darkness swallowed

the city of Ujjain.

The wild wind blew out

the lamp left by the door.

In the Shiva-temple

on River Shipra’s bank

the evening service

came to an abrupt end.

After fifty thou’lt walk to the forest,

    so our scriptures say.

But we say a forest retreat

    is better in the youthful days.

Bokuls flowering in their plenty,

    koels killing themselves with singing,

nature’s arbours, leaves and creepers,

    the merrier for hiding, seeking!

Moonlight falling on champak branches –

    for whom was such a sight created?

Those who appreciate such beauties

    are definitely your under-fifties.

Inside the house, the boring rows,

    all the lips alive with gossip,

nosy neighbours prying, poking.

    Privacy? You must be joking!

Time’s so short. It’s all devoured

    by do-gooders who come to visit,

sitting down for hours and hours

    discussing their holy topics.

No wonder then that hapless youths

    are always on the lookout for verdant groves.

They know full well liberation’s

    never to be had indoors.

We are modern young men,

    smart, born to disobey.

Manu’s codes need amending.

    There’ll be new laws under our sway.

Let old men stay at home,

    pile their rupees and pices,

manage the property affairs,

    seek the legal advices.

Let youths pick almanac-dates

    and in Phalgun walk to the forest.

There let them work hard

    all through the night without rest.

After fifty thou’lt walk to the forest,

    so our scriptures say.

But we think a forest retreat

    is better in the younger days.

Eye runs to eye,

    heart runs to heart;

in the story of two creatures

    that’s all there is to that.

On moonlit Chaitra evenings

when the henna perfumes the air,

you sit with flowers on your lap

    while my flute’s by my feet somewhere.

        This love between us two

            is a straightforward affair.

Your sari, springtime-yellow,

    drugs me, clings to my eyes;

the jasmine chain you weave me

    like a song of praise on me lies.

A little giving, a little keeping,

a little showing, a little hiding,

a little smile, a touch of shyness:

    that’s our mutual understanding.

        This love between us two

            is a straightforward affair.

No profound mystery resides

   in the couplings of springtime.

No truth beyond cognition

   sticks like a thorn in our minds.

No shadow creeps behind

this bliss of yours and mine.

No quest, staring at each other,

   unknown depths to find.

       Our couplings in springtime

           are straightforward affairs.

We do not dive into language

   for what’s beyond expression,

nor beg the sky to give us what’s

   beyond our expectation.

What little we give, what little we get –

that’s all we have, no more to net.

We do not hang on to happiness

   and have a tug-of-war.

      Our couplings in springtime

          are straightforward affairs.

Oh, we had heard on the sea of love

   there was no navigation,

that infinite hunger, infinite thirst

   were the price of passion,

that love’s music was a strain

on instruments and snapped their strings,

that love’s grove was a labyrinth

   with crooked culs-de-sac!

        But this our union, love,

            is a straightforward affair!

This I must admit: how one becomes two

is something I haven’t understood at all.

How anything ever happens or one becomes what one is,

how anything stays in a certain way, what we mean

by words like
body, soul, mind:
I don’t fathom,

but I shall always observe the universe

quietly, without words.

                           How can I

even for an instant understand the beginning, the end,

the meaning, the theory – of something outside of which

I can never go? Only this I know –

that this thing is beautiful, great, terrifying,

various, unknowable, my mind’s ravisher.

This I know, that knowing nothing, unawares,

the current of the cosmos’s awareness flows towards you.