Chapter I: Part 1

Transcriber’s Notes: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Bold text is surrounded by equal signs: =bold=.

RED OLEANDERS

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA · MADRAS
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO

RED OLEANDERS

A DRAMA IN ONE ACT

BY

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1925

COPYRIGHT

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

RED OLEANDERS

A DRAMA IN ONE ACT

_The Curtain rises on a window covered by a network of intricate
pattern in front of the Palace._

(_Nandini and Kishôr, a digger boy,
come in._)

_Kishôr_

Have you enough flowers, Nandini? Here, I have brought some more.

_Nandini_

Run away, Kishôr, do,--back to your work, quick! You’ll be late again.

_Kishôr_

I must steal some time from my digging and digging of nuggets to bring out flowers to you.

_Nandini_

But they’ll punish you, my boy, if they know.

_Kishôr_

You said you _must_ have red oleanders. I am glad they’re hard to find in this place. Only one tree I discovered after days of search, nearly hidden away behind a rubbish heap.

_Nandini_

Show it me. I’ll go and gather the flowers myself.

_Kishôr_

Don’t be cruel, Nandini. This tree is my one secret which none shall know. I’ve always envied Bishu, he can sing to you songs that are his own. From now I shall have flowers which you’ll have to take only from my hands.

_Nandini_

But it breaks my heart to know that those brutes punish you.

_Kishôr_

It makes these flowers all the more preciously mine. They come from my pain.

_Nandini_

It pains me to accept anything which brings you hurt.

_Kishôr_

I dream of dying one day for your sake, Nandini.

_Nandini_

Is there nothing I can give you in return?

_Kishôr_

Promise that you will accept flowers only from me every morning.

_Nandini_

I will. But do be careful.

_Kishôr_

No, no, I shall be rash and defy their blows. My homage shall be my daily triumph.

[_Goes._

(_Professor comes in._)

_Professor_

Nandini!

_Nandini_

Yes, Professor!

_Professor_

Why do you come and startle one, now and again, and then pass by? Since you awaken a cry in our hearts, what harm if you stop a moment in answer to it? Let us talk a little.

_Nandini_

What need have you of me?

_Professor_

If you talk of need, look over there!--You’ll see our tunnel-diggers creeping out of the holes like worms, with loads of things of need. In this Yaksha Town all our treasure is of gold, the secret treasure of the dust. But the gold which is you, beautiful one, is not of the dust, but of the light which never owns any bond.

_Nandini_

Over and over again you say this to me. What makes you wonder at me so, Professor?

_Professor_

The sunlight gleaming through the forest thickets surprises nobody, but the light that breaks through a cracked wall is quite a different thing. In Yaksha Town, you are this light that startles. Tell me, what d’you think of this place?

_Nandini_

It puzzles me to see a whole city thrusting its head underground, groping with both hands in the dark. You dig tunnels in the underworld and come out with dead wealth that the earth has kept buried for ages past.

_Professor_

The _Jinn_ of that dead wealth we invoke. If we can enslave him the whole world lies at our feet.

_Nandini_

Then again, you hide your king behind a wall of netting. Is it for fear of people finding out that he’s a man?

_Professor_

As the ghost of our dead wealth is fearfully potent so is our ghostly royalty, made hazy by this net, with its inhuman power to frighten people.

_Nandini_

All you say is a kind of made-up talk.

_Professor_

Of course made-up. The naked is without a credential, it’s the made-up clothes that define us. It delights me immensely to discuss philosophy with you.

_Nandini_

That’s strange! You who burrow day and night in a mass of yellow pages, like your diggers in the bowels of the earth,--why waste your time on me?

_Professor_

The privilege of wasting time proves one’s wealth of time. We poor drudges are insects in a hole in this solid toil, you are the evening star in the rich sky of leisure. When we see you, our wings grow restless. Come to my room. For a moment allow me to be reckless in my waste of time.

_Nandini_

No, not now. I have come to see your king, in _his_ room.

_Professor_

How can you enter through the screen?

_Nandini_

I shall find my way through the network.

_Professor_

Do you know, Nandini, I too live behind a network of scholarship. I am an unmitigated scholar, just as our king is an unmitigated king.

_Nandini_

You are laughing at me, Professor. But tell me, when they brought me here, why didn’t they bring my Rañjan also?

_Professor_

It’s their way to snatch things by fractions. But why should you want to drag your life’s treasure down amongst this dead wealth of ours?

_Nandini_

Because I know he can put a beating heart behind these dead ribs.

_Professor_

Your own presence is puzzling enough for our governors here; if Rañjan also comes they will be in despair.

_Nandini_

They do not know how comic they are,--Rañjan will bring God’s own laughter in their midst and startle them into life.

_Professor_

Divine laughter is the sunlight that melts ice, but not stones. Only the pressure of gross muscle can move our governors.

_Nandini_

My Rañjan’s strength is like that of your river, Sankhini,--it can laugh and yet it can break. Let me tell you a little secret news of mine. I shall meet Rañjan to-day.

_Professor_

Who told you that?

_Nandini_

Yes, yes, we shall meet. The news has come.

_Professor_

Through what way could news come and yet evade the Governor?

_Nandini_

Through the same way that brings news of the coming Spring.

_Professor_

You mean it’s in the air,--like the rumours which flush in the colour of the sky, or flutter in the dance of the wind?

_Nandini_

I won’t say more now. When Rañjan comes you’ll see for yourself how rumours in the air come down on earth.

_Professor_

Once she begins to talk of Rañjan there’s no stopping Nandini’s mouth! Well, well, I have my books, let me take my shelter behind them,--I dare not go on with this.

(_Coming back after going a little way._)

Nandini, let me ask you one thing. Aren’t you frightened of our Yaksha Town?

_Nandini_

Why should I feel afraid?

_Professor_

All creatures fear an eclipse, not the full sun. Yaksha Town is a city under eclipse. The Shadow Demon, who lives in the gold caves, has eaten into it. It is not whole itself, neither does it allow any one else to remain whole. Listen to me, don’t stay here. When you go, these pits will yawn all the wider for us, I know,--yet I say to you, fly; go and live happily with Rañjan where people in their drunken fury don’t tear the earth’s veil to pieces.

(_Going a little way and then coming back._)

Nandini, will you give me a flower from your chain of red oleanders?

_Nandini_

Why, what will you do with it?

_Professor_

How often have I thought that there is some omen in these ornaments of yours.

_Nandini_

_I_ don’t know of any.

_Professor_

Perhaps your fate knows. In that red there is not only beauty, but also the fascination of fear.

_Nandini_

Fear! Even in me?

_Professor_

I don’t know what event you have come to write with that crimson tint. There was the gardenia and the tuberose, there was white jasmine,--why did you leave them all and choose this flower? Do you know, we often choose our own fate thus, without knowing it!

_Nandini_

Rañjan sometimes calls me Red Oleander. I feel that the colour of his love is red,--that red I wear on my neck, on my breast, on my arms.

_Professor_

Well, just give me one of those flowers,--a moment’s gift,--let me try to understand the meaning of its colour.

_Nandini_

Here, take it. Rañjan is coming to-day,--out of my heart’s delight I give it to you.

[_Professor goes._

(_Gôkul, a digger, comes in._)

_Gôkul_

Turn this way, woman! Who are you? I’ve never yet been able to understand you.

_Nandini_

I’m nothing more than what you see. What need have you to understand me?

_Gôkul_

I don’t trust what I can’t understand. For what purpose has the King brought you here?

_Nandini_

Because I serve no purpose of his.

_Gôkul_

You know some spell, I’m sure. You’re snaring everybody here. You’re a witch! Those who are bewitched by your beauty will come to their death.

_Nandini_

That death will not be yours, Gôkul, never fear! You’ll die digging.

_Gôkul_

Let me see, let me see, what’s that dangling over your forehead?

_Nandini_

Only a tassel of red oleanders.

_Gôkul_

What does it mean?

_Nandini_

It has no meaning at all.

_Gôkul_

I don’t believe you, one bit! You’re up to some trickery. Some evil will befall us before the day is out. That’s why you have got yourself up like this. Oh you terrible, terrible witch!

_Nandini_

What makes you think me so terrible?

_Gôkul_

You’re looking like an ominous torch with a red flame. Let me go and warn these fools.--Beware! Beware!

[_He goes._

_Nandini_ (_knocking at the network_)

Do you hear me?

_A voice_ (_from behind the scenes_)

I hear you. But don’t call me,--I have no time.

_Nandini_

Let me come inside. My heart is full to-day.

_Voice_

No, not into my room.

_Nandini_

I have brought you a garland of white _kunda_ flowers.

_Voice_

Wear it yourself.

_Nandini_

My own garland is of red oleanders.

_Voice_

I am like a mountain peak, my bareness is my adornment.

_Nandini_

Like waterfalls running down the peak, this white flower-chain will sway on your breast. Open the netting, I want to come in.

_Voice_

I can’t allow it. There’s no time.

_Nandini_

Don’t you hear that song in the distance?

_Voice_

What are they singing?

_Nandini_

The autumn song:

_Hark, ’tis Autumn calling:
“Come, O, come away!”--
Her basket is heaped with corn._

Don’t you see the September sun is spreading the glow of the ripening corn in the air?

_Drunken with the perfumed wine of wind,
the sky seems to sway among the shivering corn,
its sunlight trailing on the fields._

You too come out, King!--out into the fields.

_Voice_

Fields! What could I do there?

_Nandini_

The work there is much simpler than your work in Yaksha Town.

_Voice_

It’s the simple which is impossible for me. A lake cannot run out dancing, like a frolicsome waterfall. Leave me now, I have no time.

_Nandini_

The day you let me into your storehouse the blocks of gold did not surprise me,--what amazed me was the immense strength with which you lifted and arranged them. But can blocks of gold ever answer to the swinging rhythm of your arms in the same way as fields of corn? Are you not afraid, King, of handling the dead wealth of the earth?

_Voice_

What is there to fear?

_Nandini_

The living heart of the earth gives itself up in love and life and beauty, but when you rend its bosom and disturb the dead, you bring up with your booty the curse of its dark demon, blind and hard, cruel and envious. Don’t you see everybody here is either angry, or suspicious, or afraid?

_Voice_

Curse?

_Nandini_

Yes, the curse of grabbing and killing.

_Voice_

But we bring up strength. Does not my strength please you, Nandini?

_Nandini_

Indeed it does. Therefore I ask you, come out into the light, step on the ground, let the earth be glad.

_Voice_

Do you know, Nandini, you too are half-hidden behind an evasion,--you mystery of beauty! I want to pluck you out of it, to grasp you within my closed fist, to handle you, scrutinise you,--or else to break you to pieces.

_Nandini_

Whatever do you mean?

_Voice_

Why can’t I strain out the tint of your oleanders and build a dream out of it to keep before my eyes? Those few frail petals guard it and hinder me. Within you there is the same hindrance, so strong because so soft. Nandini, will you tell me what you think of me?

_Nandini_

Not now, you have no time. Let me go.

_Voice_

No, no, don’t go. Do tell me what you think of me.

_Nandini_

Have I not told you often enough? I think you are wonderful. Strength swelling up in your arms, like rolling clouds before a storm,--it makes my heart dance within me.

_Voice_

And when your heart dances to see Rañjan, is that also----

_Nandini_

Let that be,--you have no time.

_Voice_

There _is_ time,--for this; only tell me, then go.

_Nandini_

That dance rhythm is different, you won’t understand.

_Voice_

I will, I _must_ understand.

_Nandini_

I can’t explain it clearly. Let me go.

_Voice_

Tell me, at least, whether you like me.

_Nandini_

Yes, I like you.

_Voice_

The same as Rañjan?

_Nandini_

Again the same question! I tell you, you don’t understand these things.

_Voice_

I _do_ understand, a little. I know what the difference is between Rañjan and me. In me there is only strength, in Rañjan there is magic.

_Nandini_

What d’you mean by magic?

_Voice_

Shall I explain? Underground there are blocks of stone, iron, gold,--there you have the image of strength. On the surface grows the grass, the flower blossoms,--there you have the play of magic. I can extract gold from the fearsome depths of secrecy, but to wrest that magic from the near at hand I fail.

_Nandini_

You have no end of things, yet why always covet?

_Voice_

All I possess is so much dead weight. No increase of gold can create a particle of a touchstone, no increase of power can ever come up to youth. I can only guard by force. If I had Rañjan’s youth I could leave you free and yet hold you fast. My time is spent in knotting the binding rope, but, alas, everything else can be kept tied, except joy.

_Nandini_

It is you who entangle yourself in your own net, then why keep on fretting?

_Voice_

You will never understand. I, who am a desert, stretch out my hand to you, a tiny blade of grass, and cry: I am parched, I am bare, I am weary. The flaming thirst of this desert licks up one fertile field after another, only to enlarge itself,--it can never annex the life of the frailest of grasses.

_Nandini_

One would never think you were so tired.

_Voice_

One day, Nandini, in a far off land, I saw a mountain as weary as myself. I could not guess that all its stones were aching inwardly. One night I heard a noise, as if some giant’s evil dream had moaned and moaned and suddenly snapped asunder. Next morning I found the mountain had disappeared in the chasm of a yawning earthquake. That made me understand how overgrown power crushes itself inwardly by its own weight. I see in you something quite opposite.

_Nandini_

What is it you see in me?

_Voice_

The dance rhythm of the All.

_Nandini_

I don’t understand.

_Voice_

The rhythm that lightens the enormous weight of matter. To that rhythm the bands of stars and planets go about dancing from sky to sky, like so many minstrel boys. It is that rhythm, Nandini, that makes you so simple, so perfect. How small you are compared to me, yet I envy you.

_Nandini_

You have cut yourself off from everybody and so deprived yourself.

_Voice_

I keep myself apart, that it may become easy for me to plunder the world’s big treasure-houses. Nevertheless there are gifts that your little flower-like fingers can easily reach, but not all the strength of my body,--gifts hidden in God’s closed hand. That hand I must force open some day.

_Nandini_

When you talk like that, I don’t follow you. Let me go.

_Voice_

Go then; but here, I stretch out this hand of mine from my window, place your hand on it for a moment.

_Nandini_

Only a hand, and the rest of you hidden? It frightens me!

_Voice_

Everybody flies from me because they only see my hand.

But if I wished to hold you with all of me, would you come to me, Nandini?

_Nandini_

Why talk like this when you wouldn’t even let me come into your room?

_Voice_

My busy time, overloaded with work, dragged along against obstruction, is not for you. On the day when you can arrive, full sail before the wind, into the bosom of my full leisure, the hour of welcome will strike. Even if that wind be a storm, all will be well. That hour is not yet come.

_Nandini_

Rañjan will bring that delightful wind here, I tell you. He carries his holiday-time with him, even in his work.

_Voice_

He has the red wine of oleanders to fill up his cup. But to me you want to pass on an empty leisure. Where is the wine?

_Nandini_

Let me go now.

_Voice_

Answer me first.

_Nandini_

How to fulfil leisure you will learn from Rañjan. He is so beautiful.

_Voice_

Beauty only responds to beauty. Its lute strings break when force tries to snatch an answer. But no more of this. Go, go away, or else there will be trouble.

_Nandini_

I go. But I tell you, my Rañjan is coming to-day. You cannot prevent him.

[_She goes._

(_Phágulal, the digger, and his wife
Chandrá, come in._)

_Phágulal_

My bottle, Chandrá? Out with it!

_Chandrá_

What! Drink from early morning?

_Phágulal_

Isn’t it our holiday? Yesterday was the fast day of the War Goddess. To-day they worship the Flag.

_Chandrá_

Must you drink just because it’s a holiday? In our village home, on feast days, you never----

_Phágulal_

Freedom itself was enough for the holidays in our village. The caged bird spends its holiday knocking against the bars. In Yaksha Town holidays are more of a nuisance than work.

_Chandrá_

Let’s go back home, then.

_Phágulal_

The road to our home is closed for ever.

_Chandrá_

How’s that?

_Phágulal_

Our homes don’t yield them any profit.

_Chandrá_

But are we closely fitted to their profits only,--like husks to grains of corn,--with nothing of us left over?

_Phágulal_

Our mad Bishu says: to remain whole is useful only for the lamb itself; those who eat it prefer to leave out its horns and hooves, and even object to its bleating when butchered.

There’s the madcap, singing as he goes.

_Chandrá_

It’s only the last few days that his songs have burst forth.

_Phágulal_

That’s true.

_Chandrá_

He’s been possessed by Nandini. She draws his heart and his songs too.

_Phágulal_

No wonder.

_Chandrá_

Indeed! You’d better be careful. She’ll next be bringing out songs from _your_ throat,--which would be rough on our neighbours. The witch is up to all kinds of tricks, and is sure to bring misfortune.

_Phágulal_

Bishu’s misfortune is nothing recent, he knew Nandini long before coming here.

_Chandrá_

(_Calling out_) I say, Bishu, come this way. Maybe you’ll find somebody here also to listen to your singing,--it won’t be altogether thrown away.

(_Bishu comes in, singing._)

_Bishu_ (_sings_)

_Boatman of my dreams,
The sail is filled with a boisterous breeze and my mad heart sings
to the lilt of the rocking of thy boat,
at the call of the far away landing._

_Chandrá_

I know who the boatman of your dreams is.

_Bishu_

How should you know from outside? You haven’t seen from inside my boat.

_Chandrá_

Your boat is going to get wrecked one of these days, let me tell you,--by that pet Nandini of yours.

(_Gôkul, the digger, comes in._)

_Gôkul_

I say, Bishu, I don’t quite trust your Nandini.

_Bishu_

Why, what has she done?

_Gôkul_

She does nothing, that’s the rub. I don’t understand the way she goes on.

_Chandrá_

To see her flaunting her prettiness all over the place makes me sick.

_Gôkul_

We can trust features that are plain enough to understand.

_Bishu_

I know the atmosphere of this place breeds contempt for beauty. There must be beauty even in hell; but nobody there can understand it, that’s their cruellest punishment.

_Chandrá_

Maybe we are fools, but even our Governor here can’t stand her--d’you know that?

_Bishu_

Take care, Chandrá, lest you catch the infection of our Governor’s eyes--then perhaps yours too will redden at the sight of us. What say you, Phágulal?

_Phágulal_

To tell you the truth, brother, when I see Nandini, I feel ashamed to think of myself. I can’t utter a word when she’s there.

_Gôkul_

The day will come when you’ll know her to your cost,--perhaps too late.

[_Goes._

_Phágulal_

Bishu, your friend Chandrá wants to know why we drink.

_Bishu_

God in his mercy has everywhere provided a liberal allowance of drink. We men with our arms supply the output of our muscles, you women with yours supply the wine of embraces. In this world there is hunger to force us to work; but there’s also the green of the woods, the gold of the sunshine, to make us drunk with their holiday-call.

_Chandrá_

You call these things _drink_?

_Bishu_

Yes, drinks of life, an endless stream of intoxication. Take my case. I come to this place; I am set to work burgling the underworld; for me nature’s own ration of spirits is stopped; so my inner man craves the artificial wine of the market place.

(_Sings_)

_My life, your sap has run dry,
Fill then the cup with the wine of death,
That flushes all emptiness with its laughter._

_Chandrá_

Come, brother, let us fly from here.

_Bishu_

To that boundless tavern, underneath the blue canopy? Alas, the road is closed, and we seek consolation in the stolen wine of the prison house. No open sky, no leisure for us; so we have distilled the essence of all the song and laughter, all the sunlight of the twelve hours’ day into one draught of liquid fire.

(_Sings_)

_Thy sun is hidden amid a mass of murky cloud.
Thy day has smudged itself black in dusty toil.
Then let the dark night descend
the last comrade of drunken oblivion.
Let it cover thy tired eyes with the mist
that will help thee desperately to lose thyself._

_Chandrá_

Well, well, Bishu, you men have gone to the dogs in Yaksha Town, if you like, but we women haven’t changed at all.

_Bishu_

Haven’t you? Your flowers have faded, and you are all slavering for gold.

_Chandrá_

No, never!

_Bishu_

I say, yes. That Phágulal toils for hours over and above the twelve,--why? For a reason unknown to him, unknown even to you. But _I_ know. It’s your dream of gold that lashes him on to work, more severely than the foreman’s whip.

_Chandrá_

Very well. Then why don’t we fly from here, and go back home?

_Bishu_

Your Governor has closed the way as well as the will to return. If you go there to-day you will fly back here to-morrow, like a caged bird to its cage, hankering for its drugged food.

_Phágulal_

I say, Bishu, once upon a time you came very near spoiling your eyesight poring over books; how is it they made you ply the spade along with the rest of us stupid boors?

_Chandrá_

All this time we’ve been here, we haven’t got from Bishu the answer to this particular question.

_Phágulal_

Yet we all know it.

_Bishu_

Well, out with it then!

_Phágulal_

They employed you to spy on us.

_Bishu_

If you knew that, how is it you let me off alive?

_Phágulal_

But, we knew also, that game was not in your line.

_Chandrá_

How is it you couldn’t stick to such a comfortable job, brother?

_Bishu_

Comfortable job? To stick to a living being like a carbuncle on his back?

I said: “I must go home, my health is failing.”

“Poor thing,” said the Governor, “how can you go home in such a state? However, there’s no harm in your trying.”

Well, I did try. And then I found that, as soon as one enters the maw of Yaksha Town, its jaws shut fast, and the one road that remains open leads withinwards. Now I am swamped in that interior without hope and without light, and the only difference between you and me is, that the Governor looks down upon me even worse than upon you. Man despises the broken pot of his own creation more than the withered leaf fallen from the tree.

_Phágulal_

What does that matter, Bishu? You have risen high in our esteem.

_Bishu_

Discovery only means death. Where your favour falls there falls the Governor’s glance. The more noisily the yellow frogs welcome the black toad, the sooner their croaking points him out to the boa-constrictor.

_Chandrá_

But when will your work be finished?

_Bishu_

The calendar never records the last day. After the first day comes the second, after the second the third. There’s no such thing as getting finished here. We’re always digging--one yard, two yards, three yards. We go on raising gold nuggets,--after one nugget another, then more and more and more. In Yaksha Town figures follow one another in rows and never arrive at any conclusion. That’s why we are not men to them, but only numbers.--Phágu, what’s yours?

_Phágulal_

I’m No. 47 V.

_Bishu_

I’m 69 Ng.

_Chandrá_

Brother, they’ve hoarded such heaps of gold, can’t they stop digging now?

_Bishu_

There’s always an end to things of need, no doubt; so we stop when we’ve had enough to eat. But we don’t need drunkenness, therefore there’s no end to it. These nuggets are the drink--the solid drink--of our Gold King. Don’t you see?

_Chandrá_

No, I don’t.

_Bishu_

Cups in hand, we forget that we are chained to our limits. Gold blocks in hand, our master fancies he’s freed from the gravitation of the commonplace, and is soaring in the rarest of upper heights.

_Chandrá_

In this season the villages are preparing for their harvest festival. Let’s go home.

_Phágulal_

Don’t worry me, Chandrá. A thousand times over have I told you that in these parts there are high roads to the market, to the burning ground, to the scaffold,--everywhere except to the homeland.

_Chandrá_

If we were to go to the Governor, and just tell him----

_Bishu_

Hasn’t your woman’s wit seen through the Governor yet?

_Chandrá_

Why, he seems to be so nice and----

_Bishu_

Yes, nice and polished, like the crocodile’s teeth, which fit into one another with so thorough a bite that the King himself can’t unlock the jaw, even if he wants to.

_Chandrá_

There comes the Governor.

_Bishu_

Then it’s all up with us. He’s sure to have overheard----

_Chandrá_

Why, we haven’t said anything so very----

_Bishu_

Sister, we can only say the words,--they put in the meaning.

(_The Governor comes in._)

_Chandrá_

Sir Governor!

_Governor_

Well, my child?

_Chandrá_

Grant us leave to go home for a little.

_Governor_

Why, aren’t the rooms we have given you excellent, much better than the ones at home? We have even kept a state watchman for your safety.

Hallo, 69 Ng, to see you amongst these people reminds one of a heron come to teach paddy birds how to cut capers.

_Bishu_

Sir, your jesting does not reassure me. Had my feet the strength to make others dance, would I not have run away from here, first thing? Especially after the striking examples I’ve seen of the fate that overtakes dancing masters in this country. As things are, one’s legs tremble even to walk straight.

_Chandrá_

Give us leave, Sir Governor, do give us leave. Let us go just for once, and see our waving fields of barleycorn in the ear, and the ample shade of our banyan tree with its hanging roots. I cannot tell you how our hearts ache. Don’t you see that your men here work all day in the dark, and in the evening steep themselves in the denser dark of drunkenness? Have you no pity for them?

_Governor_

My dear child, surely you know of our constant anxiety for their welfare. That is exactly why I have sent for our High Preacher, Kenarám Gosain himself, to give moral talks to the men. Their votive fees will pay for his upkeep. Every evening the Gosain will come and----

_Phágulal_

That won’t do, sir! Now, at worst, we get drunk of an evening, but if we are preached to every night, there’ll be manslaughter!

_Bishu_

Hush, hush, Phágulal.

(_Preacher Gosain comes in._)

_Governor_

Talk of the Preacher and he appears. Your Holiness, I do you reverence. These workmen of ours sometimes feel disturbed in their weak minds. Deign to whisper in their ears some texts of peace. The need is urgent.

_Gosain_

These people? Are they not the very incarnation of the sacred Tortoise of our scripture, that held up the sinking earth on its back? Because they meekly suppress themselves underneath their burden, the upper world can keep its head aloft. The very thought sends a thrill through my body!

Just think of it, friend 47 V, yours is the duty of supplying food to this mouth which chants the holy name. With the sweat of your brow have you woven this wrap printed with the holy name, which exalts this devoted body. Surely that is no mean privilege. May you remain for ever undisturbed, is my benediction, for then the grace of God will abide with you likewise.

My friends, repeat aloud the holy name of Hari, and all your burdens will be lightened. The name of Hari shall be taken in the beginning, in the middle, and at the end,--so say the scriptures.

_Chandrá_

How sweet! It’s long since I have heard such words! Give, oh give me a little dust off your feet!

_Phágulal_

Stop this waste of money, Governor. If it’s our offerings you want, we can stand it, but we’re fairly sick of this cant.

_Bishu_

Once Phágulal runs amok it’s all over with the lot of you. Hush, hush, Phágulal!

_Chandrá_

Are you bent on spoiling your chances both in this world and the next, you wretched man? You were never like this before. Nandini’s ill wind has blown upon you,--and no mistake.

_Gosain_

What charming naïveté, Sir Governor! What’s in their heart is always on their lips. What can we teach them?--it’s they who’ll teach us a lesson. You know what I mean.

_Governor_

I know where the root of the trouble is. I’ll have to take them in hand myself, I see. Meanwhile, pray go to the next parish and chant them the holy name,--the sawyers there have taken to grumbling, somewhat.

_Gosain_

Which parish did you say?

_Governor_

Parish T-D. No. 71 T is headman there. It ends to the left of where No. 65 of Row M lives.

_Gosain_

My son, though Parish T-D may not yet be quieted, the whole Row of M’s have lately become steeped in a beautiful spirit of meekness. Still it is better to keep an extra police force posted in the parish some time longer. Because, as you know our scripture says,--pride is our greatest foe. After the strength of the police has helped to conquer pride, then comes our turn. I take my leave.

_Chandrá_

Forgive these men, Your Holiness, and give them your blessing, that they may follow the right path.

_Gosain_

Fear not, good woman, they’ll all end thoroughly pacified.

[_The Gosain goes._

_Governor_

I say, 69 Ng, the temper of your parish seems to be somewhat strained.

_Bishu_

That’s nothing strange. The Gosain called them the incarnation of the Tortoise. But, according to scripture, incarnations change; and, when the Tortoise gave place to the Boar, in place of hard shell came out aggressive teeth, so that all-suffering patience was transformed into defiant obstinacy.

_Chandrá_

But, Sir Governor, don’t forget my request.

_Governor_

I have heard it and will bear it in mind.

[_He goes._

_Chandrá_

Ah now, didn’t you see how nice the Governor is? How he smiles every time he talks!

_Bishu_

Crocodile’s teeth begin by smiling and end by biting.

_Chandrá_

Where does his bite come in?

_Bishu_

Don’t you know he’s going to make it a rule not to let the workmen’s wives accompany them here.

_Chandrá_

Why?

_Bishu_

We have a place in their account book as numbers, but women’s figures do not mate with figures of arithmetic.

_Chandrá_

O dear! but have they no womenfolk of their own?

_Bishu_

Their ladies are besotted with the wine of gold, even worse than their husbands.

_Chandrá_

Bishu, you had a wife at home,--what’s become of her?

_Bishu_

So long as I filled the honoured post of spy, they used to invite her to those big mansions to play cards with their ladies. Ever since I joined Phágulal’s set, all that was stopped, and she left me in a huff at the humiliation.

_Chandrá_

For shame! But look, brother Bishu, what a grand procession! One palanquin after another! Don’t you see the sparkle of the jewelled fringes of the elephant-seats? How beautiful the out-riders on horseback look, as if they had bits of sunlight pinned on the points of their spears!

_Bishu_

Those are the Governor’s and Deputy Governor’s ladies, going to the Flag-worship.

_Chandrá_

Bless my soul, what a gorgeous array and how fine they look!

I say, Bishu, if you hadn’t given up that job, would you have gone along with that set in this grand style?--and that wife of yours, surely----

_Bishu_

Yes, we too should have come to just such a pass.

_Chandrá_

Is there no way going back,--none whatever?

_Bishu_

There is,--through the gutter.

_A distant voice_

Bishu, my mad one!

_Bishu_

Yes, my mad girl!

_Phágulal_

There’s Nandini. There’ll be no more of Bishu for us, for the rest of the day.

_Chandrá_

Tell me, Bishu, what does she charm you with?

_Bishu_

The charm of sorrow.

_Chandrá_

Why do you talk so topsy-turvy?

_Bishu_

She reminds me that there are sorrows, to forget which is the greatest of sorrow.

_Phágulal_

Please to speak plainly, Bishu, otherwise it becomes positively annoying!

_Bishu_

The pain of desire for the near belongs to the animal, the sorrow of aspiration for the far belongs to man. That far away flame of my eternal sorrow is revealed through Nandini.

_Chandrá_

Brother, we don’t understand these things. But one thing I do understand and that is,--the less you men can make out a girl, the more she attracts you! We simple women,--our price is not so high, but we at least keep you on the straight path. I warn you, once for all, that girl with her noose of red oleanders will drag you to perdition.

[_Chandrá and Phágulal go._

(_Nandini comes in._)

_Nandini_

My mad one, did you hear their autumn songs this morning?

_Bishu_

Is my morning like yours that I should hear singing? Mine is only a swept-away remnant of the weary night.

_Nandini_

In my gladness of heart I thought I’d stand on the rampart and join in their song. But the guards would not let me, so I’ve come to you.

_Bishu_

I am not a rampart.

_Nandini_

You are _my_ rampart. When I come to you I seem to climb high, I find the open light.

_Bishu_

Ever since coming to Yaksha Town the sky has dropped out of my life. I felt as if they had pounded me in the same mortar with all the fractions of men here, and rolled us into a solid lump.

Then you came and looked into my face in a way that made me sure some light could still be seen through me.

_Nandini_

In this closed fort a bit of sky survives only between you and me, my mad one.

_Bishu_

Through that sky my songs can fly towards you.

(_Sings_)

_You keep me awake that I may sing to you,
O Breaker of my sleep!
And so my heart you startle with your call,
O Waker of my grief!
The shades of evening fall, the birds come to their nest.
The boat arrives ashore, yet my heart knows no rest,
O Waker of my grief!_

_Nandini_

The waker of your grief, Bishu?

_Bishu_

Yes, you are my messenger from the unreachable shore. The day you came to Yaksha Town a gust of salt air knocked at my heart.

_Nandini_

But I never had any message of this sorrow of which you sing.

_Bishu_

Not even from Rañjan?

_Nandini_

No, he holds an oar in each hand and ferries me across the stormy waters; he catches wild horses by the mane and rides with me through the woods; he shoots an arrow between the eyebrows of the tiger on the spring, and scatters my fear with loud laughter. As he jumps into our Nagai river and disturbs its current with his joyous splashing, so he disturbs me with his tumultuous life. Desperately he stakes his all on the game and thus has he won me.

You also were there with us, but you held aloof, and at last something urged you one day to leave our gambling set. At the time of your parting you looked at my face in a way I could not quite make out. After that I’ve had no news of you for long. Tell me where you went off to then.

_Bishu_

My boat was tied to the bank; the rope snapped; the wild wind drove it into the trackless unknown.

_Nandini_

But who dragged you back from there to dig for nuggets here in Yaksha Town?

_Bishu_

A woman. Just as a bird on the wing is brought to the ground by a chance arrow, so did she bring me down to the dust. I forgot myself.

_Nandini_

How could she touch you?

_Bishu_

When the thirsty heart despairs of finding water it’s easy enough for it to be deluded by a mirage, and driven in barren quest from desert to desert.

One day, while I was gazing at the sunset clouds, she had her eye upon the golden spire of the Governor’s palace. Her glance challenged me to take her over there. In my foolish pride I vowed to do so. When I did bring her here, under the golden spire, the spell was broken.

_Nandini_

I’ve come to take you away from here.

_Bishu_

Since you have moved even the king of this place, what power on earth can prevent you? Tell me, don’t you feel afraid of him?

_Nandini_

I did fear him from outside that screen. But now I’ve seen him inside.

_Bishu_

What was he like?

_Nandini_

Like a man from the epics,--his forehead like the gateway of a tower, his arms the iron bolts of some inaccessible fortress.

_Bishu_

What did you see when you went inside?

_Nandini_

A falcon was sitting on his left wrist. He put it on the perch and gazed at my face. Then, just as he had been stroking the falcon’s wings, he began gently to stroke my hand. After a while he suddenly asked: “Don’t you fear me, Nandini?”

“Not in the least,” said I.

Then he buried his fingers in my unbound hair and sat long with closed eyes.

_Bishu_

How did you like it?

_Nandini_

I liked it. Shall I tell you how? It was as if he were a thousand-year-old banyan tree, and I a tiny little bird; when I lit on a branch of his and had my little swing, he needs must have felt a thrill of delight to his very marrow. I loved to give that bit of joy to that lonely soul.

_Bishu_

Then what did he say?

_Nandini_

Starting up and fixing his spearpoint gaze on my face, he suddenly said: “I want to know you.”

I felt a shiver run down my body and asked: “What is there to know?--I am not a manuscript!”

“I know all there is in manuscripts,” said he, “but I don’t know you.” Then he became excited and cried: “Tell me all about Rañjan. Tell me how you love him.”

I talked on: “I love Rañjan as the rudder in the water might love the sail in the sky, answering its rhythm of wind in the rhythm of waves.”

He listened quietly, staring like a big greedy boy. All of a sudden he startled me by exclaiming: “Could you die for him?”

“This very moment,” I replied.

“Never,” he almost roared, as if in anger.

“Yes, I could,” I repeated.

“What good would that do you?”

“I don’t know,” said I.

Then he writhed and shouted: “Go away from my room, go, go at once, don’t disturb me in my work.”

I could not understand what that meant.

_Bishu_

He gets angry when he can’t understand.

_Nandini_

Bishu, don’t you feel pity for him?

_Bishu_

The day when God will be moved to pity for him, he will die.

_Nandini_

No, no, you don’t know how desperately he wants to live.

_Bishu_

You will see this very day what his living means. I don’t know whether you’ll be able to bear the sight.

_Nandini_

There, look, there’s a shadow. I am sure the Governor has secretly heard what we’ve been saying.

_Bishu_

This place is dark with the Governor’s shadow, it is everywhere. How do you like him?

_Nandini_

I have never seen anything so lifeless,--like a cane stick cut from the cane bush,--no leaves, no roots, no sap in the veins.

_Bishu_

Cut off from life, he spends himself in repressing life.

_Nandini_

Hush, he will hear you.

_Bishu_

He hears even when you are silent, which is all the more dangerous. When I am with the diggers I am careful in my speech, so much so that the Governor thinks I’m the sorriest of the lot, and spares me out of sheer contempt. But, my mad girl, when I am with you my mind scorns to be cautious.

_Nandini_

No, no, you must not court danger. There comes the Governor.

(_The Governor comes in._)

_Governor_

Hallo, 69 Ng! you seem to be making friends with everybody, without distinction.

_Bishu_

You may remember that I began by making friends even with you, only it was the distinction that stood in the way.

_Governor_

Well, what are we discussing now?

_Bishu_

We are discussing how to escape from this fortress of yours.

_Governor_

Really? So recklessly, that you don’t even mind confessing it?

_Bishu_

Sir Governor, it doesn’t need much cleverness to know that when a captive bird pecks at the bars it’s not in the spirit of caress. What does it matter whether that’s openly confessed or not?

_Governor_

The captives’ want of love we were aware of, but their not fearing to admit it has become evident only recently.

_Nandini_

Won’t you let Rañjan come?

_Governor_

You will see him this very day.

_Nandini_

I knew that; still, for your message of hope I wish you victory. Governor, take this garland of _kunda_ flowers.

_Governor_

Why throw away the garland thus, and not keep it for Rañjan?

_Nandini_

There _is_ a garland for him.

_Governor_

Aha, I thought so! I suppose it’s the one hanging round your neck. The garland of victory may be of _kunda_ flowers, the gift of the hand; but the garland of welcome is of red oleanders, the gift of the heart. Well, let’s be quick in accepting what comes from the hand, for that will fade; as for the heart’s offering, the longer it waits the more precious it grows.

[_The Governor goes._

_Nandini_ (_knocking at the window_)

Do you hear? Let me come into your room.

_Voice_ (_from behind the scenes_)

Why always the same futile request? Who is that with you? A pair to Rañjan?

_Bishu_

No, King, I am the obverse side of Rañjan, on which falls the shadow.

_Voice_

What use has Nandini for you?

_Bishu_

The use which music has for the hollow of the flute.

_Voice_

Nandini, what is this man to you?

_Nandini_

He’s my partner in music. My heart soars in his voice, my pain cries in his tunes,--that’s what he tells me.

(_Sings_)

_“I love, I love,”--’Tis the cry that breaks out
from the bosom of earth and water._

_Voice_

So that’s your partner! What if I dissolved your partnership this very minute?

_Nandini_

Why are you so cross? Haven’t you any companion yourself?

_Voice_

Has the mid-day sun any companion?

_Nandini_

Well, let’s change the subject. What’s that? what’s that in your hand?

_Voice_

A dead frog.

_Nandini_

What for?

_Voice_

Once upon a time this frog got into a hole in a stone, and in that shelter it existed for three thousand years. I have learnt from it the secret of continuing to exist, but to live it does not know. To-day I felt bored and smashed its shelter. I’ve thus saved it from existing for ever. Isn’t that good news?

_Nandini_

Your stone walls will also fall away from around me to-day,--I shall meet Rañjan.

_Voice_

I want to see you both together.

_Nandini_

You won’t be able to see from behind your net.

_Voice_

I shall let you sit inside my room.

_Nandini_

What will you do with us?

_Voice_

Nothing, I only want to know you.

_Nandini_

When you talk of knowing, it frightens me.

_Voice_

Why?

_Nandini_

I feel that you have no patience with things that cannot be known, but can only be felt.

_Voice_

I dare not trust such things lest they should play me false. Now go away, don’t waste my time.--No, no, wait a little. Give me that tassel of red oleanders which hangs from your hair.

_Nandini_

What will you do with it?

_Voice_

When I look at those flowers it seems to me as if the red light of my evil star has appeared in their shape. At times I want to snatch them from you and tear them to pieces. Again I think that if Nandini were ever to place that spray of flowers on my head, with her own hands, then----

_Nandini_

Then what?

_Voice_

Then perhaps I might die in peace.

_Nandini_

Some one loves red oleanders and calls me by that name. It is in remembrance of him that I wear these flowers.

_Voice_

Then, I tell you, they’re going to be _his_ evil star as well as _mine_.

_Nandini_

Don’t say such things, for shame! I am going.

_Voice_

Where?

_Nandini_

I shall go and sit near the gate of your fort.

_Voice_

Why?

_Nandini_

When Rañjan comes he’ll see I am waiting for him.

_Voice_

I should like to tread hard on Rañjan and grind him in the dust.

_Nandini_

Why pretend to frighten me?

_Voice_

Pretend, you say? Don’t you know I am really fearsome?

_Nandini_

You seem to take pleasure in seeing people frightened at you. In our village plays Srikantha takes the part of a demon; when he comes on the stage, he is delighted if the children are terrified. You are like him. Do you know what I think?

_Voice_

What is it?

_Nandini_

The people here trade on frightening others. That’s why they have put you behind a network and dressed you fantastically. Don’t you feel ashamed to be got up like a bogeyman?

_Voice_

How dare you!

_Nandini_

Those whom you have scared all along will one day feel ashamed to be afraid. If my Rañjan were here, he would have snapped his fingers in your face, and not been afraid even if he died for it.

_Voice_

Your impudence is something great. I should like to stand you up on the top of a heap of everything I’ve smashed throughout my life. And then----

_Nandini_

Then what?

_Voice_

Then, like a squeezed bunch of grapes with its juice running out from between the gripping fingers, if I could but hold you tight with these two hands of mine,--and then--go, go, run away, at once, at once!

_Nandini_

If you shout at me so rudely, I’ll stay on, do what you will!

_Voice_

I long savagely to prove to you how cruel I am. Have you never heard moans from inside my room?

_Nandini_

I have. Whose moaning was it?

_Voice_

The hidden mystery of life, wrenched away by me, bewails its torn ties. To get fire from a tree you have to burn it. Nandini, there is fire within you too, red fire. One day I shall burn you and extract that also.

_Nandini_

Oh, you are cruel!

_Voice_

I must either gather or scatter. I can feel no pity for what I do not get. Breaking is a fierce kind of getting.

_Nandini_

But why thrust out your clenched fist like that?

_Voice_

Here, I take away my fist. Now fly, as the dove flies from the shadow of a hawk.

_Nandini_

Very well, I will go, and not vex you any more.

_Voice_

Here, listen, come back, Nandini!

_Nandini_

What is it?

_Voice_

On your face, there is the play of life in your eyes and lips; at the back of you flows your black hair, the silent fall of death. The other day when my hands sank into it they felt the soft calm of dying. I long to sleep with my face hidden inside those thick black clusters. You don’t know how tired I am!

_Nandini_

Don’t you ever sleep?

_Voice_

I feel afraid to sleep.

_Nandini_

Let me sing you the latest song that I’ve learnt.

(_Sings_)

_“I love, I love” is the cry that breaks out
from the bosom of earth and water.
The sky broods like an aching heart,
the horizon is tender like eyes misted with tears._

_Voice_

Enough! Enough! stop your singing!

_Nandini_

(_Sings on_)

_A lament heaves and bursts
on the shore of the sea,
The whispers of forgotten days
are born in new leaves to die again._

See, Bishu, he has left the dead frog there and disappeared. He is afraid of songs.

_Bishu_

The old frog in his heart yearns to die when it hears singing, that’s why he feels afraid. My mad girl, why is there a strange light on your face to-day, like the glow of a distant torch in the sky?

_Nandini_

News has reached me, Rañjan is coming to-day.

_Bishu_

How?

_Nandini_

Let me tell you. Every day a pair of blue-throats[1] come and sit on the pomegranate tree in front of my window. Every night, before I sleep, I salute the pole star and say: Sacred star of constancy, if a feather from the wings of the blue-throats finds its way into my room, then I will know my Rañjan is coming. This morning, as soon as I woke, I found a feather on my bed. See, here it is under my breast-cloth. When I meet him I shall put this feather on his crest.

_Bishu_

They say blue-throats’ wings are an omen of victory.

_Nandini_

Rañjan’s way to victory lies through my heart.

_Bishu_

No more of this; let me go to my work.

_Nandini_

I shan’t let you work to-day.

_Bishu_

What must I do then?

_Nandini_

Sing that song of waiting.

_Bishu_

(_Sings_)

_He who ever wants me through the ages,--
is it not he who sits to-day by my wayside?
I seem to remember a glimpse I had of his face,
in the twilight dusk of some ancient year.
Is it not he who sits to-day by the wayside?_

_Nandini_

Bishu, when you sing I cannot help feeling that I owe you much, but have never given anything to you.

_Bishu_

I shall decorate my forehead with the mark of your never-giving, and go my way. No little-giving for me, in return for my song! Where will you go now?

_Nandini_

To the wayside by which Rañjan is coming.

[_They go._

(_The Governor and a Headman
come in._)

_Governor_

No, we can’t possibly allow Rañjan to enter this parish.

_Headman_

I put him to work in the tunnels of Vajragarh.

_Governor_

Well, what happened?

_Headman_

He said he was not used to being made to work. The Headman of Vajragarh came with the police, but the fellow doesn’t know what fear is. Threaten him, he bursts out laughing. Asked why he laughs, he says solemnity is the mask of stupidity and he has come to take it off.

_Governor_

Did you set him to work with the diggers?

_Headman_

I did, I thought that pressure would make him yield. But on the contrary it seemed to lift the pressure from the diggers’ minds also. He cheered them up, and asked them to have a digger’s dance!

_Governor_

Digger’s dance! What on earth is that?

_Headman_

Rañjan started singing. Where were they to get drums?--they objected. Rañjan said, if there weren’t any drums, there were spades enough. So they began keeping time with the spades, making a joke of their digging up of nuggets.

The Headman himself came over to reprimand them. “What style of work is this?” he thundered.

“I have unbound the work,” said Rañjan. “It won’t have to be dragged out by main force any more, it will run along of itself, dancing.”

_Governor_

The fellow is mad, I see.

_Headman_