Rabindranath Tagore

THE CHILD

( I )

 
What of the night?’ they ask.
No answer comes.
For the blind Time gropes in a maze and knows not 

                its path or purpose.
The darkness in the valley stares like the dead 

                eye-sockets of a giant,
        the clouds like a nightmare oppress the sky,
        and the massive shadows lie scattered like the torn 

                limbs of the night.
A lurid glow waxes and wanes on the horizon, — 

is it an ultimate threat from an alien star,
        or an elemental hunger licking the sky?
Things are deliriously wild,
they are a noise whose grammar is a groan,
        and words smothered out of shape and sense.
They are the refuse, the rejections, the fruitless failures

                of life,
abrupt ruins of prodigal pride, —
fragments of a bridge over the oblivion of a vanished

                stream,
godless shrines that shelter reptiles, 

        marble steps that lead to blankness.
Sudden tumults rise in the sky and wrestle
        and a startled shudder runs along the sleepless

                hours.
Are they from desperate floods 

        hammering against their cave walls,
or from some fanatic storms
        whirling and howling incantations?
Are they the cry of an ancient forest
        flinging up its hoarded fire in a last extravagant 

                suicide,
or screams of a paralytic crowd scourged by lunatics 

                blind and deaf?
Underneath the noisy terror a stealthy hum creeps up 

                like bubbling volcanic mud,
        a mixture of sinister whispers, rumours and 

                slanders, and hisses of derision.
The men gathered there are vague like torn pages 

                of an epic.
Groping in groups or single, their torchlight tattoos 

                their faces in chequered lines, in patterns of 

                frightfulness.
The maniacs suddenly strike their neighbours on

                suspicion
and a hubbub of an indiscriminate fight bursts forth

                echoing from hill to hill.
The women weep and wail,
        they cry that their children are lost in a wilderness 

               of contrary paths with confusion at the end.
Others defiantly ribald shake with raucous laughter 

        their lascivious limbs unshrinkingly loud,
        for they think that nothing matters.
 
 
 

(II)  

There on the crest of the hill

        stands the Man of faith amid the snow-white

                silence,
        He scans the sky for some signal of light,
        and when the clouds thicken and the nightbirds 

                scream as they fly,
        he cries, ‘Brothers, despair not, for Man is great.’
But they never heed him,
        for they believe that the elemental brute is eternal
        and goodness in its depth is darkly cunning in 

                deception.
When beaten and wounded they cry,  ' Brother, where

                art thou?’
        The answer comes, ‘ I am by your side. —
But they cannot see in the dark
        and they argue that the voice is of their own

                desperate desire,
that men are ever condemned to fight for phantoms
                in an interminable desert of mutual menace.
 
 

 (III)

 

The clouds part, the morning star appears in the East, 

        a breath of relief springs up from the heart of the
                earth,
the murmur of leaves ripples along the forest path,

                and the early bird sings.
’ The time has come,’ proclaims the Man of faith.

‘ The time for what?’
‘ For the pilgrimage.’
They sit and think, they know not the meaning, 

        and yet they seem to understand according to their 

                desires.
The touch of the dawn goes deep into the soil 

        and life shivers along through the root of all
                things.
’ To the pilgrimage of fulfilment,’ a small voice

                whispers, nobody knows whence.
Taken up by the crowd
        it swells into a mighty meaning.

Men raise their heads and look up,
        women lilt their arms in reverence, 

        children clap their hands and laugh.
The early glow of the sun shines like a golden garland

                on the forehead of the Man of faith,
and they all cry: ‘Brother, we salute thee!’
 
 
 

( IV )

 
Men begin to gather from all quarters,
        from across the seas, the mountains and pathless

                wastes,
They come from the valley of the Nile and the banks

                of the Ganges,

from the snow-sunk uplands of Thibet, 

        from high-walled cities of glittering towers,
        from the dense dark tangle of savage wilderness.

Some walk, some ride on camels, horses and elephants, 

        on chariots with banners vieing with the clouds 

                of dawn,

The priests of all creeds burn incense, chanting verses 

                as they go.
The monarchs march at the head of their armies, lances flashing in the sun and drums beating loud.
Ragged beggars and courtiers pompously decorated, 

        agile young scholars and teachers burdened with
                learned age jostle each other in the crowd.
Women come chatting and laughing,

mothers, maidens and brides,
        with offerings of flowers and fruit,

        sandal paste and scented water.
Mingled with them is the harlot,
        shrill of voice and loud in tint and tinsel.
The gossip is there who secretly poisons the well  

                                                            of human sympathy and chuckles.
The maimed and the cripple join the throng with the 

                blind and the sick,
        the dissolute, the thief and the man who makes a 

                trade of his God for profit and mimics the 

                saint.
’The fulfilment! ’
        They dare not talk aloud,
but in their minds, they magnify their own greed, 

        and dream of boundless power,
        of unlimited impunity for pilfering and plunder, 

        and eternity of feast for their unclean gluttonous 

                flesh.
 
 
 

( V )

 
The Man of faith moves on along pitiless paths strewn 

                with flints over scorching sands and steep 

                mountainous tracks.
They follow him, the strong and the weak, the aged

                and young,
the rulers of realms, the tillers of the soil.
Some grow weary and footsore, some angry and 

                suspicious.
They ask at every dragging step,
        ’ How much further is the end? 

The Man of faith sings in answer;
they scowl and shake their fists and yet they cannot 

                resist him;
        the pressure of the moving mass and indefinite 

                hope push them forward.
They shorten their sleep and curtail their rest,

        they out-vie each other in their speed,
they are ever afraid lest they may be too late for their 

                chance
        while others be more fortunate.
The days pass,
the ever-receding horizon tempts them with renewed

                lure of the unseen till they are sick.
Their faces harden, their curses grow louder and

                louder.
 
 
 

(VI)

 
It is night.
        The travellers spread their mat on the ground

                under the banyan tree.
A gust of wind blows out the lamp
        and the darkness deepens like a sleep into a swoon.
Someone from the crowd suddenly stands up
        and pointing to the leader with merciless finger

                breaks out:
            ’False prophet, thou hast deceived us!’

Others take up the cry one by one,
        women hiss their hatred and men growl.
At last one bolder than others suddenly deals him a

                blow.
They cannot see his face, but  fall upon  him in  a  fury 

                of destruction
        and hit him till he lies prone upon the ground his 

                life extinct.
The night is still, the sound of the distant waterfall

                comes muffled,
        and a faint breath of jasmine floats in the air

 

 (VII)

 

The pilgrims are afraid.
        The women begin to cry, the men in an agony of

                wretchedness
        shout at them to stop.
Dogs break out barking and are cruelly whipped into

                silence broken by moans.
The night seems endless, and men and women begin to 

                wrangle as to who among them was to blame.
They shriek and shout and as they are ready 

                to unsheathe their knives
        the darkness pales, the morning light overflows

                the mountain tops.
Suddenly they become still and gasp for breath as they  
                gaze at the figure lying dead.
The women sob out loud and men hide their faces in 

                their hands.
A few try to slink away unnoticed,
        but their crime keeps them chained 

                                                                                                                                                      to their victim.
They ask each other in bewilderment,
                        ‘Who will show us the path?’

The old man from the East bends his head and says:
                                            ‘The Victim.

’ They sit still and silent.
        Again speaks the old man,
        We refused him in doubt, we killed him in anger,

                now we shall accept him in love,
        for in his death, he lives in the life of us all, the

                great Victim.’
And they all stand up and mingle their voices and sing,

                        ‘Victory to the Victim.’
 
  

 

( VIII )

 
‘To the pilgrimage' calls the young,
        ‘to love, to power, to knowledge, to wealth 

                overflowing,’
‘We shall conquer the world and the world beyond

                this,’
they all cry exultant in a thundering cataract of
                voices,
The meaning is not the same to them all, but only the

                impulse,
        the moving confluence of wills that recks not death

                and disaster.
No longer they ask for their way,
        no more doubts are there to burden their minds

                or weariness to clog their feet.
The spirit of the Leader is within them and ever

                beyond them—
the Leader who has crossed death and all limits. 

They travel over the fields where the seeds are sown,
        by the granary where the harvest is gathered,

and across the barren soil where famine dwells
           and skeletons cry for the return of their flesh.
They pass through populous cities humming with

                life,
        through dumb desolation hugging its ruined past, 

        and hovels for the unclad and unclean,
        a mockery of home for the homeless. 
They travel through long hours of the summer day, 

        and as tire light wanes in the evening they ask
                the man who reads the sky:
‘Brother, is yonder the tower of our final  hope

                and peace?’
The wise man shakes his head and says:
        ‘It is the last vanishing cloud of the sunset.

’ ‘Friends,’ exhorts the young, ‘do not stop.
        Through the night's blindness we must struggle

                into the Kingdom of living light.’
They go on in the dark.
        The road seems to know its own meaning
        and dust underfoot dumbly speaks of direction. 

The stars—celestial wayfarers—sing in silent chorus:
                                ‘Move on, comrades!’ 

In the air floats the voice of the Leader:
                                ’ The goal is nigh.’
 
 

( IX )

 
The first flush of dawn glistens on the dew-dripping

                leaves of the forest.
The man who reads the sky cries:
                ’ Friends, we have come!'

They stop and look around.
        On both sides of the road the corn is ripe to the
                horizon,
        — the glad golden answer of the earth to the

                morning light.
The current of daily life moves slowly
        between the village near the hill and the one

                by the riverbank.
The potter’s wheel goes round, the woodcutter brings

                fuel to the market,
        the cow-herd takes his cattle to the pasture, 

        and the woman with the pitcher on her head
                walks to the well.
But where is the King’s castle, the mine of gold, 

                the secret book of magic,
        the sage who knows love’s utter wisdom?
‘The stars cannot be wrong, ’assures the reader of the sky. 

‘Their signal points to that spot.’
        And reverently he walks to a wayside spring 

from which wells up a stream of water, a liquid light,
        like the morning melting into a chorus of tears 

                and laughter.
 Near it in a palm grove surrounded by a strange hush

                stands a leaf-thatched hut,
at whose portal sits the poet of the unknown shore, and 

                sings:
                        ‘Mother, open the gate!’

(X) 

 A ray of morning sun strikes aslant at the door.
The assembled crowd feel in their blood the primaeval   

                chant of creation:
                        Mother, open the gate!’ 

The gate opens.
The mother is seated on a straw bed with the babe on

                her lap,
        Like the dawn with the morning star.
The sun’s ray that was waiting at the door outside  

                falls on the head of the child.
The poet strikes his lute and sings out:
       ‘Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.’
They kneel down, —the king and the beggar, the saint

                and the sinner,
        the wise and the fool, —and cry:
    ‘Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.

’ The old man from the East murmurs to himself:
                        ‘I have seen!’