Our Casuarina Tree

Toru Dutt

LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round

The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,
Up to its very summit near the stars,
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound
No other tree could live. But gallantly
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,
Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;
And oft at nights the garden overflows
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.

When first my casement is wide open thrown

At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crest
A gray baboon sits statue-like alone
Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs
His puny offspring leap about and play;
And far and near kokilas hail the day;
And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.

But not because of its magnificence

Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear.
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?
It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown land may reach.

Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!

Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith
And the waves gently kissed the classic shore
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:
And every time the music rose,—before
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.

Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay

Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those
Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,—
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they!
Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done
With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,
Under whose awful branches lingered pale
“Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
And Time the shadow;” and though weak the verse
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse,
May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse.

Gitanjali
Songs (1,6,50 &103)
Rabindranath Tagore
1
THOU HAST made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and
again, and finest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it
melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to
utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou
pourest, and still there is room to fill.

6
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust.

It may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck
it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware and the time of offering go by.

Though its color be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it
while there is time.
 50
I HAD GONE a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared
in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King-of all kings!

My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood waiting for alms to
be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust.

The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I
felt that the luck of my life had come at last Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand
and say 'What hast thou to give to me?'

Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused and stood
undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to
thee.

103
IN ONE salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet.

Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down
at thy door in one salutation to thee.

Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of
silence in one salutation to thee.

As a Man Approaches Thirty He May

Parthasarathy

As a man approaches thirty he may

take stock of himself.
Not that anything important happens.

At thirty the mud will have settled:

you see yourself in a mirror.
Perhaps, refuse the image as yours.

Makes no difference, unless

You overtake yourself. Pause for breath.
Time gave you distance: you see little else,

You stir, and the mirror dissolves.

Experience doesn't always make for knowledge:
you make the same mistakes.
Do the same things over again.
The woman you may have loved
you never married. These many years

you warmed yourself at her hands.

The luminous pebbles of her body
stayed your feet, else you had overflowed

the banks, never reached shore.

The sides of the river swell
with the least pressure of her toes.

All night your hand has rested

on her left breast.
In the morning when she is gone

you will be alone like the stone benches

in the park, and would have forgotten
her whispers in the noises of the city.

An Old Woman
by Arun Kolatkar

An old woman grabs

hold of your sleeve
and tags along.

She wants a fifty paise coin.

She says she will take you
to the horseshoe shrine.

You've seen it already.

She hobbles along anyway
and tightens her grip on your shirt.

She won't let you go.

You know how old women are.
They stick to you like a burr.

You turn around and face her

with an air of finality.
You want to end the farce.

When you hear her say,

‘What else can an old woman do
on hills as wretched as these?'

You look right at the sky.

Clear through the bullet holes
she has for her eyes.

And as you look on

the cracks that begin around her eyes
spread beyond her skin.

And the hills crack.

And the temples crack.
And the sky falls

with a plateglass clatter

around the shatter proof crone
who stands alone.

And you are reduced

to so much small change
in her hand.

On Killing A Tree
Gieve Patel

It takes much time to kill a tree,

Not a simple jab of the knife

Will do it. It has grown

Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out of it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leperous hide
Sprouting leaves.

So hack and chop

But this alone wont do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size.

No,
The root is to be pulled out -
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out - snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden
For years inside the earth.

Then the matter

Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.

After Eight Years of Marriage

Mamta Kalia

After eight years of marriage

The first time I visited my parents,
They asked, “Are you happy, tell us”.
It was an absurd question
And I should have laughed at it
Instead, I cried,
And in between sobs, nodded yes.
I wanted to tell them
That I was happy on Tuesday
I was unhappy on Wednesday.
I was happy one day at 8 o’clock
I was most unhappy by 8.15.
I wanted to tell them how one day
We all ate a watermelon and laughed.
I wanted to tell them how I wept in bed all night once
And struggled hard from hurting myself.
That it wasn’t easy to be happy in a family of twelve,
But they were looking at my two sons,
Hopping around like young goats.
Their wrinkled hands, beaten faces and grey eyelashes
Were all too much too real.
SO I swallowed everything,
And smiled a smile of great content.