Hungry Stones - 10 Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

(A poetic translation of a story by Rabindranath Tagore, kśhdhārto pāśhāņa, Hungry Stones, for convenience split in 13 parts) . It is set in blank verse with stanzas that rhymed in between.


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As I was set to go out on my horse
One eve, despite pleads to stay from my course,
Prone I was to take my hat from the rack,
A whirlwind crested from the dusty tract
Lifting dead leaves from Aravalli hills,
Twirling them high along the palace ills,
While a loud peal of a wild laughter rose,
And soon died in the land the sun follows,
Robbing my dare and joy ride in the wood,
It robbed too my queer English hat for good.

The night was old when unknown sobs I heard,
Heart-rending, stifled, right below my bed,
Nay, as if from an unknown nether world,
Perchance from many a sacrificed head,

From darkling depths of a damp grave of old,
A voice piteously crying taking my hold,
Imploring me, ‘do something, rescue me,
‘Break through what an illusive prison be,
‘This deathlike slumber, fruitless dreamy ills,
‘Place me beside a racing horse saddle,
‘Press me close to your heart, riding through hills
‘And woods, and across a dried out puddle,
‘Take me to sunny spots, from dark to dancing thrills'.

Many a doubt flashed in my silent mind:
Why of all I, how can I rescue thee?
What passions shall draw thee out and ashore?
O Beauty, from this wild whirlpool of dreams?
Do tell me where didst thou flourish and when?
By what cool spring, in what shady date-groves,
Thou wert born in whose lap, in what homeless
Wanderer, what desert, and which Bedouin
Snatched thee from thine mother's arms, do tell me,
A mere bud wert thou plucked from a creeper,
And placed upon a horse, lightning swift flash,
Far, far across the scorching desert sands,
O to slave mart of what royal city?
Seeing the glory of blossoming youth,
To which chieftain hast thee been taken to,
Placing thee in a golden palanquin,
O royal gift, fit for an emperor.

A pair of slave girls waved chamar to thee
As diamonds flashed by from the lamps well lit,
A king of kings must have fallen to knee,
To strip bejewelled shoes from thine fair feet;
While Abyssinian eunuch of a foul faith,
And looking like messenger oh of death,
Though clad like a fair angel somewhat odd,
And standing guard O with a naked sword,
Perhaps, might have secured thine stately room,
Then wonder I, what shouldst have caused the doom
Of thy death, O thou flower of desert,
What swept away thine ocean of grandeur?
What form of jealousy shouldst have thee hurt?
What roots and shoals of intrigue couldst ever?
On what shore of cruel death wert thou cast?
What splendid cruel land? I feel aghast.

Many a query in my reverie
While remained riddled in my memory,
I heard a scream when of Maher Ali,
‘Stand back, stand back, all this is fairy tale',
And my servant handed letters to me,
While salaam from the cook looked all too stale.
‘No more can I stay in this eerie place',
And packed off to move to my work amid
Souls in body, and life in living grace;
My servant smiled, hoping it remained hid.
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Translations | 10.03.13 |