On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.

I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness.

When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.

Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, ‘Where is our baby, sister?’ Mother, you will tell her softly, ‘He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.’

the recall

The night was dark when she went away, and they slept.

The night is dark now, and I call for her, ‘Come back, my darling; the world is asleep; and no one would know, if you came for a moment while stars are gazing at stars.’

She went away when the trees were in bud and the spring was young.

Now the flowers are in high bloom and I call, ‘Come back, my darling. The children gather and scatter flowers in reckless sport. And if you come and take one little blossom no one will miss it.’

Those that used to play are playing still, so spendthrift is life.

I listen to their chatter and call, ‘Come back, my darling, for mother’s heart is full to the brim with love, and if you come to snatch only one little kiss from her no one will grudge it.’

the first jasmines

Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!

I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with these jasmines, these white jasmines.

I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;

I have heard the liquid murmur of the river through the darkness of midnight;

Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover.

Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines that I held in my hand when I was a child.

Many a glad day has come in my life, and I have laughed with merrymakers on festival nights.

On grey mornings of rain I have crooned many an idle song.

I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of bakulas woven by the hand of love.

Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh jasmines that filled my hands when I was a child.

the banyan tree

O you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond, have you forgotten the little child, like the birds that have nested in your branches and left you?

Do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at the tangle of your roots that plunged underground?