The Collected Plays. Rabindranath Tagore

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СКАЧАТЬ SONG OF THE BAMBOO

      O South Wind, the Wanderer, come and rock me,

       Rouse me into the rapture of new leaves.

       I am the wayside bamboo tree, waiting for your breath

       To tingle life into my branches.

      O South Wind, the Wanderer, my dwelling is in the end of the lane.

       I know your wayfaring, and the language of your footsteps.

       Your least touch thrills me out of my slumber,

       Your whisper gleans my secrets.

      (Enter a troop of girls, dancing, representing birds.)

       SONG OF THE BIRD

      The sky pours its light into our hearts,

       We fill the sky with songs in answer.

       We pelt the air with our notes

       When the air stirs our wings with its madness.

       O Flame of the Forest,

       All your flower-torches are ablaze;

       You have kissed our songs red with the passion of your youth.

       In the spring breeze the mango-blossoms launch their messages to the unknown

       And the new leaves dream aloud all day.

       O Sirish, you have cast your perfume-net round our hearts,

       Drawing them out in songs.

      (Disclosed among the branches of trees, suddenly lighted up, boys representing champak blossoms.)

       SONG OF THE BLOSSOMING CHAMPAK

      My shadow dances in your waves, everflowing river,

       I, the blossoming champak, stand unmoved on the bank, with my flower-vigils.

       My movement dwells in the stillness of my depth,

       In the delicious birth of new leaves,

       In flood of flowers,

       In unseen urge of new life towards the light.

       Its stirring thrills the sky, and the silence of the dawn is moved.

       MORNING

      (The rear stage is now darkened. On the main stage, bright, enter a band of youths whose number may be anything between three and thirty. They sing.)

      The fire of April leaps from forest to forest,

       Flashing up in leaves and flowers from all nooks and corners.

       The sky is thriftless with colours,

       The air delirious with songs.

       The wind-tost branches of the woodland

       Spread their unrest in our blood.

       The air is filled with bewilderment of mirth;

       And the breeze rushes from flower to flower, asking their names.

      (In the following dialogue only the names of the principal characters are given. Wherever the name is not given the speaker is one or other of the Youths.)

      April pulls hard, brother, April pulls very hard.

      How do you know that?

      If he didn't, he would never have pulled Dada outside his den.

      Well, I declare. Here is Dada, our cargo-boat of moral-maxims, towed against the current of his own pen and ink.

      Chandra

      But you mustn't give April all the credit for that. For I, Chandra, have hidden the yellow leaves of his manuscript book among the young buds of the pial forest, and Dada is out looking for it.

      The manuscript book banished! What a good riddance!

      We ought to strip off Dada's grey philosopher's cloak also.

      Chandra

      Yes, the very dust of the earth is tingling with youth, and yet there's not a single touch of Spring in the whole of Dada's body.

      Dada

      Oh, do stop this fooling. What a nuisance you are making of yourselves! We aren't children any longer.

      Chandra

      Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet it is not ashamed to look fresh.

      Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours, full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the water are ever striving to be new.

      Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that, sitting in your den?

      Dada

      Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener cultivates flowers. My poems have substance and weight in them.

      Yes, they are like the turnips, which cling to the ground.

      Dada

      Well, then, listen to me——

      How awful! Here's Dada going to run amuck with his quatrains.

      Oh dear, oh dear! The quatrains are let loose. There's no holding them in.

      To all passers-by I give notice that Dada's quatrains have gone mad, and are running amuck.

      Chandra

      Dada! Don't take any notice of their fun. Go on with your reading. If no one else can survive it, I think I can. I am not a coward like these fellows.

      Come on, then, Dada. We won't be cowards. We will keep our ground, and not yield an inch, but only listen.

      We will receive the spear-thrusts of the quatrains on our breast, not on our back.

      But for pity's sake, Dada, give us only one—not more.

      Dada

      Very well. Now listen:

      If bamboos were made only into flutes,

       They would droop and die with very shame,

       They hold their heads high in the sky,

       Because they are variously useful.

      Please, gentlemen, don't laugh. Have patience while I explain. The meaning is——

      The СКАЧАТЬ