The Crescent Moon
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Rabindranath Tagore (trans.) >> The Crescent Moon
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The Crescent Moon
By Rabindranath Tagore
Translated from the original Bengali by the author
with eight illustrations in colour
London and New York: Macmillan and Company, 1913
TO T. STURGE MOORE
[Frontispiece: From a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see cbeach.jpg]
CONTENTS
THE HOME
ON THE SEASHORE
THE SOURCE
BABY'S WAY
THE UNHEEDED PAGEANT
SLEEP-STEALER
THE BEGINNING
BABY'S WORLD
WHEN AND WHY
DEFAMATION
THE JUDGE
PLAYTHINGS
THE ASTRONOMER
CLOUDS AND WAVES
THE CHAMPA FLOWER
FAIRYLAND
THE LAND OF THE EXILE
THE RAINY DAY
PAPER BOATS
THE SAILOR
THE FURTHER BANK
THE FLOWER-SCHOOL
THE MERCHANT
SYMPATHY
VOCATION
SUPERIOR
THE LITTLE BIG MAN
TWELVE O'CLOCK
AUTHORSHIP
THE WICKED POSTMAN
THE HERO
THE END
THE RECALL
THE FIRST JASMINES
THE BANYAN TREE
BENEDICTION
THE GIFT
MY SONG
THE CHILD-ANGEL
THE LAST BARGAIN
LIST OF COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
FRONTISPIECE
THE HOME
THE BEGINNING
FAIRYLAND
PAPER BOATS
THE MERCHANT
THE HERO
BENEDICTION
INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES
Ah, these jasmines
Ah, who was it coloured that little frock
Bless this little heart
Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust
Come and hire me
Day by day I float my paper boats
I am small because I am a little child
If baby only wanted to, he could fly
If I were only a little puppy
If people came to know where my king's palace is
I long to go over there
Imagine, mother
I only said, "When in the evening"
I paced alone
It is time for me to go, mother
I want to give you something, my child
I wish I could take a quiet corner
Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons
Mother, let us imagine we are travelling
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds
Mother, the light has grown grey
Mother, your baby is silly
On the seashore of endless worlds
O you shaggy-headed banyan tree
Say of him what you please
Sullen clouds are gathering
Supposing I became a
champa flower
The boat of the boatman Madhu
The night was dark when we went away
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes
They clamour and fight
This song of mine
When I bring you coloured toys
When storm clouds
When the gong sounds ten
Where have I come from
Who stole sleep from baby's eyes
Why are those tears in your eyes, my child
Why do you sit there on the floor
You say that father writes a lot of books
[Illustration: The Home--from a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see
chome.jpg]
THE HOME
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was
hiding its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, and the
widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
Suddenly a boy's shrill voice rose into the sky. He traversed
the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song across the hush of
the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land, beyond
the sugar-cane field, hidden among the shadows of the banana and
the slender areca palm, the cocoa-nut and the dark green
jack-fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight, and
saw spread before me the darkened earth surrounding with her arms
countless homes furnished with cradles and beds, mothers' hearts
and evening lamps, and young lives glad with a gladness that
knows nothing of its value for the world.
ON THE SEASHORE
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is
boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet
with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty
shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and
smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play
on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek
not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the
sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the
children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the
sea-beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams
in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water,
death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless
worlds is the great meeting of children.
THE SOURCE
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where
it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with
glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there
it comes to kiss baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does
anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a
young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a
vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the
dream of a dew-washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's
lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does
anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother
was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent
mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on
baby's limbs.
BABY'S WAY
If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment.
It is not for nothing that he does not leave us.
He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever bear
to lose sight of her.
Baby knows all manner of wise words, though few on earth can
understand their meaning.
It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak.
The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from mother's
lips. That is why he looks so innocent.
Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar on
to this earth.
It is not for nothing he came in such a disguise.
This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly helpless,
so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love.
Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny crescent
moon.
It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom.
He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little
corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be
caught and pressed in her dear arms.
Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfect
bliss.
It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears.
Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's yearning
heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles weave the
double bond of pity and love.
THE UNHEEDED PAGEANT
Ah, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered
your sweet limbs with that little red tunic?
You have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard,
tottering and tumbling as you run.
But who was it coloured that little frock, my child?
What is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud?
Mother smiles at you standing on the threshold.
She claps her hands and her bracelets jingle, and you dance with
your bamboo stick in your hand like a tiny little shepherd.
But what is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud?
O beggar, what do you beg for, clinging to your mother's neck
with both your hands?
O greedy heart, shall I pluck the world like a fruit from the sky
to place it on your little rosy palm?
O beggar, what are you begging for?
The wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells.
The sun smiles and watches your toilet. The sky watches over you
when you sleep in your mother's arms, and the morning comes
tiptoe to your bed and kisses your eyes.
The wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells.
The fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying
through the twilight sky.
The world-mother keeps her seat by you in your mother's heart.
He who plays his music to the stars is standing at your window
with his flute.
And the fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying
through the twilight sky.
SLEEP-STEALER
Who stole sleep from baby's eyes? I must know.
Clasping her pitcher to her waist mother went to fetch water from
the village near by.
It was noon. The children's playtime was over; the ducks in the
pond were silent.
The shepherd boy lay asleep under the shadow of the
banyan
tree.
The crane stood grave and still in the swamp near the mango
grove.
In the meanwhile the Sleep-stealer came and, snatching sleep from
baby's eyes, flew away.
When mother came back she found baby travelling the room over on
all fours.
Who stole sleep from our baby's eyes? I must know. I must find
her and chain her up.
I must look into that dark cave, where, through boulders and
scowling stones, trickles a tiny stream.
I must search in the drowsy shade of the
bakula grove,
where pigeons coo in their corner, and fairies' anklets tinkle in
the stillness of starry nights.
In the evening I will peep into the whispering silence of the
bamboo forest, where fireflies squander their light, and will ask
every creature I meet, "Can anybody tell me where the
Sleep-stealer lives?"
Who stole sleep from baby's eyes? I must know.
Shouldn't I give her a good lesson if I could only catch her!
I would raid her nest and see where she hoards all her stolen
sleep.
I would plunder it all, and carry it home.
I would bind her two wings securely, set her on the bank of the
river, and then let her play at fishing with a reed among the
rushes and water-lilies.
When the marketing is over in the evening, and the village
children sit in their mothers' laps, then the night birds will
mockingly din her ears with:
"Whose sleep will you steal now?"
[Illustration: From a drawing by Asit Kumar Haldar--see
cbegin.jpg]
THE BEGINNING
"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby
asked its mother.
She answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to
her breast,-- "You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my
darling.
You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; and when with clay
I made the image of my god every morning, I made and unmade you
then.
You were enshrined with our household deity, in his worship I
worshipped you.
In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in the life of my
mother you have lived.
In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home you have
been nursed for ages.
When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, you hovered as
a fragrance about it.
Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, like a glow in
the sky before the sunrise.
Heaven's first darling, twin-born with the morning light, you
have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you
have stranded on my heart.
As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to
all have become mine.
For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. What magic
has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?"
BABY'S WORLD
I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down
to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and
with trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and
out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of
kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.
WHEN AND WHY
When I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there
is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers
are painted in tints--when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music in
leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of
the listening earth--when I sing to make you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands, I know why there
is honey in the cup of the flower, and why fruits are secretly
filled with sweet juice--when I bring sweet things to your greedy
hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely
understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
and what delight the summer breeze brings to my body--when I kiss
you to make you smile.
DEFAMATION
Why are those tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing--is
that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it
has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are ready
to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing--is that why they call you
untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles
through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds. Everybody knows how you
love sweet things--is that why they call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?
THE JUDGE
Say of him what you please, but I know my child's failings.
I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my little
child.
How should you know how dear he can be when you try to weigh his
merits against his faults?
When I must punish him he becomes all the more a part of my
being.
When I cause his tears to come my heart weeps with him.
I alone have a right to blame and punish, for he only may
chastise who loves.
PLAYTHINGS
Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a
broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil
your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and
mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and
silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both
my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and
forget that I too am playing a game.
THE ASTRONOMER
I only said, "When in the evening the round full moon gets
entangled among the branches of that
Kadam tree, couldn't
somebody catch it?"
But dādā [
elder brother] laughed at me and said, "Baby,
you are the silliest child I have ever known. The moon is ever
so far from us, how could anybody catch it?"
I said, "Dādā how foolish you are! When mother looks out of her
window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far
away?"
Still said, "You are a stupid child! But, baby, where could you
find a net big enough to catch the moon with?"
I said, "Surely you could catch it with your hands."
But dādā laughed and said, "You are the silliest child I have
known. If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is."
I said, "Dādā, what nonsense they teach at your school! When
mother bends her face down to kiss us does her face look very
big?"
But still dādā says, "You are a stupid child."
CLOUDS AND WAVES
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me--
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.
I ask, "But, how am I to get up to you?" They answer, "Come to
the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you
will be taken up into the clouds."
"My mother is waiting for me at home," I say. "How can I leave
her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be
the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me--
"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."
I ask, "But, how am I to join you?" They tell me, "Come to the
edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you
will be carried out upon the waves."
I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the evening--how can
I leave her and go?"
Then they smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.
THE CHAMPA FLOWER
Supposing I became a
champa flower, just for fun, and
grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with
laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know
me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you
walked through the shadow of the
champa tree to the
little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the
scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and
your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of
your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little
child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again
and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.
[Illustration: From a drawing by Abanindranath Tagore--see
cfairy.jpg]
FAIRYLAND
If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she wears
a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's palace
is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the
tulsi plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand, and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the
tulsi plant
stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step up
to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadows of the walls meet together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she knows where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in the
story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the
tulsi plant stands.
THE LAND OF THE EXILE
Mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; I do not know what
the time is.
There is no fun in my play, so I have come to you. It is
Saturday, our holiday.
Leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell me
where the desert of Tepāntar in the fairy tale is?
The shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end.
The fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails.
When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid in my
heart and cling to you.
When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves, and
our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to sit
alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about the
desert of Tepāntar in the fairy tale.
Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of
what hills, in the kingdom of what king?
There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath across
it by which the villagers reach their village in the evening, or
the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can bring her load
to the market. With patches of yellow grass in the sand and only
one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies
the desert of Tepāntar.
I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of
the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in
search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace
across that unknown water.
When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and
lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember
his unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall
and wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of
Tepāntar in the fairy tale?
See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and there
are no travellers yonder on the village road.
The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men
have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their
huts, watching the scowling clouds.
Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf--do not ask me to
do my lessons now.
When I grow up and am big like my father, I shall learn all that
must be learnt.
But just for to-day, tell me, mother, where the desert of
Tepāntar in the fairy tale is?
THE RAINY DAY
Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the
forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their draggled wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the
river is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as
they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain water is running
in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run
away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is
closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water
in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
[Illustration: From a drawing by Surendranath Ganguli--see
cboat.jpg]
PAPER BOATS
Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running
stream.
In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the
village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know
who I am.
I load my little boats with
shiuli flowers from our
garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried
safely to land in the night.
I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the
little clouds setting their white bulging sails.
I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the
air to race with my boats!
When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my
paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.
The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their
baskets full of dreams.
THE SAILOR
The boat of the boatman Madhu is moored at the wharf of Rajgunj.
It is uselessly laden with jute, and has been lying there idle
for ever so long.
If he would only lend me his boat, I should man her with a
hundred oars, and hoist sails, five or six or seven.
I should never steer her to stupid markets. I should sail the
seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.
But, mother, you won't weep for me in a corner.
I am not going into the forest like Ramachandra to come back only
after fourteen years.
I shall become the prince of the story, and fill my boat with
whatever I like.
I shall take my friend Ashu with me. We shall sail merrily
across the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.
We shall set sail in the early morning light.
When at noontide you are bathing at the pond, we shall be in the
land of a strange king.
We shall pass the ford of Tirpurni, and leave behind us the
desert of Tepāntar.
When we come back it will be getting dark, and I shall tell you
of all that we have seen.
I shall cross the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of
fairyland.
THE FURTHER BANK
I long to go over there to the further bank of the river,
Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;
Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with ploughs
on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;
Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the
riverside pasture;