The Hungry Stones II

From Nabob of Junagarh, of Nizam— Collecting tax on cotton and the kind, The taxing job having strained of my calm, I’d stayed at a quiet place, though haunted And scary, a lovely place no less still, Deserted now, it was a grand retreat— River Suista telling in many ways Babbling tales through every single pebble, Leaping like a skillful dancing damsel, What unforgettable and fateful days! I still recall that flight of a plenum Of hundred fifty steps to that river, A solitary marble palace, plumb Along the river, and etched as ever In my mind, ah amid sprawling foothills, No soul around to whisper of its ills! The palace, two and half centuries old, And built by a ruler of Muslim mould, For private pleasures, luxuries enrolled: Jets of rose water from fountains spurting To cool rooms amply made of marbles cold, Young Persian nymphets there entertaining, Mohammad the Emperor, too tired, blasé, Arab maids disheveled before bathing, Their soft naked feet ‘pon water splashing, Singing, trying to please him in odd ways, Whilst wine poured forth as ample as water, Afar, tears poured forth from a lost daughter. Fountains no more now found, songs too have ceased, Nor snow white feet, ever gracefully step Upon the white marbles that remain cold, The vast halls filled are with cess collectors, And men like me oppressed with solitude, Deprived of warmth o that be womanhood, My old office clerk had me amply warned, ‘Pass days should you so like, but never nights if you care', I’d waved him off with a laugh. Servants agreed to work only till dark, Which, I ignored, a tusk as a dog's bark. The house of ill repute spared was by thieves Like a nightmare, I sneezed at that as well, And worked hard on long hours till lights grew grey, Returning at night too jaded and tired, Sinking deep into bed unto sleep mired. _____________________________________________ Narrative |01.04.2024| Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.