Long ago--so runs the story--in the days of King Akbar,
'Mid the pearly--tinted splendours of the Paradise Bazar,[12]
Young Jehangir, boyish--hearted, playing idly with his dove,
Lost his fav'rite, lost his boyhood, lost his heart, and found his love.
By a fretted marble fountain, set in broidery of flowers,
Sat a girl, half child, half maiden, dreaming o'er the future hours,
Wond'ring simply, yet half guessing, what the harem women mean
When they call her fair, and whisper, "You are born to be a queen."
Curving her small palms like petals, for a store of glistening spray,
Gazing in the sunny water, where her rippling shadow lay,
Lips that ripen fast for kisses, slender form of budding grace,
Hair that frames with ebon softness a clear, oval, ivory face.
Arched and fringed with velvet blackness, from their shady depths her eyes
Shine as summer lightning flashes in the dusky evening skies.
Mihr un-nissa (queen of women), so they call the little maid
Dreaming by the marble fountain where but yesterday she played.
Heavy-sweet the creamy blossoms gem the burnished orange-groves;
Through their bloom comes Prince Jehangir, on his wrist two fluttering doves.
"Hold my birds, child!" cries the stripling, "I am tired of their play"--
Thrusts them in her hand unwilling; careless saunters on his way.
Culling posies as he wanders from the flowers sweet and rare,
Heedless that the fairest blossom, 'mid the blaze of blossom there,
Is the little dreaming maiden, by the fountain-side at rest,
With the onyx-eyed, bright-plumaged birds of love upon her breast.
Flowers fade, and perfume passes; nothing pleases long to-day;
Back towards his feathered favourites soon the prince's footsteps stray.
Dreaming still sits Mihr-un-nissa, but within her listless hold
Only one fair struggling captive does the boy, surprised, behold.
"Only one?" he queried sharply. "Sire," she falters, "one has flown."
"Stupid! how?" The maiden flushes at the proud, imperious tone.
"So, my lord!" she says, defiant, with a scornful smile, and straight
From her unclasped hands the other, circling, flies to join his mate.
Startled by her quick reprisal, wrath is lost in blank surprise;
Silent stands the heir of Akbar, gazing with awakening eyes
On the small, rebellious figure, with its slender arms outspread,
Rising resolute before him 'gainst the sky of sunset red.
Heavy-sweet the creamy blossom gems the gloomy orange-tree,
Where the happy doves are cooing o'er their new-found liberty.
Slowly dies the flush of anger, as the flush of evening dies;
Slowly grow his eyes to brightness, as the stars in evening skies.
"So, my lord!" So Love had flitted from the listless hold of Fate,
And the heart of young Jehangir, like the dove, had found its mate.
Then you'll give me a character, won't you? and say I'm a first-classzaildâr.
Not a man of them's done half so much as old Shurfu to please theSirkâr.
Why, I've brought you full forty "suspected ones"; that isn't bad as a haul.
Look you! forty "suspected ones"present, and gone bail myself for them all.
And a word,sahib--for your ear alone--if you'd like me to bring a few more,
Just to make a round fifty on paper, and show that the work's to the fore--
Bismillah!they never shall say, while old Shurfu is one of the crew,
That his districtsahib'sschedules were shaky for want of abudmâsh[14]or two.
And what do I think of the system? Why, just what the Presence may choose;
But a good cattle-thief nowadays must look after his p's and his q's.
There are many more folk to be squared, and the hire of the bail to be paid;
But it makes the lads three times as careful, and raises the style of a raid.
Still the game, as a game, is no more; for your reign has been death to all sport.
E'en a cattle-thief thinks like a banker, and scarcely gives honour a thought.
'Tis mere money grub--pennies and farthings. WhatIin my youth you have heard
Was a noted--O fie on the Presence! It shouldn't believe such a word.
There are twenty-three schools in my circle; I pay all the Government fees!
I've made a canal and a garden! I've planted some thousands of trees!
I've headed the lists and subscriptions! I've tried queer new crops on my land!
Not a village of mine owns a dung-heap! My mares are all Government brand!
Not a hobby his districtsahib'sridden, but Shurfu has ridden it too;
Though the number ofsahibshas been awful, and every one's hobby was new.
Well, I don't mind a glass, since there's nobody nigh; you won't tell, I'll engage.
True! the Prophet forbids; but he didn't know brandy, and wasn't my age.
When a man turns of eighty, there ain't many sins he has strength to commit,
So his day-book can stand a few trifles. Aye, wine wakes the mem'ry a bit.
As for Fuzla, we've all heard of Fuzla--thebestcattle-thief in Punjâb--
Pooh! you don't mean to say he ne'er met with a match on this side of Chenâb?
I could tell you a story--well, half a glass more--but I'd best hold my tongue.
So Mian Fuzla had never his match! come, that's good! Why, when we were both young--
What the deuce am I saying?Jehannambe mine, but I cannot keep still!
I'll tell how I swam the Chenâb in full flood! Yes, by Allah! I will.
Mian Fuzla had squared th' police on his side of the stream, as one can
With good luck; but my cowards were cautious, and hadn't the pluck of a man;
So Mian Fuzla got up in the bottle and sent me a message to say
He had fifty-three head of my cattle, and when would I take them away?
Now the waters were out, so the boast was scarce fair; but I took up the glove,
And with Môkhun and Dittu to help, that same night crossed the river above
While they thought all secure; but it wasn't! So dawn found us stealing along
With a herd of a hundred she buffaloes, all of them lusty and strong.
Well, we made for the river, through tamarisk jungle and tussocks of grass,
And narrow-pathed tangle ofjhauthat would scarce let a buffalo pass,
With our thoughts on the footsteps behind, till the first level streak of the light
Brought us down to the stream; and, by God! it had risen ten feet in the night!
'Twas a broad, yellow plain, shining far in the rays of the sun as it rose,
And a cold wind swept over the flood that came hurrying down from the snows
With a swift, silent current in eddying swirls--not a sound, not a dash
Save a sudden, dull thud, as the bank, undermined, tumbled in with a splash.
Then we looked at each other in silence; the looks of the others said "No."
But I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's, and made up my mind I would go,
Though I knew that the odds were against me; so, bidding the cowards turn back,
With a few of the beasts on their traces and try hard to deaden the track--
For 'twas time, it was time that I wanted--I drove the rest down to the brink,
But the brutes wouldn't take to the water; they loved life too well not to shrink.
So I took a young calf from its mother--'twas cruel, but what did I reck?
And butchered the brute with my hanger, and fastened mypuground its neck,
Then I dragged it right into the water, and buoyed it up well round the throat
With a bundle of grasses and reeds that would keep the dead body afloat.
I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's; then turned and struck out like a man,
While the mother leaped after her young one, and all the rest followed the van.
The flood swept me down like a leaf, and the calf swept me farther down still,
But I knew 'twas a life or death struggle, and breasted the stream with a will;
While the hope I could lead the beasts on, till 'twas safer before than behind,
And the fear lest Mian Fuzla should win, were the only two thoughts in my mind.
It was half a yard forward to half a mile downward, yet still I made way,
While behind, in a long single file, the black heads of the buffaloes lay,
Till I knew we had reached the big stream, and that now there was no going back;
Then I gave one faint shout, and I cast off the dead calf, and let myself slack.
So we drifted, and drifted, and drifted. I strove to recover my breath,
But a numbness came over my heart, and I knew I was drifting to death,
As the big, heavy beasts were swept past by the terrible force of the stream,
And the whole world seemed slipping away, as I swam on alone in a dream.
Then I wondered how Fuzla would take it, and how many miles I had come;
Or guessed what the people would say when days passed and I never came home--
Till it came to me, as in a dream, that the current was setting in shore;
And after that,sahib, it is strange I could never recall any more.
Only this I can tell you: we measured it after, from starting to end,
And the distance was over ten miles by the straight, without counting the bend.
So Mian Fuzla was beat; and sent me apugriwith knots which his women had tied,
And the song of the "Crossing of Shurfu" is known through the whole countryside.
Wâh! illâh!How my tongue has been wagging, and I thezaildâr!But in sooth
'Tis dull work for old Shurfu compared to the merry, mad days of his youth.
Ji salaam!And whatever you want, send for Shurfu thezaildâr; and,sahib,
You'll remember that Fuzla once met with his match on this side of Chenâb!
Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud!Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed;For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowedAs the hungry little ones round her crowd.'Tis thebuniya'sbelly grows fat and proudWhen poor folk are in need.Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast--Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep;For the wind may blow from the north or west,And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest,Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest,Ere harvest's ripe to reap.Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind--Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight;For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind,While the hungry little ones garlands bindRound the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined,On whom we poor folk wait.Merry drops slanting from south and east--Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain;For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast.There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast;'Tis thebuniya'sbelly that gets the leastWhen Ram sends poor folk rain.
Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud!
Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed;
For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowed
As the hungry little ones round her crowd.
'Tis thebuniya'sbelly grows fat and proud
When poor folk are in need.
Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast--
Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep;
For the wind may blow from the north or west,
And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest,
Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest,
Ere harvest's ripe to reap.
Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind--
Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight;
For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind,
While the hungry little ones garlands bind
Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined,
On whom we poor folk wait.
Merry drops slanting from south and east--
Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain;
For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast.
There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast;
'Tis thebuniya'sbelly that gets the least
When Ram sends poor folk rain.
Sun-flash on the grainAs it leaps from the sower's hand,Quick with desire to gainNew life from the land.Seams, furrows, and scarsOn the face of our Mother Earth,For the gods set sorrow and tearsAt the gates of birth.Swift flight of the seed,Like a bird through the sun-bright air,To rot in the ground, or breedIn the Dread One's care.Broken heart of soil,Taking all to its patient breast,With never a cease from toilOr a dream of rest.Wheat-grains grow to wheat,And the seed of a tare to tare.Who knows if Man's soul will meetMan's body to wear?Great Ram! grant me lifeFrom the grain of a golden deed;Sink not my soul in the strifeTo wake as a weed.Seek thy grave, O grain!Some day I will seek mine too,To rise from the level plain,The old in the new.
Sun-flash on the grain
As it leaps from the sower's hand,
Quick with desire to gain
New life from the land.
Seams, furrows, and scars
On the face of our Mother Earth,
For the gods set sorrow and tears
At the gates of birth.
Swift flight of the seed,
Like a bird through the sun-bright air,
To rot in the ground, or breed
In the Dread One's care.
Broken heart of soil,
Taking all to its patient breast,
With never a cease from toil
Or a dream of rest.
Wheat-grains grow to wheat,
And the seed of a tare to tare.
Who knows if Man's soul will meet
Man's body to wear?
Great Ram! grant me life
From the grain of a golden deed;
Sink not my soul in the strife
To wake as a weed.
Seek thy grave, O grain!
Some day I will seek mine too,
To rise from the level plain,
The old in the new.
Scorching sun that shrivels and sears,Withering wind in the rustling ears,Rattle of death as the dry stalks fall,Promise of life in the seed for all.Flash of the sickles, sweat of the brows,Rest in the noon, beneath sheltering boughs.Gather and reap,Death is but sleep.Golden grain ripens though lovers are dead;Lips long for kisses, but mouths must have bread.Blazing brass of the sky at noon,Broad, bright face of the harvest moon;Slow stars wheeling to meet the morn,Toilers asleep on the sheaves of corn;Stealthy snake with the lifted crest,Poisoned prick in a tired breast.Gather and bind,Fate is but blind.Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep;Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep.Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw;Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor;Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray,Gleaming gold as they drift away;Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre,End of love and its vain desire!Gather and sheave,Why should we grieve?Death finds new life in the Great Mother's breast,Rest turns to labour, and labour to rest.
Scorching sun that shrivels and sears,
Withering wind in the rustling ears,
Rattle of death as the dry stalks fall,
Promise of life in the seed for all.
Flash of the sickles, sweat of the brows,
Rest in the noon, beneath sheltering boughs.
Gather and reap,
Death is but sleep.
Golden grain ripens though lovers are dead;
Lips long for kisses, but mouths must have bread.
Blazing brass of the sky at noon,
Broad, bright face of the harvest moon;
Slow stars wheeling to meet the morn,
Toilers asleep on the sheaves of corn;
Stealthy snake with the lifted crest,
Poisoned prick in a tired breast.
Gather and bind,
Fate is but blind.
Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep;
Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep.
Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw;
Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor;
Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray,
Gleaming gold as they drift away;
Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre,
End of love and its vain desire!
Gather and sheave,
Why should we grieve?
Death finds new life in the Great Mother's breast,
Rest turns to labour, and labour to rest.
In the field how many blossoms showing,In the field how many maidens rare?Golden, set with red, the blossoms glowing;Red veils sewn with gold the maidens wear.Oh, the merry hoursMidst the maids and flowers!Tell us, which of these twain is most fair?CHORUS OF BOYS.O golden bud!Spotless without thou art,Sin--stained within, like blood--So woman's heart.CHORUS OF GIRLS.Not so! No, no!We will not have it so!O pale, pure bloom,Cold to the world thou art;Yet warm love finds a roomIn woman's heart.In the field the merry leaves are dancing;In the field small hands which never rest;Leaves with five points crimson-tinged and glancing,Fingers henna-tipped and daintiest.Fate a bright spell weavesWith the hands and leaves.Tell us, which of these twain is the best?CHORUS OF BOYS.Wind-driven leaves,Busy at its command,Idle when none perceives--So woman's hand.CHORUS OF GIRLS.Not so! No, no!We will not have it so!Pitiful leaves,Doing, by kindness planned,Work that no man perceives--So woman's hand.In the field, down on the breeze is blowing;In the fields, the maidens' thoughts rise light;Down to bear the seed for wider sowing,Thoughts which fly to dear ones out of sight;Merrily they've flown,Thoughts and cotton down.Tell us, which of these twain does the right?CHORUS OF BOYS.Unstable down,By every idle windHither and thither blown--So woman's mind.CHORUS OF GIRLS.Not so! No, no!We will not have it so!Soft, white--winged down,Eager new work to find,Hoarding naught for its own--So woman's mind.In the field the husk-shells swing and rustle;In the field the merry tongues wag fast;Clatter! chatter! Oh, the laughing bustle!Smiles and jests at all as they come past.Yonder's a man--Answer if he can."Blows and kisses, tears and smiling;Women's faith and man's beguiling;Money spending, money piling:Tell us, what in life will longest last?"VOICE OF A MAN.Ram, give me strength,Else it will be unsung,For none can tell the lengthOf woman's tongue.CHORUS OF GIRLS.Fie, fie! Not so!We will not have it so!CHORUS OF MATRONS.Have patience, lassies--wait a little space;The bridal lamps will flame, the songs be sung;Then you can laugh, and teach your own good manTo know the length of his good woman's tongue!
In the field how many blossoms showing,
In the field how many maidens rare?
Golden, set with red, the blossoms glowing;
Red veils sewn with gold the maidens wear.
Oh, the merry hours
Midst the maids and flowers!
Tell us, which of these twain is most fair?
O golden bud!
Spotless without thou art,
Sin--stained within, like blood--
So woman's heart.
Not so! No, no!
We will not have it so!
O pale, pure bloom,
Cold to the world thou art;
Yet warm love finds a room
In woman's heart.
In the field the merry leaves are dancing;
In the field small hands which never rest;
Leaves with five points crimson-tinged and glancing,
Fingers henna-tipped and daintiest.
Fate a bright spell weaves
With the hands and leaves.
Tell us, which of these twain is the best?
Wind-driven leaves,
Busy at its command,
Idle when none perceives--
So woman's hand.
Not so! No, no!
We will not have it so!
Pitiful leaves,
Doing, by kindness planned,
Work that no man perceives--
So woman's hand.
In the field, down on the breeze is blowing;
In the fields, the maidens' thoughts rise light;
Down to bear the seed for wider sowing,
Thoughts which fly to dear ones out of sight;
Merrily they've flown,
Thoughts and cotton down.
Tell us, which of these twain does the right?
Unstable down,
By every idle wind
Hither and thither blown--
So woman's mind.
Not so! No, no!
We will not have it so!
Soft, white--winged down,
Eager new work to find,
Hoarding naught for its own--
So woman's mind.
In the field the husk-shells swing and rustle;
In the field the merry tongues wag fast;
Clatter! chatter! Oh, the laughing bustle!
Smiles and jests at all as they come past.
Yonder's a man--
Answer if he can.
"Blows and kisses, tears and smiling;
Women's faith and man's beguiling;
Money spending, money piling:
Tell us, what in life will longest last?"
Ram, give me strength,
Else it will be unsung,
For none can tell the length
Of woman's tongue.
Fie, fie! Not so!
We will not have it so!
Have patience, lassies--wait a little space;
The bridal lamps will flame, the songs be sung;
Then you can laugh, and teach your own good man
To know the length of his good woman's tongue!
Footnote 1: Head-man.
Footnote 2: Government.
Footnote 3: Female children are not worth the expense of burning.
Footnote 4: A woman dying with her unborn child has infinite power for ill.
Footnote 5: Pension.
Footnote 6: Pilgrim to Mecca.
Footnote 7: Big crane.
Footnote 8:Jânwar, animal.
Footnote 9: "Hold your tongue!"
Footnote 10: Nodulated limestone.
Footnote 11: Ipomea seeds.
Footnote 12: Hung and decorated in silver and white.
Footnote 13: Head-man of a circle of villages.
Footnote 14: Bad character.
Footnote 15: This is often an occasion for mutual chaff between the bands of boys and girls, which, as a rule, takes a riddling form. Blossom and fruit grow side by side.