The Crescent Moon

Excerpt

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 <i>champa</i> 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 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....