The Crescent Moon | Page 3

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