The Crescent Moon | Page 5

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 Tepântar 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 Tepântar
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