The Crescent Moon | Page 6

market.
With patches of yellow grass in the sand and only one tree where the
pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies the desert of Tepântar.
I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of the king
is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in search of the
princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace across that unknown
water.
When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and lightning
starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his unhappy
mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and wiping her
eyes, while he rides through the desert of Tepântar in the fairy tale?
See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and there are no
travellers yonder on the village road.
The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men have
left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their huts, watching the
scowling clouds.
Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf--do not ask me to do my
lessons now.
When I grow up and am big like my father, I shall learn all that must be
learnt.
But just for to-day, tell me, mother, where the desert of Tepântar in the
fairy tale is?

THE RAINY DAY

Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads against the
dismal sky; the crows with their draggled wings are silent on the
tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river is haunted by a
deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as they
escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain water is running in rills
through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run away from
his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water in the
river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home early from the
Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is slippery. The
wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo branches like a wild
beast tangled in a net.

[Illustration: From a drawing by Surendranath Ganguli--see cboat.jpg]
PAPER BOATS

Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running stream.
In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the
village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know who
I am.
I load my little boats with shiuli flowers from our garden, and
hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the
night.
I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the little
clouds setting their white bulging sails.
I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air
to race with my boats!
When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper
boats float on and on under the midnight stars.
The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their baskets
full of dreams.

THE SAILOR
The boat of the boatman Madhu is moored at the wharf of Rajgunj.
It is uselessly laden with jute, and has been lying there idle for ever so
long.
If he would only lend me his boat, I should man her with a hundred
oars, and hoist sails, five or six or seven.
I should never steer her to stupid markets. I should sail the seven seas
and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.

But, mother, you won't weep for me in a corner.
I am not going into the forest like Ramachandra to come back only
after fourteen years.
I shall become the prince of the story, and fill my boat with whatever I
like.
I shall take my friend Ashu with me. We shall sail merrily across the
seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.
We shall set sail in the early morning light.
When at noontide you are bathing at the pond, we shall be in the land
of a strange king.
We shall pass the ford of Tirpurni, and leave behind us the