A ROADSIDE STAND BY ROBERT FROST

A ROADSIDE STAND 

ROBERT FROST

Robert Frost (1874-1963) is a highly acclaimed American poet of the twentieth century. Robert Frost wrote about characters, people and landscapes. His poems are concerned with human tragedies and fears, his reaction to the complexities of life and his ultimate acceptance of his burdens. Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening, Birches, Mending walls are a few of his well-known poems. In the poem A Roadside Stand, Frost presents the lives of poor deprived people with pitiless clarity and with the deepest sympathy and humanity.

The little old house was out with a little new shed

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,

You have the money, but if you want to be mean,

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To try if it will not make our being expand,

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The thought of so much childish longing in vain,

The sadness that lurks near the open window there,

That waits all day in almost open prayer

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In using the yard to back and turn around;

And another to ask the way to where it was bound;

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see?

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.

And then next day as I come back into the sane,

I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And offer to put me gently out of my pain.

A THING OF BEAUTY BY JOHN KEATS

A THING OF BEAUTY 
JOHN KEATS

John Keats (1795-1821) was a British Romantic poet. Although trained to be a surgeon, Keats decided to devote himself wholly to poetry. Keats’ secret, his power to sway and delight the readers, lies primarily in his gift for perceiving the world and living his moods and aspirations in terms of language. The following is an excerpt from his poem ‘Endymion; A Poetic Romance’. The poem is based on a Greek legend, in which Endymion, a beautiful young shepherd and poet who lived on Mount Latmos, had a vision of Cynthia, the Moon Goddess. The enchanted youth resolved to seek her out and so wandered away through the forest and down under the sea.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever

Its loveliness increases, it will never

Pass into nothingness; but will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read;

An endless fountain of immortal drink, 

Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

KEEPING QUIET BY PABLO NERUDA (NEFTALI RICARDO REYES BASOALTO)

KEEPING QUIET 

PABLO NERUDA 

(NEFTALI RICARDO REYES BASOALTO)

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) is the pen name of Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto who was born in the town of Parral in Chile. Neruda’s poems are full of easily understood images which make them no less beautiful. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in the year 1971. In this poem Neruda talks about the necessity of quiet introspection and creating a feeling of mutual understanding among human beings.

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the Earth

let’s not speak in any language,

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines,

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victory with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their

brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be

confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with

death.

Perhaps the Earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

BROKEN IMAGES BY GIRISH KARNAD

BROKEN IMAGES 

GIRISH KARNAD

Girish Karnad is a contemporary writer, playwright, actor and movie director. He is a recipient of the Padma Shri (1974), Padma Bhushan (1992) and the Jnanpith Award (1998). He writes in both Kannada and English. His plays generally use history and mythology to focus on contemporary issues. He is also active in the world of Indian cinema. This play, too, can be looked at from multiple levels—the focus on values, both personal and academic, and the issue of bilingualism in today’s world.

The interior of a television studio. A big plasma screen hangs on one side, big enough for a close-up on it to be seen clearly by the audience. On the other side of the stage, a chair and a typically ‘telly’ table—strong, wide, semi-circular. At the back of the stage are several television sets, with screens of varying sizes.

A small red bulb glows above the table, high enough not to appear on the television screen.

Manjula Nayak walks in. She is in her mid-thirties/ forties, and has a confident stride. She is wearing a lapel mike. It is immediately evident that she is at home in broadcasting studios. She looks around.

MANJULA: Nice, very nice. Neat!

(She goes and sits on the chair. Adjusts the earpiece.)

But where is the camera?

(Listens to the reply.)

Ah! I see. New technology. Isn’t it scary? The rate of obsolescence? (Listens.) Of course I have. In London. And in Toronto. But when you think of Indian television studios, you always imagine them cluttered. Lots of men and women scurrying about, shouting orders. Elephantine lights. Headphones. Cameras. You know what I mean. But here... I mean, it’s all so spartan... I know. But a bit lonely too. Like a sound studio... All right. All right... No camera. I just look ahead and speak to an invisible audience in front of me... Direct. Fine. Fine... I can hear you. Clearly. Voice test?... ‘Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Hello, Hello!’ Shall I tap on the mike?

(Laughs.)

My speech will last exactly ten minutes. I have timed it... No, I won’t read. ‘Look ahead and speak!’ Good... But that may take a little longer. A couple of minutes... if I don’t fumble too much.

(Giggles.)

The yellow light?... Okay, okay, ready, fine!

(She mouths ‘Ten’ to ‘Zero’ silently, emphasising each count with her forefinger. At the stroke of ten, the light turns yellow. The Announcer appears on the big plasma screen. The other screens remain blank till the last few minutes of the play.)

ANNOUNCER: Good evening. This is a proud evening for the Shree-TV channel. For tonight we bring to you Ms Manjula Nayak. Many of you will know her as a renowned Kannada short-story writer. Until a year ago, she was a lecturer in English in Bangalore. But she had been writing in Kannada. Not unusual, as you know. It’s amazing how many of our Kannada writers are lecturers in English: from the earliest days. B. M. Shree, Gokak, Adiga.

Even modern ones. Lankesh, Shantinath, Anantha Murthy. And of course there is A. K. Ramanujan, who was equally at home in both languages. But last year Mrs Nayak stunned the world—yes, I mean, the world— by writing a novel. Her first novel. In English! The River Has No Memories. The advance she received from her British publishers made headlines, here and in the West. And then the novel turned out to be a bestseller all over the world. Our heartiest congratulations to Mrs Nayak.

This evening we broadcast a Kannada telefilm based on this remarkable novel. The film will begin in exactly ten minutes. And we have with us in the studio Ms Nayak herself, who has graciously agreed to address our viewers about her work. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the Literary Phenomenon of the Decade, Mrs Manjula Nayak.

(Applause on the sound track. The light turns green. The Announcer disappears and Manjula’s image appears in his place. She speaks.)

MANJULA: Namaskara. I am Manjula Nayak. 1 must mention that officially I am Mrs Manjula Murty, but my creative self continues to be Manjula Nayak. There are some areas in which we must not let marriage intrude too much.

(Laughter.)

Talking about one’s work is a very difficult task. So let me find an easy way out. Let me just take up two questions I constantly come across. They seem to bother everyone—here, abroad. I’ll answer them to the best of my ability within the short time at my disposal and shut up. Actually, that’s what a writer should do, shouldn’t she?—Write and shut up!

(Laughs.)

The first question—you have probably guessed it already. After having written in Kannada all your life, why did you choose—suddenly—to write in English? Do you see yourself as a Kannada writer or an English writer? What audience do you write for? And variations on that theme.

Actually, let me confess. If I had foreseen how many people I would upset by writing in English—I really would not have committed that folly. Intellectuals whom I respected, writers who were gurus to me, friends who I thought would pat me on my back and share my delight—they are all suddenly breathing fire. How dare I write in English and betray Kannada!

(Laughs.)

Betray! The answer is simple; if there was betrayal, it was not a matter of conscious choice. I wrote the novel in English because it burst out in English. It surprised even me. I couldn’t understand why it was all coming out in English. But it did. That’s all. There is no other explanation. What baffles me—actually, let me confess, hurts me— is why our intellectuals can’t grasp this simple fact! I have been accused of writing for foreign readers. Accused! As though I had committed a crime. A writer seeks audiences where she or he can find them! My British publishers said to me: ‘We like your book because it’s so Indian. We receive any number of manuscripts from India but they are all written with the western reader in view. Your novel has the genuine Indian feel!’

(Laughs.)

But who listens here? A pundit for instance has stated that no Indian writer can express herself—or himself— honestly in English. ‘For Indian writers, English is a medium of dishonesty.’ Of course, one could also ask how many Kannada writers are honest in what they write—in Kannada. But if you did that, you would be immediately condemned as a traitor. You can’t win! Recently the President of the Central Sahitya Akademi—the National Academy of the Letters— (who shall remain nameless) declared that Indians who write in English do so in order to make money. That by writing in English they confess their complicity in the global consumer market economy. He of course spoke in English. Speaking in English, as you know, gives you the authority to make oracular pronouncements on Indian literatures and languages. But my response to the charge that I write in English for money would be: Why not? Isn’t that a good enough reason? Would you like to see what royalties I earned when I wrote in Kannada?

(Pause.)

Yet the accusation hides—or perhaps reveals—a grim anxiety. As is clear from the dictum of the President of the Akademi, what is at issue is not Creativity but Money. What hits everyone in the eye is the money a writer in English can earn. The advance I received for my novel—the advance only, mind you—helped me resign my job and concentrate on writing. Of course it is a cause for jealousy. Having struggled in Kannada, I can understand that. A Kannada proverb says: ‘A response is good. But a meaningful response is better.’ Meaningful: Arthapoorna. The Kannada word for Meaning is Artha—which also means money! And of course, fame, publicity, glamour...power.

(Laughs.)

Let me leave it at that.

The second question everyone asks is about the book itself: thank God! How could you—you seem so strong and active—I was a long jump athlete in college, though of course no Anju Bobby George—how could you so vividly recreate the inner life of a person confined to bed all her life? How can a healthy, outdoor woman be so empathetic to the emotional world of a disabled person? Well, it is sad, but I owe that to my younger sister, Malini.

She was physically challenged. Suffered from what is technically called, meningomyelocele—the upper part of her body was perfectly normal; below the waist, the nervous system was damaged. Completely dysfunctional. A series of operations, which started soon after her birth, reduced her existence to misery— she spent her entire life confined to the wheel-chair. Six years ago my parents died. She came to stay with us in our house in Jayanagar, and I nursed her. During the last few months it was quite clear she didn’t have much time left. I am childless and she became my child! Truly, the book is about her. I have dedicated it to her memory. She died last year—just a few months before the book came out. I have tried to relive what I learnt about her emotional life as I nursed her—tended to her—watched helplessly as she floated into death. I miss her. I miss my beautiful, gentle sister.

(Her eyes moisten.)

She is the only character in the novel drawn from life. The other characters and the plot are entirely fictional. Invented.

(Pause.)

I must here acknowledge the support I received from one person while I wrote the novel—my husband, Pramod Murty. I was working full time as a lecturer then. College chores. And home was full of her memories. And there was I, suddenly writing in English. Floundering. Sinking. I was utterly clueless. There were moments when I broke down, when I felt I couldn’t go on. But he was always there at my side, encouraging me, prodding me on. Without him, I would never have completed the novel. Thank you, Pramod. (The overhead light turns yellow.) Well, that’s it. I have committed the cardinal sin of writing in English.

(Laughs.)

There is no prayashchitta for it, no absolution. But fortunately the film you are about to see is in Kannada. That makes me very happy. After all, the family I have written about is Kannada. I am a Kannada writer myself, born to the language and civilization, and proud of it. The Kannada reality I conceived in English has been translated back into Kannada—to perfection—by the Director. I couldn’t have done it better. My thanks to the cast and the crew and of course, Shree-TV. Well, enjoy the telefilm.

Good Night. Namaskara.

(The light turns red. She leans back in her chair. Pause. Then into the lapel mike.)

I hope that was okay? I didn’t fumble too much, did I?

(Listens.)

Thank you, Raza. The pleasure’s all mine. See you outside?

(The red light switches off. She smiles contentedly.)

Whew! That’ll get them. Good. I have taken enough shit from them.

(Laughs and gets up. Manjula’s image on the screen should have given way to the film, but hasn’t. Instead, the Image continues as before, watching her calmly. She is of course unaware of it.)

(She makes a move to the door.)

IMAGE: Where are you going?

(Startled, Manjula stops and looks around. Touches her earpiece to check if the sound came from there and moves on.)

You can’t go yet. —Manjula!

(Manjula looks around baffled and sees that her image continues on the screen. She does a double take. From now on, throughout the play, Manjula and her image react to each other exactly as though they were both live characters.)

MANJULA: Oh God! Am I still on?

(Confused, she rushes back to the chair and stops.) IMAGE: You are not. The camera is off.

MANJULA: Is it?.. Then... how?

IMAGE: You are standing up. If the camera were on, I would be standing up too. I’m not.

MANJULA: Is this some kind of a trick?

(Into her lapel mike.)

Hello! Hello! Can you hear me? How come I’m still on the screen? Raza, hello...

(Taps her mike. No response.)

Is there a technical hitch?

IMAGE: No hitch.

MANJULA (to the Image): But how... Who are you... How... Has the tape got stuck?

(Calls out into the mike.)

Raza, Raza. Help! Help!

IMAGE: What are you screaming for? What are you afraid of? It’s only me.

MANJULA: Who are you?

IMAGE: Me? You.

MANJULA (to herself): This is absurd. IMAGE: Quite.

(A long pause while Manjula refuses to acknowledge the presence of the Image. Then she slowly looks up. The Image smiles.)

IMAGE: A good speech, I must say. My compliments. An excellent performance. The viewers loved it. All two million of them.

MANJULA: But the film? Hasn’t it started?

IMAGE: Aw, screw the film... It’s awful anyway.

MANJULA: I told them it won’t work. A telefilm needs lots of movement. Different locations. Pace. Action. Drama. ‘A good novel does not necessarily make a good film,’ I argued. But they were persistent. Sponsors were easy to find. (Pause.) They paid well.

IMAGE: Your performance now... this introduction... it will be the best thing this evening. You’ll be all over the papers. You have managed to upset a lot of people.

MANJULA: Thanks. I meant to.

(Pause.)

IMAGE: If one had to comment... in the extreme case that one had to...that bit about your sister Malini...the tears...that could have been played down.

MANJULA: I wasn’t pretending. I loved her.

(Pause.)

I love her. Still. I don’t think I have ever been as close to anyone else.

IMAGE: It was a close bond?

MANJULA: The novel doesn’t really do her justice. She was attractive—more attractive than me. Intelligent—more intelligent than me. And vivacious, which I never was. I accepted that. She radiated life from the wheelchair to which she was confined. I have always been reconciled to being the second best.

IMAGE: Her illness was unfortunate. But because of it, she got the best of everything.

MANJULA (defensive): She never asked for anything. Soon after her birth, the moment the gravity of her situation was realised, my parents moved to Bangalore. Took a house in the Koramangala Extension. She became the...the (searches for a phrase and then settles for)... the apple of their eye. When she was old enough to go to school, a teacher came home to teach her English and Mathematics. Everything else, she read up for herself. History, Philosophy, Anatomy. She was hungry—hungry for life. Gobbled it all up.

IMAGE: And you?

MANJULA: I have often wondered whether I would have been as bright if I’d received all that love and attention. IMAGE: No, you wouldn’t. Let’s face it.

MANJULA (defensively): I did write a bestseller.

IMAGE: That’s true.

MANJULA: But you are right. I wouldn’t. They left me with grandparents in Dharwad. An affectionate couple. They fussed over me. But no substitute for parents. When vacations approached I could barely wait to get to Bangalore. And once I finished college, I found a job in Bangalore and came and lived with them. Those were the happiest days of my life! Halcyon! But then I met Pramod. We got married and settled down in Jayanagar. Father helped with the house but he left most of his money in her name—for her care. She was always the focus. Naturally.

IMAGE: But when your parents died, why didn’t you move into the Koramangala house? Such a nice, big house. The garden. The sense of space.

MANJULA: The Jayanagar house was my house. I was used to it. My college was in Jayanagar. We had selected a house which was within walking distance. Koramangala would have meant a long haul every morning. And then such a huge house! Not easy to look after. I would have had to stay home all day like mother. Give up my job probably. No, as I said, she was one of the most sensitive people I have known. She realised moving to Koramangala would turn my life upside down. She insisted that we sell the Koramangala house. I was reluctant but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted no sacrifices on her account, no compromises. And she adjusted beautifully to the smaller house.

(Pause.)

Actually I couldn’t take Koramangala! Non-Kannadigas, most of them. And of course all those empty houses bought as investments by Non-Resident Indians. I fancied myself a Kannada writer in those days. Wanted to breathe the language. Live in the heart of Kannada culture.

IMAGE: Now that you are a success in English, have you bought a big bungalow in Koramangala?

MANJULA: Aw, shut up!

IMAGE: Was Malini at home with Kannada?

MANJULA: Of course, it is our mother-tongue. But she rarely used it. Her Kannada was limited to the cook and the maid.

IMAGE: So Kannada was the one area that became yours?

MANJULA: You could say that. I tried to occupy it and make it mine.

(Laughs.)

Actually, I have never said it publicly, but if you argue that a novel written in English cannot express truth about India because we do not express ourselves in English— (Takes a breath. Laughs.) God, what a sentence! But if you believe that, then let me say I could not have written about my sister in Kannada. She breathed, laughed, dreamt in English. Her friends spoke only English. Having her in my house for six years helped improve my English.

(Pause.)

IMAGE: So when are you going to write your next novel? Will it also be in English?

MANJULA: I think I have already answered that question. Why need I write another novel? Surely one is more than enough?

IMAGE: Critically and financially. But then what are you going to do? You have resigned your job. You are rich—

MANJULA: Well-to-do.

IMAGE: Well-to-do. You have no sister to look after. An empty house. Nothing you can use.

MANJULA: Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Are you implying I ‘used’ her? It was my life as well you know. I am in the back too, though I would never admit to it publicly. Most readers find the girl’s ‘first cousin’ quite unattractive.

IMAGE: Eek! That odious character! Is that you?

MANJULA: Well! There you are!

IMAGE: A triumph of objective self-analysis, shall we say?

MANJULA: If you must. But I am not that wicked really. It was a narrative necessity to have a negative character. A matter of technique. The sympathetic heroine. A villain as a counterpoint. You see?

IMAGE: But Pramod must be pleased by your treatment of his character. He comes across as not very good-looking or striking...

MANJULA: But not bad-looking, either. Good enough for me.

IMAGE: ...but an intelligent, warm and lovable person. Fun-loving. Fond of practical jokes. Noble and simple. Almost simple-minded.

MANJULA: You can say that again! You know, we met soon after I moved to Bangalore. He felt attracted to me. Didn’t know how to convey it. So do you know what he did? I had a friend called Lucy. A close friend. He wrote a letter to her about me. And wrote me a letter about Lucy. Then he mailed her letter in an envelope addressed to me and vice versa. So I received this letter addressed to Lucy—moaning and groaning about how I tortured him. And I didn’t even know he was interested in me. And of course Lucy received the other letter. He thought he was being absolutely clever— original. We went and confronted him. Lucy tore her letter to shreds and flung the pieces on him and stormed off. Melodramatically. I felt sorry for him and said, ‘Idiot, every fifteen-year old tries that trick, convinced it’s never been done before.’ He blushed to the roots of his hair.

IMAGE: But you got married. So the ruse worked.

MANJULA: No ruse. He had made such a fool of himself, he did the only thing he could to save his self-respect. He married me. I didn’t mind.

IMAGE: Mind? You would never have got another man of his calibre.

MANJULA: I suppose so.

IMAGE: And what happened to Lucy?

MANJULA: She stopped talking to me. (They both laugh.) Women found him attractive.

IMAGE: Malini too?

MANJULA: Of course. She was a woman, after all.

IMAGE: They were close to each other?

MANJULA: Very. IMAGE: And you didn’t mind?

MANJULA: Mind? Thank God for it. You see, he is in software development. Works from home. She was confined to her chair. Can you imagine what would have happened if they hadn’t got on?

IMAGE: He must be proud of you. That flattering portrayal of him in the novel. The moving acknowledgment in your speech today...

MANJULA: I doubt if he will even hear of my speech. Ever. He is in the US.

IMAGE: Oh! When did he go?

MANJULA: Last year. He lives in Los Angeles now. He is in demand as a software wizard.

IMAGE: Last year! So has he even read the novel?

MANJULA: The launching of the novel was a major media event in the US. After all, you must remember it had already proved a super hit in Britain. They invited me to New York for the release. There was much fanfare. He sent me an email of congratulations. From Los Angeles. Apologised that he couldn’t get leave to attend.

IMAGE: And you didn’t go to LA?

MANJULA: He didn’t even hint at it.

IMAGE: I’m sorry. But the chronology is beginning to confuse me. When did he decide to go to the States? Was it after Malini’s death?

MANJULA: Yes.

IMAGE: Immediately after?

MANJULA: No. But soon after. IMAGE: How long after?

MANJULA (explodes): Who are you, for God’s sake? What gives you the right to interrogate me like this—about my private life? Either you are me in which case you know everything. Or you are an electronic image, externally prying. In which case, you can just... just... switch off.

(The Image smiles. Suddenly Manjula becomes calm.)

CHANDALIKA BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

CHANDALIKA 
RABINDRANATH TAGORE

Rabindranath Tagore was a poet, novelist, short story writer and dramatist. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913. Tagore’s interest in drama was fostered while he was a boy, for his family enjoyed writing and staging plays. The music in his plays is instrumental in bringing out the delicate display of emotion around an idea. The central interest in his plays is the unfolding of character; of the opening up of the soul to enlightenment of some sort.

INTRODUCTION

This short drama is based on the following Buddhist legend. Ananda, the famous disciple of the Buddha, was one day returning from a visit when he felt thirsty and, approaching a well on the way, asked for water from a chandalika, a girl belonging to the lowest untouchable caste. The girl gave him water and fell in love with the beautiful monk. Unable to restrain herself, she made her mother, who knew the art of magic, work her spell on him. The spell proved stronger than Ananda’s will and the spell-bound monk presented himself at their house at night; but, as he saw the girl spread the couch for him, he was overcome with shame and remorse and prayed inwardly to his master to save him. The Buddha heard the prayer and broke the magic spell and Ananda went away, as pure as he came. This crude plot of the popular tale, showing how the psychic power of the Buddha saves his devotee from the lust of a chandal girl, has been transformed by the poet into a psychological drama of intense spiritual conflict. It is not the story of a wicked girl roused to lust by the physical beauty of the monk, but of a very sensitive girl, condemned by her birth to a despised caste, who is suddenly awakened to a consciousness of her full rights as a woman by the humanity of a follower of the Buddha, who accepts water from her hand and teaches her to judge herself not by the artificial values that society attaches to the accidents of birth, but by her capacity for love and service.

This is a great revelation for her, which she calls a new birth; for she is washed clean of her self-degradation and rises up a full human being with her right to love and to give. And since her own self is the most she can give, and since none is more worthy of the gift of her surrender than the bhikshu who has redeemed, or, as she puts it, created her, she yearns to offer herself to him. But Ananda, detached from all earthly cares and immersed in his inner self, knows nothing of all this and passes by without recognising her.

She is humiliated, wounded in her newly awakened sensibility, and determines to drag the monk from his pride of renunciation to the abjectness of desire for her. She has lost all religious scruple or fear, for she owed nothing to religion save her humiliation.

‘A religion that insults is a false religion. Everyone united to make me conform to a creed that blinds and gags. But since that day something forbids me to conform any longer. I’m afraid of nothing now.’

She forces her mother to exercise her art of magic on Ananda. She refers to it as the primeval spell, the spell of the earth, which is far more potent than the immature sadhana of the monks. The ‘spell of the earth’ proves its force and Ananda is dragged to their door, his face distorted with agony and shame. Seeing her redeemer, so noble and resplendent before, thus cruelly transformed and degraded, she is horrified at the selfish and destructive nature of her desire. The hero to whom she yearned to dedicate herself was not this creature, blinded by lust and darkened with shame, but Ananda of the radiant form, who had given her the gift of a new birth and had revealed her own true humanity. In remorse she curses herself and falls at his feet, begging for forgiveness. The mother revokes the spell and willingly pays the price of such revocation, which is death. The chandalika is thus redeemed for the second time, purged of the pride and egoism that had made her forget that love does not claim possession, but gives freedom.

Chandalika is a tragedy of self-consciousness overreaching its limit. Self-consciousness, up to a point, is necessary to self-development; for, without an awareness of the dignity of one’s own role or function, one cannot give one’s best to the world. Without rights there can be no obligations, and service and virtue when forced become marks of slavery. But self-consciousness, like good wine, easily intoxicates, and it is difficult to control the dose and have just enough of it. Vanity and pride get the upper hand and he who clings to his rights very often trespasses on those of others. This is what happened to the heroine. Prakriti, in her eagerness to give, forgot that Ananda need not take; her devotion grew so passionate that she could not make her surrender without first possessing. Yet it was inevitable that it should be so; for a new consciousness, after ages of suppression, is overpowering and one learns restraint only after suffering. Hence the tragedy. The good mother who, so unwillingly, worked the spell to please her importunate daughter, and who so willingly revoked it to save Ananda, dies in the process. The daughter, though chastened and made wise by suffering, has paid a heavy price; for wisdom is not happiness and renunciation is not fulfillment.

ACT – I

MOTHER. Prakriti! Prakriti! Where has she gone? What ails the girl, I wonder? She’s never to be found in the house.

PRAKRITI. Here, mother, here I am.

MOTHER. Where?

PRAKRITI. Here, by the well.

MOTHER. Whatever will you do next? Past noon, and a blistering sun, and the earth too hot for the feet! The morning’s water was drawn long ago, and the other girls in the village have all taken their pots home. Why, the very crows on the amloki branches are gasping for heat. Yet you sit and roast in the Vaisakh sun for no reason at all! There’s a story in the Purana about how Uma left home and did penance in the burning sun—is that what you are about?

PRAKRITI. Yes, mother, that’s it—I’m doing penance.

MOTHER. Good heavens! And for whom?

PRAKRITI. For someone whose call has come to me.

MOTHER. What call is that?

PRAKRITI. ‘Give me water.’ He set the words echoing in my heart.

MOTHER. Heaven defend us! He said to you ‘Give me water’? Who was it? Someone of our own caste? PRAKRITI. That’s what he said—that he belonged to our kind.

MOTHER. You didn’t hide your caste? Did you tell him that you are a chandalini?

PRAKRITI. I told him, yes. He said it wasn’t true. If the black clouds of Sravana are dubbed chandal, he said, what of it? It doesn’t change their nature, or destroy the virtue of their water. Don’t humiliate yourself, he said; self-humiliation is a sin, worse than self-murder.

MOTHER. What words are these from you? Have you remembered some tale of a former birth? PRAKRITI. No, this is a tale of my new birth.

MOTHER. You make me laugh. New birth, indeed! Since when, pray?

PRAKRITI. It was the other day. The palace gong had just struck noon and it was blazing hot. I was washing that calf at the well—the one whose mother died. Then a Buddhist monk came and stood before me, in his yellow robes, and said, ‘Give me water’. My heart leaped with wonder. I started up trembling and bowed before his feet, without touching them. His form was radiant as with the light of dawn. I said, ‘I am a chandalini, and the well-water is unclean’. He said, ‘As I am a human being, so also are you, and all water is clean and holy that cools our heat and satisfies our thirst’. For the first time in my life I heard such words, for the first time I poured water into his cupped hands—the hands of a man the very dust of whose feet I would never have dared to touch.

MOTHER. O, you stupid girl, how could you be so reckless? There will be a price to pay for this madness! Don’t you know what caste you were born in?

PRAKRITI. Only once did he cup his hands, to take the water from mine. Such a little water, yet that water grew to a fathomless, boundless sea. In it flowed all the seven seas in one, and my caste was drowned, and my birth washed clean.

MOTHER. Why, even the way you speak is changed. He has laid your tongue under a spell. Do you understand yourself what you are saying?

PRAKRITI. Was there no other water, mother, in all Sravasti city? Why did he come to this well of all wells? I may truly call it my new birth! He came to give me the honour of quenching Man’s thirst. That was the mighty act of merit which he sought. Nowhere else could he have found the water which could fulfill his holy vow— no, not in any sacred stream. He said that Janaki bathed in such water as this, at the beginning of her forest exile, and that Guhak, the chandal, drew it for her. My heart has been dancing ever since, and night and day I hear those solemn tones— ‘Give me water, give me water’.

MOTHER. I don’t know what to make of it, child; I don’t like it. I don’t understand the magic of their spells. Today I don’t recognise your speech; tomorrow, perhaps, I shall not even recognise your face. Their spells can make a changeling of the very soul itself.

PRAKRITI. All these days you have never really known me, mother. He who has recognised me will reveal me. And so I wait and watch. The midday gong booms from the palace, the girls take up their water-pots and go home, the kite soars alone into the far sky, and I bring my pitcher and sit here at the well by the wayside.

MOTHER. For whom do you wait?

PRAKRITI. For the wayfarer.

MOTHER. What wayfarer will come to you, you crazy girl?

PRAKRITI. That one wayfarer, mother, the one and only. In him are all who fare along the ways of all the world. Day after day goes by, yet he does not come. Though he spoke no word, his word was given—why does he not keep his word? For my heart is become like a waterless waste, where the heat-haze quivers all day long. Its water cannot be given, for no one comes to seek it.

MOTHER. I can make nothing of your talk today; it’s as though you were intoxicated. Tell me plainly, what do you want?

PRAKRITI. I want him. All unlooked for—he came, and taught me this marvellous truth, that even my service will count with the God who guides the world. O words of great wonder! That I may serve, I, a flower sprung from a poison-plant! Let him raise that truth, that flower from the dust, and take it to his bosom.

MOTHER. Be warned, Prakriti, these men’s words are meant only to be heard, not to be practised. The filth into which an evil fate has cast you is a wall of mud that no spade in the world can break through. You are unclean; beware of tainting the outside world with your unclean presence. See that you keep to your own place, narrow as it is. To stray anywhere beyond its limits is to trespass.

PRAKRITI [sings]. Blessed am I, says the flower, who belong to the earth. For I serve you, my God, in this my lowly home. Make me forget that I am born of dust, For my spirit is free from it. When you bend your eyes upon me my petals tremble in joy; Give me a touch of your feet and make me heavenly, For the earth must offer its worship through me.

MOTHER. Child, I’m beginning to understand something of what you say. You are a woman; by serving you must worship, and by serving you must rule. Women alone can in a moment overstep the bounds of caste; when once the curtains of destiny are drawn aside, they all stand revealed in their queenliness. You had a good chance, you know, when the king’s son was deer-hunting and came to this very well of yours. You remember, don’t you?

PRAKRITI. Yes, I remember.

MOTHER. Why didn’t you go to the king’s house? He had forgotten everything in your beauty.

PRAKRITI. Yes, he had forgotten everything—forgotten that I was a human being. He had gone out hunting beasts; he saw nothing but the beast whom he wanted to bind in chains of gold.

MOTHER. At least he noticed your beauty, if only as game to be hunted. As for the Bhikshu, does he see the woman in you?

PRAKRITI. You won’t understand, mother, you won’t! I feel that in all these days he is the first who ever really recognised me. That is a marvellous thing. I want him, mother, I want him beyond all measure. I want to take this life of mine and lay it like a basket of flowers at his feet. It will not defile them. Let everyone marvel at my daring! I shall glory in my claim. ‘I am your handmaid,’ I shall declare—for otherwise I must lie bound for ever at the whole world’s feet, a slave!

MOTHER. Why do you get so excited, child? You were born a slave. It’s the writ of Destiny, who can undo it?

PRAKRITI. Fie, fie, Mother, I tell you again, don’t delude yourself with this self-humiliation—it is false, and a sin. Plenty of slaves are born of royal blood, but I am no slave; plenty of chandals are born of Brahmin families, but I am no chandal.

MOTHER. I don’t know how to answer you, child. Very good. I’ll go to him myself, and cling to his feet. ‘You accept food from every home’, I’ll say. ‘Come to our house too, and accept from our hands at least a bowl of water.’

PRAKRITI. No, no, I’ll not call him in that way, from outside. I’ll send my call into his soul, for him to hear. I am longing to give myself; it is like a pain at my heart. Who is going to accept the gift? Who will join with me in give-and-take? Will he not mingle his longings with mine, as the Ganges mingles with the black waters of the Jumna? For music springs up of itself, and he who came unbidden has left behind him a word of hope. What is the use of one pitcher of water when the earth is cracked with drought? Will not the clouds come of themselves to fill the whole sky, the rain seek the soil by its own weight?

MOTHER. What is the use of such talk? If the clouds come, they come: if they don’t, they don’t; if the crops wither, it’s no concern of theirs! What more can we do than sit and watch the sky?

PRAKRITI. That won’t do for me; I won’t simply sit and watch. You know how to work spells; let those spells be the clasp of my arms, let them drag him here.

MOTHER. What are you saying, wretched girl? Is there no limit to your recklessness? It would be playing with fire! Are these bhikshus like ordinary folk? How am I to work spells on them? I shudder even to think of it.

PRAKRITI. You would have worked them boldly enough on the king’s son.

MOTHER. I’m not afraid of the king; he might have had me impaled, perhaps. But these men—they do nothing.

PRAKRITI. I fear nothing any longer, except to sink back again, to forget myself again, to enter again the house of darkness. That would be worse than death! Bring him here you must! I speak so boldly, of such great matters—isn’t that in itself a wonder? Who worked the wonder but he? Shall there not be further wonders? Shall he not come to my side, and sit with me on the corner of my cloth?

MOTHER. Suppose I can bring him, are you ready to pay the price? Nothing will be left to you.

PRAKRITI. No, nothing will be left. The burden and heritage of birth after birth—nothing will remain. Only let me bring it all to an end, then I shall live indeed. That’s why I need him. Nothing will be left me. I have waited for age after age, and now in this birth my life shall be fulfilled. My mind is saying it over and over again— fulfilled! It was for this that I heard those wonderful words, ‘Give me water’. Today I know that even I can give. Everyone else had hidden the truth from me. I sit and watch for his coming today to give, to give, to give everything I have.

MOTHER. Have you no respect for religion?

PRAKRITI. How can I say? I respect him who respects me. A religion that insults is a false religion. Everyone united to make me conform to a creed that blinds and gags. But since that day something forbids me to conform any longer. I’m afraid of nothing now. Chant your spells, bring the Bhikshu to the side of the chandalini. I myself shall do him honour—no one else can honour him so well.

MOTHER. Aren’t you afraid of bringing a curse upon yourself?

PRAKRITI. There has been a curse upon me all my life. Poison kills poison, they say—so one curse another. Not another word, mother, not another word. Begin your spells, I cannot bear any more delay. MOTHER. Very well, then. What is his name?

PRAKRITI. His name is Ananda.

MOTHER. Ananda? The disciple of the Lord Buddha?

PRAKRITI. Yes, it is he.

MOTHER. O my heart’s treasure, you are the apple of my eye—but it’s a great wrong I’m putting my hand to at your bidding!

PRAKRITI. What wrong? I will bring to my side the one who brings all near. What crime is there in that?

MOTHER. They draw men by the strength of their virtue. We drag them with spells, as beasts are dragged in a noose. We only churn up the mud.

PRAKRITI. So much the better. Without the churning, how can the well be cleansed?

MOTHER (apostrophising Ananda]. O thou exalted one, thy power to forgive is greater far than my power to offend. I am about to do thee dishonour, yet I bow before thee: accept my obeisance, Lord.

PRAKRITI. What are you afraid of, mother? Yours are the lips I use, but it’s I who chant the spells. If my longing can draw him here, and if that is a crime, then I will commit the crime. I care nothing for a code which holds only punishment, and no comfort.

MOTHER. You are immensely daring, Prakriti.

PRAKRITI. You call me daring? Think of the might of his daring! How simply he spoke the words which no one had ever dared to say to me before! ‘Give me water.’ Such little words, yet as mighty as flame—they filled all my days with light, they rolled away the black stone whose weight so long had stopped the fountains of my heart, and the joy bubbled forth. Your fear is an illusion, for you did not see him. All morning he had begged alms in Sravasti city; when his task was done he came, across the common, past the burning-ground, along the river bank, with the hot sun on his head— and all for what? To say that one word, ‘Give me water’, even to a girl like me. O, it is too wonderful! Whence did such grace, such love, come down—upon a wretch unworthy beyond all others? What can I fear now? ‘Give me water’—yes, the water which has filled all my days to overflowing, which I must needs give or die! ‘Give me water.’ In a moment I knew that I had water, inexhaustible water; to whom should I tell my joy? And so I call him night and day. If he does not hear, fear not; chant your spell, he will be able to bear it.

MOTHER. Look, Prakriti, some men in yellow robes are going by the road across the common.

PRAKRITI. So they are; all the monks of the sangha, I see. Don’t you hear them chanting?

[The chant is heard in the distance.]

To the most pure Buddha, mighty ocean of mercy, Seer of knowledge absolute, pure, supreme, Of the world’s sin and suffering the Destroyer— Solemnly to the Buddha I bow in homage.

PRAKRITI. O Mother, see, he is going, there ahead of them all. He never turned his head or looked towards this well. He could so easily have said ‘Give me water’ once more before he went. I thought he would never be able to cast me aside—me, his own handiwork, his new creation. [She flings herself down and beats her head on the ground.] This dust, this dust is your place! O wretched woman, who raised you to bloom for a moment in the light? Fallen in the end into this same dust, you must mingle for all time with this same dust, trampled underfoot by all who travel the road.

MOTHER. Child, dear child, forget it, forget it all. They have broken your momentary dream, and they are going away—let them go, let them go. When a thing is not meant to last, the quicker it goes the better.

PRAKRITI. Day after day this cry of desire, moment by moment this burden of shame; this prisoned bird in my breast, that beats its wings unto death—do you call it a dream? A dream, is it, that sinks its sharp

teeth into the fibres of my heart, and will not loosen its grip? And they, who have no ties, no joy or sorrow, no earthly burden, who float along like the clouds in autumn—are only they awake, are only they real?

MOTHER. O Prakriti, I cannot bear to see you suffer so. Come, get up, I will chant the spells, I will bring him. All along the dusty road I will bring him. ‘I want nothing,’ he says in his pride. I’ll break that pride and make him come, running and crying ‘I want, I want’.

PRAKRITI. Mother, yours is an ancient spell, as old as life itself. Their mantras are raw things of yesterday. These men can never be a match for you—the knot of their mantras will be loosened under the stress of your spells. He is bound to be defeated.

MOTHER. Where are they going?

PRAKRITI. Going? They are going nowhere! During the rains they remain four months in penance and fasting, and then they are off again, how should I know where? That’s what they call being awake!

MOTHER. Then why are you talking of spells, you crazy thing? He is going so far—how am I to bring him back?

PRAKRITI. No matter where he goes, you must bring him back. Distance is nothing for your spells. He showed no pity to me, I shall show none to him. Chant your spell, your cruellest spells; wind them about his mind till every coil bites deep. Wherever he goes, he shall never escape me!

MOTHER. You need not fear, it is not beyond our powers. I will give you this magic mirror; you shall take it in your hand and dance. His shadow will fall on the glass, and in it you will see what happens to him and how near he has come.

PRAKRITI. See there the clouds, the storm clouds, gathered in the west. The spell will work, mother, it will work. His dry meditations will scatter like withered leaves; his lamp will go out, his path will be lost in darkness. As a bird at dead of night falls fluttering into the dark courtyard, its nest broken in the storm, even so shall he be whirled helpless to our doors. The thunder throbs in my heart, my mind is filled with the lightning flash, the waves foam high in an ocean whose shore I cannot see.

MOTHER. Think well even now, lest sudden terror spring upon you with the work half done. Can you endure to the end? When the spell has reached its height, it would cost me my life to undo it. Remember that this fire will not die down till all that will burn is burnt to ashes.

PRAKRITI. For whom are you afraid? Is he a common man? Nothing will hurt him. Let him come, let him tread the path of fire to the very end. Before me I see in vision the night of doom, the storm of union, the bliss of the breaking of worlds.

****************************

ACT – II

[Fifteen days have passed.]

PRAKRITI. O, my heart will break. I will not look in the mirror, I cannot bear it. Such agony, so furious a storm. Must the king of the forest crash to the dust at last, his cloud-kissing glory broken?

MOTHER. Even now, child, if you say so, I will try to undo the spell. Let the cords of my life be torn apart and my life-blood spent, if only that great soul can be saved.

PRAKRITl. That is best, mother. Let the spells stop, I’ll have no more... no, no, don’t! Go on—the end of the path is so near! Make him come to the very end, make him come right to my bosom! After that I will blot out all his suffering, emptying my whole world at his feet. At dead of night the wayfarer will come, and I will kindle the lamps for him in the flames of my burning heart. Deep within are springs of nectar, where he shall bathe and anoint his weary, hot and wounded limbs. Once again he shall say ‘Give me water’—water from the ocean of my heart. Yes, that day will come—go on, go on with the spell.

[Song]

In my own sorrow Will I quit thy sorrow; Thy hurt will I bathe In the deep waters of my pain’s immensity. My world will I give to the flames, And my blackened shame shall be cleansed. My mortal pain will I offer as gift at thy feet.

MOTHER. I never knew it would take so long. My spells have no more power, child; there is no breath left in my body.

PRAKRITI. Don’t be afraid, mother; hold out a little longer, only a little. It will not be long now.

MOTHER. The month of Ashad is here, and their four months’ fast is at hand.

PRAKRITl. They are gone to Vaisali, to the monastery there.

MOTHER. How pitiless you are! That is so far away.

PRAKRITI. Not very far; seven days’ journey. Fifteen days have already passed. His seat of meditation has been shaken at last. He is coming, he is coming! All that once lay so far away, so many million miles away, beyond the very sun and moon, immeasurably beyond the reach of my arms—it is coming, nearer and nearer! He is coming, and my heart is rocked as by an earthquake.

MOTHER. I have worked the spell through all its stages— such force might have brought down Indra of the thunderbolt himself. And yet he does not come. It is a fight to the death indeed. What did you see in the mirror?

PRAKRITI. At first I saw a mist covering the whole sky, deathly pale like the weary gods after their struggle with the demons, Through rifts in the mist there glimmered fire. After that the mist gathered itself up into red and angry clusters, like swollen, festering sores. That day passed. The next day I looked, and all the background was a deep black cloud, with lightning playing across it. Before it he was standing, all his limbs fenced with flame. My blood ran cold, and I rushed to tell you to stop your spells at once - but I found you in deep trace, sitting like a log, breathing hardly, and unconscious. It seemed as though a fierce fire burned in you, and your fire was a flaming serpent that hissed and struck in deadly duel at the fire that wrapped him round. I came back and took up the mirror; the light was gone— only torment, unfathomable torment, was in his face.

MOTHER. Yet that did not kill you? The fire of his suffering burnt into my soul, till I thought I could bear no more.

PRAKRITI. It seemed that the tortured form I saw was not his only, but mine too; it belonged to us both. In those awful fires the gold and the copper had been melted and fused.

MOTHER. And you felt no fear?

PRAKRITI. Something far greater than fear. I beheld the God of Creation, more terrible far than the God of Destruction, lashing the flames to work His purposes, while they writhed and roared in anger. What lay at his feet in the casket of the seven elements—Life or Death? My mind swelled with a joy hard to name— joy in the tremendous detachment of new creation, free of care or fear, of pity or sorrow. Creation breaking, burning and melting among the sparks of the elemental fires. I could not keep still. My whole soul and body danced and danced together, as the pointed flames dance in the fire.

MOTHER. And how did your Bhikshu appear?

PRAKRITI. His eyes were fixed motionless upon the distance, like stars in the evening twilight. I longed to escape from myself far into boundless space.

MOTHER. When you danced before the mirror, he saw you?

PRAKRITI. Fie upon it, how I am shamed! Again and again his eyes grew red, as though he were about to curse. Again and again he trampled down the glowing fires of anger, and at last his anger turned upon himself, quivering, like a spear, and pierced his own breast.

MOTHER. And you bore all this?

PRAKRITI. I was amazed. I, this I, this daughter of yours, this nobody from nowhere—his suffering and mine are one today! What holy fire of creation could have wrought such a union? Who could dream of so great a thing?

MOTHER. When shall his turmoil be stilled?

PRAKRITl. When my suffering is stilled. How can he attain his mukti until I attain mine?

MOTHER. When did you last look into your mirror?

PRAKRITl. Yesterday evening. He had passed through the lion-gate of Vaisali some days before, at dead of night—seemingly in secret, unknown to the monks. After that I had sometimes seen him ferried across rivers or on difficult mountain passes. I had seen the evening fall, and him alone on the wide commons, or on the dark forest paths at dead of night. As the days went by, he fell more deeply under the spell and became heedless of everything, all the conflict with his own soul at an end. His face was mazed, his body slack, his eyes fixed in an unseeing stare, as though for him there were neither true nor false, good nor evil—only a blind and thoughtless compulsion, with no meaning in it.

MOTHER. Can you guess how far he has come today?

PRAKRITI. I saw him yesterday at Patal village on the river Upali. The river was turbulent with new rains; there was an old peepul tree by the ghat, fireflies shining in its branches, and under it a lichened altar. As he reached it he gave a sudden start and stood still. It was a place he had known for a long time; I have heard that one day the Lord Buddha preached there to King Suprabhas. He sat down and covered his eyes with his hands—I felt that his dream-spell might break at any moment. I flung away the mirror, for I was afraid of what I might see. The whole day has passed since then, and torn between hope and fear I have sat on, not daring to know. Now it is dark again; on the road goes the watchman calling the hour, it must be an hour past midnight. O mother, the time is short, so short; don’t let this night be wasted; put the whole of your strength into the spell.

MOTHER. Child, I can do no more; the spell is weakening, I am failing body and soul.

PRAKRITl. It mustn’t weaken now—don’t give up now! Maybe he has turned his face away, maybe the chain we have bound on him is stretched to the uttermost, and will not hold. What if he escapes now, away from this birth of mine, and I can never reach him again? Then it will be my turn to dream, to return to the illusion of a chandal birth. I will never endure that mockery again. I beseech you, mother, put out your whole strength once only; set in motion your spell of the primeval earth, and shake the complacent heaven of the virtuous.

MOTHER. Have you made ready as I told you?

PRAKRITI. Yes. Yesterday was the second night of the waxing moon. I bathed in the river Gambhira, plunging below the water. Here in the courtyard I drew a circle, with rice and pomegranate blossoms, vermilion and the seven jewels. I planted the flags of yellow cloth, I placed sandal-paste and garlands on a brass tray, I lit the lamps. After my bath I put on a cloth, green like the tender rice shoots, and a scarf like the champak flower. I sat with my face to the East. All night long I have contemplated his image. On my left arm I have tied the bracelet of thread—sixteen strands of golden yellow bound in sixteen knots.

MOTHER. Then dance round the circle in your dance of invocation, while I work my spells before the altar.

[Prakriti dances and sings.]

Now, Prakriti, take your mirror and look. See, a dark shadow has fallen over the altar. My heart is bursting and I can do no more. Look into the mirror—how long will it be now?

PRAKRITl. No, I will not look again, I will listen—listen in my inmost being. If he reveals himself I shall see him before me. Bear up a little longer, mother, he will surely, surely reveal himself. Hark! Hark to the sudden storm, the storm of his coming! The earth quivers beneath his tread, and my heart throbs.

MOTHER. It brings a curse for you, unhappy girl. As for me, it means surely death—the fibres of my being are shattered.

PRAKRITI. No curse, it brings no curse, it brings the gift of my new birth. The thunderbolt hammers open the Lion-gates of Death; the door breaks, the walls crumble, the falsehood of this birth of mine is shattered. Tremors of fear shake my mind, but rhythms of joy enrapture my soul. My All-destroyer, my All-in-all, you have come! I will enthrone you on the summit of all my dishonour, and build your royal seat of my shame, my fear and my joy.

MOTHER. My time is near, I can do no more. Look in the mirror at once.

PRAKRITI. Mother, I’m afraid. His journey is almost at an end, and what then? What then for him? Only myself, my wretched self? Nothing else? Only this to repay the long and cruel pain? Nothing but me? Only this at the end of the weary, difficult road?—only me?

MOTHER. Have pity, cruel girl, I can bear no more. Look in the mirror, quick!

PRAKRITI (looks in the mirror and flings it away). O mother, mother, stop! Undo the spell now—at once—undo it! What have you done? What have you done? O wicked, wicked deed!—better have died. What a sight to see! Where is the light and radiance, the shining purity, the heavenly glow? How worn, how faded, has he come to my door! Bearing his self’s defeat as a heavy burden, he comes with drooping head... Away with all this, away with it! [She kicks the paraphernalia of magic to pieces.] Prakriti, Prakriti, if in truth you are no chandalini, offer no insult to the heroic. Victory, victory to him!

[Enter Ananda.]

O Lord, you have come to give me deliverance, therefore have you known this torment. Forgive me, forgive me. Let your feet spurn afar the endless reproach of my birth. I have dragged you down to earth, how else could you raise me to your heaven? O pure one, the dust has soiled your feet, but they have not been soiled in vain. The veil of my illusion shall fall upon them, and wipe away the dust. Victory, victory to thee, O Lord!

MOTHER. Victory to thee, O Lord. My sins and my life lie together at thy feet, and my days end here, in the haven of thy forgiveness. [She dies.]

ANANDA [chanting].

Buddho Susuddho karuna mahannvo

Yoccanta suddhabbara-gnana locano

Lokassa papupakilesa ghatako

Vandami Buddham ahamadarena tam.

To the most pure Buddha, mighty ocean of mercy,

Seer of knowledge absolute, pure, supreme,

Of the world’s sin and suffering the Destroyer -

Solemnly to the Buddha I bow in homage.