Rabindranath Tagore , the great litterateur born on 7 May 1861 ,the first non-European to win Nobel Prize for Literature, the only litterateur who penned national anthems for two countries, during the eve of his 150th birth anniversary I am coping here the Upagupta , the poem I like most from Tagore.
Its the story of Upagupta , the desciple of Buddha and Vasavadutta a young court dancer of Madurai. Vasavadutta is young ,rich and proud .She has the felling that every men will fall in front of her .She has been shown as a prime example of worldly possessions .On the other side Upagupta, is the disciple of Lord Buddha, filled with peace . The poem depicts the calming down of other emotions by peace or santam.Written in simple language , its really a jewel in Indian literature.
Once you read the poem you can realize its beauty.Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha
, lay sleep in
the dust by the city wall of
Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and
stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.
, lay sleep inthe dust by the city wall of
Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and
stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets,
touching his breast of a sudden?
He woke up startled, and a light from a woman’s
lamp fell on his forgiving eyes.
It was dancing girl, starred with jewels,
Wearing a pale blue mantle, drunk with the wine
of her youth.
She lowered her lamp and saw young face
austerely beautiful.
“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman,
“Graciously come to my house. The dusty earth
is not fit bed for you.”
The young ascetic answered, “Woman,
go on your way;
When the time is ripe I will come to you.”
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth
in a flash of lightening.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and
The woman trembled in fear of some unknown danger.
A year has not yet passed.
It was evening of a day in April,
in spring season.
The branches of the way side trees were full of blossom.
Gay notes of a flute came floating in the
warm spring air from a far.
The citizens had gone to the woods for the
festival of flowers.
From the mid sky gazed the full moon on the
shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking along the lonely street,
While overhead the love-sick koels uttered from the
mango branches their sleepless plaint.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and
stood at the base of the rampart.
Was that a woman lying at his feet in the
shadow of the mango grove?
Stuck with black prestilence, her body
spotted with sores of small-pox,
She had been hurriedly removed from the town
To avoid her poisonous contagion.
The ascetic sat by her side, took her head
on his knees,
And moistened her lips with water, and
smeared her body with sandal balm.
“Who are you, merciful one?”
asked the woman.
“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and
I am here,” replied the young ascetic.
“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and
I am here,” replied the young ascetic.
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