The Poetry Of Rabindranath Tagore Shah Jahan
You knew, Emperor Shah Jahan, that the stream of time washes over life, youth, riches. Only your heart's pain, you had hoped, would remain Immortal. The harsh thunder of imperial power will fade into the twilight. Let it. Only let one deep sigh fill the heart of the vast sky with longing - this was your wish. Let all the glitter of emeralds, pearls, rubies and diamonds disappear like a fading rainbow. But let this one solitary tear pearl remain glistening on the cheek of time: this white, splendid Taj Mahal. O human heart, there is seldom time to look back at anyone, again. You are swept in the strong current of life, stopping at certain harbours, loading at one port, unloading at another. That small moment, when the South Wind blows into your garden, and the spring blossoms fill up the restless arms of your branches - At that moment, also, comes the hour of parting. The withered blossoms, then, lie strewn on the dust. And again, during the night, you rejuvenate the garden with dew drops, new blossoms, buds, to arrange the flower basket of Autumn, in a tear touched farewell smile. Dear heart, your gatherings - at the end of the day, at the end of the night, at the end of the road - you have to leave behind for there is no time to recount. There is no time to remember. Emperor, is that why your frightened heart wanted to conquer the heart of time? You wanted to seduce time with beauty. How did you intrigue her such? How did you captivate formless death in this immortal, exquisite form? There is hardly time for mourning forever. That's why, you captured your restless, mournful tears - in a hard stone bond with eternal silence. On moonlit nights, in precious, sweet privacy, those endearments that you whispered softly to your beloved - those whispered intimacies, you have left behind, here, for eternity's ears. The sad tenderness of your love finds expression, here, amidst this bouquet of beauty, captured in serene stone. O Emperor Poet, This is the portrait of your heart. This is your new epic poem - Exquisite. Uncanny. In meter. In music. It stretches upwards, towards the ethereal, where your beloved longs for you, and waits, blended into the soft hue of dawn - blended into the tired evening horizon's sad breath - blended with the seductive grace of this full moon night - beyond the shores of language, where the homeless, despairing eyes roam from door to door, searching, failing. Your handsome messenger through ages, avoids the sentries of time and continues on - with one timeless message: I have not forgotten you, My love. I have not forgotten you. You are gone today, Emperor. Your kingdom is forgotten like a dream, your throne destroyed. Your soldiers who used to rule the earth with their sure strides - their memories, today, are blowing in the wind, with the dust of the Delhi streets. Your prisoners no longer sing their evening songs. Your musicians no longer harmonize their instruments with the lilt of the lapping Jamuna. The women of your palace no longer stir the heart of the night sky with the sound of their anklets. And still, your messenger, undaunted, unfatigued, defying the creation and destruction of new empires - defying life, defying death - through the ages - echoes on the words of an eternal lover's mourning: I have not forgotten you, My love. I have not forgotten you. Lies. Who says you have not forgotten? Who says you have not opened that locked chamber of your heart? That darkness of your past - you have still preserved? It has not escaped through the wide open windows of forgetting? Yes, the tomb remains static on the dust, covering, gently, Death in a shroud of remembrance. But who can cover Life? Every star calls for him. Every world invites him. New worlds, yet undiscovered. New lights, yet undisclosed. He runs to the world, free. He tears away from the clutches of memory. Emperor, no kingdom could ever hold you. This ocean breasted world could not quench the thirst of your greatness. And hence, at the end of the festival of life, you discarded this world like a used clay pot. You are greater than your achievements. The chariot of your life leaves your achievements behind, time after time. That's why, your signature remains - You are gone. That love which did not know how to move forward, how to help move forward - That love which established its own throne in the midst of your path - Its seductive, arrogant address embraces your feet like the dust of that road. You have returned that embrace to the dust. On that dust, then, a seed had fallen. A seed carelessly dropped from the vibrant petals of your life. You have traveled afar. That seed gained immortal voice, stretched its arms towards the sky. In solemn poetry, it proclaims - "However far I search in the distance, the traveler is no more. His beloved had to let him go. His empire had to step aside. No ocean, no mountain could stop his relentless journey. Today, his chariot travels on at the invitation of the night, amidst the chorus of the planets, towards the arch gate of dawn. That's why, I remain here with the weight of his memory. He has set himself free." A Translation of Tagore's Shah Jahan. Sramana Mitra May 11, 2001 San Francisco Emperor Shah jahan built the Taj Mahal as a memorial for his wife Mumtaz. Was it really a memorial for his love, or was it, rather, a search for immortality? * நல்லதுசெய் நல்லதே நடக்கும் जन सेवा ईश्वर सेवा cnu.pne -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.
