The Gardener

1

SERVANT.  Have mercy upon your servant, my queen! QUEEN.  The assembly is over and my servants are all gone.  Why    do you come at this late hour? SERVANT.  When you have finished with others, that is my time. I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do. QUEEN.  What can you expect when it is too late? SERVANT.  Make me the gardener of your flower garden. QUEEN.  What folly is this? SERVANT. I will give up my other work. I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust.  Do not send    me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests.    But make me the gardener of your flower garden. QUEEN.  What will your duties be? SERVANT.  The service of your idle days. I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning,    where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by    the flowers eager for death. I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the    saptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggle    to kiss your skirt through the leaves. I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your    bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron    paste in wondrous designs. QUEEN.  What will you have for your reward? SERVANT. To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender    lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge    the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka   petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to    linger there. QUEEN.  Your prayers are granted, my servant, you will be the    gardener of my flower garden.

2

"Ah, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey. "Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?" "It is evening," the poet said, "and I am listening because some    one may call from the village, late though it be. "I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of    eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for    them. "Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on the    shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond? "The early evening star disappears. "The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river. "Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house    in the light of the worn-out moon. "If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and    with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I,    shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds? "It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey. "I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of    this village. "Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in    their eyes. "Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears    that are hidden in the gloom. They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the    afterlife. "I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?"

3

In the morning I cast my net into the sea. I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and    strange beauty—some shone like a smile, some glistened like    tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride. When with the day's burden I went home, my love was sitting in    the garden idly tearing the leaves of a flower. I hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that I    had dragged up, and stood silent. She glanced at them and said, "What strange things are these?  I    know not of what use they are!" I bowed my head in shame and thought, "I have not fought for    these, I did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts    for her." Then the whole night through I flung them one by one into the    street. In the morning travellers came; they picked them up and carried    them into far countries.

4

The tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest. They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate. The free bird cries, "O my love, let us fly to wood." The cage bird whispers, "Come hither, let us both live in the    cage." Says the free bird, "Among bars, where is there room to spread    one's wings?" "Alas," cries the cage bird, "I should not know where to sit    perched in the sky." The free bird cries, "My darling, sing the songs of the    woodlands." The cage bird says, "Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of    the learned." The forest bird cries, "No, ah no! songs can never be taught." The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the    woodlands." Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing    to wing. Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to    know each other. They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my    love!" The free bird cries, "It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of    the cage." The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings are powerless and dead."

7

41

I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you; but I    dare not, for fear you should laugh. That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest. I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so. I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I    dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them. That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of    what I mean. I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so. I long to use the most precious words I have for you; but I dare    not, fearing I should not be paid with like value. That is why I gave you hard names and boast of my callous    strength. I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain. I long to sit silent by you; but I dare not lest my heart come    out at my lips. That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart    behind words. I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so. I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my    cowardice should become known to you. That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your    presence. Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.

42