I heard the sound of footsteps. Who says that
the gods do not show themselves to mortal men?
I did not raise my face to look up, lest the sight
of it should break the spell. Come, oh come,
come and let your feet touch my head. Come, Lord,
and set your foot upon my throbbing heart, and at
that moment let me die.
He came and sat near my head. Who? My
husband! At the first touch of his presence
I felt that I should swoon. And then the pain
at my heart burst its way out in an overwhelming flood
of tears, tearing through all my obstructing veins
and nerves. I strained his feet to my bosom—oh,
why could not their impress remain there for ever?
He tenderly stroked my head. I received his
blessing. Now I shall be able to take up the
penalty of public humiliation which will be mine tomorrow,
and offer it, in all sincerity, at the feet of my
God.
But what keeps crushing my heart is the thought that
the festive flutes which were played at my wedding,
nine years ago, welcoming me to this house, will never
sound for me again in this life. What rigour
of penance is there which can serve to bring me once
more, as a bride adorned for her husband, to my place
upon that same bridal seat? How many years,
how many ages, aeons, must pass before I can find
my way back to that day of nine years ago?
God can create new things, but has even He the power
to create afresh that which has been destroyed?
Nikhil’s Story
Today we are going to Calcutta. Our joys and
sorrows lie heavy on us if we merely go on accumulating
them. Keeping them and accumulating them alike
are false. As master of the house I am in an
artificial position—in reality I am a wayfarer
on the path of life. That is why the true Master
of the House gets hurt at every step and at last there
comes the supreme hurt of death.
My union with you, my love, was only of the wayside;
it was well enough so long as we followed the same
road; it will only hamper us if we try to preserve
it further. We are now leaving its bonds behind.
We are started on our journey beyond, and it will
be enough if we can throw each other a glance, or feel
the touch of each other’s hands in passing.
After that? After that there is the larger
world-path, the endless current of universal life.
How little can you deprive me of, my love, after all?
Whenever I set my ear to it, I can hear the flute
which is playing, its fountain of melody gushing forth
from the flute-stops of separation. The immortal
draught of the goddess is never exhausted. She
sometimes breaks the bowl from which we drink it,
only to smile at seeing us so disconsolate over the
trifling loss. I will not stop to pick up my
broken bowl. I will march forward, albeit with
unsatisfied heart.
