THE BABE
RABINDRANATH TAGORE
[It is believed that this poem, “The Babe,”
still remains unpublished in
–EDITOR.]
I
“What of the night” they ask,
No answer comes.
For blind time gropes in a
maze and knows not its path or purpose.
The darkness in the valley stares like the
dead eye sockets of a giant,
The clouds like a nightmare oppress the sky,
And massive shadows like torn limbs of the
night.
A lurid glow waxes and wanes on the horizon,
Is it an ultimate threat from an alien star,
or an elemental hunger licking the sky?
Things are deliriously wild,
They are a noise whose grammar is a groan
and words smothered out of shape and sense.
They are the refuse, the rejections, the
fruitless failures of life,
Abrupt ruins of prodigal pride,
Fragments of a bridge over the oblivion of a
vanished stream,
Godless shrines that shelter reptiles,
marble steps that lead to blankness.
Sudden tumults rise in the sky and wrestle
and a startled shudder runs along with sleepless
hours.
Are they from desperate floods hammering
against their cave walls,
or from some fantastic storms whirling and
howling incantations?
Are they the cries of an ancient forest
flinging up its hoarded
fire in a last extravagant suicide
or screams of a paralytic crowd scourged by
lunatics blind and deaf?
Underneath the noisy tenor, a stealthy hum
creeps up like bubbling volcanic mud,
A mixture of sinister whispers, rumours and slanders and hisses of derision,
The men gathered there are vague like torn
pages of an epic
Groping in groups or single, their torchlight
tattoos their faces in checquered lines,
in patterns of frightfulness.
The women weep and wail,
They cry that their children are lost in a
wilderness of
contrary paths with confusion at the end.
Others defiantly ribald shaking with raucous
laughter
their lascivious limbs unshrinkingly
loud,
For they think that nothing matters.
II
There on the crest of the hill,
Stands the man of faith amid the snow white
silence
He scans the sky for some signal of light,
And when the clouds thicken and the night
birds scream as they fly
He cries “Brothers, despair not, for Man is
great.”
But they never heed him,
For they believe that the elemental brute is
eternal
and goodness in its depth is darkly cunning in
deception.
When beaten and wounded the, cry “Brother,
where art thou?”
The answer comes, “I am by your side.”
But they cannot see in the dark;
And they argue that the voice is of their own
desperate desire,
That men are ever condemned to fight for phantoms
In an interminable desert
of mutual menace.
III
The clouds part, the morning star appears in
the East,
A breath of relief springs up from the heart
of the earth
The murmur of leaves ripples along the forest
path
And the early bird sings.
“The time has come” proclaims the Man of
faith
“The time for what?”
“For the pilgrimage.”
They sit and think, they know not the
meaning,
And yet they seem to understand according to
their desires.
The touch of the dawn goes deep into the soil
And life shivers along through the roots of
all things
“To the pilgrimage of fulfilment”
a small voice whispers,
nobody knows whence.
Taken up by the crowd it swells into a mighty
meaning.
Men raise their heads and look up.
Women lift their arms in reverence,
Children clap their hands and laugh
The early glow of the sun shines like a
golden garland
on the forehead of the Man of faith.
And they all cry: “Brotber,
we salute thee!”
IV
Men begin to gather from all quarters
From across the seas; the mountains and
pathless wastes
They come from the valley of the Nile, and
the banks of the
From the snow-sunk uplands of
From the high-walled cities of glittering
towers
From the dens dark trough
of savage wilderness.
Some walk, some ride on camels, horses and
elephants.
on chariots with banners vying with the clouds
of dawn.
The priests of all creeds burn incense,
chanting verses as they go
The monarchs march at the head of their
armies
lances flashing in the sun and drums beating loud.
Ragged beggars and courtiers pompously
decorated;
agile young scholars, and teachers burdened with
learned age, jostle each other in the crowd.
Women come chatting and laughing, mothers,
maidens
and brides with offerings of flowers and
fruit,
Sandal paste and scented water,
Mingled with them is the harlot, shrill of
voice and loud in tint and tinsel
The gossip is there who secretly poison the
well of human sympathy and chuckles.
The maimed and the cripple join the throng
with the blind
and the sick, the dissolute, the thief and
the man who makes a
trade of his God for profit and mimics the
saints, the fulfilment.
They dare not talk aloud, but in their minds
they
magnify their own greed and dream of endless
power.
Of unlimited impurity for pilfering and
plunder
an eternity of feast for their unclean
gluttonous flesh.
V
The Man of faith moves on along pitiless
paths,
Strewn with flints over scorching sounds and
steep mountainous tracks
They follow him, the strong and the weak, the
aged and
the young, the rulers of realms, the tailors
of the soil.
Some grow weary and footsore, some angry and
suspicious.
They ask at every dragging step how much
further is the end
The man of faith sings in answer;
They scowl and shake their fists and yet they
cannot resist him;
The pressure of the moving mass and an
indefinite hope push them
forward
They shorten their sleep and curtail their
rest,
they outvie each
other in their speed,
they are afraid lest they may be too late for
their chance
while others be more fortunate.
The days pass, the ever-receding horizon
tempts them
with renewed lure of the unseen till they are
sick.
Their faces harden, their curses grow louder
and louder.
VI
It is night.
The travellers spread their mats on the
ground under the banyan tree.
A gust of wind blows out the lamp and the
darkness deepens like a sleep into a swoon.
Some one from the crowd suddenly stands up
and
Pointing to the leader with his merciless
finger breaks out,
“False prophet, thou hast deceived us!”
Others take up the cry one by one.
Women hiss their hatred and men growl.
At last, one bolder than others suddenly
deals him a blow,
They cannot see his face, but fall upon him in
a fury
of destruction and hit him till he lies prone
upon the ground,
his life extinct.
The night is still, the sound of the distant
waterfall
comes muffled and a faint breath of jasmine
is in the air.
VII
The pilgrims are afraid;
The women begin to cry, the men in an agony
of wretchedness
shout at them to stop.
Dogs break out barking and are cruelly
whipped into silence
broken by moans.
The night seems endless and men and women
begin to wrangle
as to who among them is to blame.
They shriek and shout and as they are ready
to unsheath
their knives, the darkness pales, the morning
light
overflows the mountain tops
Suddenly they become still and gasp for
breath as they gaze
at the figure lying dead.
The women sob out loud and men hide their faces
in their hands.
A few try to slink away unnoticed, but their
crime keeps
them chained to their Victim.
They ask each other in bewilderment,
“Who will show us the path?”
The old man from the East bends his head and
says “The Victim.”
They sit still and silent. Again speaks the
old man,
We refused him in doubt; we killed him in
anger,
now we shall accept him in love, for in his
death
He lives in the life of us all, the great
Victim,”
And they all stand up and mingle their voices
and
Sing “Victory to the Victim.”
VIII
“To the pilgrimage”, calls the young, “to
love, to power,
to knowledge, to wealth overflowing.”
“We shall conquer the world and the world
beyond this!”
They all cry exultant in a thundering
cataract of voices
The meaning is not the same to them all, but
only the impulse,
The moving confluence of wills that recks not death and disaster,
No longer they ask for their way, no more
doubts are there to
burden their minds or weariness to clog their
feet,
The spirit of the leader is within them and
ever beyond them.
The leader who has crossed death and all
limits.
They travel over their fields where the seeds
are sown,
By the granary, where the harvest is
gathered.
And across the barren soil where famine
dwells and
skeletons cry for the return of their flesh
They pass through populous cities bumming
with life
Through dumb desolation hugging its ruined
past
and hovels for the unclad and unclean, a
mockery of home for the homeless.
They travel through long hours of the summer
day and as
the light wanes in the evening they ask the
man
who reads the sky.
“Brother,
is yonder the tower of our final hope and peace?”
The wiseman shakes
his head and says
It is the last vanishing cloud of the
sunset.”
“Friends,” exhorts the young, “do not stop.
Through the
night’s blindness we must struggle into the
kingdom of
living light.”
They go in the dark
The road seems to know its meaning and dust
underfoot
dumbly speaks of direction,
The stars–the celestial wayfarers–sing in
silent chorus
“Move on, comrades”
in the air floats the voice of the leader
“The goal is nigh.”
IX
The first flash of dawn glistens on the dew
dripping leaves of the forest
The man who reads the sky cries
“Friends! we have come!”
They stop and look around
on both sides of the road the corn is ripe to
the horizon
the glad golden answer of the earth to the
morning light.
The current of dally life moves slowly
between the village
near the hill and the one by the river bank.
The potter’s wheel goes round, the wood-cutter
brings fuel to the market,
The cowherd takes his cattle to the pasture,
And the woman with the pitcher on her head
walks to the well
But where is the king’s castle, the mine of
gold, the
secret book of magic, the sage who knows
love’s utter wisdom?
“The
stars cannot be wrong” assures the reader of the sky.
“Their signal points to that spot.
And reverently he walks to a wayside spring
from which
wells up a stream of water, a liquid light,
Like the morning melting into a chorus of
tears and laughter.
Near it in a palm grove surrounded by a
strange hush stands a leaf-thatched hut,
At whose portal sits the poet of the unknown
shore and sings
“Father!
Open the gate.”
X
A ray of morning strikes aslant at the door.
The assembled crowd feel in their blood the
primeval chant of creation.
“Mother! Open the gate.”
The gate opens. The mother is seated on a
straw bed with the babe on her lap,
Like the dawn with the morning star.
The sun’s ray that was wafting at the door
outside falls on the head of
the child.
The poet strikes his lute and sings out
“Victory to man, the new-born, the
ever-living.
They kneel down, the king and the beggar, the
saint and the sinner, the wise and the fool,
and cry “Victor, to man, the new-born, the ever-living”
The old man from the East murmurs to himself–
“I have seen.”
[Fredrick
Bonn Fisher, while he was in India, was a great friend of Rabindranath Tagore.
When Bishop Fisher was in America,
poet Tagore gave a copy of “The Babe” to C. F. Andrews to be
given over to Bonn Fisher which he has forgotten to do. Then Tagore sent
another copy on 5-12-1930 during his sojourn to U. S. A. in
December 1930 since it was the desire of the poet and C. F. Andrews that Bonn
Fisher should help in its publication.]
While presenting a copy of the poem to Bonn
Fisher, Tagore said, “I am sure that the poem is not mere literature to you but
that it conveys to your heart a living voice of a friend who has often sat by
your side.”
The symbolism of the poem startled Bonn
Fisher in its unmistakably Christian inspiration and Fred asked the poet, “Does
the Babe refer to Christ?” “You may interpret it as you like,” replied the
poet–an enigmatic reply made less non-committal by the fact that it was
addressed to Fred, obviously a Christian Minister–if given leave, would
interpret it as referring to Christ.
Meanwhile during his visit to America, Tagore
read this poem “The Babe” at Carnegie Hall to a large audience and the audience
was deeply impressed. . Macmillans asked the poet to allow them to publish it immediately before Christmas in
1930. But the poet would not allow it, since he awaited the confirmation from
Bonn Fisher.
When the poet had told Fred that he might
interpret it as he liked, Fred could not do other than read it as a tribute
from the great Hindu poet to Christ. The fact that the poet has presented the
poem to him and entrusted to him its publication served as additional evidence
to Fred of the poet’s intent.
The poem has been extracted from the book, Fredric
Bonn Fisher (World Citizen), Macmillan and Co., (1944) a biography of her
husband by Welthy Honsiger
Fisher, the lady of the lamp, who lighted the candle of literacy in India with
unmatched dedication to the cause of eradication of illiteracy through the
Literacy House, Lucknow.
–Janamanchi Kameswara Rao