THE SANTAL woman hurries up and down the gravelled path under the shimool tree; a coarse grey sari closely twines her slender limbs, dark and compact; its red border sweeping across the air with the flaming red magic of the palash flower. Some absent-minded divine designer, while fashioning a black bird with the stuff of the July cloud and the lightning flash, must have improvised unawares this woman's form; her impulsive wings hidden within, her nimble steps uniting in them a woman's walk and a bird's flight. With a few lacquer bangles on her exquisitely modelled arms and a basket full of loose earth on her head, she flits across the gravel-red path under the shimool tree. The lingering winter has finished its errand. The casual breath of the south is beginning to tease the austerity of the cold month. On the himjhuri branches the leaves are taking the golden tint of a rich decay. The ripe fruits are strewn over the amlaki grove where the rowdy boys crowd to pillage them. Swarms of dead leaves and dust are capering in a ghastly whirl following sudden caprices of the wind. The building of my mud house has commenced and labourers are busy raising the walls. The distant whistle announces the passing of the train along the railway cutting, and the dingdong of the bell is heard from the neighbouring school. I sit on my terrace watching the young woman foiling at her task hour after hour. My heart is touched with shame when I feel that the woman's service sacredly ordained for her loved ones, its dignity soiled by the market price, should have been robbed by me with the help of a few pieces of copper.
WHEN, MAD IN their mirth, they raised dust to soil thy robe, 0 Beautiful, it made my heart sick. I cried to thee and said, 'Take thy rod of punishment and judge them.' The morning light struck upon those eyes, red with the revel of night; the place of the white lily greeted their burning breath; the stars through the depth of the sacred dark stared at their carousing-at those that raised dust to soil thy robe, 0 Beautiful! Thy judgment seat was in the flower garden, in the birds' notes in springtime: in the shady river-banks, where the trees muttered in answer to the muttering of the waves. 0 my Lover, they were pitiless in their passion. They prowled in the dark to snatch thy ornaments to deck their own desires. When they had struck thee and thou wert pained, it pierced me to the quick, and I cried to thee and said. Take thy sword, 0 my Lover, and judge them!' Ah, but thy justice was vigilant. A mother's tears were shed on their insolence; the imperishable faith of a lover hid their spears of rebellion in its own wounds. Thy judgment was in the mute pain of sleepless love: in the blush of the chaste: in the tears of the night of the desolate: in the pale morning- light of forgiveness. 0 Terrible, they in their reckless greed climbed thy gate at night, breaking into thy storehouse to rob thee. But the weight of their plunder grew immense, too heavy to carry or to remove. Thereupon I cried to thee and said. Forgive them, 0 Terrible! Thy forgiveness burst in storms, throwing them down, scattering their thefts in the dust. Thy forgiveness was in the thunder-stone; in the shower of blood; in the angry red of the sunset
