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.

THOU ART THE ruler of the minds of all people,
Thou Dispenser of India's destiny.
Thy name rouses the hearts
of the Punjab, Sind, Gujarat and Maratha,
of Dravida, Orissa and Bengal.
It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas,
mingles in the music of Jumna and Ganges.
and is chanted by the waves of the Indian Sea.
They pray for thy blessing and sing thy praise,
Thou dispenser of India's destiny,
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee.
Day and night, thy voice goes out-from land to land,
Calling Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs and Jains round thy throne
and Parsees, Mussalmans and Christians.
Offerings are brought to thy shrine by the East and the West
to be woven in a garland of love.
Thou bringest the hearts of all peoples into the harmony of one life,
Thou Dispenser of India's destiny,
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee.
Eternal Charioteer, thou drivest man's history
along the road rugged with rises and falls of Nations.
Amidst all tribulations and terror
thy trumpet sounds to hearten those that despair and droop,
and guide all people in their paths of peril and pilgrimage.
Thou Dispenser of India's destiny,
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee.
When the long dreary, night was dense with gloom
and the country lay still in a stupor,
thy Mother's arms held her,
thy wakeful eyes bent upon her face,
till she was rescued from the dark evil dreams
that oppressed her spirit,
Thou Dispenser of India's destiny,
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee.
The night dawns, the sun rises in the East,
the birds sing, the morning breeze brings a stir of new life.
Touched by golden rays of thy love
India wakes up and bends her head at thy feet.
Thou King of all Kings,
Thou Dispenser of India's destiny,
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee.

দুঃসহ দুঃখের বেড়াজালে
মানবেরে দেখি যবে নিরুপায়,
ভাবিয়া না পাই মনে,
সান্ত্বনা কোথায় আছে তার।
আপনারি মূঢ়তায়, আপনারি রিপুর প্রশ্রয়ে
এ দুঃখের মূল জানি;
সে জানায় আশ্বাস না পাই।
এ কথা যখন জানি,
মানবচিত্তের সাধনায়
গূঢ় আছে যে সত্যের রূপ
সেই সত্য সুখ দুঃখ সবের অতীত
তখন বুঝিতে পারি,
আপন আত্মায় যারা
ফলবান করে তারে
তারাই চরম লক্ষ্য মানবসৃষ্টির;
একমাত্র তারা আছে, আর কেহ নাই;
আর যারা সবে
মায়ার প্রবাহে তারা ছায়ার মতন--
দুঃখ তাহাদের সত্য নহে,
সুখ তাহাদের বিড়ম্বনা,
তাহাদের ক্ষতব্যথা দারুণ আকৃতি ধ'রে
প্রতি ক্ষণে লুপ্ত হয়ে যায়,
ইতিহাসে চিহ্ন নাহি রাখে।