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.

চিন্তাহরণ দালালের বাড়ি
            গিয়ে
একশো টাকার একখানি নোট
            দিয়ে
তিনখানা নোট আনে সে
            দশ টাকার।
কাগজ্‌-গন্‌তি মুনফা যতই
            বাড়ে
টাকার গন্‌তি লক্ষ্মী ততই
            ছাড়ে,
কিছুতে বুঝিতে পারে না
            দোষটা কার।

WHEN OUR farewell moment came, like a low-hanging rain cloud, I had only time to tie a red ribbon on your wrist, while my hands trembled. Today I sit alone on the grass in the season of mahua flowers, with one quivering question in my mind, 'Do you still keep the little red ribbon tied on your wrist?'
You went by the narrow road that skirted the blossoming field of flax. I saw that my garland of overnight was still hanging loose from your hair. But why did you not wait till I could gather, in the morning, new flowers for my final gift? I wonder if unaware it dropped on your way,-the garland hanging loose from your hair.
Many a song I had sung to you, morning and evening, and the last one you carried in your voice when you went away. You never tarried to hear the one song unsung I had for you alone and for ever. I wonder if, at last, you are tired of my song that you hummed to yourself while walking through the field.