UPAGUPTA, THE disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?
He woke up startled, and the light from a woman's lamp struck his forgiving eyes.
It was the dancing girl, starred with jewels, clouded with a pale-blue mantle, drunk with the wine of her youth.
She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.
'Forgive me, young ascetic,' said the woman; 'graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you.'
The ascetic answered, 'Woman, go on your way; when the time is ripe I will come to you.'
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman
trembled in fear.
The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossom.
Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.
The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.
From the mid-sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking in the lonely street, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaint
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.
What woman lay in the shadow of the wall at his feet, struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, hurriedly driven away from the town?
The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.
'Who are you, merciful one?' asked the woman.
'The time, at last, has come lo visit you, and I am here,' replied the young ascetic.

THIS LONGING TO meet in the play of love, my Lover, is not only mine but yours.
        Your lips can smile, your flute make music, only through delight in my love; therefore you are importunate even as 1.
I SIT HERE on the road; do not ask me to walk further.
        If your love can be complete without mine let me turn back from seeking you.
        I refuse to beg a sight of you if you do not feel my need.
        I am blind with market dust and mid-day glare, and so wait, in hopes that your heart, my heart's lover, will send you to find me.
I AM POURED forth in living notes of joy and sorrow by your breath.
        Mornings and evenings in summer and in rains, I am fashioned to music.
        Should I be wholly spent in some flight of song, I shall not grieve, the tune is so dear to me.
MY HEART is a flute he has played on. If ever it fall into other hands let him fling it away.
IN LOVE THE aim is neither pain nor pleasure but love only.
        While free love binds, division destroys it, for love is what unites.
        Love is lit from love as fire from fire, but whence came the first flame?
        In your being it leaps under the rod of pain.
        Then, when the hidden fire flames forth, the in and the out are one and all barriers fall in ashes.
        Let the pain glow fiercely, burst from the heart and beat back darkness, need you be afraid?
        The poet says, 'Who can buy love without paying its price? When you fail to give yourself you make the whole world miserly.'
EVES SEE ONLY dust and earth, but feel with the heart, and know pure joy.
        The delights blossom on all sides in every form, but where is your heart's thread to make a wreath of them?
        My master's flute sounds through all things, drawing me out of my lodgings wherever they may be, and while I listen I know that every step I take is in my master's house.
        For he is the sea, he is the river that leads to the sea, and he is the landing-place.
STRANGE WAYS has my guest.
        He comes at times when I am unprepared, yet how can I refuse him?
        I watch all night with lighted lamp; he stays away; when the light goes out and the room is bare he comes claiming his seat, and can I keep him waiting?
        I laugh and make merry with friends, then suddenly I start up, for lo! he passes me by in sorrow, and I know my mirth was vain.
        I have often seen a smile in his eyes when my heart ached, then I knew my sorrow was not real.
        Yet I never complain when I do not understand him.
        I AM THE BOAT, you are the sea, and also the boatman.
        Though you never make the shore, though you let me sink, why should I be foolish and afraid?
        Is reaching the shore a greater prize than losing myself with you?
        If you are only the haven, as they say, then what is the sea?
        Let it surge and toss me on its waves, I shall be content.
        I live in you whatever and however you appear. Save me or kill me as you wish, only never leave me in other hands.
MAKE WAY, O bud, make way, burst open thy heart and make way.
        The opening spirit has overtaken thee, canst thou remain a bud any longer?

পঞ্চাশোর্ধ্বে বনে যাবে
        এমন কথা শাস্ত্রে বলে,
আমরা বলি বানপ্রস্থ
        যৌবনেতেই ভালো চলে।
বনে এত বকুল ফোটে,
        গেয়ে মরে কোকিল পাখি,
লতাপাতার অন্তরালে
        বড়ো সরস ঢাকাঢাকি।
চাঁপার শাখে চাঁদের আলো,
        সে সৃষ্টি কি কেবল মিছে?
এ-সব যারা বোঝে তারা
        পঞ্চাশতের অনেক নীচে।
                পঞ্চাশোর্ধ্বে বনে যাবে
                      এমন কথা শাস্ত্রে বলে,
                 আমরা বলি বানপ্রস্থ
                      যৌবনেতেই ভালো চলে।
ঘরের মধ্যে বকাবকি,
নানান মুখে নানা কথা।
হাজার লোকে নজর পাড়ে,
            একটুকু নাই বিরলতা।
সময় অল্প, ফুরায় তাও
            অরসিকের আনাগোনায়--
ঘণ্টা ধরে থাকেন তিনি
            সৎপ্রসঙ্গ-আলোচনায়।
হতভাগ্য নবীন যুবা
            কাছেই থাকে বনের খোঁজে,
ঘরের মধ্যে মুক্তি যে নেই
        এ কথা সে বিশেষ বোঝে।
                 পঞ্চাশোর্ধ্বে বনে যাবে
                       এমন কথা শাস্ত্রে বলে,
                  আমরা বলি বানপ্রস্থ
                         যৌবনেতেই ভালো চলে।
আমরা সবাই নব্যকালের
       সভ্য যুবা অনাচারী,
মনুর শাস্ত্র শুধরে দিয়ে
       নতুন বিধি করব জারি--
বুড়ো থাকুন ঘরের কোণে,
       পয়সাকড়ি করুন জমা,
দেখুন বসে বিষয়-পত্র,
        চালান মামলা-মকদ্দমা,
ফাগুন-মাসে লগ্ন দেখে
        যুবারা যাক বনের পথে,
রাত্রি জেগে সাধ্যসাধন
        থাকুক রত কঠিন ব্রতে ।
                     পঞ্চাশোর্ধ্বে বনে যাবে
                           এমন কথা শাস্ত্রে বলে,
                      আমরা বলি বানপ্রস্থ
                           যৌবনেতেই ভালো চলে।