I travel.. and I hate to travel, leaving the town a sad melancholy feel pervades my soul. I wonder at it. How do others do it? So, again a coincidence, that the first poem that I read from Tagore's compilation was this touching, sad one. The start is of him preparing to leave. I am noting down from the mid part:
Beside the door, wrapped in her thoughts, there sat
My daughter, four years old. On other days
She'd have had her bath before this, and her eyes,
Before she'd swallowed scarce two mouthfuls of
Her mid-day rice, been shut in sleep. Today
Her mother had not seen to her: even now
She had not bathed or eaten, but like a shadow
Hugged my steps all this time, watching each move
With mute unblinking eyes. Worn out at last,
She now sat silently beside the door
With who knows what intent: and when I said
'I'm leaving,little mother,' with sad eyes
And pale look answered, 'I won't let you go.'
She sat where she was, neither clutched my hand
Norshut the door; only declared the right
Born of her heart's love: 'I won't let you go.'
Yet the time came to an end, and she, alas,
Could not but let me
O my foolish girl,
Who are you? Where could you have drawn such strength
To say so boldly, 'I won't let you go'?
Whom in this universe, O arrogant one,
Will you hold back with two small arms, with whom
Grapple, sitting beside the homestead door
With that tired tiny body, ony the store
Of that little love-filled breast? Here on this earth
It befits the wounded spirit, with fear and shame,
Only to utter it's heart's prayer to say
'I do not want to let you go.' Who'll say
'I will not'? Hearing from your infant lips
Your love's proud vaunt, the world, taken with mirth,
Snatched me away; only you, vanquished, sat
Like a painted figure tearfully by the door.
I saw and left, dabbing at my own eyes.
