Play-Sanyasi or the Ascetic

Sanyasi or the Ascetic

SCENE I

SANYASI. {outside the cave}. The division of days and nights is not for me, nor

that of months and years. For me, the stream of time has stopped, on whose waves

dances the world, like straws and twigs. In this dark cave I am alone, merged in

myself,— and the eternal night is still, like a mountain lake afraid of its own

depth. Water oozes and drips from the cracks, and in the pool float the ancient

frogs. I sit chanting the incantation of nothingness. The world's limits recede, line

after line.—The stars, like sparks of fire, flown from the anvil of time, are extinct;

and that joy is mine which comes to the God Shiva, when, after aeons of dream,

he wakes up to Find himself alone in the heart of the infinite annihilation. I am

free, I am the great solitary One. When I was thy slave, O Nature, thou didst set

my heart against itself, and madest it carry the Fierce war of suicide through its

world. Desires, that have no other ends, but to feel upon themselves and all that

comesto their mouths, lashed m into fury. I ran about, madly chasing my shadow.

Thou droves me with thy lightning lashes of pleasure into the void of satiety And

the hungers, who are thy decoys, ever led me into the endless famine, where food

turned into dust, and drink into vapour.

Till, when my world was spotted with tears and ashes, took my oath, that I would

have revenge upon thee, interminable Appearance, mistress of endless disguises. I

took shelter in the darkness,—the castle of the Infinite,— and fought the deceitful

light, day after day, till it lost all its weapons and la powerless at my feet. Now,

when I am free of fear and desire' when the mist has vanished, and my reason

shines pure and bright, let me go out into the kingdom of lies, and sit upon its

heart, untouched and unmoved.

SCENE II

SANYASI. (by the roadside). How small is this earth and confined, watched and

followed by the persistent horizons. The trees, houses, and crowd of things are

pressing upon my eyes. The light, like a cage, has shut out the dark eternity; and

the hours hop and cry within its barriers, like prisoned birds. But why are these

noisy men rushing on, and for what purpose? They seem always afraid of missing

something,— the something that never comes to their hands. (The crowd

passes.)

(Enter a VILLAGE ELDER and two WOMEN.)

FIRST WOMAN. O my, O my! You do make me laugh.

SECOND WOMAN. But who says you are old?

VILLAGE ELDER. There are fools who judge men by their outside.

FIRST WOMAN. How sad! We have been watching your outside from our

infancy. It is just the same all through these years.

VILLAGE ELDER. Like the morning sun.

FIRST WOMAN. Yes, like the morning sun in its shining baldness.

VILIAGE ELDER. Ladies, you are overcritical in your taste. You notice things

that are unessential.

SECOND WOMAN. Leave off your chatter, Ananga. Let us hasten home, or my

man will be angry.

FIRST WOMAN. Good bye, sir. Please judge us from our outside, we won't mind

that. VILLAGE ELDER. Because you have no inside to speak of. [They go.]

[Enter three VILLAGERS.]

FIRST VILLAGER. Insult me? the scoundrel! He shall regret it.

SECOND VILLAGER. He must be taught a thorough lesson.

FIRST VILLAGER. A lesson that will follow him to his grave.

THIRD VILLAGER. Yes, brother, set your heart upon it. Never give him quarter.

SECOND VILLAGER. He has grown too big.

FIRST VILLAGER. Big enough to burst at last.

THIRD VILLAGER. The ants, when they begin to grow wings, perish.

SECOND VILIAGER. But have you got a plan?

FIRST VILIAGER. Not one, but hundreds. I will drive my plough share over his

household.—1 will give him a donkey-ride through the town, with his cheeks

painted white and black. I will make the world too hot for him, and— [They

go.]

(Enter two STUDENTS.)

FIRST STUDENT. I am sure Professor Madhab won in the debate.

SECOND STUDENT. No, it was Professor Janardan.

FIRST STUDENT. Professor Madhab maintained his point to the last. He said

that the subtle is the outcome of the gross.

SECOND STUDENT. But Professor Janardan conclusively proved that the subtle

is the origin of the gross.

FIRST STUDENT. Impossible.

SECOND STUDENT. It is dear as the day-light.

FIRST STUDENT. Seeds come from the tree.

SECOND STUDENT. The tree comes from the seed.

FIRST STUDENT. Sanyasi, which of these is true? Which is the original, the

subtle or the gross?

SANYASI. Neither.

SECOND STUDENT. Neither. Well, that sounds satisfactory.

SANYASI. The origin is the end, and the end is the origin. It is a circle.—The

distinction between the subtle and gross is in your ignorance.

FIRST STUDENT. Well, it sounds very simple—and I think this was what my

master meant.

SECOND STUDENT. Certainly this agrees more with what my master teaches.

[They go out. ]

SANYASI. These birds are word-peckers. When they pick up some wriggling

nonsense, which can fill their mouth, they are happy.

[Enter two FLOWER-GIRLS, singing.]

The weary hours pass by.

The flowers that blossom in the light

Fade and drop in the shadow.

I thought I would weave a garland

In the cool of the morning for my love.

But the morning wears on,

The flowers are not gathered.

And my love is lost.

A WAYFARER. Why such regret, my darlings? When the garlands are ready, the

necks will not be wanting.

FIRST FLOWER-GIRL. Nor the halter.

SECOND FLOWER-GIRL. You are bold. Why do you come so close?

WAYFARER. You quarrel for nothing, my girl. I am far enough from you to

allow an elephant to pass between us.

SECOND FLOWER-GIRL, Indeed. Am I such a fright? Ii wouldn't have eaten

you, if you had come.

[They go out laughing.]

[Comes an old BEGGAR.]

BEGGAR. Kind sirs, have pity on me. May God prosper you. Give me one

handful from your plenty.

[Enters a SOLDIER.]

SOLDIER. Move away. Don't you see the Minister's son is conning? {They go

out.}

SANYASI. It is midday. The sun is growing strong. The sky looks like an

overturned burning copper bowl. The earth breathes hot sighs, and the whirling

sands dance by. What sights of man have I seen! Can I ever again shrink back into

the smallness of these creatures, and become one of them? No, I am free. I have

not this obstacle, this world round me. I live in a pure desolation.

(Enter the girl VASANTI and a WOMAN.)

WOMAN. Girl, you are Raghu's daughter, aren't you? You should keep away

from this road. Don't you know it goes to the temple?

VASANTI. I am on the farthest side, Lady.

WOMAN. But I thought my cloth-end touched you. I am taking my offerings to

the goddess,—1 hope they are not polluted.

VASANTI. I assure you, your cloth did not touch me. [The WOMAN goes.] I am

Vasanti, Raghu's daughter. May I come to you, father?

SANYASI. Why not, child?

VASANTI. I am a pollution, as they call me.

SANYASI. But they are all that,—a pollution. They roll in the dust of existence.

Only he is pure who has washed away the world from his mind. But what have

you done, daughter?

VASANTI. My father, who is dead, had defied their laws and their gods. He

would not perform their rites.

SANYASI. Why do you stand away from me?

VASANTI. Will you touch me?

SANYASI. Yes, because nothing can touch me truly. I am ever away in the

endless. You can sit here, if you wish.

VASANTI [breaking into a sob]. Never tell me to leave you, when once you have

taken me near you.

SANYASI. Wipe away your tears, child. I am a Sanyasi. I have neither hatred, nor

attachment in my heart,—1 never claim you as mine; therefore I can never discard

you. You are to me as this blue sky is,—you are,—yet you are not.

VASANTI. Father, I am deserted by gods and men alike.

SANYASI. So am 1. I have deserted both gods and men.

VASANTI. You have no mother?

SANYASI. No.

VASANTI. Nor father?

SANYASI. NO.

VASANTI. Nor any friend?

SANYASI. No.

VASANTI. Then I shall be with you.—You won't leave me?

SANYASI. I have done with leaving. You can stay near me, yet never coming

near me.

VASANTI. I do not understand you, father. Tell me, is there no shelter for me in

the whole world?

SANYASI. Shelter? Don't you know this world is a bottomless chasm? The

swarm of creatures, corning out from the hole of nothingness, seeks for shelter,

and enters into the gaping mouth of this emptiness, and is lost. These are the

ghosts of lies around you, who hold their market of illusions,—and the foods

which they sell are shadows. They only deceive your hunger, but do not satisfy.

Come away from here, child, come away.

VASANTI. But, father, they seem so happy in this world. Can we not watch them

from the roadside?

SANYASI. Alas, they do not understand. They cannot see that this world is death

spread out to eternity.—It dies every moment, yet never comes to the end.—-And

we, the creatures of this world, live by feeding upon death.

VASANTI. Father, you frighten me.

(Enters a TRAVELLER.)

TRAVELLER. Can I get a shelter near this place?

SANYASI. Shelter there is nowhere, my son, but in the depth of one's self.—Seek

that; hold to it fast, if you would be saved.

TRAVELLER. But I am tired, and want shelter.

VASANTI. My hut is not far from here. Will you come?

TRAVELLER. But who are you?

VASANTI. Must you know me? I am Raghu's daughter.

TRAVELLER. God bless you, child, but I cannot stay. {Goes.}

{Men come bearing somebody on a bed.}

FIRST BEARER. He is still asleep.

SECOND BEARER. How heavy the rascal is!

A TRAVELLER. {outside their group}. Whom do you carry?

THIRD BEARER. Binde, the weaver, was sleeping as one dead, and we have

taken him away.

SECOND BEARER. But I am tired, brothers. Let us give him a shake, and waken

him up.

BINDE. {wakes up}. Ee, a, u—

THIRD BEARER. What's that noise?

BINDE. I say. Who are you? Where am I being carried?

(They put down the bed from their shoulders.)

THIRD BEARER. Can't you keep quiet, like all decent dead people?

SECOND BEARER. The cheek of him! He must talk, even though he is dead.

THIRD BEARER. It would be more proper of you, if you kept still.

BINDE. I am sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, you have made a mistake.—I

was not dead, but fast asleep.

SECOND BEARER. I admire this fellow's impudence. Not only must he die, but

argue.

THIRD BEARER. He won't confess the truth. Let us go, and finish the rites of the

dead.

BINDE. I swear by your beard, my brother, I am as alive as any of you.

(They take him away, laughing.)

SANYASI. The girl has fallen asleep, with her arm beneath her little head; I think

I must leave her now, and go. But, coward, must you run away,—run away from

this tiny thing? These are nature's spiders' webs, they have danger merely for

moths, and not for a Sanyasi like me.

VASANTI. {awaking with a start]. Have you left me. Master?—Have you gone

away?

SANYASI. Why should I go away from you? What fear have I? Afraid of a

shadow?

VASANTI. Do you hear the noise in the road?

SANYASI. But stillness is in my soul.

(Enters a young WOMAN, followed by MEN.)

WOMAN. Go now. Leave me. Don't talk to me of love.

FIRST MAN. Why, what has been my crime?

WOMAN. You men have hearts of stone.

FIRST MAN. Incredible. If our hearts were of stone, how could Cupid’s darts

make damage there?

OTHER MAN. Bravo. Well said.

SECOND MAN. Now, what is your answer to that, my dear?

WOMAN. Answer! You think you have said something very fine,— don't you? It

is perfect rubbish.

FIRST MAN. I leave it to your judgment, gentlemen. What I said was this, that if

our hearts be of stone, how can—

THIRD MAN. Yes, yes, it has no answer at all.

FIRST MAN. Let me explain it to you. She said we men have hearts of stone,

didn't she? Well, I said, in answer, if our hearts were truly of stone, how could

Cupid's darts damage them? You under- stand?

SECOND MAN. Brother, I have been selling molasses in the town for the last

twenty-four years,—do you think I cannot understand what you say? (They

go out.)

SANYASI. What are you doing, my child?

VASANTI. I am looking at your broad palm, father. My hand is a little bird that

finds its nest here. Your palm is great, like the great earth which holds all. These

lines are the rivers, and these are hills.

{Puts her cheek upon it.}

SANYASI. Your touch is soft, my daughter, like the touch of sleep. It seems to

me this touch has something of the great darkness, which touches one's soul with

the wand of the eternal.—But, child, you are the moth of the daylight. You have

your birds and flowers and fields—what can you find in me, who have my centre

in the One and my circumference nowhere?

VASANTI. I do not want anything else. Your love is enough for me.

SANYASI. The girl imagines I love her,—foolish heart. She is happy in that

thought. Let her nourish it. For they have been brought up in illusions, and they

must have illusions to console them.

VASANTI. Father, this creeper trailing on the grass, seeking some tree to twine

itself round, is my creeper. I have tended it and watered it from the time when it

had pushed up only two little leaves into the air, like an infant's cry. This creeper

is me,—it has grown by the road-side, it can be so easily crushed. Do you see

these beautiful little flowers, pale blue with white spots in their hearts,—these

white spots are their dreams. Let me gently brush your forehead with these

flowers. To me, things that are beautiful are the keys to all that I have not seen

and not known..

SANYASI. No, no, the beautiful is mere phantasy. To him who knows, the dust

and the flower are the same.—But what languor is this that is creeping into my

blood and drawing before my eyes a thin mist veil of all the rainbow colours? Is it

nature herself weaving her dreams round me, clouding my senses? (Suddenly he

tears the creeper, and rises up.) No more of this; for this is death.

What game of yours is this with me, little girl? I am a sanyasi, I have cut all my

knots, I am free.—No, no, not those tears. I cannot bear them.—But where was

hidden in my heart this snake, this anger, that hissed out of its dark with its fang?

No, they are not dead,—they outlive starvation. These hell-creatures clatter their

skeletons and dance in my heart, when their mistress, the great witch, plays upon

her magic flute.—Weep not, child, come to me. You seem to me like a cry of a

lost world, like the song of a wandering star. You bring to my mind something,

which is infinitely more than this Nature,—more than the sun and stars. It is as

great as the darkness. I under- stand it not. I have never known it, therefore I fear

it. I must leave you.—Go back whence you came,—the messenger of the

unknown.

VASANTI. Leave me not, father,—1 have none else but you.

SANYASI. I must go, I thought that I had known,—but I do not know. Yet I must

know. I leave you, to know who you are.

VASANTI. Father, if you leave me, I shall die.

SANYASI. Let go my hand. Do not touch me. I must be free.—{He runs away.}

SCENE III

[The SANYASI is seen, sitting upon a boulder in a mountain path.]

(A shepherd boy passes by, singing.)

Do not turn away your face, my love,

The spring has bared open its breast.

The flowers breathe their secrets in the dark.

The rustle of the forest leaves comes across the sky,

Like the sobs of the night.

Come, love, show me your face.

SANYASI. The gold of the evening is melting in the heart of the blue sea. The

forest, on the hillside, is drinking the last cup of the daylight. On the left, the

village huts are seen through the trees with their evening lamps lighted, like a

veiled mother watching by her sleeping children. Nature, thou art my slave. Thou

hast spread thy many-coloured carpet in the great hall where I sit alone, like a

king, and watch thee dance with thy starry necklace twinkling on thy breast.

(Shepherd girls pass by, singing)

The music comes from across the dark river and calls me..

I was in the house and happy,

But the flute sounded in the still air of night,

And a pain pierced my heart.

Oh, tell me the way who know it,—

Tell me the way to him.

I will go to him with my one little flower,

And leave it at his feet,

And tell him that his music is one with my love.

[They go.]

SANYASI. I think such an evening had come to me only once before in all my

births. Then its cup overbrimmed with love and music, and I sat with someone,

the memory of whose face is in that setting star of the evening.—But where is my

little girl, with her dark sad eyes, big with tears? Is she there, sitting outside her

hut, watching that same star through the immense loneliness of the evening? But

the star must set, the evening close her eyes in the night, and tears must cease and

sobs be stilled in sleep. No, I will not go back. Let the world-dreams take their

own shape. Let me not trouble its course and create new phantasies. I will see, and

think, and know.

[Enters a ragged GIRL.]

GIRL. Are you there, father?

SANYASI. Come, child, sit by me. I wish I could own that call of yours.

Someone did call me father, once, and the voice was somewhat like yours. The

father answers now,—but where is that call?

GIRL. Who are you?

SANYASI. I am a sanyasi. Tell, me child, what is your father?

GIRL. He gathers sticks from the forest.

SANYASI. And you have a mother?

GIRL. No. She died when I was young.

SANYASI. Do you love your father?

GIRL. I love him more than anything else in the world. I have no one else but

him.

SANYASI. I understand you. Give me your little hand,—let me hold it in my

palm,—in this big palm of mine.

GIRL. Sanyasi, do you read palms? Can you read in my palm all that I am and

shall be?

SANYASI. I think I can read, but dimly know its meaning. One day, I shall know

it.

GIRL. Now I must go to meet my father.

SANYASL Where?

GIRL. Where the road goes into the forest. He will miss me, if he does not find

me there.

SANYASL. Bring your head near to me, child. Let me give you my kiss of

blessing, before you go.

 [GIRL goes.]

{A MOTHER enters, with two children.}

MOTHER. How stout and chubby Misri's children are. They are something to

look at. But the more I feed you, the more you seem to grow thin every day.

FIRST GIRL. But why do you always blame us for that, mother? Can we help it?

MOTHER. Don't I tell you to take plenty of rest? But you must always be running

about.

SECOND GIRL. But mother, we run about on your errands.

MOTHER. How dare you answer me like that?

SANYASL Where are you going, daughter?

MOTHER. My salutation, father. We are going home.

SANYASL How many are you?

MOTHER. My mother-in- law, and my husband and two other children, beside

these.

SANYASL How do you spend your days?

MOTHER. I hardly know how my days pass. My man goes to the field, and I

have my house to look after. Then, in the evening, I sit to spin with my elder girls.

{To the girls} Go and salute the sanyasi.

Bless them, father. (They go.)

(Enter two MEN.)

FIRST MAN. Friend, go back from here. Do not come any further.

SECOND MAN. Yes, I know. Friends meet in this earth by chance, and the

chance carries us on together some portion of the way, and then comes the

moment when we must part.

SECOND FRIEND. Let us carry away with us the hope that we part to meet

again.

FIRST FRIEND. Our meetings and partings belong to all the movements of the

world. Stars do not take special notice of us.

SECOND FRIEND. Let us salute those stars which did throw us together. If for a

moment, still it has been much.

FIRST FRIEND. Look back for a minute before you go. Can you see that faint

glimmer of the water in the dark, and those casuarina trees on the sandy bank?

Our village is all one heap of dark shadows. You can only see the lights. Can you

guess which of those lights are ours?

SECOND FRIEND. Yes, I think I can.

FIRST FRIEND. That light is the last farewell look of our past days upon their

parting guest. A little further on, and there will remain one blot of darkness.

[They go away. ]

SANYASI. The night grows dark and desolate. It sits like a woman forsaken,—

those stars are her tears, turned into fire. O my child, the sorrow of your little

heart has filled, for ever, all the nights of my life with its sadness. Your dear

caressing hand has left its touch in this night air,—1 feel it on my forehead,—it is

damp with your tears. My darling, your sobs that pursued me, when I fled away,

have clung to my heart. I shall carry them to my death.

SCENE IV

(In the village path.)

SANYASI. Let my vows of sanyasi go. I break my staff and my alms-bowl. This

stately ship, this world, which is crossing the sea of time,— let it take me up

again, let me join once more the pilgrims. O the fool, who wanted to seek safety

in swimming alone and gave up the light of the sun and stars, to pick his way with

his glow- worm's lamp! The bird flies in the sky, not to fly away into the

emptiness, but to come back again to this great earth.—1 am free. I am free from

the bodiless chain of the Nay. I am free among things, and forms and purpose.

The finite is the true infinite, and love knows its truth. My girl, you are the spirit

of all that is,—I can never leave you.

(Enters a VILLAGE ELDER.)

SANYASI. Do you know, brother, where Raghu's daughter is?

ELDER. She has left her village, and we are glad.

SANYASI. Where has she gone?

ELDER. Do you ask where? It is all one to her where she goes. {Goes out. }

SANYASI. My darling has gone to seek a somewhere in the emptiness of

nowhere. She must find me.

(A crowd OF VILLAGERS enter.)

FIRST MAN. So our King's son is going to be married to-night.

SECOND MAN. Can you tell me, when is the wedding hour?

THIRD MAN. The wedding hour is only for the bride-groom and the bride. What

have we got to do with it?

A WOMAN. But won't they give us cakes for the happy day?

FIRST MAN. Cakes? You are silly. My uncle lives in the town—I have heard

from him that we shall have curds and parched rice.

SECOND MAN. Grand.

FOURTH MAN. But we shall have a great deal more water than curds. You may

be sure of that.

FIRST MAN. Moti, you are a dull fellow. Water in the curds at a prince's

wedding!

FOURTH MAN. But we are not princes ourselves, Panchu. For us, poor people,

the curds have the trick of turning into water most parts.

FIRST MAN. Look there. That son of the charcoal-burner is still busy with his

work. We mustn't allow that.

SECOND MAN. We shall burn him into charcoal, if he does not come out.

SANYASI. Do you know, any of you, where is Raghu's daughter?

THE WOMAN. She has gone away.

SANYASI. Where?

WOMAN. That we don't know.

FIRST MAN. But we are sure that she is not the bride for our prince. {They laugh

and go out.}

{Enters a WOMAN, with a child.}

WOMAN. My obeisance to you, father. Let my child touch your feet with his

head. He is sick. Bless him, father.

SANYASI. But, daughter, I am no longer a sanyasi. Do not mock me with your

salutation.

WOMAN. Then who are you? What are you doing?

SANYASI. I am seeking.

WOMAN. Seeking whom?

SANYASI. Seeking my lost world back.—Do you know Raghu's daughter?

Where is she?

WOMAN. Raghu's daughter? She is dead.

SANYASI. No, she cannot be dead. No. No.

WOMAN. But what is her death to you. Sanyasi?

SANYASI. Not only to me; it would be death to all.

WOMAN. I do not understand you.

SANYASI. She can never be dead.

          

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