The Martyr-King
Speak again of the Indians and of India— one blade of her grass no garden can outmatch;
speak of her in whose mosques the tumult has died, of her in whose temples the fire is quenched,
of her for whose sake I gave my blood, whose memory I have nursed in my soul.
From my grief you may guess at her grief; alas, for the beloved who knows no more the lover!
Zinda-Rud
The Indians reject the statutes of Europe, they are immune to Europe’s magic charms;
alien laws are a heavy burden on the soul even though they descend from heaven itself.
The Martyr-King
How man grows from a handful of dust with a heart, and with desire in that heart!
His concern is to taste the delight of rebellion, not to behold anything but himself;
for without rebellion the self is unattainable, and while the self is not attained, defeat is inevitable
You have visited my city and my land, you have rubbed your eyes upon my tomb;
you who know the limits of all creation, in Deccan have you seen any trace of life?
Zinda-Rud
I scattered the seeds of my tears in Deccan; tulips are growing from the soil of that garden;
the river Cauvery unceasing on its journey— in its soul I have beheld a new commotion.
The Martyr-King
You who have been endowed with heart illumining words, I burn still with the fever of your tears.
The incessant digging of the nails of the initiates has opened a river of blood from the veins of the lute.
That melody which issues out of your soul imparts to every breast an inward fire.
I was in the presence of the Lord of All, without whom no path can be traversed;
though there none may dare to speak, and the spirit’s only occupation is to behold,
I was afire with the ardour of your verses and some of your thoughts came on my tongue.
He said, ‘Whose is this verse which you recited? In it pulses the true vibration of life’.
With the same ardour, congenial to the soul, convey from me one or two words to the Cauvery.
You, Zinda-Rud, ‘living stream’, he too a living stream— sweeter sounds melody interwoven with melody