IT IS WRITTEN in the book, that Man, when fifty, must leave the noisy world, to go to the forest seclusion. But the poet proclaims that only for the young is the forest hermitage. For it is the birth-place of flowers, and the haunt of birds and bees; and hidden nooks are waiting there for the thrill of lover's whispers. There the moonlight, that is all one kiss for the malati flowers, has its deep message, but those who understand it are far below fifty. And alas, youth is inexperienced and wilful, therefore it is but meet, that the old should take charge of the household, and the young take to the seclusion of forest shades, and the severe discipline of courting.
অপরাহ্নে এসেছিল জন্মবাসরের আমন্ত্রণে পাহাড়িয়া যত। একে একে দিল মোরে পুষ্পের মঞ্জরি নমস্কারসহ। ধরণী লভিয়াছিল কোন্ ক্ষণে প্রস্তর আসনে বসি বহু যুগ বহ্নিতপ্ত তপস্যার পরে এই বর, এ পুষ্পের দান, মানুষের জন্মদিনে উৎসর্গ করিবে আশা করি। সেই বর, মানুষেরে সুন্দরের সেই নমস্কার আজি এল মোর হাতে আমার জন্মের এই সার্থক স্মরণ। নক্ষত্রে-খচিত মহাকাশে কোথাও কি জ্যোতিঃসম্পদের মাঝে কখনো দিয়েছে দেখা এ দুর্লভ আশ্চর্য সম্মান।
I REMEMBER the day. The heavy shower of rain is slackening into fitful pauses, renewed gusts of wind startle it from a first lull. I take up my instrument. Idly I touch the strings, till, without my knowing, the music borrows the mad cadence of that storm. I see her figure as she steals from her work, stops at my door, and retreats with hesitating steps. She comes again, stands outside leaning against the wall, then slowly enters the room and sits down. With head bent, she plies her needle in silence; but soon stops her work, and looks out of the window through the rain at the blurred line of trees. Only this-one hour of a rainy noon filled with shadows and song and silence.
