Ungrateful Sorrow

At dawn she departed.
My mind tried to console me - "Everything is Maya".
Angrily I replied: "Here's this sewing box on the table, that flower-pot on the terrace, this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed -- all these are real."

My mind said: "Yet, think again."
I rejoined: "You better stop.
Look at this storybook, the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves, signaling the rest is unread;
If all these things are "Maya", then why should she be more unreal?"

My mind becomes silent.
A friend arrived and says: "That which is good is real; it is never non-existent;
the entire world preserves and cherishes it in its chest, like a precious jewel in a necklace."

I replied in anger: "How do you know? Is a body not good? Where did that body go?"
Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother, I began to strike at everything in this world that gave me shelter.
And I screamed:" The world is treacherous."

Suddenly, I was startled. It seemed like someone admonished me : "You ungrateful!"
I looked at the crescent moon hidden behind the tamarind tree outside my window,
as if the dear departed one is smiling and playing hide-and-seek with me.

From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars came a rebuke:
"When I let you grasp me you call it an deception, and yet when I remain concealed,
why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction?"

~ A poem by Rabindranath Tagore

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