CHRISTMAS IN INDIA
Dim dawn behind the tamarisks - the sky is
saffron-yellow -
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to
his fellow
That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born.
O the white dust on the highway! O the stenches
in the byway!
O the clammy fog that hovers over the earth!
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white
and scarlet berry -
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?
Full day behind the tamarisks - the sky is blue
and staring -
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all
hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a
brother lowly -
Call on Rama - he may hear, perhaps your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal
to other altars,
And to-day we bid 'good Christian men rejoice!'
High noon behind the tamarisks - the sun is hot
above us -
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
they will drink our healths at dinner - those who tell
us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
O the toil that knows no breaking! O the
Heimweh, ceaseless aching!
O the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap - wherefore we sold it. Gold
was good - we hoped to hold it.
And to-day we know the fulness of our gain!
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks - the parrots fly
together -
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And this last ray seems to mock us shackled in a
lifelong tether
That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment - she in
ancient, tattered raiment -
India, she the grim Stephmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine
we enter,
The door is shut - we may not look behind.
Black night behind the tamarisks - the owls begin
their chorus -
As the conches from the temple scream and bray,
With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless
years before us,
Let us honour, O my brothers, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labours - let us feast
with friends and neighbours,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For, if 'faint and forced the laughter', and if
sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
R.K.
