Forsake

"It was the first new moon night of the month of Phalgun. Fresh spring breeze, carrying the scent of mango buds, wafted through the sky. A thick foliage of an old litchi tree stood by the edge of the pond. From inside this grove, notes of a nightingale, awake and untiring, floated into the sleepless bedchamber of the Mukherjees’. Inside the room, Hemanta sometimes restlessly played with his wife's hair, freeing the strands from her bun and twisted them around his fingers. Sometimes he played with her bangles and bracelets to produce clinking sounds. And sometimes he pulled the band of flowers on her head and placed them over her face. His mood was somewhat akin to that evening breeze that sports with the unmoving flowering tree—gently shaking from side to side in an attempt to arouse it.

Kusum, however, sat motionlessly, unaffected by the adoration showered by her husband."

Rabindranath Tagore was the poet, writer and thinker who was the first Indian to win the Nobel Prize for the country. This is one of his story, translated in English by Riddhi Maitra.

Þýðendur: Riddhi Maitra

Útgáfudagur

Hljóðbók: 16 september 2020