The Victory by Rabindranath Tagore
She was the Princess Ajita. And the court poet of King Narayan had never
seen her. On the day he recited a new poem to the king he would raise his
voice just to that pitch which could be heard by unseen hearers in the
screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up his song towards the
star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light, the planet who
ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken.
He would espy some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound would
come to his car from afar, and would set him dreaming of the ankles whose
tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy red tender feet that
walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the fallen! The poet had
placed them on the altar of his heart, where he wove his songs to the tune
of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in his mind as to whose shadow it
was that moved behind the screen, and whose anklets they were that sang to
the time of his beating heart.
Manjari, the maid of the princess, passed by the poet's house on her way
to the river, and she never missed a day to have a few words with him on
the sly. When she found the road deserted, and the shadow of dusk on the
land, she would boldly enter his room, and sit at the corner of his
carpet. There was a suspicion of an added care in the choice of the colour
of her veil, in the setting of the flower in her hair.
People smiled and whispered at this, and they were not to blame. For
Shekhar the poet never took the trouble to hide the fact that these
meetings were a pure joy to him.
The meaning of her name was the spray of flowers. One must confess that
for an ordinary mortal it was sufficient in its sweetness. But Shekhar
made his own addition to this name, and called her the Spray of Spring
Flowers. And ordinary mortals shook their heads and said, Ah, me!
In the spring songs that the poet sang the praise of the spray of spring
flowers was conspicuously reiterated; and the king winked and smiled at
him when he heard it, and the poet smiled in answer.
The king would put him the question; "Is it the business of the bee merely
to hum in the court of the spring?"
The poet would answer; "No, but also to sip the honey of the spray of
And they all laughed in the king's hall. And it was rumoured that the
Princess Akita also laughed at her maid's accepting the poet's name for
her, and Manjari felt glad in her heart.
Thus truth and falsehood mingle in life—and to what God builds man
adds his own decoration.
Only those were pure truths which were sung by the poet. The theme was
Krishna, the lover god, and Radha, the beloved, the Eternal Man and the
Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from the beginning of time, and the
joy without end. The truth of these songs was tested in his inmost heart
by everybody from the beggar to the king himself. The poet's songs were on
the lips of all. At the merest glimmer of the moon and the faintest
whisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth in the land from
windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows of the wayside
trees, in numberless voices.
Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the
hearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on her
way to the river—the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, and
the tiny golden bells tinkled from afar.
Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path of
conquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He stood
before the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He had
challenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory had
The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you welcome."
Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied: "Sire, I ask for war."
Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the
muse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of the
famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his proud head
tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.
With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The
theatre was filled with the crowd.
The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned it
with a slight toss of his head, and turned his face towards his circle of
adoring followers with a meaning smile. Shekhar cast his glance towards
the screened balcony high above, and saluted his lady in his mind, saying!
"If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thy victorious name
shall be glorified."
The trumpet sounded. The great crowd stood up, shouting victory to the
king. The king, dressed in an ample robe of white, slowly came into the
hall like a floating cloud of autumn, and sat on his throne.
Pundarik stood up, and the vast hall became still. With his head raised
high and chest expanded, he began in his thundering voice to recite the
praise of King Narayan. His words burst upon the walls of the hall like
breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle against the ribs of the
listening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied meanings to the name
Narayan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his verses in all
mariner of combinations, took away the breath of his amazed hearers.
For some minutes after he took his seat his voice continued to vibrate
among the numberless pillars of the king's court and in thousands of
speechless hearts. The learned professors who had come from distant lands
raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo!
The king threw a glance on Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raised
for a moment his eyes full of pain towards his master, and then stood up
like a stricken deer at bay. His face was pale, his bashfulness was almost
that of a woman, his slight youthful figure, delicate in its outline,
seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to break out in music at the least
His head was bent, his voice was low, when he began. The first few verses
were almost inaudible. Then he slowly raised his head, and his clear sweet
voice rose into the sky like a quivering flame of fire. He began with the
ancient legend of the kingly line lost in the haze of the past, and
brought it down through its long course of heroism and matchless
generosity to the present age. He fixed his gaze on the king's face, and
all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the royal house rose
like incense in his song, and enwreathed the throne on all sides. These
were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat: "My master, I may
be beaten in play of words, but not in my love for thee."
Tears filled the eyes of the hearers, and the stone walls shook with cries
Mocking this popular outburst of feeling, with an august shake of his head
and a contemptuous sneer, Pundarik stood up, and flung this question to
the assembly; "What is there superior to words?" In a moment the hall
lapsed into silence again.
Then with a marvellous display of learning, he proved that the Word was in
the beginning, that the Word was God. He piled up quotations from
scriptures, and built a high altar for the Word to be seated above all
that there is in heaven and in earth. He repeated that question in his
mighty voice: "What is there superior to words?"
Proudly he looked around him. None dared to accept his challenge, and he
slowly took his seat like a lion who had just made a full meal of its
victim. The pandits shouted, Bravo! The king remained silent with wonder,
and the poet Shekhar felt himself of no account by the side of this
stupendous learning. The assembly broke up for that day.
Next day Shekhar began his song. It was of that day when the pipings of
love's flute startled for the first time the hushed air of the Vrinda
forest. The shepherd women did not know who was the player or whence came
the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from the heart of the south wind,
and sometimes from the straying clouds of the hilltops. It came with a
message of tryst from the land of the sunrise, and it floated from the
verge of sunset with its sigh of sorrow. The stars seemed to be the stops
of the instrument that flooded the dreams of the night with melody. The
music seemed to burst all at once from all sides, from fields and groves,
from the shady lanes and lonely roads, from the melting blue of the sky,
from the shimmering green of the grass. They neither knew its meaning nor
could they find words to give utterance to the desire of their hearts.
Tears filled their eyes, and their life seemed to long for a death that
would be its consummation.
Shekhar forgot his audience, forgot the trial of his strength with a
rival. He stood alone amid his thoughts that rustled and quivered round
him like leaves in a summer breeze, and sang the Song of the Flute. He had
in his mind the vision of an image that had taken its shape from a shadow,
and the echo of a faint tinkling sound of a distant footstep.
He took his seat. His hearers trembled with the sadness of an indefinable
delight, immense and vague, and they forgot to applaud him. As this
feeling died away Pundarik stood up before the throne and challenged his
rival to define who was this Lover and who was the Beloved. He arrogantly
looked around him, he smiled at his followers and then put the question
again: "Who is Krishna, the lover, and who is Radha, the beloved?"
Then he began to analyse the roots of those names,—and various
interpretations of their meanings. He brought before the bewildered
audience all the intricacies of the different schools of metaphysics with
consummate skill. Each letter of those names he divided from its fellow,
and then pursued them with a relentless logic till they fell to the dust
in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a meaning never before
imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers.
The pandits were in ecstasy; they applauded vociferously; and the crowd
followed them, deluded into the certainty that they had witnessed, that
day, the last shred of the curtains of Truth torn to pieces before their
eyes by a prodigy of intellect. The performance of his tremendous feat so
delighted them that they forgot to ask themselves if there was any truth
behind it after all.
The king's mind was overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere was completely
cleared of all illusion of music, and the vision of the world around
seemed to be changed from its freshness of tender green to the solidity of
a high road levelled and made hard with crushed stones.
To the people assembled their own poet appeared a mere boy in comparison
with this giant, who walked with such case, knocking down difficulties at
each step in the world of words and thoughts. It became evident to them
for the first time that the poems Shekhar wrote were absurdly simple, and
it must be a mere accident that they did not write them themselves. They
were neither new, nor difficult, nor instructive, nor necessary.
The king tried to goad his poet with keen glances, silently inciting him
to make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed to
The king in anger came down from his throne—took off his pearl chain
and put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From the
upper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling robes and
waist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and left
It was a dark night of waning moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS.
from his shelves and heaped them on the floor. Some of them contained his
earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over the
pages, reading passages here and there. They all seemed to him poor and
trivial—mere words and childish rhymes!
One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel
containing fire, and said: "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire! Thou
hast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life were a
piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is a trodden
turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful of ashes."
The night wore on. Shekhar opened wide his windows. He spread upon his bed
the white flowers that he loved, the jasmines, tuberoses and
chrysanthemums, and brought into his bedroom all the lamps he had in his
house and lighted them. Then mixing with honey the juice of some poisonous
root he drank it and lay down on his bed.
Golden anklets tinkled in the passage outside the door, and a subtle
perfume came into the room with the breeze.
The poet, with his eyes shut, said; "My lady, have you taken pity upon
your servant at last and come to see him?"
The answer came in a sweet voice "My poet, I have come."
Shekhar opened his eyes—and saw before his bed the figure of a
His sight was dim and blurred. And it seemed to him that the image made of
a shadow that he had ever kept throned in the secret shrine of his heart
had come into the outer world in his last moment to gaze upon his face.
The woman said; "I am the Princess Ajita."
The poet with a great effort sat up on his bed.
The princess whispered into his car: "The king has not done you justice.
It was you who won at the combat, my poet, and I have come to crown you
with the crown of victory."
She took the garland of flowers from her own neck, and put it on his hair,
and the poet fell down upon his bed stricken by death.