[adapted]

by
Rabindranath Tagore

My cousin and I were coming back to Calcutta from our Puja holiday when we met a man on the train. Because of his clothes and how he looked, we first thought he was a Muslim from northern India. But when he started to talk, we were confused. He spoke about everything with such confidence that it felt like God Himself asked for his advice before doing anything.

Before meeting him, we had been happy. We didn’t know that strange and secret forces were working in the world. We didn’t know that the Russians were very close to us, or that the British had deep and secret plans, or that the Indian kings were fighting with each other. But this new man smiled and said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than your newspapers talk about.”

Since we had never traveled before, we were amazed by this man. No matter how small the topic was, he would talk about science, or the ancient Hindu books (the Vedas), or read us poems from Persian writers. And because we didn’t know anything about science, or the Vedas, or Persian poems, we were more and more impressed. My cousin, who believed in Theosophy (a kind of spiritual science), was sure this man was getting power from some strange “magnetism,” or “spiritual force,” or maybe an “astral body”. He listened to every word with excitement, as if it was something holy, and secretly wrote down what the man said. I think the man noticed this and was pleased.

When the train stopped at the junction, we went to the waiting room to wait for the next train. It was 10 p.m. We heard that the train would be very late, because something was wrong with the tracks. I put my blanket on the table and got ready to sleep. But the strange man started to tell us a story. After that, I couldn’t sleep all night.

“When I had a disagreement about some rules at my job in Junagarh, I left my post. Then I got a new job with the Nizam (a ruler) of Hydria. They gave me a new post quickly because I was young and strong. I became the collector of cotton tax in a place called Barich.

Barich is a beautiful place. The Susta River runs through it, making noise over the rocks and small stones. It moves like a dancing girl through the forest near the quiet hills. A stone staircase with 150 steps goes up from the river. At the top of the stairs, near the water and at the bottom of the hills, there is a big, empty marble palace. No one lives near it. The village and the cotton market are far away.”

About 250 years ago, the Emperor Mahmud Shah II built this lonely palace for his own pleasure and luxury. In those days, rose-scented water would spray from its fountains. On the cool marble floors of the rooms, where the water made the air fresh, young Persian girls would sit. Their long hair hung loose before they went to bathe. They splashed their soft bare feet in the clear water and sang songs from their home, playing soft music on a guitar.

Now, the fountains do not work. The songs have stopped. No more white feet walk across the white marble floors. Today, the palace is just a big, empty building for tax collectors like me—men who are lonely and have no company, especially not from women.

An old man named Karim Khan, the clerk at my office, warned me many times not to sleep in that house. “You can work there during the day,” he said, “but don’t stay there at night.” I just laughed and didn’t listen. The servants agreed to work until it got dark, but they all left in the evening. The place had such a bad reputation that even thieves were afraid to go there after sunset.

At first, the silence of the empty palace felt like a bad dream. I would stay outside and work hard as long as I could. Then I came back home at night, tired, and went straight to sleep.

But after less than a week, the house began to feel strangely attractive. It’s hard to explain, and people may not believe me—but it felt like the palace was alive in some way. It was slowly pulling me in, like it was digesting me the way a stomach digests food, using some invisible, sleepy force.

Maybe this started the first day I came there. But I clearly remember the first time I noticed it.

It was early summer, and business was quiet, so I had no work. Just before sunset, I was sitting in a chair near the river at the bottom of the steps. The Susta River was low, and I could see the sandy riverbank on the other side glowing in the evening light. On my side, the water was so clear that I could see shiny pebbles under it. There was no wind, and the still air smelled strongly of the spicy plants growing on the nearby hills.

As the sun went behind the hills, a dark shadow quickly fell across everything. The hills made the sunset short, with little time between light and dark. I thought of going out for a ride and was about to stand up—when I heard footsteps behind me on the steps.

I turned to look.

No one was there.

As I sat down again, thinking it was just my imagination, I heard many footsteps, as if a large group of people were running down the steps. A strange feeling of joy mixed with fear ran through my body. I didn’t see anyone, but it felt like a group of happy young women were coming down the steps to bathe in the Susta River that summer evening. Everything was silent—the valley, the river, and the palace. But I clearly heard the girls’ cheerful laughter, like the sound of a spring bubbling over rocks, as they ran past me, chasing one another playfully, not noticing me at all. I couldn’t see them, and it seemed they couldn’t see me either.

The river looked still and quiet, but I felt like many hands with bracelets were splashing in the water. I imagined the girls laughing and playing, throwing water at each other, their feet kicking up the small waves into little fountains of pearls.

My heart beat quickly. I don’t know if I felt fear, joy, or just curiosity. I really wanted to see them more clearly, but I couldn’t. I thought I might hear what they were saying if I listened closely—but no matter how hard I tried, all I heard was the chirping of bugs in the woods. It felt like a dark curtain of 250 years stood in front of me. I wanted to lift a little corner of it and peek through, even though everything on the other side was lost in darkness.

Suddenly, a gust of wind broke the heavy stillness of the evening. The surface of the Susta rippled like a woman’s flowing hair. From the dark woods came a soft sound, like the forest waking up from a deep black dream. Whether it was real or just a dream, the magical scene disappeared in a second. The ghostly forms that had run past me, laughing without voices and jumping into the river, didn’t come back wet with water. Like a sweet smell blown away by the wind, they vanished with a single breath of spring air.

Then I felt real fear. I thought maybe some spirit or muse had used my loneliness to take control of me. Maybe this witch had come to destroy a poor man like me, just trying to earn a living by collecting cotton taxes. I decided I must eat a good meal—empty stomachs always invite strange illnesses. I called my cook and asked him to make a big, rich moghlai dinner full of spices and ghee (clarified butter).

The next morning, the whole thing felt like a strange dream. I felt better and happy. I put on a sola hat (a white pith helmet like Englishmen wore) and went to work. I had to write my quarterly report and planned to stay late at the office. But before dark, I suddenly felt a strong pull to go back home. I didn’t know why—I just felt they were waiting for me, and I should not be late. I left my report unfinished, put on my hat again, and drove back through the quiet, dark road. The sound of my carriage echoed as I returned to the huge, silent palace at the edge of the hills.

On the first floor, the stairs led to a very large hall. The roof spread wide, held up by three rows of big, strong pillars. The roof seemed to groan day and night under the heavy weight of its deep, deep silence. The day had just ended, and no lamps had been lit yet. When I opened the door, I suddenly felt like a crowd of people had quickly moved away. It was as if they were running in a panic through the doors, windows, hallways, porches, and rooms, trying to escape.

But I saw no one. I stood there, surprised, my hair standing on end, feeling strangely excited. A faint smell of rose perfume and old oils still hung in the air. As I stood in the darkness of that huge, empty hall, between the rows of ancient pillars, I thought I heard the soft sound of fountains splashing on the marble floor. I imagined the gentle music of a guitar, the jingling of jewelry, the soft ringing of anklets, bells ringing the hour, and the faraway notes of a royal band (nahabat). I also thought I heard the glass crystals of chandeliers shaking in the wind, birds singing in their cages in the halls, and storks calling in the garden. All of it made one strange and magical song around me.

Then, I felt like I was under a spell. This invisible, faraway, magical vision started to feel like the only real thing in the world—and my regular life seemed like a dream. The idea that I, Srijut So-and-so, the eldest son of So-and-so (now passed away), was earning a monthly salary of 450 rupees by working as a cotton tax officer, and driving to work every day in my short coat and sola hat, seemed like such a silly and funny dream that I started laughing loudly in the dark, quiet hall.

At that moment, my servant walked in with a lit kerosene lamp. I don’t know if he thought I was crazy, but as soon as I saw the light, I suddenly remembered that yes, I really was Srijut So-and-so, son of So-and-so. And while only our poets could say for sure whether there really is a magical place where invisible fountains always play and unseen hands make music on fairy guitars, one thing was very clear: I collected cotton taxes in Barich and earned 450 rupees a month for it. I laughed happily at my strange daydream, as I sat at my camp-table, reading the newspaper under the glow of the kerosene lamp.

After I finished reading my paper and ate my moghlai (rich and spicy) dinner, I put out the lamp and lay down on my bed in a small side room. Through the open window, a bright star, high above the Avalli hills, looked down at me. The hills were dark with trees, and the star seemed to watch me from millions of miles away in the sky, as I lay on my simple camp bed. I thought the idea was funny, and I smiled. I don’t know when I fell asleep or how long I slept. But suddenly, I woke up with a start. I didn’t hear any noise or see anyone—but the bright star had set, and now the soft light of the new moon was slowly coming in through the window, as if it was shy to be there.

I saw no one, but I felt like someone was gently pushing me. As I woke up, she said nothing, but waved at me with her hand—her fingers wore shiny rings. She wanted me to follow her quietly. I got up without a sound, and although there was no one else in the many rooms of the big empty palace, I felt nervous. I was afraid someone might wake up, even though there was no one there. Most of the rooms in the palace were always closed, and I had never gone inside them.

I followed the one leading me—quiet and breathless. I don’t know now where I went. I passed through long dark halls, small secret rooms, and wide silent rooms where kings once met guests. There were narrow walkways and strange corners.

Even though I could not see her clearly, I could imagine her very well. She was an Arab girl. Her arms looked smooth and strong under her loose sleeves. A thin scarf fell over her face from her small cap, and she had a curved knife at her waist. I felt like I was inside one of the tales from The Arabian Nights—and that, in the middle of the night, I was walking through the quiet streets of ancient Baghdad to meet someone in secret, even though it was dangerous.

At last, the woman stopped in front of a dark blue curtain and pointed to something below. I looked, but there was nothing. Suddenly, fear filled my heart—I thought I saw a frightening guard sitting there. He was a big, dark-skinned man wearing rich clothes, sleeping with his legs stretched out. He had a long, bare sword resting on his lap. My guide walked over his legs quietly and lifted a part of the curtain.

Inside the room, I saw a little part of what was there. The floor had a fancy Persian carpet. Someone was sitting on a bed, but I couldn’t see her full face—just her feet. Two beautiful feet in gold-decorated slippers hung out from loose yellow pants (paijamas) and rested lightly on the orange velvet carpet.

On one side, there was a shiny blue glass tray with apples, pears, oranges, and many grapes. There were also two small cups and a gold-colored bottle. A sweet, strong smell came from some kind of burning incense. The scent was so rich and strange that it made me feel dizzy.

As I tried to carefully step over the sleeping guard’s legs, he suddenly woke up. His sword dropped from his lap with a loud clang on the marble floor. A loud, scary scream made me jump up—and I saw I was sitting on my camp bed, sweating a lot. The thin moon in the sky looked pale in the early morning light, like a sick person who hadn’t slept all night. And outside, on the empty road, our mad Meher Ali was shouting, as he did every morning, “Stand back! Stand back!!”

That was how one of my Arabian Nights dreams ended. But there were still a thousand more nights left.

After that, my days and nights no longer matched. In the day, I would go to work feeling tired and angry at the strange dreams of the night. But when night came again, my real life—filled with work and small worries—seemed silly and fake.

Every night, I felt trapped again in a strange dream. I would turn into someone else from long ago, living in a time that was never written in history. My short English coat and tight pants felt wrong on me. Instead, I imagined wearing a red velvet cap, loose silk pants (paijamas), a fancy vest with gold thread, a long flowing silk robe, and colorful handkerchiefs that smelled like rose perfume (attar). I would sit on a soft chair and smoke a rose-water hookah (narghileh), waiting for a mysterious meeting with the woman I longed for.

I cannot explain all the amazing things that happened in my dreams, as the night grew deeper. In the strange rooms of the big old palace, little pieces of a beautiful story floated around me like the wind in spring. I could follow the story for a little while, but I could never find the end. Still, I would walk through room after room all night, chasing these bits of the dream.

In the middle of all this—among the sweet smells of henna (a scented dye), the soft sound of guitars, and the breezes full of rose water—I would suddenly see a flash of a beautiful girl.

She had made me lose my senses. She wore soft yellow paijamas, gold-decorated slippers on her smooth pale feet, a tight bodice decorated with gold, and a red cap with a golden edge that fell on her white forehead and cheeks.

She made me go mad. I searched for her from room to room, and walked down many paths in the confusing, magical world of my dreams—trying to find her in the strange land that lay just under sleep.

Sometimes in the evening, while I was getting dressed like a royal prince in front of a big mirror with two candles on each side, I would suddenly see the reflection of the beautiful Persian woman beside me. She would quickly turn her neck, and I would see deep passion and sadness glowing in her big dark eyes. Her red lips looked like they were about to speak. She had a slim and lovely figure, young and graceful like a flowering vine. Then came a sudden moment of bright beauty—pain, longing, happiness, a smile, a glance, and a shining mix of jewels and silk—and she disappeared.

A wild gust of wind, full of smells from the woods and hills, would blow out my candle. I would throw off my fancy clothes and lie on my bed, my eyes closed, my body full of excitement. In the dark, breezy night, I would feel gentle touches, soft kisses, light hands, and sweet whispers near my ears, and warm breaths on my forehead. A soft scarf with perfume would brush my cheeks again and again. Then, slowly, a strange and magical snake would wrap around me and make me sleepy—and with a big sigh, I would fall into a deep sleep.

One evening I wanted to go out on my horse. I don’t know who begged me not to go—but I didn’t listen that day. My English coat and hat were hanging on the rack, and I was just about to take them when a sudden storm blew in. The wind carried sand from the Susta river and dry leaves from the Avalli hills. It grabbed my coat and hat, spinning them around and around. At the same time, I heard a loud, happy laugh that rose higher and higher and then faded away toward the sunset.

I could not go for my ride, and the next day I gave up wearing my strange English coat and hat forever.

That night again, in the middle of the night, I heard someone sobbing quietly, like they were crying their heart out. It was as if the voice was coming from under the bed, under the floor, deep under the stone foundation of the big palace. The sound came from the bottom of a cold, wet grave. The voice begged me: “Please save me! Break through this dark dream, this heavy sleep, this wall of sadness. Lift me up, place me beside you on your horse, hold me close to your heart, and ride with me—across the hills and woods and river—into the bright sunlight of your warm, living world above!”

Who am I? Oh, how can I save you? What beautiful woman, what dream of love can I bring back from this deep river of dreams? Oh, beautiful spirit! Where did you live, and when? By what cool spring, under what shady date trees were you born—on the lap of what traveler in the desert? What Bedouin (desert nomad) took you from your mother, like a young flower picked too soon, placed you on a fast horse, crossed the hot desert, and took you to the slave market of what great city?

And there, what officer of the emperor saw your beauty, paid for you in gold, placed you in a golden carriage, and gave you as a gift to the royal palace? And oh, what stories that place could tell! The music, the dancing anklets, the sudden shine of daggers, the sweet but dangerous wine from Shiraz, and the sharp glances full of mystery! What great luxury, what endless slavery!

The slave girls on your right and left waved fans made of peacock feathers, with diamonds shining on their wrists; the emperor, the king of kings, knelt at your white feet in your jewel-covered shoes, and outside stood the fierce Abyssinian (African) guard, looking like a messenger of death, though dressed like a prince, holding a sword in his hand! Then, oh flower of the desert, pushed by the wild waves of royal luxury, jealousy, secrets, and danger—what sad shore did you finally land on? What land even grander—and more cruel—did you go to next?

Just then, that crazy man Meher Ali shouted again: “Stand back! Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!” I opened my eyes and saw it was already morning. My office servant came in and gave me my letters, and the cook came in with a respectful greeting and waited for my orders.

I said, “No, I can’t stay here anymore.” That very day, I packed my things and moved into my office building. Old Karim Khan smiled a little when he saw me. I felt annoyed, but I said nothing and started my work.

As evening came, I started to feel distracted. I felt as if I had an appointment to keep. Looking at the cotton accounts felt pointless. Even my important government job under the Nizam (the ruler of a princely state) seemed to have no value.

I dropped my pen, closed my account books, got into my dog-cart, and left. I noticed that it stopped on its own in front of the marble palace, just as the sun was going down. I climbed the stairs quickly and went into the building.

Inside, everything was very quiet. The dark rooms looked sad, as if they were angry with me. My heart felt sorry, but there was no one there to talk to or ask for forgiveness. I walked through the dark rooms without thinking. I wished I had a guitar so I could sing to the unknown woman: “O fire, the poor moth that once tried to escape has returned to you! Please forgive it this one time. Burn its wings and take it in your flames!”

Then suddenly, two drops of water fell on my forehead from above. That day, heavy dark clouds had covered the top of the Avalli hills. The dark forest and the black waters of the Susta river waited silently, as if something bad was coming. Suddenly, the land, the water, and the sky shook, and a wild storm blew through the deep forest. Lightning flashed like the teeth of a mad man who had broken free. The empty palace made loud noises as doors slammed shut, and the wind cried out in sadness.