A poem by Sri Aurobindo
A noon of Deccan with its tyrant glare Oppressed the earth; the hills stood deep in haze, And sweltering athirst the fields glared up Longing for water in the courses parched Of streams long dead. Nature and man alike, Imprisoned by a bronze and brilliant sky, Sought an escape from that wide trance of heat. Nor on rare herdsman only or patient hind Tilling the earth or tending sleeplessly The well-eared grain that burden fell. It hung Upon the Mogul horsemen as they rode With lances at the charge, the surf of steel About them and behind, as they recoiled Or circled, where the footmen ran and fired, And fired again and ran; "For now at last," They deemed, "the war is over, now at last The panther of the hills is beaten back Right to his lair, the rebel crew to death Is hunted, and an end is made at last." Therefore they stayed not for the choking dust, The slaying heat, the thirst of wounds and fight, The stumbling stark fatigue, but onward pressed With glowing eyes. Far otherwise the foe, Panting and sore oppressed and racked with thirst And blinded with the blazing earth who reeled Backward to Raigurh, moistening with their blood Their mother, and felt their own beloved hills A nightmare hell of death and heat, the sky A mute and smiling witness of their dire Anguish,—abandoned now of God and man, Who for their country and their race had striven,— In vain, it seemed. At morning when the sun Was yet below the verge, the Bhonsle sprang At a high mountain fortress, hoping so To clutch the whole wide land into his grasp; But from the North and East the Moguls poured, Swords numberless and hooves that shook the hills And barking of a hundred guns. These bore
The hero backward. Silently with set And quiet faces grim drew fighting back The strong Mahrattas to their hills; only Their rear sometimes with shouted slogan leaped At the pursuer's throat, or on some rise Or covered vantage stayed the Mogul flood A moment. Ever foremost where men fought, Was Baji Prabhou seen, like a wild wave Of onset or a cliff against the surge. At last they reached a tiger-throated gorge Upon the way to Raigurh. Narrowing there The hills draw close, and their forbidding cliffs Threaten the prone incline. The Bhonsle paused, His fiery glance travelled in one swift gyre Hill, gorge and valley and with speed returned Mightily like an eagle on the wing To a dark youth beside him, Malsure The younger, with his bright and burning eyes, Who wordless rode quivering, as on the leash; His fierce heart hungered for the rear, where Death Was singing mid the laughter of the swords. "Ride, Suryaji," the Chieftain cried, his look Inward, intent, "and swiftly from the rear Summon the Prabhou." Turning at the word Suryaji's hooves sped down the rock-strewn slope Into the trenchant valley's death. Swiftly, Though burdened with a nation's fate, the ridge They reached, where in stern silence fought and fell, Their iron hearts broken with desperate toil, The Southron rear, and to the Prabhou gave The summons of the Chief: "Ride, Baji, ride, The Bhonsle names thee, Baji." And Baji spoke No word, but stormed with loose and streaming rein To the high frowning gorge and silent paused Before the leader. "Baji, more than once In battle thou hast stood, a living shield, Between me and the foe. But more today, O Baji, save than any single life,— Thy nation's destiny. Thou seest this gorge Narrow and fell and gleaming like the throat
Of some huge tiger, with its rocky fangs Agrin for food: and though the lower slope Descends too gently, yet with roots and stones It is hampered, and the higher prone descent Impregnably forbids assault; too steep The sides for any to ascend and shoot From vantage. Here might lion-hearted men, Though few, delay a host. Baji, I speed To Raigurh and in two brief hours return. Say with what force thy iron heart can hold The passage till I come. Thou seest our strength, How it has melted like the Afghan's ice Into a pool of blood." And while he paused Who had been chosen, spoke an iron man With iron brows who rode behind the Chief, Tanaji Malsure, that living sword: "Not for this little purpose was there need To call the Prabhou from his toil. Enough, Give me five hundred men; I hold the pass Till thy return." But Shivaji kept still His great and tranquil look upon the face Of Baji Prabhou. Then, all black with wrath, Wrinkling his fierce hard eyes, the Malsure: "What ponders then the hero? Such a man Of men, he needs not like us petty swords A force behind him, but alone will hold All Rajasthan and Agra and Cabool From rise to set." And Baji answered him: "Tanaji Malsure, not in this living net Of flesh and nerve, nor in the flickering mind Is a man's manhood seated. God within Rules us, who in the Brahmin and the dog Can, if He will, show equal godhead. Not By men is mightiness achieved; Baji Or Malsure is but a name, a robe, And covers One alone. We but employ Bhavani's strength, who in an arm of flesh Is mighty as in the thunder and the storm. I ask for fifty swords." And Malsure: "Well, Baji, I will build thee such a pyre
As man had never yet, when we return; For all the Deccan brightening shall cry out, Baji the Prabhou burns!" And with a smile The Prabhou answered: "Me thou shalt not burn. For this five feet or more of bone and flesh, Whether pure flame or jackals of the hills Be fattened with its rags, may well concern Others, not Baji Prabhou." And the Chief With a high calmness in his shining look, "We part, O friend, but meet again we must, When from our tasks released we both shall run Like children to our Mother's clasp." He took From his wide brow the princely turban sown With aigrette diamond-crowned and on the head Of Baji set the gleaming sign, then clasped His friend and, followed by the streaming host That gathered from the rear, to farther hills Rode clattering. By the Mogul van approached Baji and his Mahrattas sole remained Watched by the mountains in the silent gorge.
Small respite had the slender band who held Fate constant with that brittle hoop of steel; For like the crest of an arriving wave The Moslem van appeared, though slow and tired, Yet resolute to break such barrier faint, And forced themselves to run:—nor long availed; For with a single cry the muskets spoke, Once and again and always, as they neared, And, like a wave arrested, for a while The assailants paused and like a wave collapsed Spent backward in a cloud of broken spray, Retreating. Yielding up, the dangerous gorge Saw only on the gnarled and stumbling rise The dead and wounded heaped. But from the rear The main tremendous onset of the North Came in a dark and undulating surge Regardless of the check,—a mingled mass, Pathan and Mogul and the Rajput clans, All clamorous with the brazen throats of war
And spitting smoke and fire. The bullets rang Upon the rocks, but in their place unhurt, Sheltered by tree and rock, the silent grim Defenders waited, till on root and stone The confident high-voiced triumphant surge Began to break, to stumble, then to pause, Confusion in its narrowed front. At once The muskets clamoured out, the bullets sped, Deadly though few; again and yet again, And some of the impetuous faltered back And some in wrath pressed on; and while they swayed Poised between flight and onset, blast on blast The volleyed death invisible hailed in Upon uncertain ranks. The leaders fell, The forward by the bullets chosen out, Prone or supine or leaning like sick men O'er trees and rocks, distressed the whole advance With prohibition by the silent slain. So the great onset failed. And now withdrawn The generals consulted, and at last In slow and ordered ranks the foot came on, An iron resolution in their tread, Hushed and deliberate. Far in the van, Tall and large-limbed, a formidable array, The Pathan infantry; a chosen force, Lower in crest, strong-framed, the Rajputs marched; The chivalry of Agra led the rear. Then Baji first broke silence, "Lo, the surge! That was but spray of death we first repelled. Chosen of Shivaji, Bhavani's swords, For you the gods prepare. We die indeed, But let us die with the high-voiced assent Of Heaven to our country's claim enforced To freedom." As he spoke, the Mogul lines Entered the menacing wide-throated gorge, Carefully walking, but not long that care Endured, for where they entered, there they fell. Others behind in silence stern advanced. They came, they died; still on the previous dead New dead fell thickening. Yet by paces slow
The lines advanced with labour infinite And merciless expense of valiant men. For even as the slopes were filled and held, Still the velocity and lethal range Increased of the Mahratta bullets; dead Rather than living held the conquered slope,— The living who, half-broken, paused. Abridged, Yet wide, the interval opposed advance, Daunting those resolute natures; eyes once bold With gloomy hesitation reckoned up The dread equivalent in human lives Of cubits and of yards, and hardly hoped One could survive the endless unacquired Country between. But from the Southron wall The muskets did not hesitate, but urged Refusal stern; the bullets did not pause, Nor calculate expense. Active they thronged Humming like bees and stung strong lives to death Making a holiday of carnage. Then The heads that planned pushed swiftly to the front The centre yet unhurt, where Rajasthan, Playmate of death, had sent her hero sons. They with a rapid royal reckless pace Came striding over the perilous fire-swept ground, Nor answered uselessly the bullets thick Nor paused to judge, but o'er the increasing dead Leaping and striding, shouting, sword in hand, Rushed onward with immortal courage high In mortal forms, and held the lower slope. But now the higher incline, short but steep, Baffled their speed, and as they clambered up, Compact and fiery, like the rapid breath Of Agra's hot simoom, the sheeted flame Belched bullets. Down they fell with huge collapse, And, rolling, with their shock drove back the few Who still attempted. Banned advance, retreat Threatening disgrace and slaughter, for a while Like a bound sacrifice the Rajputs stood Diminishing each moment. Then a lord High-crested of the Rathore clan stood out
From the perplexed assailants, with his sword Beckoning the thousands on against the few. And him the bullets could not touch; he stood Defended for a moment by his lease Not yet exhausted. And a mighty shout Rose from behind, and in a violent flood The Rajputs flung themselves on the incline Like clambering lions. Many hands received The dead as they descended, flinging back Those mournful obstacles, and with a rush The lead surmounted and on level ground Stood sword in hand; yet only for a while,— For grim and straight the slogan of the South Leaped with the fifty swords to thrust them back, Baji the Prabhou leading. Thrice they came, Three times prevailed, three times the Southron charge Repelled them; till at last the Rathore lord, As one appointed, led the advancing death, Nor waited to assure his desperate hold, But hurled himself on Baji; those behind Bore forward those in front. From right and left Mahratta muskets rang their music out And withered the attack that, still dissolved, Still formed again from the insistent rear And would not end. So was the fatal gorge Filled with the clamour of the close-locked fight. Sword rang on sword, the slogan shout, the cry Of guns, the hiss of bullets filled the air, And murderous strife heaped up the scanty space, Rajput and strong Mahratta breathing hard In desperate battle. But far off the hosts Of Agra stood arrested, confident, Waiting the end. Far otherwise it came Than they expected. For, as in the front The Rathore stood on the disputed verge And ever threw fresh strength into the scale With that inspiring gesture, Baji came Towards him singling out the lofty crest, The princely form: and, as the waves divide Before a driving keel, the battle so
Before him parted, till he neared, he slew. Avoiding sword, avoiding lifted arm The blade surprised the Rajput's throat, and down As falls an upright poplar, with his hands Outspread, dying, he clutched Mahratta ground. Loud rose the slogan as he fell. Amazed, The eager hosts of Agra saw reel back The Rajput battle, desperate victory Turned suddenly into entire defeat, Not headlong, but with strong discouragement, Sullen, convinced, rejecting the emprise. As they retired, the brilliant Pathan van Assumed the attempt. "Exhaust," the generals cried, "Exhaust the stubborn mountaineers; for now Fatigued with difficult effort and success They hardly stand, weary, unstrung, inert. Scatter this fringe, and we march on and seize Raigurh and Shivaji." Meanwhile, they too Not idle, covered by the rocks and trees, Straining for vantage, pausing on each ledge, Seizing each bush, each jutting promontory, Some iron muscles, climbing, of the south Lurked on the gorge's gloomy walls unseen. On came the Pathans running rapidly, But as the nearmost left the rocky curve Where lurked the ambush, loud from stone and tree The silence spoke; sideways, in front, behind Death clamoured, and tall figures strewed the ground Like trees in a cyclone. Appalled the rest Broke this way and broke that, and some cried, "On!" Some shouted, "Back!" for those who led, fell fast. So the advance dissolved, divided,—the more In haste towards the plains, greeted with death Even while they ran; but others forward, full Of panic courage, drove towards the foe They could not reach,—so hot a blast and fell Stayed their unsteady valour, their retreat So swift and obstinate a question galled, Few through the hail survived. With gloom their chiefs Beheld the rout and drawing back their hosts
In dubious council met, whether to leave That gorge of slaughter unredeemed or yet Demand the price of so immense a loss.
But to the Prabhou came with anxious eyes The Captain of the band. "Baji," he cried, "The bullets fail; all the great store we had Of shot and powder by unsparing use Is spent, is ended." And Baji Prabhou turned. One look he cast upon the fallen men Discernible by their attire, and saw His ranks not greatly thinned, one look below Upon the hundreds strewing thick the gorge, And grimly smiled; then where the sun in fire Descending stooped, towards the vesper verge He gazed and cried: "Make iron of your souls. Yet if Bhavani wills, strength and the sword Can stay our nation's future from o'erthrow Till victory with Shivaji return." And so they waited without word or sound, And over them the silent afternoon Waited; the hush terrestrial was profound. Except the mountains and the fallen men No sight, no voice, no movement was abroad, Only a few black-winged slow-circling birds That wandered in the sky, only the wind That now arose and almost noiselessly Questioned the silence of the wooded sides, Only the occasional groan that marked the pang By some departing spirit on its frame Inflicted. And from time to time the gaze Of Baji sought the ever-sinking sun. Men fixed their eyes on him and in his firm Expression lived. So the slow minutes passed. But when the sun dipped very low, a stir Was felt far off, and all men grasped the hilt Tighter and put a strain upon their hearts. Resolved at last the stream of Mogul war Came once more pouring, not the broken rout Of Pathans, not discouraged Rajput swords,
But Agra's chivalry glancing with gold And scimitars inlaid and coloured robes. Swiftly they came expecting the assault Fire-winged of bullets and the lethal rain, But silence met them and to their intent So ominous it seemed, awhile they paused, Fearing some ruse, though for much death prepared, Yet careful of prevention. Reassured, Onward with a high shout they charged the slope. No bullet sped, no musket spoke; unhurt They crossed the open space, unhurt they climbed The rise; but even as their hands surprised The shrubs that fringed the vantage, swords unseen Hacked at their fingers, through the bushes thrust Lances from warriors unexposed bore through Their bosoms. From behind the nearest lines Pressed on to share their fate, and still the sea Of men bore onward till with violent strain They reached the perilous crest; there for a while A slaughter grim went on and all the verge Was heaped and walled and thickly fortified With splendid bodies. But as they were piled, The raging hosts behind tore down their dead And mounted, till at last the force prevailed Of obstinate numbers and upon a crest Swarming with foemen fought 'gainst desperate odds The Southron few. Small was the space for fight, And meeting strength with skill and force with soul The strong and agile keepers of the hills Prevailed against the city-dwelling hosts, With covert and the swiftly stabbing blades O'erpowering all the feints of Agra's schools. So fought they for a while; then suddenly Upon the Prabhou all the Goddess came. Loud like a lion hungry on the hills He shouted, and his stature seemed to increase Striding upon the foe. Rapid his sword Like lightning playing with a cloud made void The crest before him, on his either side The swordsmen of the South with swift assault
Preventing the reply, till like a bank Of some wild river the assault collapsed Over the stumbling edge and down the rise, And once again the desperate moment passed. The relics of the murderous strife remained, Corpses and jewels, broidery and gold. But not for this would they accept defeat. Once more they came and almost held. Then wrath Rose in the Prabhou and he raised himself In soul to make an end; but even then A stillness fell upon his mood and all That godlike impulse faded from his heart, And passing out of him a mighty form Stood visible, Titanic, scarlet-clad, Dark as a thunder-cloud, with streaming hair Obscuring heaven, and in her sovran grasp The sword, the flower, the boon, the bleeding head,— Bhavani. Then she vanished; the daylight Was ordinary in a common world. And Baji knew the goddess formidable Who watches over India till the end. Even then a sword found out his shoulder, sharp A Mogul lance ran griding through his arm. Fiercely around him gathered in a knot The mountaineers; but Baji, with a groan, "Moro Deshpande, to the other side Hasten of the black gorge and bring me word. Rides any from the West, or canst thou hear The Raigurh trumpets blow? I know my hour Is ended; let me know my work is done." He spoke and shouted high the slogan loud. Desperate, he laboured in his human strength To push the Mogul from the gorge's end With slow compulsion. By his side fell fast Mahratta and Mogul and on his limbs The swords drank blood, a single redness grew His body, yet he fought. Then at his side Ghastly with wounds and in his fiery eyes Death and rejoicing a dire figure stood, Moro Deshpande. "Baji, I have seen
The Raigurh lances; Baji, I have heard The trumpets." Conquering with his cry the din He spoke, then dead upon a Mogul corpse Fell prone. And Baji with a gruesome hand Wiping the blood from his fierce staring eyes Saw round him only fifteen men erect Of all his fifty. But in front, behind, On either side the Mogul held the gorge. Groaning, once more the grim Mahratta turned And like a bull with lowered horns that runs, Charged the exultant foe behind. With him The desperate survivors hacking ran, And as a knife cuts instantly its way Through water, so the yielding Mogul wall Was cleft and closed behind. Eight men alone Stood in the gorge's narrow end, not one Unwounded. There where hardly three abreast Have room to stand, they faced again the foe; And from this latest hold Baji beheld Mounting the farther incline, rank on rank, A mass of horsemen; galloped far in front Some forty horse, and on a turbaned head Bright in the glory of the sinking sun A jewelled aigrette blazed. And Baji looked Over the wide and yawning field of space And seemed to see a fort upon a ridge, Raigurh; then turned and sought again the war. So for few minutes desperately they strove. Man after man of the Mahrattas fell Till only three were left. Then suddenly Baji stood still and sank upon the ground. Quenched was the fiery gaze, nerveless the arm: Baji lay dead in the unconquered gorge. But ere he fell, upon the rocks behind The horse-hooves rang and, as the latest left Of the half hundred died, the bullets thronged Through the too narrow mouth and hurled those down Who entered. Clamorous, exultant blared The Southron trumpets, but with stricken hearts The swords of Agra back recoiled; fatal
Upon their serried unprotected mass In hundreds from the verge the bullets rained, And in a quick disordered stream, appalled, The Mogul rout began. Sure-footed, swift The hostile strength pursued, Suryaji first Shouting aloud and singing to the hills A song of Ramdas as he smote and slew. But Shivaji by Baji's empty frame Stood silent and his gaze was motionless Upon the dead. Tanaji Malsure Stood by him and observed the breathless corpse, Then slowly said, "Thirty and three the gates By which thou enterest heaven, thou fortunate soul, Thou valiant heart. So when my hour arrives, May I too clasp my death, saving the land Or winning some great fortress for my lord." But Shivaji beside the dead beheld A dim and mighty cloud that held a sword And in its other hand, where once the head Depended bleeding, raised the turban bright From Baji's brows, still glittering with its gems, And placed it on the chief's. But as it rose Blood-stained with the heroic sacrifice, Round the aigrette he saw a golden crown.
A noon of Deccan with its tyrant glare Oppressed the earth; the hills stood deep in haze, And sweltering athirst the fields glared up Longing for water in the courses parched Of streams long dead. Nature and man alike, Imprisoned by a bronze and brilliant sky, Sought an escape from that wide trance of heat. Nor only on inanimate hills and trees, Nor on rare herdsman or the patient hind Tilling the earth or tending sleeplessly The well-eared grain that burden fell. It hung Upon the Mogul horsemen as they rode With lances at the charge, the surf of steel About them and behind, as they recoiled Or circled, where the footmen ran and fired, And fired again and ran; "For now at last," They deemed, "the war is over, now at last The panther of the hills is beaten back Right to his lair, the rebel crew to death Is hunted, and an end is made at last." Therefore they stayed not for the choking dust, The slaying heat, the thirst of wounds and fight, The stumbling stark fatigue, but onward pressed With glowing eyes. Far otherwise the foe, Panting and sore oppressed and racked with thirst And blinded with the blazing earth who reeled Backward to Raigurh, moistening with their blood Their mother, and felt their own beloved hills A nightmare hell of death and heat, the sky A mute and smiling witness of their dire Anguish,—abandoned now of God and man, Who for their country and their race had striven,— In vain, it seemed. At morning when the sun
Was yet below the verge, the Bhonsle sprang At a high mountain fortress, hoping so To clutch the whole wide land into his grasp; But from the North and East the Moguls poured, Swords numberless and hooves that shook the hills And barking of a hundred guns. These bore The hero backward. Silently with set And quiet faces grim drew fighting back The strong Mahrattas to their hills; only Their rear sometimes with shouted slogan leaped At the pursuer's throat, or on some rise Or covered vantage stayed the Mogul flood A moment. Ever foremost where men fought, Was Baji Prabhou seen, like a wild wave Of onset or a cliff against the surge. At last they reached a tiger-throated gorge Upon the way to Raigurh. Narrowing there The hills draw close, and their forbidding cliffs Threaten the prone incline. The Bhonsle paused, His fiery glance travelled in one swift gyre Hill, gorge and valley and with speed returned Mightily like an eagle on the wing To a dark youth beside him, Malsure The younger, with his bright and burning eyes, Who wordless rode quivering, as on the leash; His fierce heart hungered for the rear, where Death Was singing mid the laughter of the swords. "Ride, Suryaji," the Chieftain cried, his look Inward, intent, "and swiftly from the rear Summon the Prabhou." Turning at the word Suryaji's hooves sped down the rock-strewn slope Into the trenchant valley's depth. Swiftly, Though burdened with a nation's fate, the ridge They reached, where in stern silence fought and fell, Their iron hearts broken with desperate toil, The Southron rear, and to the Prabhou gave The summons of the Chief: "Ride, Baji, ride,
The Bhonsle names thee, Baji." And Baji spoke No word, but stormed with loose and streaming rein To the high frowning gorge and silent paused Before the leader. "Baji, more than once In battle thou hast stood, a living shield, Between me and the foe. But more today, O Baji, save than any single life,— Thy nation's destiny. Thou seest this gorge Narrow and fell and gleaming like the throat Of some huge tiger, with its rocky fangs Agrin for food: and though the lower slope Descends too gently, yet with roots and stones It is hampered, and the higher prone descent Impregnably forbids assault; too steep The sides for any to ascend and shoot From vantage. Here might lion-hearted men, Though few, delay a host. Baji, I speed To Raigurh and in two brief hours return. Say with what force thy iron heart can hold The passage till I come. Thou seest our strength, How it has melted like the Afghan's ice Into a pool of blood." And while he paused Who had been chosen, spoke an iron man With iron brows who rode behind the Chief, Tanaji Malsure, that living sword: "Not for this little purpose was there need To call the Prabhou from his toil. Enough, Give me five hundred men; I hold the pass Till thy return." But Shivaji kept still His great and tranquil look upon the face Of Baji Prabhou. Then, all black with wrath, Wrinkling his fierce hard eyes, the Malsure: "What ponders then the hero? Such a man Of men, he needs not like us petty swords A force behind him, but alone will hold All Rajasthan and Agra and Cabool From rise to set." And Baji answered him:
"Tanaji Malsure, not in this living net Of flesh and nerve, nor in the flickering mind Is a man's manhood seated. God within Rules us, who in the Brahmin and the dog Can, if He will, show equal godhead. Not By men is mightiness achieved; Baji Or Malsure is but a name, a robe, And covers One alone. We but employ Bhavani's strength, who in an arm of flesh Is mighty as in the thunder and the storm. I ask for fifty swords." And Malsure: "Well, Baji, I will build thee such a pyre As man had never yet, when we return; For all the Deccan brightening shall cry out, Baji the Prabhou burns!" And with a smile The Prabhou answered: "Me thou shalt not burn. For this five feet or more of bone and flesh, Whether pure flame or jackals of the hills Be fattened with its rags, may well concern Others, not Baji Prabhou." And the Chief With a high calmness in his shining look, "We part, O friend, but meet again we must, When from our tasks released we both shall run Like children to our Mother's clasp." He took From his wide brow the princely turban sown With aigrette diamond-crowned and on the head Of Baji set the gleaming sign, then clasped His friend and, followed by the streaming host That gathered from the rear, to farther hills Rode clattering. By the Mogul van approached Baji and his Mahrattas sole remained Watched by the mountains in the silent gorge.
Small respite had the slender band who held Fate constant with that brittle hoop of steel; For like the crest of an arriving wave The Moslem van appeared, though slow and tired,
Yet resolute to break such barrier faint, And forced themselves to run:—nor long availed; For with a single cry the muskets spoke, Once and again and always, as they neared, And, like a wave arrested, for a while The assailants paused and like a wave collapsed Spent backward in a cloud of broken spray, Retreating. Yielding up, the dangerous gorge Saw only on the gnarled and stumbling rise The dead and wounded heaped. But from the rear The main tremendous onset of the North Came in a dark and undulating surge Regardless of the check,—a mingled mass, Pathan and Mogul and the Rajput clans, All clamorous with the brazen throats of war And spitting smoke and fire. The bullets rang Upon the rocks, but in their place unhurt, Sheltered by tree and rock, the silent grim Defenders waited, till on root and stone The confident high-voiced triumphant surge Began to break, to stumble, then to pause, Confusion in its narrowed front. At once The muskets clamoured out, the bullets sped, Deadly though few; again and yet again, And some of the impetuous faltered back And some in wrath pressed on; and while they swayed Poised between flight and onset, blast on blast The volleyed death invisible hailed in Upon uncertain ranks. The leaders fell, The forward by the bullets chosen out, Prone or supine or leaning like sick men O'er trees and rocks, distressed the whole advance With prohibition by the silent slain. So the great onset failed. And now withdrawn The generals consulted, and at last In slow and ordered ranks the foot came on, An iron resolution in their tread,
Hushed and deliberate. Far in the van, Tall and large-limbed, a formidable array, The Pathan infantry; a chosen force, Lower in crest, strong-framed, the Rajputs marched; The chivalry of Agra led the rear. Then Baji first broke silence, "Lo, the surge! That was but spray of death we first repelled. Chosen of Shivaji, Bhavani's swords, For you the gods prepare. We die indeed, But let us die with the high-voiced assent Of Heaven to our country's claim enforced To freedom." As he spoke, the Mogul lines Entered the menacing wide-throated gorge, Carefully walking, but not long that care Endured, for where they entered, there they fell. Others behind in silence stern advanced. They came, they died; still on the previous dead New dead fell thickening. Yet by paces slow The lines advanced with labour infinite And merciless expense of valiant men. For even as the slopes were filled and held, Still the velocity and lethal range Increased of the Mahratta bullets; dead Rather than living held the conquered slope,— The living who, half-broken, paused. Abridged, Yet wide, the interval opposed advance, Daunting those resolute natures; eyes once bold With gloomy hesitation reckoned up The dread equivalent in human lives Of cubits and of yards, and hardly hoped One could survive the endless unacquired Country between. But from the Southron wall The muskets did not hesitate, but urged Refusal stern; the bullets did not pause, Nor calculate expense. Active they thronged Humming like bees and stung strong lives to death Making a holiday of carnage. Then
The heads that planned pushed swiftly to the front The centre yet unhurt, where Rajasthan, Playmate of death, had sent her hero sons. They with a rapid royal reckless pace Came striding over the perilous fire-swept ground, Nor answered uselessly the bullets thick Nor paused to judge, but o'er the increasing dead Leaping and striding, shouting, sword in hand, Rushed onward with immortal courage high In mortal forms, and held the lower slope. But now the higher incline, short but steep, Baffled their speed, and as they clambered up, Compact and fiery, like the rapid breath Of Agra's hot simoom, the sheeted flame Belched bullets. Down they fell with huge collapse, And, rolling, with their shock drove back the few Who still attempted. Banned advance, retreat Threatening disgrace and slaughter, for a while Like a bound sacrifice the Rajputs stood Diminishing each moment. Then a lord High-crested of the Rathore clan stood out From the perplexed assailants, with his sword Beckoning the thousands on against the few. And him the bullets could not touch; he stood Defended for a moment by his lease Not yet exhausted. And a mighty shout Rose from behind, and in a violent flood The Rajputs flung themselves on the incline Like clambering lions. Many hands received The dead as they descended, flinging back Those mournful obstacles, and with a rush The lead surmounted and on level ground Stood sword in hand; yet only for a while,— For grim and straight the slogan of the South Leaped with the fifty swords to thrust them back, Baji the Prabhou leading. Thrice they came, Three times prevailed, three times the Southron charge
Repelled them; till at last the Rathore lord, As one appointed, led the advancing death, Nor waited to assure his desperate hold, But hurled himself on Baji; those behind Bore forward those in front. From right and left Mahratta muskets rang their music out And withered the attack that, still dissolved, Still formed again from the insistent rear And would not end. So was the fatal gorge Filled with the clamour of the close-locked fight. Sword rang on sword, the slogan shout, the cry Of guns, the hiss of bullets filled the air, And murderous strife heaped up the scanty space, Rajput and strong Mahratta breathing hard In desperate battle. But far off the hosts Of Agra stood arrested, confident, Waiting the end. Far otherwise it came Than they expected. For, as in the front The Rathore stood on the disputed verge And ever threw fresh strength into the scale With that inspiring gesture, Baji came Towards him singling out the lofty crest, The princely form: and, as the waves divide Before a driving keel, the battle so Before him parted, till he neared, he slew. Avoiding sword, avoiding lifted arm The blade surprised the Rajput's throat, and down As falls an upright poplar, with his hands Outspread, dying, he clutched Mahratta ground. Loud rose the slogan as he fell. Amazed, The eager hosts of Agra saw reel back The Rajput battle, desperate victory Turned suddenly into entire defeat, Not headlong, but with strong discouragement, Sullen, convinced, rejecting the emprise. As they retired, the brilliant Pathan van Assumed the attempt. "Exhaust," the generals cried,
"Exhaust the stubborn mountaineers; for now Fatigued with difficult effort and success They hardly stand, weary, unstrung, inert. Scatter this fringe, and we march on and seize Raigurh and Shivaji." Meanwhile, they too Not idle, covered by the rocks and trees, Straining for vantage, pausing on each ledge, Seizing each bush, each jutting promontory, Some iron muscles, climbing, of the south Lurked on the gorge's gloomy walls unseen. On came the Pathans running rapidly, But as the nearmost left the rocky curve Where lurked the ambush, loud from stone and tree The silence spoke; sideways, in front, behind Death clamoured, and tall figures strewed the ground Like trees in a cyclone. Appalled the rest Broke this way and broke that, and some cried, "On!" Some shouted, "Back!" for those who led, fell fast. So the advance dissolved, divided,—the more In haste towards the plains, greeted with death Even while they ran; but others forward, full Of panic courage, drove towards the foe They could not reach,—so hot a blast and fell Stayed their unsteady valour, their retreat So swift and obstinate a question galled, Few through the hail survived. With gloom their chiefs Beheld the rout and drawing back their hosts In dubious council met, whether to leave That gorge of slaughter unredeemed or yet Demand the price of so immense a loss.
But to the Prabhou came with anxious eyes The Captain of the band. "Baji," he cried, "The bullets fail; all the great store we had Of shot and powder by unsparing use Is spent, is ended." And Baji Prabhou turned. One look he cast upon the fallen men
Discernible by their attire, and saw His ranks not greatly thinned, one look below Upon the hundreds strewing thick the gorge, And grimly smiled; then where the sun in fire Descending stooped, towards the vesper verge He gazed and cried: "Make iron of your souls. Yet if Bhavani wills, strength and the sword Can stay our nation's future from o'erthrow Till victory with Shivaji return." And so they waited without word or sound, And over them the silent afternoon Waited; the hush terrestrial was profound. Except the mountains and the fallen men No sight, no voice, no movement was abroad, Only a few black-winged slow-circling birds That wandered in the sky, only the wind That now arose and almost noiselessly Questioned the silence of the wooded sides, Only the occasional groan that marked the pang By some departing spirit on its frame Inflicted. And from time to time the gaze Of Baji sought the ever-sinking sun. Men fixed their eyes on him and in his firm Expression lived. So the slow minutes passed. But when the sun dipped very low, a stir Was felt far off, and all men grasped the hilt Tighter and put a strain upon their hearts. Resolved at last the stream of Mogul war Came once more pouring, not the broken rout Of Pathans, not discouraged Rajput swords, But Agra's chivalry glancing with gold And scimitars inlaid and coloured robes. Swiftly they came expecting the assault Fire-winged of bullets and the lethal rain, But silence met them and to their intent So ominous it seemed, awhile they paused, Fearing some ruse, though for much death prepared,
Yet careful of prevention. Reassured, Onward with a high shout they charged the slope. No bullet sped, no musket spoke; unhurt They crossed the open space, unhurt they climbed The rise; but even as their hands surprised The shrubs that fringed the vantage, swords unseen Hacked at their fingers, through the bushes thrust Lances from warriors unexposed bore through Their bosoms. From behind the nearest lines Pressed on to share their fate, and still the sea Of men bore onward till with violent strain They reached the perilous crest; there for a while A slaughter grim went on and all the verge Was heaped and walled and thickly fortified With splendid bodies. But as they were piled, The raging hosts behind tore down their dead And mounted, till at last the force prevailed Of obstinate numbers and upon a crest Swarming with foemen fought 'gainst desperate odds The Southron few. Small was the space for fight, And meeting strength with skill and force with soul The strong and agile keepers of the hills Prevailed against the city-dwelling hosts, With covert and the swiftly stabbing blades O'erpowering all the feints of Agra's schools. So fought they for a while; then suddenly Upon the Prabhou all the Goddess came. Loud like a lion hungry on the hills He shouted, and his stature seemed to increase Striding upon the foe. Rapid his sword Like lightning playing with a cloud made void The crest before him, on his either side The swordsmen of the South with swift assault Preventing the reply, till like a bank Of some wild river the assault collapsed Over the stumbling edge and down the rise, And once again the desperate moment passed.
The relics of the murderous strife remained, Corpses and jewels, broidery and gold. But not for this would they accept defeat. Once more they came and almost held. Then wrath Rose in the Prabhou and he raised himself In soul to make an end; but even then A stillness fell upon his mood and all That godlike impulse faded from his heart, And passing out of him a mighty form Stood visible, Titanic, scarlet-clad, Dark as a thunder-cloud, with streaming hair Obscuring heaven, and in her sovran grasp The sword, the flower, the boon, the bleeding head,— Bhavani. Then she vanished; the daylight Was ordinary in a common world. And Baji knew the goddess formidable Who watches over India till the end. Even then a sword found out his shoulder, sharp A Mogul lance ran grinding through his arm. Fiercely around him gathered in a knot The mountaineers; but Baji, with a groan, "Moro Deshpande, to the other side Hasten of the black gorge and bring me word. Rides any from the West, or canst thou hear The Raigurh trumpets blow? I know my hour Is ended; let me know my work is done." He spoke and shouted high the slogan loud. Desperate, he laboured in his human strength To push the Mogul from the gorge's end With slow compulsion. By his side fell fast Mahratta and Mogul and on his limbs The swords drank blood, a single redness grew His body, yet he fought. Then at his side Ghastly with wounds and in his fiery eyes Death and rejoicing a dire figure stood, Moro Deshpande. "Baji, I have seen The Raigurh lances; Baji, I have heard
The trumpets." Conquering with his cry the din He spoke, then dead upon a Mogul corpse Fell prone. And Baji with a gruesome hand Wiping the blood from his fierce staring eyes Saw round him only fifteen men erect Of all his fifty. But in front, behind, On either side the Mogul held the gorge. Groaning, once more the grim Mahratta turned And like a bull with lowered horns that runs, Charged the exultant foe behind. With him The desperate survivors hacking ran, And as a knife cuts instantly its way Through water, so the yielding Mogul wall Was cleft and closed behind. Eight men alone Stood in the gorge's narrow end, not one Unwounded. There where hardly three abreast Have room to stand, they faced again the foe; And from this latest hold Baji beheld Mounting the farther incline, rank on rank, A mass of horsemen; galloped far in front Some forty horse, and on a turbaned head Bright in the glory of the sinking sun A jewelled aigrette blazed. And Baji looked Over the wide and yawning field of space And seemed to see a fort upon a ridge, Raigurh; then turned and sought again the war. So for few minutes desperately they strove. Man after man of the Mahrattas fell Till only three were left. Then suddenly Baji stood still and sank upon the ground. Quenched was the fiery gaze, nerveless the arm: Baji lay dead in the unconquered gorge. But ere he fell, upon the rocks behind The horse-hooves rang and, as the latest left Of the half hundred died, the bullets thronged Through the too narrow mouth and hurled those down Who entered. Clamorous, exultant blared
The Southron trumpets, but with stricken hearts The swords of Agra back recoiled; fatal Upon their serried unprotected mass In hundreds from the verge the bullets rained, And in a quick disordered stream, appalled, The Mogul rout began. Sure-footed, swift The hostile strength pursued, Suryaji first Shouting aloud and singing to the hills A song of Ramdas as he smote and slew. But Shivaji by Baji's empty frame Stood silent and his gaze was motionless Upon the dead. Tanaji Malsure Stood by him and observed the breathless corpse, Then slowly said, "Thirty and three the gates By which thou enterest heaven, thou fortunate soul, Thou valiant heart. So when my hour arrives, May I too clasp my death, saving the land Or winning some great fortress for my lord." But Shivaji beside the dead beheld A dim and mighty cloud that held a sword And in its other hand, where once the head Depended bleeding, raised the turban bright From Baji's brows, still glittering with its gems, And placed it on the chief's. But as it rose Blood-stained with the heroic sacrifice, Round the aigrette he saw a golden crown.
Part IV : Calcutta and Chandernagore (1907-1910) > Narrative Poems Published in 1910
How to read the color-coded changes below? 1. SABCL version : lines with any changes & specific changes 2. CWSA version : lines with any changes & specific changes
NOTES FROM EDITOR
Circa 1904-9. Sri Aurobindo wrote that this work was “conceived and written in Bengal during the period of political activity”. This leaves the precise date of its composition unclear. Sri Aurobindo went to Bengal and openly joined the national movement in February 1906, but he had been active behind the scenes for some years before that. A partial draft of Baji Prabhou is found in a note-book he used from around 1902 to around 1910. The handwriting of this draft is that of the later years in Baroda (1904-6), and it is probable the poem was written during that period. (Sri Aurobindo spent a good deal of time in Bengal during these years.) Baji Prabhou was published for the first time in three issues of the Karmayogin: 19 February, 26 February and 5 March 1910. At some point he revised the first instalment of the Karmayogin text, but did not make use of this revision subsequently. In 1922 he published the Karmayogin text (with new, very light, revision) at the Modern Press, Pondicherry. This text became the basis of a further revised version published in Collected Poems and Plays in 1942. This 1942 version is the basis of the present text. (In the version published in Collected Poems [1972], the editors included readings from the revised Karmayogin text. In the present edition these readings have been ignored, but the 1922 and 1942 revisions, both approved by Sri Aurobindo, have been included.)
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