I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that
tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded
leaves, would you know me, mother? You would call, 'Baby, where are you?' and I should laugh to myself and
keep quite quiet. I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked
through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your
prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came
from me. When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and
the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee
little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading. But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? When in the evening you went to the cowshed with the lighted lamp in
your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby
once more,and beg you to tell me a story. 'Where have you been, you naughty child? ' 'I won't tell you, mother. ' That's what you and I would say then. |
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