The Rural Beloved Asking, Why Does He Read?

Why does he read, Why does he remain so much lost in his studies That he heeds to not, Neither smiles nor speaks to, Neither winks nor nods? Has he turned deaf and dumb That he neither speaks nor hears me, Should I call my parents and others, What should I do? Why does he remain lost in studies, Why does he in books and papers, Will he turn into a sadhu, A yogi or a fakir? What does the sadhu want, Kaamini, kanchan or sura, A sahdu, a yogi or a bhogi really, Who is he? Will he not leave the house As left he Siddhartha, As left he Bradhaman Mahavir His royal kingdom? Is he in love with others, Does he smile with, Let me spy this, What the matter? The rustic beloved, illiterate and ignorant, Simple and religious, With the name of the husband Tattooed on the hands Taking not the name of her husband, Worshipping as Satyavan Under the banyan tree, She thinking within. And finally calling an exorcist to make the ghost flee from Her husband, Giving roots to him After mixing with food To win over with mohini, hypnotism, To tame his mati-gati, Mind, wisdom, mood and temperament. But the scholar, the reader in amazement, Why is she doing as such, Threatening to be back to her father’s home, So, should he leave his studies? Other villagerly ladies of the hamlet suggest her To take care of the scholar, Willing to go to foreign, Doing his research. If he goes to foreign, stepping the seven seas, Maybe it that he will fall in love with a shameless European girl And he may return or may not And even if, how shall I the other caste rival wife? Maybe it that he will forget like King Dushyanta And Shakuntala will go about lamenting, Showing the ring to And he remembering hard to recognize me. So, why not to burn his thesis and papers He is absorbed in, lost in His readings and studies, Why not to push his papers into the oven? And having burnt the papers and research materials, Started she weeping herself, Quarrelling, smiling and flinging the household things, Ay, the rural and countrified girl And the scholar thinking within, now it is time to return home Rather than moving to foreign, As the papers gone and burnt to ashes, As who will look after this foolish lady after my departure?