My movement dwells in the stillness of my depth, In the delicious birth of new leaves, In flood of flowers, In unseen urge of new life towards the light.

Its stirring thrills the sky, and the silence of the dawn is moved._

_Morning_

[_The rear stage is now darkened. On the main stage, bright, enter a band of youths whose number may be anything between three and thirty. They sing._]

_The fire of April leaps from forest to forest, Flashing up in leaves and flowers from all nooks and corners.

The sky is thriftless with colours, The air delirious with songs.

The wind-tost branches of the woodland Spread their unrest in our blood.

The air is filled with bewilderment of mirth; And the breeze rushes from flower to flower, asking their names._

[In the following dialogue only the names of the princ.i.p.al characters are given. Wherever the name is not given the speaker is one or other of the Youths.]

April pulls hard, brother, April pulls very hard.

How do you know that?

If he didn't, he would never have pulled Dada outside his den.

Well, I declare. Here is Dada, our cargo-boat of moral-maxims, towed against the current of his own pen and ink.

_Chandra_

But you mustn't give April all the credit for that. For I, Chandra, have hidden the yellow leaves of his ma.n.u.script book among the young buds of the _pial_ forest, and Dada is out looking for it.

The ma.n.u.script book banished! What a good riddance!

We ought to strip off Dada's grey philosopher's cloak also.

_Chandra_

Yes, the very dust of the earth is tingling with youth, and yet there's not a single touch of Spring in the whole of Dada's body.

_Dada_

Oh, do stop this fooling. What a nuisance you are making of yourselves! We aren't children any longer.

_Chandra_

Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet it is not ashamed to look fresh.

Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours, full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the water are ever striving to be new.

Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that, sitting in your den?

_Dada_

Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener cultivates flowers. _My_ poems have substance and weight in them.

Yes, they are like the turnips, which cling to the ground.

_Dada_

Well, then, listen to me----

How awful! Here's Dada going to run amuck with his quatrains.

Oh dear, oh dear! The quatrains are let loose. There's no holding them in.

To all pa.s.sers-by I give notice that Dada's quatrains have gone mad, and are running amuck.

_Chandra_

Dada! Don't take any notice of their fun. Go on with your reading. If no one else can survive it, I think I can. I am not a coward like these fellows.

Come on, then, Dada. We won't be cowards. We will keep our ground, and not yield an inch, but only listen.

We will receive the spear-thrusts of the quatrains on our breast, not on our back.

But for pity's sake, Dada, give us only one--not more.

_Dada_

Very well. Now listen:

_If bamboos were made only into flutes, They would droop and die with very shame, They hold their heads high in the sky, Because they are variously useful._

Please, gentlemen, don't laugh. Have patience while I explain.

The meaning is----

The meaning?

What? Must the infantry charge of meaning follow the cannonading of your quatrains, to complete the rout?

_Dada_

Just one word to make you understand. It means, that if the bamboos were no better than those noisy instruments----

No, Dada, we must not understand.

I defy you to make us understand.

Dada, if you use force to make us understand we shall use force to force ourselves not to understand.

_Dada_

The gist of the quatrain is this, that if we do no good to the world, then----

Then the world will be very greatly relieved.