“Father, let us play.” A fearful old
Potentate among dulling perfumes and fans,
I think of all that I had bartered and sold
To reap the acme and nadir of every man’s
Life (the sweat of bullocks trudging through the mud
Of the patchwork paddy-fields, the maiden’s modest blush
As ochre skin turns to scarlet flood).
“With what and how shall we play?” I ask in the hush
That has lasted too long. “It is easy, my father:
Give me but something, even the merest toy.”
“But alas, my son, I have nothing,” I parry, “ – or rather,
What I had is already yours, my dearest boy.”
“O sir, I know that your mighty bullocks have ploughed,
And your fair maidens threshed... ” (my head bowed
Potentate among dulling perfumes and fans,
I think of all that I had bartered and sold
To reap the acme and nadir of every man’s
Life (the sweat of bullocks trudging through the mud
Of the patchwork paddy-fields, the maiden’s modest blush
As ochre skin turns to scarlet flood).
“With what and how shall we play?” I ask in the hush
That has lasted too long. “It is easy, my father:
Give me but something, even the merest toy.”
“But alas, my son, I have nothing,” I parry, “ – or rather,
What I had is already yours, my dearest boy.”
“O sir, I know that your mighty bullocks have ploughed,
And your fair maidens threshed... ” (my head bowed
Slightly, I wait for what comes next
As a condemned man expects the swinging blade)
“Go on,” I say, as if reciting a text
Already written, a part that must be played.
“And so, my generous lord,” – here, he smiles –
“All I ask are a few seeds of rice.”
Like a fool, I laugh, trying to fathom the wiles
That lie behind. “And the game, my son?” And in a trice
He says, “ – Just this: place one grain on the first
Square of a chessboard; two grains
On the second, and double to the end – a little thing.”
I assent, and order my slaves – though fearing the worst –
To begin. The child sings, and such strange refrains:
“Checkmate, the shah is dead: long live the king....”
(9.10.1996)
