The Magic Brush of Dreams

“Go and gather wild beans, Gopi,
Go and fetch some rice.
Go and pluck the mangoes
And bring home something nice.”

Gopi sits beneath the banyan,
A twig is in her hand.
She sits there drawing pictures,
Pictures in the sand.

The winds blow by and sweeps away
The pictures in the sand.

But on a stone there sits a man,
A brush is in his hand.

He looks around. He calls to Gopi.
“Come here!” he whispers. “Hush!
We mustn’t let the village know
About this magic brush.”

He slips the brush into her hand
And tells her to be sure,
“Paint not for the wealthy ones,
But only for the poor.”

“Did you gather wild beans, Gopi?
Did you fetch some rice?
Did you pluck the mangoes
And bring home something nice?”

“No beans, no rice, no mangoes!”
Gopi grins and runs inside.
She paints a bowl of khichdi
and waits,
Until the paint has dried.

“The bowl is full of khichdi, Gopi!”
Into the house the villagers streamed
The young and old all wish to see
The magic brush of dreams.

She paints a muffler for a farmer,
A plough for another man,
A shawl for a grandmother,
And for a girl, a fan.

And soon the news spreads far and wide,
Through forests, fields, and plains,
Until the Zamindar himself
Hears of these magic gains.

“I order you to paint for me,
A fortress tall and grand.
Paint treasures, jewels, and riches rare,
Enough to rule this land.”

Gopi bows and shakes her head.
“My lord, I can’t comply.
I swore to use this magic brush
To help the needy by.”

The Zamindar roars and stamps his foot.
He bellows to his men,
“Seize this brush and seize the girl.
Throw her in the pen!”

Now Gopi waits inside the cell,
Upon a cold mud floor.
Until the Zamindar returns
And shouts through the door.

He holds the brush. He thunders loud,
“Paint my fortress tall!
Paint gold and rubies, emeralds bright,
And you shall leave this hall!”

That night the Zamindar lies in bed,
Dreaming of his gold,
While Gopi paints a winding road,
A horse both strong and bold.

The road leads out of prison gates.
The horse, she swiftly urges
Gopi leaps on and gallops fast,
Through fields and many villages.

“It’s Gopi! It’s Gopi! She’s back again!”
Say the villagers, merry and kind.
But Gopi keeps on painting still,
With the Zamindar’s men following
behind.

She paints a mighty river wide,
Its currents fast and deep.
The Zamindar and all his men
Stop short and cannot leap.

“Now should I paint a beast
To leap and chase you through?
Stop this chase or it will feast
On you, and you and you!”

The Zamindar cries, “No, no, no more!
I’ll leave, I’ll go away!”
He turns and flees; his men behind
Dare not choose to stay.

Now Gopi paints for the village folk,
A feast of sweets and tea.
A courtyard bright, a band to play,
And songs of victory.