SRI AUROBINDO
Collected Plays and Short Stories
Part One
A rocky and surf-beat margin of land walled in with great frowning cliffs.
Cireas, Diomede.
Diomede? You here so early and in this wild wanton weather!
I can find no fault in the weather, Cireas; it is brilliant and frolicsome.
The rain has wept itself out and the sun has ventured into the open; but the wind is shouting like mad and the sea is still in a mighty passion. Has your mistress Andromeda sent you then with matin-offerings to Poseidon, or are you walking here to whip the red roses in your cheeks redder with the sea-breezes?
My mistress cares as much for your Poseidon as I for your glum beetle-browed priest Polydaon. But you, Cireas? are you walking here to whip the red nose of you redder with the sea-breezes or to soothe with them the marks of his holiness's cudgel?
I must carry up these buckets of sea-water to swab down the blue-haired old fellow in the temple.
Hang the robustious storm-shaken curmudgeon!
I have rubbed him and scrubbed him and bathed him and swathed him for these eighteen years, yet he never sent me one profitable piece of wreckage out of his sea yet.
A gold bracelet, now, crusted with jewels, dropped from the arm of some drowned princess, or a sealed casket velvet-lined 
with a priceless vase carried by the Rhodian merchants: that would not have beggared him!
And I with so little could have bought my liberty.
May be 'twas that he feared. For who would wish to lose such an expert body-servant as you, my Cireas?
Zeus! if I thought that, I would leave his unwashed back to itch for a fortnight. But these Gods are kittle cattle to joke with. They have too many spare monsters about in their stables trained to snap up offenders for a light breakfast.
And how prosper the sacrifices, Cireas? I hope you keep your god soothingly and daintily fed in this hot summer season?
Alack, poor old Poseidon! He has had nothing but goats and sea-urchins lately, and that is poor food for a palate inured to homme à la Phénicienne, Diomede. It is his own fault, he should provide wreckage more freely. But black Polydaon's forehead grows blacker every day: he will soon be as mad as Cybele's bull on the headland. I am every moment in terror of finding myself tumbled on the altar for a shipwrecked Phoenician and old blackbrows hacking about in search of my heart with his holy carving-tools.
You should warn him beforehand that your heart is in your paunch hidden under twenty pounds of fat: so shall he have less cutting-exercise and you an easier exit.
Out!
Would you have me slit for a water-god's dinner?
Is this your tenderness for me? 
Heaven forbid, dear Cireas. Syria would lose half her scampishness if you departed untimely to a worse world.
Away from here, you long sauciness, you thin edge of naughty satire. But, no! First tell me, what news of the palace? They say King Phineus will wed the Princess Andromeda.
Yes, but not till the Princess Andromeda weds King Phineus. What noise is that?
It was the cry of many men in anguish.
Zeus, what a wail was there! surely a royal
Huge ship from Sidon or the Nile has kissed
Our ragged beaches.
A Phoenician galley
Is caught and spinning in the surf, the men
Urge desperate oars in vain. Hark, with a crash
She rushes on the boulders' iron fangs
That rip her tender sides. How the white ship
Battered against them by the growling surf
Screams like a woman tortured! From all sides
The men are shaken out, as rattling peas
Leap from a long and bursting sheath: these sink
Gurgling into the billows, those are pressed
And mangled on the jaggèd rocks.
O it must be 
A memorable sight! help me up, Cireas.
No, no, for I must run and tell old blackbrows
That here's fresh meat for hungry grim Poseidon.
He climbs down and out running.
You disobliging dog! This is the first wreck in eighteen months and I not to see it! I will try and climb round the rock even if my neck and legs pay the forfeit.
She goes out in the opposite direction.
The same.
Perseus descends on winged sandals from the clouds.
Rocks on the outland jaggèd with the sea,
You slumbering promontories whose huge backs
Jut into azure, and thou, O many-thundered
Enormous Ocean, hail! Whatever lands
Are ramparted with these forbidding shores,
Yet if you hold felicitous roofs of men,
Homes of delightful laughter, if you have streams
Where chattering girls dip in their pitchers cool
And dabble their white feet in the chill lapse
Of waters, trees and a green-mantled earth,
Cicalas noisy in a million boughs
Or happy cheep of common birds, I greet you,
Syria or Egypt or Ionian shores,
Perseus the son of Danaë, who long
Have sojourned only with the hail-thrashed isles
Wet with cold mists and by the boreal winds
Snow-swathed. The angry voices of the surf
Are welcome to me whose ears have long been sealed
By rigorous silence in the snows. O even
The wail of mortal misery I choose
Rather than that intolerable hush;
For this at least is human. Thee I praise,
O mother Earth and thy guardian Sea, O Sun
Of the warm south nursing fair life of men.
I will go down into bee-murmuring fields
And mix with men and women in the corn
And eat again accustomed food. But first
This galley shattered on the sharp-toothed rocks
I fly to succour. You are grown dear to me,
You smiling weeping human faces, brightly
Who move, who live, not like those stony masks 
And Gorgon visions of that monstrous world
Beyond the snows. I would not lose you now
In the dead surges of the inhuman flood.
Iolaus enters with Cireas, Dercetes and soldiers.
Prepare your ambush, men, amid these boulders,
But at the signal, leave your rocky lairs
With level bristling points and gyre them in.
O Poseidon Ennosigaios, man-swallower, earth-shaker, I have
swabbed thee for eighteen years. I pray thee tot up the price
of those swabbings and be not dishonest with me nor miserly.
Eighteen by three hundred and sixty-five by two, that is the sum
of them: and forget not the leap years either, O great Poseidon.
Into our ambush, for I hear them come,
They conceal themselves.
Perseus returns with Tyrnaus and Smerdas.
Chaldean merchants, would my speed to save
Had matched the hawk's when he swoops down for slaughter.
So many beautiful bodies of strong men
Lost in the surge, so many eager hopes
Of happiness now quenched would still have gladdened
The sunlight. Yet for two delightful lives
Saved to the stir and motion of the world
I praise the Gods that help us.
Thou radiant youth
Whose face is like a joyous god's for beauty,
Whatever worth the body's life may have, 
I thank thee that 'tis saved. Smerdas, discharge
That hapless humour from thy lids! If riches
Are lost, the body, thy strong instrument
To gather riches, is not lost, nor mind,
The provident director of its labours.
Three thousand pieces of that wealthy stuff,
Full forty chests all crammed with noble gems,
All lost, all in a moment lost! We are beggars.
Smerdas, not beggared yet of arm or brain.
The toil-marred peasant has as much.
Merchant,
I sorrow for thy loss: all beautiful things
Were meant to shine in the bright day, and grievous
It is to know the senseless billows play with them.
Yet life, most beautiful of all, is left thee.
Is not mere sunlight something, and to breathe
A joy? Be patient with the gods; they love not
Rebellion and o'ertake it with fresh scourgings.
O that the sea had swallowed me and rolled
In my dear treasure! Tell me, Syrian youth,
Are there not divers in these parts, could pluck
My wealth from the abyss?
Chaldean merchant,
I am not of this country, but like thyself
Hear first today the surf roar on its beaches. 
Cursed be the moment when we neared its shores!
O harsh sea-god, if thou wilt have my wealth,
My soul, it was a cruel mercy then to leave
This beggared empty body bared of all
That made life sweet. Take this too, and everything.
Thy prayer is granted thee, O Babylonian.
The soldiers appear and surround
Perseus and the merchants.
All the good stuff drowned! O unlucky Cireas! O greedy
Poseidon!
Shield us! what are these threatening spear-points?
Fate's.
This is that strange inhospitable coast
Where the wrecked traveller in his own warm blood
Is given guest-bath. (draws) Death's dice are yet to throw.
Draw not in vain, strive not against the gods.
This is the shore near the temple where Poseidon
Sits ivory-limbed in his dim rock-hewn house
And nods above the bleeding mariner
His sapphire locks in gloom. You three are come,
A welcome offering to that long dry altar,
O happy voyagers. Your road is straight
To Elysium.
An evil and harsh religion 
You practise in your land, stripling of Syria,
Yet since it is religion, do thy will,
If thou have power no less than will. And yet
I deem that ere I visit death's calm country,
I have far longer ways to tread.
Tyrnaus (flinging away his sword)
I will not please the gods with impotent writhing
Under the harrow of my fate.
O wicked fool!
You might have saved me with that sword. Ah youth!
Ah radiant stranger! help me! thou art mighty.
Still, merchant, thou wouldst live?
I am dead with terror
Of these bright thirsty spears. O they will carve
My frantic heart out of my living bosom
To throw it bleeding on that hideous altar.
I war not with the gods for thee.
From belching fire or the deep-mouthed abyss
Of waters to have saved the meanest thing
That wears man's kindly semblance, is a joy.
But he is mad who for another's ease
Incurs the implacable pursuit of heaven.
Yet since each man on earth has privilege
To battle even against the gods for life,
Sweet life, lift up from earth thy fellow's sword; 
I will protect meanwhile thy head from onset.
Alas, you mock me! I have no skill with weapons
The wealth of Babylon when I am safe.
My sword is heaven's; it is not to be purchased.
Smerdas and Tyrnaus are led away.
Take too this radiance.
I am not weak of hand nor feeble of heart.
Thou art too young, too blithe, too beautiful;
I would not disarrange thy sunny curls
By any harsher touch than an embrace.
I too could wish to spare thy joyous body
From the black knife, whoe'er thou art, O stranger.
But grim compulsion drives and angry will
Of the sea's lord, chafing that mortal men
Insult with their frail keels his rude strong oceans.
Therefore he built his grisly temple here,
And all who are broken in the unequal war
With surge and tempest, though they evade his rocks,
Must belch out anguished blood upon that altar
Miserably.
I come not from the Ocean.
There is no other way that men could come;
For this is ground forbidden to unknown feet.
Unless these gaudy pinions on thy shoes
Were wings indeed to bear thee through the void!
Are there not those who ask nor solid land
For footing nor the salt flood to buoy their motions?
Of these thou art not.
The gods are sombre, terrible to gaze at,
Or, even if bright, remote, grand, formidable.
But thou art open and fair like our blue heavens
In Syria and thy radiant masculine body
Allures the eye. Yield! it may be the God
Will spare thee.
If they alive can take, I am content
To bleed a victim.
Art thou a demigod
To beat back with one blade a hundred spears?
My sword is in my hand and that shall answer.
Is beautiful as Heaven.
O dark Poseidon,
What wilt thou do with him in thy dank caves
Under the grey abysms of the salt flood?
Polydaon and Phineus enter from behind.
Prince, give the order.
Let this young sungod live.
It is forbidden.
But I allow it.
Make thee a godhead, Syrian Iolaus,
To set thy proud decree against Poseidon's?
Wilt thou rescind what Ocean's Zeus has ordered?
Polydaon —
Does a royal name on earth
Inflate so foolishly thy mortal pride,
Thou evenest thyself with the Olympians?
Beware, the blood of kings has dropped ere now
From the grey sacrificial knife.
Our blood!
Thou darest threaten me, presumptuous priest?
Back to thy blood-stained kennel!
I absolve
This stranger.
Captain, take them both. You flinch?
Are you so fearful of the name of prince
He plays with? Fear rather dark Poseidon's anger.
Be wise, young Iolaus. Polydaon,
Thy zeal outstrips the reverence due to kings.
I need not thy protection, Tyrian Phineus:
This is my country.
It were well done to kill him now, his sword
Being out against the people's gods; for then
Who blames the god's avenger?
Will you accept,
Syrians, the burden of his sacrilege?
Seize them but slay not!
Let none dare shed the blood of Syria's kings.
Poseidon! great Poseidon.
Iolaus,
Rein in thy sword: I am enough for these.
He shakes his uncovered shield in the
faces of the soldiers. They stagger
back covering their eyes.
Gods, what a glory lights up Syria!
Amazement!
Is this a god opposes us? Back, back!
Master, master, skedaddle: run, run, good King of Tyre, it is scuttle or be scuttled. Zeus has come down to earth with feathered shoes and a shield made out of phosphorus.
He runs off, followed more slowly by
Dercetes and the soldiers.
Whate'er thou art, yet thou shalt not outface me.
Hast thou Heaven's thunders with thee too?
The fiery-tasselled aegis of Athene
Shakes forth these lightnings, and an earthly sword
Were madness here.
O radiant strong immortal,
Iolaus kneels to thee.
No, Iolaus.
Though great Athene breathes Olympian strength
Into my arm sometimes, I am no more 
Than a brief mortal.
Art thou only man?
O then be Iolaus' friend and lover,
Who com'st to me like something all my own
Destined from other shores.
Give me thy hands,
O fair young child of the warm Syrian sun.
Embrace me! Thou art like a springing laurel
Fed upon sunlight by the murmuring waters.
Tell me thy name. What memorable earth
Gave thee to the azure?
I am from Argolis,
Perseus my name, the son of Danaë.
Come, Perseus, friend, with me: fierce entertainment
We have given, unworthy the fair joyousness
Thou carriest like a flag, but thou shalt meet
A kinder Syria. My royal father Cepheus
Shall welcome, my mother give thee a mother's greeting
And our Andromeda's delightful smile
Persuade thee of a world more full of beauty
Than thou hadst dreamed of.
I shall yet be glad with thee,
O Iolaus, in thy father's halls,
But I would not as yet be known in Syria.
Is there no pleasant hamlet near, hedged in
With orchard walls and green with unripe corn
And washed with bright and flitting waves, where I
Can harbour with the kindly village folk
And wake to cock-crow in the morning hours,
As in my dear Seriphos?
Such a village
Lurks near our hills, — there with my kind Cydone
Thou may'st abide at ease, until thou choose,
O Perseus, to reveal thyself to Syria.
I too can visit thee unquestioned.
Thither
Then lead me. I have a thirst for calm obscurity
And cottages and happy unambitious talk
And simple people. With these I would have rest,
Not in the laboured pomp of princely towns
Amid pent noise and purple masks of hate.
I will drink deep of pure humanity
And take the innocent smell of rain-drenched earth,
So shall I with a noble untainted mind
Rise from the strengthening soil to great adventure.
The Palace of Cepheus.
A room in the women's apartments.
Praxilla, to her enters Diomede.
O Praxilla, Praxilla!
So, thou art back, thou tall inutility? Where wert thou lingering all this hour? I am tired of always whipping thee. I will hire thee out to a timber-merchant to carry logs from dawn to night-fall. Thou shalt learn what labour is.
Praxilla, O Praxilla! I am full to the throat with news. I pray you, rip me open.
Willingly.
She advances towards her with an uplifted knife.
A plague! can you not appreciate a fine metaphor when you hear it? I never saw so prosaic a mortal. The soul in you was born of a marriage between a saucepan and a broomstick.
Tell me your news. If it is good, I will excuse you your whipping.
I was out on the beach thinking to watch the seagulls flying and crying in the wind amidst the surf dashing and the black cliffheads —
And could not Poseidon turn thee into a gull there among thy natural kindred?
Thou wert better fitted with that shape than in a reasonable human body.
Oh then you shall hear the news tell itself, mistress, when the whole town has chewed it and rechewed it.
Stop, you long-limbed impertinence. The news!
I'll be hanged if I tell you.
You shall be whipped, if you do not.
Well, your goddess Switch is a potent divinity. A ship with men from the East has broken on the headland below the temple and two Chaldeans are saved alive for the altar.
This is glorious news indeed.
It will be a great day when they are sacrificed!
We have not had such since the long galley from Cnossus grounded upon our shores and the temple was washed richly with blood and the altar blushed as thickly with hearts of victims as the King's throne with rubies.
Poseidon was pleased that year and the harvest was so plentiful, men were brought in from beyond the hills to reap it.
There would have been a third victim, but Prince Iolaus drew sword on the priest Polydaon to defend him.
I hope this is not true.
I saw it.
Is the wild boy
In love with ruin? Not the King himself
Can help him if the grim sacrificant
Demand his fair young head: only a god
Could save him. And he was already in peril
From Polydaon's gloomy hate!
And Phineus'.
Hush, silly madcap, hush; or speak much lower.
Here comes my little queen of love, stepping
As daintily as a young bird in spring
When he would take the hearts of all the forest.
You have slept late, Andromeda.
Have I?
The sun had risen in my dreams: perhaps
I feared to wake lest I should find all dark
Once more, Praxilla.
He has risen in your eyes,
For they are full of sunshine, little princess.
I have dreamed, Diomede, I have dreamed.
What did you dream?
I dreamed my sun had risen.
He had a face like the Olympian Zeus
And wings upon his feet. He smiled upon me,
Diomede.
Dreams are full of stranger fancies.
Why, I myself have seen hooved bears, winged lions,
And many other monsters in my dreams.
My sun was a bright god and bore a flaming sword
To kill all monsters.
I think I've seen today
Your sun, my little playmate.
No, you have not.
I'll not have any eyes see him but mine:
He is my own, my very own.
And yet
I saw him on the wild sea-beach this morning.
What mean you, Diomede?
A ship was flung upon the rocks this morning
And all her human burden drowned.
Alas!
It was a marvellous sight, my little playmate,
And made my blood with horror and admiration
Run richer in my veins. The great ship groaned
While the rough boulders dashed her into pieces,
The men with desperate shrieks went tumbling down
Mid laughters of the surge, strangled 'twixt billows
Or torn by strips upon the savage rocks
That tossed their mangled bodies back again
Into the cruel keeping of the surge.
O do not tell me any more! How had you heart
To look at what I cannot bear to hear?
For while you spoke, I felt as if the rocks
Were tearing my own limbs and the salt surge
Choking me.
I suppose it must have hurt them.
Yes, it was pitiful. Still, 'twas a sight.
Meanwhile the deep surf boomed their grandiose dirge
With fierce triumphant voices. The whole scene
Was like a wild stupendous sacrifice
Offered by the grey-filleted grim surges
On the gigantic altar of the rocks
To the calm cliffs seated like gods above.
Alas, the unhappy men, the poor drowned men
Who had young children somewhere whom they loved,
How could you watch them die! Had I been a god,
I would not let this cruel thing have happened.
Why do you weep for them? they were not Syrians.
Not they, but barbarous jabbering foreigners
From Indus or Arabia. Fie, my child,
You sit upon the floor and weep for these?
When Iolaus fell upon the rocks
And hurt himself, you did not then forbid me
To weep!
He is your brother. That was loving,
Tender and right.
And these men were not brothers?
They too had sisters who will feel as I should
If my dear brother were to die so wretchedly.
Let their own sisters weep for them: we have
Enough of our own sorrows.
You are young
And softly made: because you have yourself
No griefs, but only childhood's soon-dried tears,
You make a luxury of others' woe.
So when we watch a piteous tragedy,
We grace with real tears its painted sorrows.
When you are older and have true things to weep for,
Then you will understand.
I'll not be older!
I will not understand! I only know
That men are heartless and your gods most cruel.
Hush, Hush! You know not what you say,
You must not speak such things. Come, Diomede,
Tell her the rest.
Andromeda (covering her ears with her hands)
Diomede (kneeling by her and drawing her hands away)
Will tell you of your bright sungod.
He is not
My sungod or he would have saved them.
He did.
Andromeda (leaping to her feet)
Suddenly there dawned
A man, a vision, a brightness, who descended
From where I know not, but to me it seemed
That the blue heavens just then created him
Out of the sunlight. His face and radiant body
Aspired to copy the Olympian Zeus
And wings were on his feet.
He was my sungod!
He caught two drowning wretches by the robe
And drew them safe to land.
He was my sungod.
Diomede, I have seen him in my dream.
I think it was Poseidon come to take
His tithe of all that death for the ancient altar,
Lest all be engulfed by his grey billows, he
Go quite unhonoured.
Hang up your grim Poseidon!
This was a sweet and noble face all bright
With manly kindness.
Oh I know, I know.
Where went he with those rescued?
Why, just then
Prince Iolaus and his band leaped forth
And took them.
Wherefore took them? By what right?
To die according to our Syrian law
On dark Poseidon's altar.
They shall not die.
It is a shame, a cruel cold injustice.
I wonder that my brother had any part in it!
My sungod saved them, they belong to him,
Not to your hateful gods. They are his and mine,
I will not let you kill them.
Why, they must die
And you will see it done, my little princess,
You shall! Where are you going?
Let me go.
I do not love you when you talk like this.
But you are Syria's lady and must appear
At these high ceremonies.
I had rather be
A beggar's daughter who devours the remnants
Rejected from your table, than reign a queen
Doing such cruelty.
Little passionate scold!
You mean not what you say. A beggar's daughter!
You? You who toss about if only a rose-leaf
Crinkle the creamy smoothness of your sheets,
And one harsh word flings weeping broken-hearted
As if the world had no more joy in store.
You are a little posturer, you make
A theatre of your own mind to act in,
Take parts, declaim such childish rhetoric
As that you speak now. You a beggar's daughter!
Come, listen what became of your bright sungod.
Him too they would have seized, but he with steel
Opposed and tranquil smiling eyes appalled them.
Then Polydaon came and Phineus came
And bade arrest the brilliant god. Our Prince,
Seized by his glory, with his virgin point
Resisted their assault.
My Iolaus!
All suddenly the stranger's lifted shield
Became a storm of lightnings. Dawn was blinded:
Far promontories leaped out in the blaze,
The surges were illumined and the horizon
Answered with light.
Andromeda (clapping her hands)
You tell the actions of a mighty god,
Diomede.
A god he seemed to us, Praxilla.
The soldiers ran in terror, Polydaon
Went snorting off like a black whale harpooned,
And even Phineus fled.
Was he not killed?
This is your pity!
I do not pity tigers, wolves and scorpions.
I pity men who are weak and beasts that suffer.
I thought you loved all men and living things.
Perhaps I would have loved him like my hound
Or the lion in the park who lets me pat his mane;
But since he would have me even without my will
To foul with his beast touch, my body abhors him.
Fie, fie! You speak too violently. How long
Will you be such a child?
Our Iolaus
And that bright stranger then embraced. Together
They left the beach.
Where, where is Iolaus?
Why is he long in coming? I must see him.
I have a thousand things to ask.
She is
A strange unusual child, my little playmate.
None can help loving her, she is in charm
Compelling: but her mind is wry and warped.
She is not natural, not sound in fancy,
But made of wild uncurbed imaginations,
With feelings as unruly as winds and waves
And morbid sympathies. At times she talks
Strange childish blasphemies that make me tremble.
She would impose her fancies on the world
As better than the eternal laws that rule us!
I wish her mother had brought her up more strictly.
Oh, do not say it!
I have seen no child in all our Syria like her,
None her bright equal in beauty. She pleases me
Like days of sunlight rain when spring caresses
Warmly the air. Oh, here is Iolaus.
Is it he?
I know him by the noble strut
He has put on ever since they made him captain.
My brother comes! I saw him from the terrace.
Enters Iolaus. Andromeda runs and embraces him.
Oh, Iolaus, have you brought him to me?
In heaven, little sister.
Oh, do not laugh at me. I want my sungod
Whose face is like the grand Olympian Zeus'
And wings are on his feet. Where did you leave him
After you took him from our rough sea-beaches?
What do you mean, Andromeda?
Some power
Divine sent her a dream of that bright strength
Which shone by you on the sea-beach today,
And him she calls her sungod.
Is it so?
My little wind-tossed rose Andromeda!
I shall be glad indeed if Heaven intends this.
Where is he?
Do you not know, little rose-sister,
The great gods visit earth by splendid moments
And then are lost to sight? Come, do not weep;
He is not lost to Syria.
Iolaus,
Why did you take the two poor foreign men
And give them to the priest? My sungod saved them,
Brother, — what right had you to kill?
My child,
I only did my duty as a soldier,
Yet grieve I was compelled.
Now will you save them?
But they belong to dread Poseidon now!
What will be done to them?
They must be bound
On the god's altar and their living hearts
Ripped from their blood-choked breasts to feed his hunger.
Andromeda covers her face with her robe.
Grieve not for them: they but fulfil their fate.
These things are in the order of the world
Like plagues and slaughters, famines, fires and earthquakes,
Which when they pass us by killing their thousands,
We should not weep for, but be grateful only
That other souls than the dear heads we loved
Have perished.
You will not save them?
Unhappy girl!
Fie! Would you have your brother killed for your whimsies?
Will you not save them, brother?
I cannot, child.
Then I will.
Does she mean it?
Such wild caprices
Are always darting through her brain.
I could not take
Poseidon's wrath upon my head!
Forget it
As she will too. Her strange imaginations
Flutter awhile among her golden curls,
But soon wing off with careless flight to Lethe.
What is it, Medes?
The King, Prince Iolaus,
Requires your presence in his audience-chamber.
So? Tell me, Medes, is Poseidon's priest
In presence there?
He is and full of wrath.
Go, tell them I am coming.
Alas!
Fear not.
I have a strength the grim intriguers dream not of.
Let not my sister hear this, Diomede.
What may not happen? The priest is dangerous,
Poseidon may be angry. Let us go
And guard our child from peril of this shock.
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Exact
{/Exactness}{/EndingDate}{DateType}
Publication
{/DateType}{Source}{SourceTitle}
Bande Mataram
{SourceType}
Weekly
{/Source}{WorkKind}
Play
{/WorkKind}{/DocumentDescription}