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Tagore Translations

A Trip to the Himalayas by Rabindranath Tagore

‘Himalaya Jatra’ (A trip to the Himalayas) has been excerpted from Jibon Smriti[1] and translated by Somdatta Mandal.

Jibon Smriti by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

After my head was shaved for the upanayan (sacred thread) ceremony, I was seriously troubled thinking how I would go to school. However serious attraction the European boys had towards the bovine race; they did not have that much respect for the Brahmins. So even if they did not throw anything over the shaven head, they would surely make fun of it.

While I was worried with such thoughts, I got a call one day from the room on the second floor. Father asked me whether I would like to go with him to the Himalayas. If I could shout the words “Yes I do” at a sky-rendering tone, then the feelings of my heart would have been suitably expressed. Where was the Bengal Academy and where the Himalayas!

Before leaving, Father assembled everyone in the house and according to his tradition did the upasana – the traditional prayers. After paying obeisance to all the elders I entered the coach along with Father. At my age, this was the first time that clothes had been tailored for me. Father had personally ordered the colour and the quality of the fabric. A round velvet cap with design in zari [2] was also made for me. I held that in my hand because I felt reluctant to wear it on my shaven head. As soon as I entered the coach, Father ordered, “Wear it on the head.” He did not leave any scope for untidiness and so I had to wear that cap over my shameful head. In the train, I would take it off whenever I got an opportunity to do so but that did not escape Father’s notice. So, I had to keep it in its right place.

Right from youth to maturity, all the ideas and work of my father were always perfect. He could not leave anything hazy in his mind and could not do any work in a haphazard manner. For him his duty towards others and the duty of others towards him were defined very clearly. By nature, we are an easy-going people and not concerned when we deviate a little here and there. So, we were always very scared and alert about our behaviour towards him. Though it did not cause any serious damage, he felt hurt if there was any deviation from his agenda. Before making any resolution, he would mentally visualise everything clearly in all its details. So, for any occasion he would plan where each object should be placed, who would be placed in which position, who would be entrusted with which responsibility and to what extent there would be no deviation from that on any account. After the work was complete, he would gather reports from different people. Then he would compare each description and by putting them together in his mind, tried to see everything clearly. In this respect he did not possess our national character at all. There was no chance for the minutest deviation in his resolutions, thoughts, behaviour and performance. For this reason, for all the days I was with him on this trip to the Himalayas, I had plenty of freedom on the one hand but on the other, all my behaviour was determined in such a manner that it could not be transgressed. When he declared a holiday then he would not prevent one doing anything for any reason whatsoever; when he fixed some rules then he didn’t leave any scope for minute lapses.

Before our journey to the Himalayas commenced, we were supposed to stay for some days at Bolpur. Satya had gone there some time back with his parents. No nineteenth century child from any respectable household would ever believe his travel accounts. But we had not yet learnt to decipher the demarcating line between possible and impossible acts. Even Krittibas or Kashiram Das could not help us in this matter. The colourful children’s books and magazines with pictures in them did not warn us beforehand about the difference between fact and fiction. We had to learn the hard way that there was strict discipline in the world.

Satya[3] had told me that boarding the train was a dangerous act and one could not do it if one did not have special abilities for it. There was no way to save oneself if one slipped and fell. Also, when the train would start moving after that, they would need to assemble all the strength in the body and force themselves to sit down otherwise they would be pushed in such a strong manner that everyone would just get thrown out, scattered, and lost. So, I was quite scared when I reached the station. But when I got onto the train so easily, I started doubting whether the actual part of the boarding was yet to take place. After that when the train started to move very smoothly then I became demoralized that there was no sign of danger.

As the train kept on moving rows of green trees, blue bordered fields and shady villages ran past on both sides like a flood of mirages. We reached Bolpur in the evening. As soon as I got inside the palanquin, I closed my eyes. I wanted to discover all the surprises that Bolpur had in store for me only the next morning when I would open my eyes again. If I got a hint of it in this hazy unclear evening, then I would miss the charm of total happiness the next morning.

Early next morning, I came and stood outside with a tremble in my heart. The erstwhile traveller had told me that Bolpur was different from all other places in the world because though there was no roof over the pathway leading from the main house to the kitchen one would not have to face any rain or sunshine. So, I started looking for that strange path. Readers please do not be surprised to know that I have not found that path to date.

Being a city-bred boy, I had never seen paddy fields before and had painted rosy pictures about shepherd boys in my imagination after reading about them in books. Satya had told me that the fields around Bolpur were full of paddy and playing every day with the shepherd boys was a daily affair. The main aspect of this game was to collect rice from the fields, cook it and sit down with them to share that meal.

I looked desperately on all sides. Where were the paddy fields in this desert land? There might be a few shepherd boys in some field somewhere but there was no way to identify them. It did not take long to regret what I could not see because what I saw was enough for me. There was no control by the servants here. The only line of control was the blue line on the horizon which nature had demarcated and so there was no deterrent for me to roam about freely.

Even though I was quite small, Father did not prevent me from moving about freely on my own. At some places in the meadows of Bolpur the sandy topsoil on the ground had eroded in the monsoon rain and below that level created small caves, rivers, streams, and tiny hillocks full of red gravel and different kinds of stones. It was a complete geographical world for young children. The hillocks and pits here were known as the Khoai. From here I collected different kinds of stones in my pockets and took them to Father. He never made fun of this childish effort even for a single day. He would express interest and say, “How nice! From where did you get them?” I would reply, “There are thousands of stones like this. I can bring them for you every day.” He would then say, “That would be nice. Why don’t you decorate this hill with those stones?”

Earlier an attempt had been made to dig a pond but was left midway because the soil was very hard. Part of the soil from that incomplete hole was heaped up on the southern side like a hill. Father would sit there on a wooden stool early every morning for his upasana. The sun would rise from the eastern horizon in front of him. He would encourage me to decorate that hill with those stones. When I left Bolpur I felt very sad because I could not carry that huge collection of stones along with me. I had not realised then that there was a responsibility and cost for carrying any sort of burden. I could not even claim the ownership and maintain relationship with them just because I had saved them. Even today I sometimes fail to realise it. If God then listened to my sincerest prayers and blessed me with a boon, “From now on you will go on bearing the weight of these stones forever,” I would not be able to laugh and make fun of it as I am doing now.

There was a place in the Khoai where water had seeped through the soil and accumulated in a deep hole. This water would sometimes overflow and trickle very slowly through the sand. Near the mouth of that hole, I found many small fish that dared to swim against the flow of that water. I went and told Father, “I have seen a very beautiful stream, and it would be nice if we could get our drinking and bathing water from there.” He added to the excitement by saying, “Is that so? It will be good then.” and then decided to bring water from there just to award a prize to the discoverer.

I would roam around the hillocks and pits of Khoai at any time of the day and would look for discovering something extraordinary. I was Livingstone in this tiny unknown land. It seemed like land on the opposite side of a binocular. The rivers and the hillocks were so small, the scattered wild berry and wild date palm trees were equally stunted. The fish that I had discovered in that tiny river were equally small and of course there was no need to mention that the discoverer was small as well.

To develop my alertness, Father would give me two or four annas to keep and I had to account for it. He also entrusted me with winding his expensive gold watch regularly. He did not think that there was a possibility of damage; his mission was to teach me a sense of responsibility. When he went out for a walk in the morning he used to take me along. If he met a beggar on the way he would instruct me to give him alms. At the end when it was time to submit the accounts, I could never tally the amount received and spent. One day when my funds extended, he said, “I think I will have to appoint you as cashier; money grows in your hands.” I would take great care to wind his watch regularly. But the amount of care was perhaps a little more than required because very soon the watch had to be sent to Calcutta for repair.

When I grew up later, I remembered those days when I had to submit all accounts to him. At that time, he used to live on Park Street.  I had to read the accounts to him every second or third day of the month. He could not read anything by himself then. I had to compare the accounts of last month and last year and place them in front of him. First, he heard the big figures and calculated them mentally. If he had any doubts in his mind, I would have to read out the smaller expenses. Sometimes it had also happened that I had evaded some sections of the accounts which did not tally so that he would not get annoyed but somehow it could never be suppressed. He would sketch the complete accounts in his mind and could detect wherever there were lapses. For this reason, those two days were full of anxiety for me. I have already mentioned how it was his habit to frame a clear picture in his mind – whether it was accounts or any natural scenery or arranging for any celebration. He had not seen the new mandir (prayer hall) and many other things at Santiniketan, but he got the details from different people who went there and then collated the picture in his mind. He had an extraordinary memory and power of assessment. So, once he had something in his mind it could never be erased.

Father had identified certain slokas[4] he liked from the Bhagavad Gita and asked me to copy them along with their Bengali translations. I was an ordinary boy at home, so I basked in the glory of that very serious task assigned to me. In the meantime, I had done away with that tattered blue exercise book and collected a bound Lett’s Diary. To maintain the prestige of a poet my attention was now focused on keeping proper notebooks and other external manifestations. Apart from writing poetry, in my own imagination I tried to establish myself as a poet. For this reason, whenever I wrote poems in Bolpur I would stretch my legs and sit below the small coconut palm tree at the end of the garden and love to fill up my notebooks. This felt quite poetic. Sitting on that grassless stony bed in the heat of the sun I had composed a heroic poem called ‘Prithvirajer Parajoy’ (The Defeat of Prithviraj). Despite having such heroic rasas, that poem could not be saved from destruction. Like its elder sister, the blue notebook, that bound Lett’s Diary also got lost in oblivion.

 Starting from Bolpur we went to Sahebgunj, Danapur, Allahabad, Kanpur, and other places. After halting at some of them, we finally reached Amritsar. On the way one incident remains clearly etched in my mind. The train had halted at some big station. A ticket checker came to verify our tickets and after looking at me once he suspected something but did not dare to mention it. After some time, another checker arrived, and both stood uneasy for some time near the door and then left. The third time probably the station master himself arrived. He checked my half-ticket and asked Father, “Isn’t this boy above twelve years?” Father replied, “No.” I was eleven years old then but had more intelligence compared to my age. Then the station master said, “You will have to pay full fare for him.” My father’s eyes glowed in rage. He took out some notes from his box and gave them. When they deducted the fare and returned the change, Father took the money and threw it on the platform which made a jingling sound on the stone and was scattered everywhere. The station master was ashamed and left immediately. That Father would be lying for such a petty thing just to save money was something that made him bow his head in shame.

I remember the gurdwara[5] in Amritsar like a dream. On several mornings I would walk along with Father to that Sikh temple in the middle of the lake. There worship would go on throughout the day. My father went and sat among the Sikh worshippers and would suddenly start singing the hymns along with them. Listening to this song of praise being sung by an outsider, they got excited and got up to welcome him. On our way back we were given pieces of sugar candy and halwa.

Once, Father invited one of the singers of the gurdwara to our house just to listen to his bhajans[6]. The singer would probably be happy even with the lesser amount of money that was given to him. As a result, there were so many enthusiasts willing to come and sing at our house that a strict arrangement had to be made to prevent their entry. Unable to enter the house, they started attacking us on the street. Every morning, Father would take me along with him for his morning walk. During that time singers with tambourines on their shoulders would suddenly appear from nowhere. Just as a bird gets startled when it sees someone with a gun on his shoulders and thinks he is a hunter, so we would also get scared whenever we saw the tip of a tambourine at a distance. But the prey had become so clever that the sound of the tambourine was merely an empty one; it would chase us far away and couldn’t capture us.

In the evening Father would sit in the verandah in front of the garden. I was then called to sing Brahmasangeet[7] for him. The moon would rise, and moonlight infiltrated through the leaves of the trees and fell on the verandah while I sang a song in the raga Behag:

Without you Lord who is our saviour
Who is our support in this dark world?

I can still recollect that picture – Father sitting quietly in the evening with his head bent low, listening to the song with his palms folded on his lap.

I had mentioned before how Father had heard from Srikantha babu and laughed at the two spiritual poems which I had composed. I could take revenge for that much later when I grew older. Let me mention it here. Once I had composed several songs to be sung at the Maghotsav celebrations in the morning and evening. One song among them was worded, “I cannot see you, but you are there in all our eyes.” Father was then staying at Chinsurah and Jyoti dada and I were summoned there. He asked Jyoti dada to sit at the harmonium and asked me to sing all the new songs one by one. He even asked me to repeat some songs. After that he said, “If the king of this land knew the language of this country and could appreciate her literature, he would reward the poet. Since there is no such possibility for the king to do so, I will have to perform that duty.” Saying these words, he handed me a cheque for five hundred rupees.

Father wanted to teach me English and had carried with him several volumes of the series called Peter Parley’s Tales. Among them he selected for me the biography of Benjamin Franklin. He had thought that the biography could be read like a story, and I would benefit from it. But he realised his mistake soon. Benjamin Franklin was surely an intelligent man, but his religious worldview pained Father. At times while reading the text, he would become very annoyed with the extremely materialistic knowledge and advice of Franklin and could not stop without protesting it. 

Except for learning Mugdhabodh by heart, I had not learnt any Sanskrit before this. Father started teaching me directly from the second volume of Rijupath and along with it asked me to memorize the word formation from Upakramanika. The way we had been taught Bengali helped us in our learning of Sanskrit. He encouraged me to learn Sanskrit right from the beginning. I would reverse all the words I had learnt and created complex sentences on my own by adding grammatical notes wherever I felt like. In this manner I transformed the language of the gods to the language of the demons. But Father did not make fun of my weird boldness even for a day. Besides that, he would explain to me many things about astronomy verbally from the simplified English text of Proctor. I would write them down in Bengali.

Among the books Father carried with him for his own reading I noticed one book in particular. This was Gibbon’s Rome bound in ten or twelve volumes. From their appearance, they did not seem to have any entertainment value. I used to think that since I was a child I had no choice and was forced to read many things but if Father wished he could easily avoid reading this book. Then why this sorrow?

We stayed in Amritsar for about a month. Towards the end of Chaitra [mid-April], we started our journey from there towards the hills of Dalhousie. In Amritsar, time did not seem to pass, and the call of the Himalayas was making me restless. While we were climbing the mountains in a sort of litter used in the hills, the entire region was full of different kinds of seasonal crops which grew in layers on the mountain slopes and looked very beautiful. We would have milk and bread and then leave early in the morning and take a rest at dak bungalows in the afternoon. My eyes did not rest for the whole day; I feared that I might miss noticing something. When we reached a corner of the mountain at the turn of the road, the bearers would put down our basket carriage and take rest under the dense shade of the trees that bent down with the weight of their leaves; a place where one or two streams leapt down over the mossy black stones that resembled playful daughters of the sages sitting at the feet of old meditating ascetics. I would covetously keep on thinking why they did not leave us there as it would be nice to stay at such a place.

Getting acquainted with something new always has its advantages. Till then the mind does not know that there are many more places like that. Once you get to know it, the mind starts saving its attentive powers but when it sees that everything is very rare then it does away with its stinginess and pays full attention to it. Now on some days when I walk on the streets of Calcutta, I imagine that I am a foreigner. Then I can imagine that there are plenty of things to see, but we don’t see them because we don’t have a mind to value them. That is the reason why people go abroad to satiate their visual hunger.

Father had entrusted me with his small cash box for safekeeping. There was no reason to think that I was the most suitable person for that job. A lot of money was kept there to be spent during our travels. He could have been more assured if he gave it to Kishori Chatterjee, but he had a special reason for handing it over to me. One day after reaching a dak bungalow, I had left that box on the table in the room and Father had chided me for that. After reaching the dak bungalow Father would sit on a bench outside. When it was evening and the stars shone brightly in the clear mountain sky, Father would teach me how to identify the planets and the stars and would discuss astronomy.

Our house in Bakrota was on the highest peak of a mountain. Though it was the month of Baisakh, it was very cold. The snow had not melted at many places on the road, especially where the sunlight did not fall directly. Father did not apprehend any danger here and so did not prevent me from wandering in the mountains at my own free will. There was a big pine forest in the valley near our house. I went alone to that forest quite frequently along with my metal-headed stick. The trees along with their shadows stood like giants and were many hundred years old. But they could not even speak a word when a small human child roamed among them. I would get a special touch from those trees as soon as I entered the shadow of the forest. It seemed to have the coldness of a reptile. The light and shade that fell on the dry leaves seemed like various lines drawn on the body of a huge prehistoric reptile.

Sketch of the house ‘The Snow Dawn’ at Bakrota. Photo provided by Somdatta Mandal

My bedroom was right at the end of the house. Lying on my bed at night I could see the faint light of the planets and the brightness of the snow on the mountain peaks through the windows. I don’t know at what hour of the night it was when I saw Father in a red shawl walking silently with a candle in his hand. He was going to the glass-enclosed verandah outside to sit and pray. After another bout of sleep Father shook me and asked me to wake up. The darkness of the night had not gone away completely. That time was fixed for me to learn by heart the “naroh, narou, narah” grammar from the Upakramanika. Getting out of the warm blankets in that cold weather was indeed a sad beginning.

At sunrise, Father finished drinking a bowl of milk after his morning prayers and then made me sit beside him. He would pray once more by chanting mantras from the Upanishads. After that he took me out for a walk. I could not compete with him. I would stop somewhere in the middle of the path and climb up through a short cut to go back to our house.

After Father came back, I had to study English for about an hour. After that a cold-water bath was scheduled at ten o’clock and there was no respite from this. The servants did not dare to mix some hot water against his orders. Father encouraged me by telling me stories about how he used to bathe in intolerably cold water in his younger days.

Drinking milk was another trial for me. Father drank plenty of milk. I wasn’t sure whether I inherited this strength of drinking milk from him or not, but I have mentioned earlier the reason why my eating and drinking habits went in a completely opposite direction. But I had to drink the milk along with him. I had to beg the servants and they took pity on me by filling up the bowl with less milk and more froth.

After lunch Father sat down once again to teach me but it was impossible to keep my eyes open as the spoilt morning sleep would take its revenge now. I would just doze off to sleep. Seeing my condition, Father would let me go but then the sleep would instantly run away. After that it was the turn of the mountains. On some afternoons I would take my stick and walk alone from one mountain to another. Father never expressed his anxiety over it. Till the end of my life, I have seen that he never wanted to restrain our independence. I did a lot of things that were against his taste or will, and if he so wished he could have scolded and prevented me from doing it. But he never did that. He would wait and see whether I performed all my duties from the core of my heart. He did not accept that we followed truth and beauty only as external manifestations; he knew that if we moved away from truth, we could return to it once again but if we were forced to accept truth through false discipline then it would block the path of our return.

At the beginning of my youth, I had the fancy that I would travel by bullock cart on the Grand Trunk Road and go up to Peshawar. No one approved of my proposal and cited various reasons against it. But when I went and told Father about it, he said, “This is a very good idea. Travelling by train is not real travel at all.” Then he narrated tales of how he travelled to different places on foot or in a horse carriage. He never for once mentioned that it would be difficult or dangerous for me to travel in that way.

On another occasion when I was newly appointed as the secretary of the Adi Samaj, I went to his house at Park Street and told him, “I do not like this idea that only Brahmins can become Acharyas at the Adi Brahmo Samaj and non-Brahmins cannot do so.” He then told me, “All right try and bring a remedy to this if you can.” After I received his permission, I realised that I did not have the power to do so. I could only see the deficiency but was unable to create something wholeheartedly. Where was my strength to do so? Where was the ingredient with which I could break something and rebuild something else? He knew that until the right person came forward, it was better to follow the old rules, but he did not discourage me by mentioning any such problem. Just as he had given me the freedom to roam around in the mountains alone, in a similar way he gave me the freedom to find the right path on my own. He was not scared that I would commit mistakes, did not express his doubts so that I would suffer. He just held the ideals of life in front of us but did not use the rod of discipline.

I would often spend time with Father talking about things at home. As soon as I received any letter from home I would go and show it to him. I am sure he got a lot of information from me about things that he did not have the possibility of getting from anyone else. He would also let me read the letters he received from Baro dada and Mejo dada, my elder brothers. In this manner I also learnt the art of writing letters and he knew that I also needed to learn all these external ways and manners as well.

I still remember that in one of Mejo dada’s letters he had used a phrase which meant that he was slogging at his workplace with a rope tied around his neck. Father repeated a few of those words and asked me the meaning of it. He did not approve of my explanation and offered a different meaning to it. But I had such impertinence that I was unwilling to accept it and argued with him for a long time. If it was anyone else, he would surely have scolded me and asked me to stop, but Father listened to all my protests with patience and then tried to make me understand.

Father even told me many funny stories which included stories about the whims of the rich people in those days. Since the border of the sari or dhoti would hurt their delicate skin, some of these fanciful people would tear the border off and then wear the cloth. Since the milkman used to mix water with the milk, a servant was appointed to look after it. Then another inspector was appointed to keep an eye on that servant. In this way the number of inspectors went on increasing while the colour of the milk turned paler and gradually became as crystal clear as water. When asked for an explanation the milkman replied that if the number of inspectors went on increasing then there would be no other way but to add snails, mussels, and prawns in the milk. I really enjoyed listening to this story when I heard it from him for the first time.

After several months passed by in this manner, Father sent me back to Calcutta along with his assistant Kishori Chatterjee.

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[1] An early translation of Tagore’s Jibonsmriti (1911, Memories of Life), entitled My Reminiscences, had been done by Surendranath Tagore in 1916 and was reprinted in 1990 by Mitra and Ghosh Publishers, Calcutta. The translation of this particular section has been done by Somdatta Mandal from the original Bengali text.

[2] Gold or silver embroidery

[3] Satyaprasad Gangopadhyay was the son of his eldest sister, Soudamini Devi, and was a sincere student and brilliant in academics.

[4] Chants

[5] A Sikh temple

[6] Hymns

[7] The songs sung by the people of the Brahmo faith and popularised by Tagore’s father, Debendranath Tagore.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861 to 1941) was a brilliant poet, writer, musician, artist, educator – a polymath. He was the first Nobel Laureate from Asia. His writing spanned across genres, across global issues and across the world. His works remains relevant to this day.

Somdatta Mandal is a critic and translator and a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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Categories
Essay

Travels of Debendranath Tagore

Narrative by Debendranath Tagore, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal

Note from the Translator

Debendranath, Father of Rabindranath Tagore

Born to Dwarkanath Tagore in Shelaidah, Debendranath Tagore (15 May 1817 – 19 January 1905) was a Hindu philosopher and religious reformer. One of the founders of the Brahmo religion in 1848, his journey in the role of ‘Maharshi’, the great ascetic, was an attempt to spread the Brahmo faith and he travelled extensively to various places, especially in different parts of the Himalayas like Mussourie, Shimla, Kashmir, and Dalhousie.  He even constructed a house in Bakrota called ‘The Snow Dawn’ where he used to reside for months. Although Debendranath was deeply spiritual, he managed to continue to maintain his worldly affairs — he did not renounce his material possessions, as some Hindu traditions prescribed, but instead continued to enjoy them in a spirit of detachment. His considerable material property included estates spread over several districts in Bengal. Debendranath was a master of the Upanishads and played no small role in the education and cultivation of the faculties of his sons.

In his memoir, Jeevan Smriti [Memories of Life], Rabindranath also narrates in detail about his trip with his father in the Himalayas when he was just eleven years old. Debendranth founded the Tattwabodhini Patrika (1843) as a mouthpiece of the Brahmo Samaj and apart from his autobiography, wrote several other prose pieces which also reveal his wanderlust.

Among the two entries included here, we have ‘Moulmein Bhraman’ which is an interesting travel piece narrating his sojourn in Burma in September/October 1850. In the Chaitra 1817 Saka issue of Tattwabodhini Patrika, a travelogue ‘Mori Bhraman’ narrating Debendranath’s trip to Mori was published. Interestingly, as a prologue to this piece Sri Chintamani Chattopadhyay tells us that he was so enamoured after listening to Debendranath’s oral narration of the trip undertaken 28 years earlier, that he decided to transcribe it for the satisfaction of the readers.

Moulmein Bhraman (Travel to Moulmein)

After a year, the splendour of autumn revealed once again and the desire to travel blossomed in my mind. I could not make up my mind where to go for a trip this time. I thought I would make a trip on the river and so went to the bank of the Ganges to look for a suitable boat. I saw that several khalasis — dockyard workers – of a huge steamer were busy at their work. It seemed that this steamer would soon set sail.

“When would this steamer go to Allahabad?” I asked them.

In reply they said, “Within two or three days this will venture into the sea.”

On hearing that this steamer would go to the sea, I thought that this was the easiest way my desire for a sea journey could be fulfilled. I went to the captain instantly and rented a cabin and in due time boarded that steamer to begin my sea journey.

I had never seen the blue colour of the sea water before. I kept on watching the beautiful sights by day and night amid the continuous bright blue waves and remained immersed in the glory of the eternal spirit. After entering the sea and swaying with the waves for one night, the ship dropped anchor at three o’clock the next afternoon. In front of us, I saw a stretch of white sand and something that looked like human habitation. So, I took a boat and went to see it. As I was wandering about the place, I saw a few Bengali men from Chittagong with charms around their necks coming towards me. I asked them, “How come you are here? What do you do?”

“We do business here. We have procured the idol of Goddess Durga in this month of Ashwin[1],” they replied.

I was really surprised to hear that they celebrate Durga puja here in Khaekfu town of Burma. Durga puja was celebrated even here!

From there, I came back to the ship and started towards Moulmein. When the ship left the sea and entered the Moulmein River, I remembered the scene of leaving Gangasagar Island and going into the Ganges River. But this river did not offer any such good scenery. The water was muddy and full of crocodiles; no one bathed in it. The ship came and dropped anchor at Moulmein. Here a Madrasi resident called Mudeliar came and greeted me[2]. He came on his own and introduced himself. He was a high-level government official and a true gentleman. He took me to his house, and I remained a guest there and accepted his hospitality for the few days I stayed at Moulmein. I stayed very comfortably in his house.

The streets in the city of Moulmein were wide and clean. The shops that lined both sides of the street selling different kinds of things were all manned by women. I bought a box, and some very fine silk clothes from them. Going around the marketplace I went to the fish market at one time. I saw big fish for sale displayed on huge tables.

 “What are these big fish called?”

They replied, “Crocodiles.” So, the Burmese ate crocodiles; they spoke verbally about ahimsa and the Buddhist religion, but their stomachs were filled with crocodiles!

One evening when I was wandering on the wide streets of Moulmein, I saw a man walking towards me. When he came close, I understood that he was a Bengali. I was quite surprised to see a Bengali there. From where did this Bengali arrive across the ocean? It seemed there were no places where Bengalis did not go. I asked him, “From where have you come?”

“I was in trouble and so came here,” he replied.

Instantly I understood his trouble[3]. I asked him further, “How many years of trouble?”

“Seven years,” he replied again.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing much. I just duplicated some papers of a company. Now my term is over, but I cannot go home because I do not have the money.”

I offered to give him the passage money. But how will he go home? He had set up a business, had got married, and was living quite comfortably. Would he ever go back to our country to show his shameful black face there?

Mudeliar told me that there was a mountain cave here which people went to visit[4]. If I wished he would accompany me there. I agreed. On the first moon night[5], he brought a long boat during the high tide. There was a wooden cabin in the centre of that boat. That night, Mudeliar, I, the captain of the ship and seven or eight other people boarded the boat and it left at two o’clock at night. We sat up for the whole night in that boat. The foreigners kept on singing English songs and requested me to sing Bengali songs. So, I kept on singing Brahma-sangeet occasionally. No one understood anything. They did not like them and went on laughing. We travelled for about twenty-seven miles that night and reached our destination at four o’clock in the morning.

Our boat reached the shore. Everything was still dark. On the shore I saw a cottage full of trees and creepers from which light was coming out. I got curious and ventured alone to that unknown place in the darkness. On reaching there I found it was a tiny cottage. Inside several bald-headed priests in yellow ochre robes were placing candles in different parts of the room. I was quite surprised to see people resembling the priests of Kashi[6] here. How did they come here? Later I came to know that they were the leaders of the Buddhist monks and known as Phungis. I hid myself and observed them playing with the lamps but suddenly one of them saw me and took me inside. They gave me a mat to sit on and water to wash my feet. I had come to their house, so this was their way of entertaining guests. According to the Buddhists, serving guests was a sacred act.

I returned to the boat at early dawn. The sun rose. Mudeliar and the other invited guests came and joined us. This made us fifty in number. Mudeliar fed all of us there. He had arranged for several elephants; about two or four people got on each elephant and proceeded towards the dense jungle. There were small hills all around and in between was that dense forest. There was no other way of travelling here except on elephant back. We reached the entrance of the cave in the mountain around three o’clock in the afternoon.

We descended from the back of the elephants and started to walk in the jungle where the undergrowth was waist high. The entrance to the cave was small; we had to crawl in. After crawling in a little we could stand up straight. It was very slippery inside and we kept on slipping and falling. So, we started walking very cautiously. It was pitch dark inside. Though it was three in the afternoon it seemed like three at night. I was scared that if we lost our way in the tunnel, we would not be able to come out. We would then have to wander inside the cave for the whole day. So, wherever I went, I kept an eye on the faint light at the entrance of the cave. All the fifty of us spread ourselves in various parts of the cave and everyone had sulfur powder in their hands. Then each person put a little sulfur powder in the little holes in the cave next to where he was standing.

After everyone’s place was defined, the captain lit his share of the sulfur powder. Instantly each one of us lit matches and ignited our portion. Now the cave was lit simultaneously at fifty different places like fireworks, and we could see the inside clearly. What a huge cave it was! On looking up to the ceiling our vision could not gauge its height. We saw the different natural formations that had been caused by rainwater seepage inside and were really surprised.

Later, we came out and had a picnic in the forest and then came back to Moulmein. On our way back we heard different musical instruments being played together. Locating that sound, we went forward and saw a few Burmese people dancing with all kinds of gestures of their bodies. Our captain and the foreigners also joined them and started to dance in a similar manner. They found great pleasure. A Burmese lady was standing at the entrance of her house. She watched the mimicry of the foreigners and went and whispered something in the men’s ears.  They stopped their singing and dancing immediately, and all of them suddenly left the scene and disappeared somewhere.  The captain went on entreating them to resume their dance, but they did not listen. It was amazing to see how much hold the Burmese women had over their men.

We came back to Moulmein. I went to meet a high-level Burmese official at his house. He received me very politely. There was a huge room and in its four corners sat four young women stitching something.

When I sat down, he said “Ada[7].”

One of the girls instantly came and handed me a round box full of betel leaves. On opening it I found it to contain different condiments. This was the local Buddhist custom of receiving guests. He then gifted me some excellent saplings resembling the Ashok flower. I had brought them home and planted them in my garden, but they did not survive despite great care. The fruit of this tree is very popular with the Burmese. If someone had sixteen rupees then he would spend the entire amount to buy that fruit. We disliked their favourite fruit because of its smell[8].

Mori Bhraman (Travel to Murree)

On the 10th of Pous, 1789 Saka[9], I abandoned all work and ventured in full earnest to go for a tour in the west. I did not decide where I would go. Just as a confined river feels overjoyed when released, I too left home with equal enthusiasm. Two servants accompanied me. One was a Punjabi Sikh called Gour Singh, the other was Kashi Singh, an Odiya Kshatri. At that time the train went only up to Delhi.

Upon arriving at Delhi, I found out that there was no other way to go except by mail coach. So, I booked a seat on it. My destination was Punjab. The horses of the coach in which I travelled up to a place near Sutlej were not steady. Because of them the coach swayed on both sides. I feared that it might topple, and it did tilt on one side and fell down on the ground.

I got out of the coach through its panel and shouted at the driver in the topmost voice – “You made me fall down, the body is hurt in many places and the nose is bleeding.” The driver had assumed that I had already died under the pressure of the carriage. Feeling assured after hearing my voice he replied, “Baancha to – at least you are alive.” My servant brought some water from a nearby well. I washed my nose. It was almost evening by then. Seeing a rest house nearby, I spent the night there.

Early next morning, I boarded the mail carriage again. It crossed the huge bridge upon the river Sutlej. Upon looking down I saw that the water had a tremendous current. I had never seen such a large bridge before. The wind was blowing fiercely. The strange sound of the waves hitting one another created great pleasure in my mind.

After that I reached an inn near the Beas River. Having our lunch there, I boarded the coach again at four in the afternoon. It was almost evening; we hadn’t progressed far when all of a sudden, a heavy storm rose. The road was just along the river. Sand started blowing to form clouds and cover the surroundings. Nothing was visible in front of us. Sand filled our nostrils and the coach could hardly move. I couldn’t decide where to go and take shelter. We found a settlement a little further ahead. Seeing a two-storied house I got off the coach and spent the night there. The storm continued unabated till three o’clock at night. As soon as it stopped, I boarded the coach again.

In this manner, travelling from one inn to another, I ultimately reached Amritsar. Earlier when I had gone to Shimla, I had spent a few days with great pleasure in Amritsar in an old, dilapidated house located next to a narrow sewer line. Immediately upon reaching Amritsar, I went looking for that beloved house.

I came next to the sewage line but saw that the house did not exist anymore. There wasn’t even a sign of it anywhere. This was an example that nothing was permanent in our lives.

I came back from there in a depressed mood. I rented a small single storied hut next to the road. As a traveller on the road, I stayed there amid the dust in that small room quite stoically but with great excitement. I cannot express in words how much I enjoyed living in such seclusion. The room wasn’t much taller than the road. Unknown travellers would stop by and speak to me in a manner as if we had been acquainted before. I was also happy to interact with them. One of them was a devotee of Hafiz and I too became an admirer. He did not want to leave me and became an earnest friend of mine.

Days went by in this manner. One day a Brahmo gentleman called Shibchandra babu came from the Brahmo Samaj at Lahore. He said that he had been sent by the Brahmos there once they heard that I was here, and I had to go to Lahore. Seeing his eagerness I started for Lahore. Babu Nabinchandra Roy had arranged for my accommodation beforehand in a house located next to a wide road at Anarkali. Once I reached there, the Brahmos came and surrounded me with devotion. During my stay in Lahore, I even had to deliver a lecture in Hindi.

From there the Brahmos arranged for my stay inside a garden. Surrounded by lime trees, the dwelling house was in the middle. With only two servants accompanying me, who was going to cook for me? I developed diarrhoea after eating the hard rotis that were served. Soon, I was also attacked by malaria. The Brahmos informed a Muslim doctor, and he came and saw me. I did not take the medicines prescribed by him. My own medicine was powdered Myrobalan and I took that. The next day there was a lot of emission of blood. I became weak; wanting fresh air I went up to the first floor. There I felt the tremendous heat of the sun and my head started reeling. The very next moment I fainted. Upon hearing this news, two Brahmos came and started feeding me sugar cane and I regained my consciousness after their nursing.

The body was in a miserable condition. The next day I sat wondering where I could go in such a state and that too without a cook. How could I return home in the heat of summer? As I was feeling tense thinking about it and could not decide what to do, my heart suddenly said, “Go to Murree.”

Thinking this to be a god-sent instruction I started preparing to go to Murree. The local Brahmos came to meet me at around two in the afternoon. My body was still very weak, and I didn’t have the energy to even talk much. They asked me what I wanted to do now, and I told them that I had decided to go to Murree and would begin my journey that day itself. After they left, Nabin babu and a few other Brahmos came.

I told them, “I want to go to Murree today so please arrange for a coach.”

They sent Gour Singh and arranged a mail carriage for me. Nabin babu asked me what I would eat on the way. He then gave me two bottles of pomegranate juice. After the coach arrived, I had the two big trunks loaded on its roof and got inside with the two bottles of juice as sustenance. Two servants sat on the roof of the coach. Despite my objection, the Brahmos dismantled the horses and started pulling the coach by themselves. I had to persuade them to stop. The coachmen attached the horses again and started moving.

After travelling a little I realised that the coach was swaying too much, and it was also not strong enough. The Sikh Gour Singh who was sitting on top was very strong, and there were two heavy trunks; if the roof collapsed on my head, there would be nothing I could do. I started feeling scared. Travelling in this manner, I reached a dak bungalow. It was a great relief and I felt that my life was saved. After eating there, I boarded the coach again. Gradually I came to the Jhelum. Gour Singh’s house was located there. He stopped the coach and was pleased to call his relatives and introduce me to them.

In this manner I arrived at Rawalpindi, which was situated in the Murree valley. From this point the road went up and down. Many broken wheels lay scattered here and there as proof of this dangerous road. I became scared on seeing them and kept wondering what would happen to me if the wheels of this unstable coach also broke. But by God’s grace, we overcame all these various hurdles and safely reached another dak bungalow[10]. As soon as I arrived there, the local Bengali gentlemen came to meet me. The pain in my body and the strain of travel made it difficult for me to speak. A gentleman called Dwarik babu started taking special care of me. He went here and there looking for a house, and at last went and requested a Parsi gentleman to allow me to stay in his garden.

I stayed in that garden and a Punjabi doctor came to see me. I told him that milk was my only food, but I could not digest that milk very well. I asked him for some medicines that would help me to digest that milk and was slightly relieved with what he gave me. I had become very weak. At night when I went to bed, I felt that I would not be able to get up the next day.

When Dwarik babu came the following day, I told him that I wanted to go to Murree. He told me that there were still no shops and markets at Murree, and I would find it difficult to stay there. But I went on pestering him. So having no other way he arranged for two basket carriages called dulis that would take me to Murree. I went in one duli and my luggage was put in the other one, while the servants went walking. I reached Murree after three days and a lot of hardship.

It was situated at a height of 7,500 feet. The bearers asked me where I wanted to go, and I told them to take me to the place where the sahibs usually landed. They took me to a huge house which was totally deserted and not a single human being was around.

I told them, “Why did you bring me here? Take me to a bungalow where people are staying.”

So, they took me to another bungalow. But the people there told me that it was a club house and not a place for travellers to stay. So, I could not put up there. I told the bearers to take me back to that same uninhabited house where they had taken me at first. They got annoyed and went back there and said that they would not go anywhere else. They placed my duli under a tree in front of that house. Looking up I saw the sky overcast with clouds. Here in the hills, it doesn’t take long for clouds to gather and rain. I was worried and wondered where to go now. I asked the bearers to take me inside and they carried the duli up to the verandah. I got down and inspected the house. There was no one anywhere. I selected a room and again asked the bearers to bring all by bedding from the carriage and spread it out near the wall so that I could sit up and take some rest. They did that and the very next moment quickly disappeared with their dulis.

A little later it started raining. The servants had not reached till then. Through the windowpanes, I could see that a heavy storm was raging outside. The leafless branches of all the big trees were fiercely swaying and big hailstones started hitting the windowpanes as if they would break them, but nothing happened. I kept on thinking that if I arrived here a little late then I would surely have died inside the duli in this severe hailstorm.

After a while the two servants came shivering. With the cold, the rain, and the hailstorm, they were in very bad shape. After wringing their clothes, they came near me. I told Gour Singh to look for a bearer or the caretaker of this hotel and bring him to me.

So he went and got the chowkidar. I asked him to fetch the furniture for the room, but he said he couldn’t do that till he received orders from the master. I threatened him that if he did not bring the furniture out under my orders and if his owner got to know about it, then he would be instantly dismissed from his job. The man got scared and then brought out a charpoi. I spread out my bedding on that cot and lay down. That night Gour Singh brought me a roti and some water. I could neither eat that hard roti nor drink the ice-cold water of Murree. So, I spent the night without any food. In the morning, I sent Gour Singh to fetch some milk and kept on counting the hours until his return.

It was eight o’clock and still there was no sign of Gour Singh. Those eight hours seemed like eight days. At last, he came back at 9 am with some buffalo milk. Upon drinking it, I found it to be diluted with water and tasteless. I could not digest that milk, and nothing remained in my stomach. The milk just passed out as it was. I covered myself with layers of blankets and shawls and went to sleep in the charpoi in that tremendously cold weather.

While I was lying down, I saw a shivering sahib entering my room. I realised how extremely cold it was outside when I found his teeth were chattering. He lit a fire in the next room and because of that I felt a bit comfortable.

The next day Gour Singh brought such diluted buffalo milk once again. I drank it but again the milk went out of my body as it is. Having starved for three nights I felt almost half-dead on the third night. I laid down quite comfortably on the charpoi with all the warm clothes layered upon my body and did not feel any pain. I felt as if someone like my mother was sitting near my head. I was breathing and along with that breath I saw my friend, Sajuja, also looking at me.  Breathing in and out in that manner I spent the whole night doing easy yoga and cannot describe how happy I felt.

Soon the night was over, and it was morning. Once again Gour Singh brought that kind of diluted buffalo milk. I drank it. How strange! I digested the milk that day. Since pure milk was unavailable here, I told Gour Singh that it would be nice if he went looking for a cow.  So, he went to Rawalpindi and bought a small cow for thirty rupees. He said that she gave ten seers of milk per day. Now milk has become my staple diet.

After drinking that milk my body became a little stronger. I had been staying in Bekereya Hotel from the beginning but now I decided that it was not feasible to continue staying there any longer. So, I went to look for a rented house. I went up the hill in that extremely weak condition and found an empty house. But it was so cold there that I did not find it suitable. A little lower from that point I found another house and liked it. I rented it for nine hundred rupees and started staying there. The next day the postal peon brought me a letter from my nephew Gnanendranath. I opened it with excitement, and he had included a Brahma-sangeet which read thus:

Gao rey tahar naam
Rochito jaar visvadhaam.
Dayar jaar nahi biram
Jharey abitito dhaarey.

[Sing His name/He who has created this world/Whose blessings endless/Falls continuously on earth]

I had already received His blessings to get back my life from the verge of death; the same blessings that were referred to in this song made me feel excited and my heart leaped with joy. This sort of a letter, and at such a time! How strange! How strange!

In this new house I managed to get a cook. He prepared green moong dal for me, and I liked its taste. It was sufficient for my lunch. After a long time, I felt satiated after an afternoon meal. As my health started improving, I gradually began to increase the quantity of my milk consumption. Early in the morning after the upasana was over, they brought the cow in front of me, and I would immediately send a bowl for the cow to be milked before my eyes. The bowl of milk was brought to me; I drank it and sent the bowl back. The cow would then be milked again, and I would once again drink from the bowl. This procedure was repeated several times and after drinking four or five bowls of milk, I would go for a walk in the mountains. Walking in the fresh cool breeze and under the direct rays of the morning sun, I wandered here and there and then came home. Instantly I would have tea, chocolate, and milk. During lunch I would drink milk again, and in the evening, and before going to bed. In this manner, I would drink about ten seers of milk each day and whatever was left over was made into butter to be consumed with rotis the next morning.

Within seven days, I regained my strength and, feeling exuberated started travelling in the mountains. I started singing songs praising the grace of our creator and there was no end to those songs. For a long time, I had been cherishing dreams of visiting Kashmir and it seemed that our creator would now fulfill it. So, I started enquiring about how to go to Kashmir. By the beginning of May, Murree became full of people and the place took a new look with the red uniform of the British soldiers and the fanciful clothes of the other British men and women. Deserting its shabby look, even nature filled up the place with varieties of flowers. After staying in Murree for three months, I heartily began my journey to Kashmir on the 4th of September.

 [ Excerpted from Wanderlust: Travels of the Tagore Family. Translated and Edited by Somdatta Mandal. Kolkata: Visva-Bharati, 2014]

[1] Septemmber-October

[2] Sri Murugesam Mudeliar was the then Commissariat contractor of the military outpost at Moulmein.

[3] The fact was that the man had been banished here. Usually, political prisoners were interned in Moulmein prior to 1848.  But after 1848 Port Blair in the Andaman Islands was made the new place for banishment and imprisonment. This narrative is dated 1850.

[4] The local name of this famous cave was Kha-yon-gu, and Farm Cave in English. It was situated in the northeast part of Moulmein town and was approachable through the Ataran River.

[5] This was on the 4th of November, 1850.

[6] Varanasi

[7] In the Burmese language a guest was called ai the(y), which was pronounced like ‘aah’ and which when suddenly heard sounded like ‘ada’.

[8] The Durian looks somewhat like a jackfruit but is leaner and smaller in size.

[9] This would be 1867 CE.

[10] A dak bungalow was a circuit house along the postal route for the administrative officials to spend nights.

Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English from Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.

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