Written and published in 1901, Mrityu (Death)was a part of RabindranathTagore’s collection called Naibedya (Offering).
Death Scene painted by Tagore (1861-1941). From Public Domain
DEATH
Death is a stranger to me. Today, I shiver in apprehension. I cling to this life with all my might, With tears in my eyes, I wait to bid This world goodbye. O ignorant, why did you grow So attached to this life when The cycle of life and death was Known to you? The dawn of death Is like reacquainting with a stranger. I love this life so much that I am Convinced I will love death equally. A child torn from one breast wails but is comforted Within moments of being held at the other breast.
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Acche Dukho, Acche Mritu (Sorrow Exists, Death Exists) was written by Tagore when his wife, Mrinalini Devi, died in 1902. His lyrics have been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam.
Photos from Public Domain
Sorrow exists, death too; partings scald as well And yet peace, and yet delight, arise eternally. Life goes on; the sun, moon and stars keep smiling! Spring comes to gardens singing varied tunes. Waves scatter and fling themselves up again. Where old flowers shed, new flowers blossom. Overall, there’s no decay, no lasting misery, And in such fullness the mind seeks solace
A rendition of Tagore’s song by the legendary Debabrata Biswas (1911-1980)
‘Okale‘ (translates as ‘out of sync with time’) is a part of Tagore’s poetry collection, Khanika (translates to ‘moments’) published in 1900.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
OUT OF SYNC
Who is it that runs burdened with Merchandise to the closed haat*? Dusk has set in. The day is past.
Carrying burdens on their heads, Vendors return to their homestead. A fragment of the new moon Has risen in the vale. Those from the other shore, Call out loudly to the boats. The riverside reverberates with Their echoes evermore.
With what hope have you come At this hour To the closed haat, breathlessly, With your load?
Sleep has caressed The woods to bed, The cawing of crows have halted In their nests.
In the shrubs near the pond, By the fence, crickets call. Stunned branches of bamboo, Sway softly in the breeze — Within the courtyard of their homes, The weary sleep in their abodes. The night-lamp brightens The flickers of shades.
When all are at rest, As the time to work is past, Who is it that runs burdened with Merchandise to the closed haat?
*Rural Bazaar
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Pochishe Boisakh[1]was written by Tagore on 8th May 1922, and published in a collection called, Purabi [name of a raga] by the poet himself under the aegis of Vishwa Bharati.
Purabi by Rabindranath TagoreRabindranath Tagore(1861-1941)
Night gives way to dawn. I bring to you By hand, The full saga of My birth written By the rays of The morning sun.
A blood smeared sun rises out of the horizon. Faint shadows of the woods play lonely notes of the Bhairavi. Saal, palm and sisir trees murmur to Break the silence of the outskirts. On the dry fields, a blood-red path resembles The forehead of a sanyasi* smeared with holy paste.
This day returns every year In different guises on this earth — Sometimes, filled with copper-coloured mangoes, Or rustling with young palms, Or, crackling with dry leaves in the mid-day sun, Sometimes rushing to free itself Like the clouds of the Unshackled kalbaisakhi*. And it comes to me When I am alone, Drunk with the northern breeze, Hands me a gift — A plate made of the blue sky And then a zephyr filled cup of nectar.
This day has dawned today. My heart beats rapidly As if someone is blowing a conch resonating With the susurration of infinite oceans. Birth and death like The skyline meet in the circle of life. Today they come together. A white radiance seems To overflow with music from The flute of Time, filling the emptiness. Endless music irradiates My soul singing from within.
Morning descends with a Calm smile and Whispers into my ears: “I have come anew amidst many. One day, you arrived In this universe Redolent with the perfume of fresh mallika blooms, Amidst the breezy caresses of the chattim tree, In the heart of darkness, Under a steadfast, azure gaze. I kiss the forehead Of the new you. I have come to awaken you On this exciting day.
“Oh, newly fledged, Let’s revisit the start of your life. Today your existence is overwhelmed With transient dusty correspondence. Remember, O youth, Your first birthday… Unblemished — Pure, like the first moments of your life; Like the waves of the ocean, revive Every second of Your first day.
“Oh, newly fledged, Arise, illumined Out of the ashes of past. Anew, May you shine out of the mists like a rising sun. Holding the vernal flag, Fill youthful moments with lush foliage — In this way, newly fledged, Pierce the emptiness, reveal yourself. Revel in the exuberance of life, Reveal the eternal wonders of the universe within your being. The horizon reverberates with notes from the auspicious conch.”
In my heart, Eternal new notes peal On pochishe boisakh!
In 1941, Tagore adapted the last part of the poem, changed a few words and made it into a song for his last birthday, acceding to the request of a birthday song to his family and friends. The song, ‘Hey Nutan’[2], has been translated by Aruna Chakravarti in her historical novel, Daughters of Jorasanko, as the last birthday song by Tagore. You can access the translation of the song and his last birthday celebrations depicted by Aruna Chakravarti by clicking here.
ScreenshotScreenshotThe poem written in 1922 from Purabi, Vishwa Bharati The last part of the poem from PurabiThe last birthday song (1941)The last part of the longer poem written in 1922 was adapted into a song by Tagore, his last paean to his own birthday, few months before his death in 1941. The changes made to the words and phrases can be seen in the screenshots pasted above.
[1] Pochishe Boisakh is the 25th of Boisakh. Boisakh is the first month of the Bengali calendar coinciding with mid-April to mid-May. Tagore was born on 25th Boisakh, which is a date that shuttles between 7th to 9th May every year on the Gregorian calendar.
[2] Aruna Chakravarti translates this as ‘Oh ever new’. In the poem, it has been translated as ‘Oh newly fledged’. It is from that point that Tagore made the changes and converted the poem into a song. He changed a few words, a few lines, giving it a new life as a song.
(This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor)
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Travel writing by Tagore: Translation by Somdatta Mandal
In 1885, under Jnanadanandini’s1 editorial venture, a children’s magazine called Balak was published from the Tagore household in Calcutta. It contained different writings of the young Rabindranath, who would handle a lot of things for the publication. This magazine was later merged with Bharati and edited by his elder sister, Swarnakumari Devi. Among the different entries that Rabindranath contributed for Balak are two interesting travel pieces. One travelogue published in Vol. 3, Ashar 1292 B.S. (July-August 1885) called “Das Diner Chhuti” (Ten Days’ Holiday) narrates his trip to Hazaribagh that year along with his nephew and niece during their school holidays. The second one called “Baraf Pora” (Snowfall) describes his first experience of snowfall in England in the winter of 1878 when he was living in Brighton along with his brother Satyendranath’s family2.
Rabindranth Tagore (1861-1941) in England
Baraf Pora (Snowfall)
The outlines of pictures gradually blur out of the mind; the shadows of all that we see every day come ahead and crowd it, replacing the things we had seen a few days earlier. We cannot clearly understand where the earlier images get lost in the melee.
I went to England in the year 1878 A.D. That was about seven years ago. At that time, I was young too. I can remember overall what I had seen in England, but all her pictures are no longer clear in my mind. I cannot match one line with another. A kind of mist has already descended on my memories of England. The pictures must be brought out occasionally and aired in the sun. That is why I have brought out my memories in the sunlight today.
It was the middle of October when I reached England. I didn’t feel it to be too cold then. We stayed in Brighton. It was sunny in Brighton then. Happy with the sunshine, all men, both young and old, had come in hordes to the seashore. The sick and the elderly people moved in pushcarts with one or two young girls or any other member of the family accompanying them. The ladies were dressed up in different kinds of clothing with umbrellas over their heads. Small boys dragged iron wheels and ran along with them. Some ladies sat on the seashore with open umbrellas over their heads. Some were busy following the movement of the waves and collecting different kinds of seashells. An Italian beggar was moving around playing an organ. Vegetable and milk vendors were returning after supplying their products in different houses. A man and a woman were riding their own horses on the pathway and the dressed up stable boys were following them. Some schoolmasters were walking with a big group of boys following them; on the other hand, each schoolmistress had a whole trail of schoolgirls following her. They had come to enjoy the sea breeze, or if not, at least the sunshine. Quite often we would run around the grassy fields near the seashore. Though the age was not conducive for running around, we didn’t mind because no one suitable was present there to criticise us for our out-of-the-way behaviour. The best time for our outing was ten or eleven o’clock in the morning. Whatever it might be, the seaside was celebrating the festival of sunshine when we reached Brighton.
As the days went by, the cold started increasing. The mud on the streets froze in the cold weather. The dew on the grass would freeze too and it seemed as if someone had scattered lime powder everywhere. On waking up in the morning I found that ice crystals had formed different designs on the windowpane. Sometimes I also found one or two sparrows that had died in the cold lying on the road. The few yellow leaves remaining on the trees also fell down, leaving the lean bare branches behind. The small little robin birds came to the glass windows with reliable hearts begging for bits of bread. Everyone assured us that we would soon witness snowfall.
Christmas was almost approaching. It was biting cold on a moonlit night. The doors and the windows of the room were all shut tight with the curtains drawn over them. The gas was burning. A fire was lit to warm up the place. After dinner we were all around the fireplace busy chatting. The two young boys attacked me. Despite having plenty of proof, I do not want to mention here that they never behaved politely with me. They have grown up now, they even read Balak; so, I do not want to write about them and then make my life more miserable answering their questions. A few days later they will also learn to protest. Because I would not be able to counter them, I remained quiet. You readers can guess whatever you like about their behaviour – I will not volunteer to take any responsibility on my shoulders.
Everyone was sitting warm enough when suddenly we got the news of the snowfall. As all our doors were shut, we did not know when it began. All of us including the children ran outside to see the beautiful sight. The cold seemed to have frozen the moonlight in layers and stuck on the streets, on the grass, the bare branches, the sloped slate roofs. There was no one on the street. All the houses in front of us had their doors and windows shut. The night and quietness, the moonlight and the snow all blended to create a wonderful scene! The children (and I too) picked up the snow on the grass and turned it into little balls. As soon as we brought them in, they melted into water.
For me this was the first night of snowfall. After this I have seen snowfall several times. But describing it is not easy, especially after so many years. I was walking on the street covering myself entirely in black woolen clothes. The sky was grey. Little flakes of snow were falling all around like quinine powder. It did not fall like raindrops – it came in lightly as if flying or dancing. It came and touched your clothes lightly; you could dust and collect them. The wheels of cars left their marks on the soft white layers of snow. One also felt sad to leave dirty and muddied shoe imprints on the white layer of snow. It seemed as if the petals of the parijat flower were falling from the sky. Snow also got stuck on the black dresses and black umbrellas of the pedestrians.
Parijat flowers fallingSnowflakes falling
It was wonderful to watch how everything got covered with snow gradually. At first, it fell merely like some white streaks on the streets. There was a small plot of land in front of our house. It had a few saplings and creepers – no leaves on the shrubs but just bare branches. Those branches were still not covered with snow, so it was a mixture of green and white. The saplings seemed to be freezing in the cold. Their clothes were gone; wearing white funeral clothes of snow, the sap in their veins also seemed to be freezing. The black slate roof of the house was gradually turning grey and then white. Soon the streets were also covered with snow – the small saplings got buried in it. The snow also piled up on the narrow windowsill. The noses of the few pedestrians on the street turned blue, their faces shriveled in the cold. Far off at a distance, the church steeple was faintly visible like a white ghost in the sky.
It is very difficult now in this hot and humid summer month to even imagine how cold it was. I remember how after taking a cold-water bath in the morning my hands would become so numb that I could not find the handkerchief in my pocket. There was no limit to the amount of warm clothes on my body. Despite the thick shoes and socks, the soles of my feet would become cold in no time. Even after getting inside a bundle of blankets at night, I would be worried how I would turn on the other side because whenever I turned, I would get a shock. We heard the story about four fishermen who had gone out to fish in the sea. When a ship came near their boat, they saw that the four of them had already frozen to death. The coachman who was sleeping on his carriage at night had also died. The water in the pipes often froze and caused the pipes to burst. Snow had covered up the River Thames. The lake inside Hyde Park was also frozen. Hundreds of people wore a kind of iron shoes and skated over that lake every day.
This skating was a wonderful affair. Hundreds of people wearing skating shoes turned and bent and twisted and glided over that hard lake. The way people skated was like the way a boat moved with its sail. With the body slightly tilted on one side, one could float easily on the ground. No effort was needed to step forward – one did not have to quarrel with the ground or defeat it with each footstep.
Trying to bring back the winter of England to our country even through our imagination is futile. The heat here rises very quickly, melts like the snow and cannot be grasped. It is not sufficiently welcomed within the blankets and quilts here.
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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‘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.
[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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Phalgun or Spring was published posthumously by Visva Bharati, in a collection of published and unpublished poems by Tagore called Chitra Bichitra (Picturesque Potpouri) in 1954.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
Phalgun* unfolds Bright blooms, Branches laden with mango plumules. Restless bees Hum a melody, Bamboo woods murmur In harmony.
The vibrant river-water Glitters and glimmers In the moon light As the sandbank shimmers. The boat is tied to the shore. The boatman is enticed By the headiness Of the full moon night.
From the shores, a song soars soulfully. A traveller plays the Flute spontaneously. The melody races To distant fringes, Crossing lonely Trails and ridges.
In a distant bed A dreamy-eyed boy, all alone, listens to the melody and Imagines on his own… Late at night, He is sailing avast, Crossing the moonlit seas, With the moon for a raft.
He travels all night, On the moon-craft, The boat touches the Clouds that waft. As night passes into dawn, Birds chirp in the woods, The moon-craft descends Into the earth’s nook.
*Month in the Bengali Calendar (normally from mid-February to mid-March)
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Dhoola Mandir (The Temple of Dust) was written by Tagore in 1910 and can be found in his collection, Sanchayita1. It is a poem that seeks to bridge social gaps.
Peasant Couple (1950), painting by MF Husain (1915-2011)
Discard all prayers, Meditation, hymns and rituals. Why do you hide behind Closed doors of temples? In the darkness of the sanctum, Who do you worship in secrecy? Open your eyes and look, There is no God in this house.
He has gone to visit the Farmers who plough the hard ground, The workers who break rocks for paths, People who slog round the year. He is there with them under the hot sun, With dust-smeared hands; Take off your garb of purity, Join him in his dusty domain.
Nirvana? Oh! Where will you get it, Where can you find freedom? After Creation, our God, Found himself bound to all of us. Discard meditation, relinquish floral offerings. Let your garments tear, your hands get dusty, Join Him in His endeavours -- Free yourself of the rituals of religions.
Sanchayita (literal meaning: collection) was published by Visva Bharati in 1931 to commemorate Tagore’s seventieth birthday. ↩︎
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Despite all odds, I will not sell Myself. I want to stand with everyone As a part of a queue. In the morning light, Shame should not sully me. May I be enlightened by the Permeating radiance. I will not sell, not sell Myself.
I will have a clear accord With the world. I will breathe in the breeze That flits in the open skies. My body will be purified by the Affectionate touch of the Earth. The trees will sway with the Delight I experience. I will be content with this Accord with the world.
I will care for others and feel happy In my heart. Let no discordant notes sound from the tunes of my bina*. Whatever I experience, give me the Strength to accept, let my Heart be filled with the joyousness Of the skies. May the wellbeing of others fill my heart With contentment.
Just as George Orwell (1903-1950) envisioned a bleak future in his novel, 1984, Tagore left his optimistic vision filled with hope for posterity – a vision which has also been borne true. Written in the Phalgun or spring of the Bengali year 1302 (1895), ‘1400Saal‘ or ‘The Year 1993’, was first published in Tagore’s collection called Chitra (Picture) in 1895.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
1400 SAAL or The YEAR 1993
A hundred years from today… Who are you reading my poetry With eager curiosity? A hundred years from today. I won’t be able to give you Even a small fragment of the Exuberance of this spring morning — A blossom or a birdsong, The passions that Drench us. A hundred years from today…
Still, once, open your Southern door, Sit by the window, Gaze at the distant horizon, And imagine — One day, a hundred years before, A lively, euphoric cluster wafted from Heaven into the heart of the universe, Like a new-born Phalgun day — Free of ties, ecstatic and restless, Adrift with the scent of flowers. The Southern breeze Rushed to colour the Earth With a youthful glow, One hundred years before you. On that day, the soul of a poet soared With a song-soaked heart — To find words which bloom With an abundance of love, One hundred years ago.
A hundred years from today Which new poet will strum Lyrics in your hearths? I felicitate the poet with delight In your joyous spring — But let my vernal songs, Find echoes in your hearts for a while, Like the buzz of bees, Like the murmur of leaves... One hundred years from today...
About 32 years down the line, Nazrul responded to this poem of Tagore’s with a rejoinder, which is from the standpoint of a young poet and depicts his adulation for the older one and his poetry. Nazrul’s poem in Bengali is also called 1400 Saal and has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. The translation can be read by clicking here.
This poem was also discussed and translations read in 1993, the Gregorian calendar year for 1400 in the Bengali calendar, in a function jointly organised by the Nehru Centre of the High Commission of India in London and the Tagore Centre of London and held in the premises of the Nehru Centre. The translations included a rendition of Tagore’s own rather brief and ‘loosely translated’ version, according to the keynote speaker and scholar, Brian A. Hatcher, published in the poet’s collection called, The Gardener and reprinted in The Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore (New York, 1966).
Tagore’s own vision of his songs being remembered after one hundred years has been not only borne true but also his hope that poets and poetry will continue to impact our lives, stirring hope and love in our hearts. The role of a poet as seen by Tagore, perhaps, is what Uma Dasgupta’s research on Sriniketan reinforces — as that of a visionary and not merely a recorder of events.
Tagore reciting his ‘1400 Saal‘ in Bangla
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor and research by Sohana and Mitali on behalf of Borderless Journal
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