WHO IS RABINDRANATH TAGORE? (Random thoughts of a rasik Tagore reader) Like many others, I had heard of Rabindranath Tagore, when I was a child. I had heard of him as the poet of "Gitanjali", who was the first Indian poet to be awarded the much coveted Nobel prize, as the author of Indian national anthem, as the author of "Kabuliwala", which formed a part of our Gujarati text in High School, as the founder of Shantiniketan, and the like. It was years later that I came to know that the English "Gitanjali" and Bengali "Gitanjali" were two different books, that he was the author of the national anthem of Bangladesh also, and that the famous film director, Satyajit Ray had made movies based on his short stories and novels and so on. However, my interest in Tagore literature was aroused by the following passage (translated into English by me from Gujarati translation by Ramanlal Soni) appearing in a short story by him - "Bicharak": Like a clear sky following a rain-soaked night, at the end of youth, a period of serious and profoundly serene years follows. This is the time of harvest- a time when life bears fruit. Frivolity of youth does not befit this age. By this time, one has found and established one's place in the world. Through joys and sorrows of life as well as happy and sad events, one's personality has matured by this time. One has withdrawn one's desires for things beyond one's reach and resources and restricted them to the prison of one's limited means. Now we cannot draw the attention of fresh love but the affection among those whom one has known for long, increases. While the charm of youth begins to fade, the ageless personality is more clearly impressed upon the face and eyes. One's smile, sight and voice becomes one with the inner personality. Not hoping for the unattained, not grieving for the departed ones, forgiving those who have been unfair, embracing those who have been with us through the thick and thin, one reposes one's faith and confidence in the love of those familiar, known and proven persons. In the serene evening of youth, in this festival of peace, those who aspire for fresh relationships, new bondage, more prosperity

1

and continue their futile efforts for these without resting, are the most pitiable creatures in the world. I do not know why, but this passage so touched the chords of my heart that I read all his short stories, a few of his novels – all in Gujarati. Next was the English "Gitanjali". While reading the same, I had an urge to express the beautiful thoughts in Gujarati. My initial efforts helped me enjoy and understand the poems better – apart from allowing me to spend a lot more time with them. This was followed by all the other English translations of his poetry and cursory reading of his biographies, his other works in prose (all in English). The more I read, the more I translated, the more I was impressed – with his voluminous output, with his virtuosity, with his command over the language, with the wealth of his imagination, with his mastery over the narration. The more I read, the more I was baffled – how could one person write so much, so consistently, so much above average that one had to compare the quality of one piece with another of his to call it not so great! Slowly, the question emerged: Who is Rabindranath Tagore? I still do not have the answer – nor have I pursued the question with the zeal of a seeker, nor do I propose to do the same here or at a later date, as I am neither competent nor equipped to do the same. I am neither a linguist nor a scholar. I am a layman, who has enjoyed Tagore's literature, which is a treat and a feast to the sensitive and thinking mind. Over the years, after reading a few of the treatise on him and his creations, I have come to the conclusion that more often than not, his creations have been studied, analyzed, dissected and critically reviewed beyond the limits of necessity. These studies do not make his literature more enjoyable or more understandable nor do they reveal the creative process or persona behind them. In trying to answer the above question, I have realized how difficult it is to answer the same. But at the same time, the thinking process that follows, while trying to grope for the answer to the same, yields a series of pictures – all of them not necessarily congruent with each other or with the normally accepted version. I present the same here, with no particular objective except that of sharing the joy that I have realized.

2

Who is Rabindranath Tagore? A poet, an author, a composer, a painter – all rolled into one and a great one in each of the spheres named. An intellectual, a thinking man, a sensitive and graceful man. A great man indeed but not the Supreme man. A visionary whose visions never attained the perfection or the end he sought. A seeker whose sadhana did not attain the goals he sought. A lover whose love was never fulfilled. A creator whose font of creation kept on flowing ceaselessly ( as he would put it!) till the end with strong and lucid current that set norms for all times to come. He is the creator of unseen, infinite, endless, ethereal. His creations are simple, natural, graceful, imaginative, displaying a rare virtuosity and command over the language and quite often, experimenting in the hitherto unexplored terrains of literature and language. From all this, emerges a loving inner self, which is some times yearning, some times pained – with sorrow, personal or universal – some times liberated – in joy, joy of the nature, joy of the Supreme . The verbal picture of all that he paints is unique and touching if not lifelike. It is marked with a seal of a born creator who has been blessed by the goddess Saraswati and who has taken pains to make the most of those blessings. His achievements - Literature, music and painting – excellence in all the three branches and prolific output in each. In each branch of literature, outstanding contribution. Achieved acknowledged excellence in writing in two languages – a feat, perhaps not achieved by any other person! International fame and felicitations. His quest for the Supreme began with ‘Nirjharer Svapnabhang’, at the age of about twenty years and was incomplete at the age of eighty with ‘Adi diner surya’.

3

In spite of the incomplete quest of the perfect, his prayers, hymns and communications with the Supreme have created a beautiful and unique approach to this sphere merging the metaphysical with the romantic. He was an unfulfilled lover whose quest for love – human and eternal – remained always like the thirst that was not quenched and resulted in delicate and beautiful sculptures carved out of words. He was a poet who claimed to be a poet and called himself an incomplete poet! Why was such an ethereal, unfulfilled, incomplete, yearning Rabindranath a great man? Perhaps because he knew his own weaknesses and strengths and expressed both equally well - in two languages, in writings, in music, in painting and that expression reached the core of humanity, across the walls of languages, beyond the geographical boundaries. But, who is Rabindranath Tagore? Perhaps, a bird’s-eye view of his life may be helpful. Three strong currents are sweeping the society of Bengal, when he arrives in a prominent Kolkata family – renaissance of religion, literature and national spirit. Though his grandfather, known as Prince Dwarakanath, was a successful, westernized businessman who died in England at the young age of 52, he left behind a legacy of liabilities. Though his father, known as Maharshi Devendranath, was steeped in Indian traditions, he had embraced and nurtured the rebel Brahmo Samaj as a way of reviving of Hinduism. Though the family was wealthy, the period of grandeur was over and austerity had found its way to the Tagore household. Though 14th of the 15 children living in a joint family that included his uncles and cousins, he was a lonely child. Such dualities of the bygone era merge through the air of Jorasanko household reverberating with music, drama, literature, a constant stream of people, a continuing line of tutors in lieu of a regular school. Appearance of his first muse in the person of Kadambari Devi, wife of elder brother, Jyotirindranath, and blossoming of writing and musical talents. First encounter with death – suicide of Kadambari Devi, soon after his wedding with Mrinalini Devi. His tribute, a manuscript of ‘Pushpanjali’1, reveals a pained young lover, despaired but not bitter, using many different forms of literature including prose-poem, to be adopted later for his own English translation. Years of Padma – looking after the family estates and enjoying the wide-open spaces and abundant landscapes of Bengal and simple rural life, all spilling over in stories and poems.

1 For translation of all ‘Pushpanjali’ poems, see p.

4

Inspiration from sources as diverse as the contemporary rural life of Bengal and ancient scriptures of India.2 A dream of an ideal school taking shape in Santiniketan, more encounters with death leading to pain of sorrow that turned into songs of spiritual worship. A state of fatigue and languor resulting in flirtation with English language, the maiden effort leading to international recognition followed by acclaim and adulation at home. Wayfarer around the world, adored and applauded like none before. In faraway Argentina, in an unplanned sojourn, encounter with a lady of letters – Vijaya, his ardent admirer. Erasures in manuscript turn into doodles and ultimately the hands that wielded the pen so effectively, turn to brush and create not only notes and words but also lines and forms. Seventies bring despair and disappointment – reassessment in West, the dream finds it difficult to breathe in the arid air of figures and a few dear and near ones choose their own path. Approaching 75, the alert mind finds the body frail and feels the approaching time of departure. An attack of erysipelas leads to a near death experience, beautifully expressed in the poems of ‘Prantik’. I think the question is as elusive as the great unknown so fondly and so often referred to in his poetry. 6.7.2001

2 For translation of dramatic poems inspired by Mahabharat see p.

5

PPuusshhppaannjjaallii

6

Introduction

'Pushpanjali' is a little known creation of Rabindranath Tagore containing his tribute to the most important, unique and beautiful relationship and influence - on his life as well as literature - which was claimed by death in the prime of his youth. Never published in its entirety during his life time, its portions have appeared in various publications without any reference to their genesis or relevance. Stored here are the pieces - in the form of prose poems, songs, verses - that he wrote in memory of Kadambari Devi - his sister in law, wife of Jyotirindranath, the poet's mentor- admittedly his muse in adolescence and youth - who committed suicide in April 1884, four months after the poet's wedding, when he was 23 and she, 25. This was the poet's encounter with death about which he has given a lucid and moving account in his autobiography. The undated manuscript of 'Pushpanjali' remained in possession of Indira Devi Chaudhurani – daughter of the poet's brother, Satyendranath - till the death of the poet and is now in the archives of Rabindra Bhavana, Santiniketan. A youth of 24, Rabindranath had as yet not scaled the poetic summits he was to, in his later years, but, indeed he had revealed the promise of things to come. As is evident from the contents of 'Pushpanjali', he has succeeded in giving voice to the anguish and frustrations of a young man deprived of his muse in the prime of his youth. The variety of forms of literature used in one manuscript is an indication not only of his versatility but also of the intensity of feelings seeking expression. Without trying to analyse the reasons for her suicide, without being concerned with the exact nature of this relationship if we can accept the relationship that inspired a literary genius and a thinker par excellence, as one of the more delicate, intricate and enigmatic aspects of human nature, we shall find in 'Pushpanjali' a poignant and poetic expression of a forlorn budding poet dealing with the death of his muse at the threshold of his prime. As far as this translation is concerned, all the line breaks as well as paragraphs are mine and as always I have tried to be as faithful as possible to the meaning, essence and the mood of the original with random liberties to bring across the message distinctly. Indeed, the rhythm and beauty of the original language cannot be transported and hence, for the sheer charm of 'he jagater vismrut, amar chirasmrut', one has to be content with

7

'O, forgotten by the world, forever remembered by me'. It was the translation of 'Pushpanjali' by Fred Davis, published by Rabindra Bhavana, Visva Bharati in 2001, that brought this little known creation of the poet to my notice. To the best of my knowledge 'Pushpanjali' has not appeared in print either in Bengali or in English translation earlier. I would like to express my gratitude to Fred Davis as well as Rabindra Bhavana to make this small manuscript available to the Tagore aficionados across the globe. It may not be one of the more outstanding pieces of literature created by the poet but, it indeed sheds a light on the intensity with which the poet felt the pain of the sudden demise of his muse. Translation by Fred Davis is not only faithful to the original but also vividly transports the thought pattern. I have seen the same and at times have retained his phrases/sentences as the same were better than any other alternatives that occurred to me. I am indebted to Shri Swapan Majumdar who provided me with the Xerox copies of the prose poems as they appeared in 'Bharati' in 1885. The text of the songs were taken from 'Gitabitan' and the text of 'Kothay' was taken from 'Kadi O Komal' and corrected as given in 'Rabi Jibani' Volume 2. For the remaining pieces, I am grateful to Ms. Supriya Roy of Rabindra Bhavana for providing me with the photocopies of the manuscript and to Ms. Sugna Shah for deciphering the manuscript. February 2005 Shailesh Parekh

8

1. Sun, O God of Light, in order to arise here, what land have you drowned in darkness? Where is it evening now? Here, blossom the flowers of juhi, where blossoms rajanigandha? Where, across the other shore of the morning, do the evening clouds cast their shadows with delicate grace on the rows of trees? Here, you awaken us, there, who have you put to sleep? There, lighting a lamp in the room, opening the doors of the room, standing in the evening light, do the girls await their fathers? There, there are mothers - don't they make their little ones sleep in the moonlight looking at their face, kissing them, hugging them? There, hundreds of huts, in the middle of a grove of trees, on the banks of a river, in the valley of a mountain, near the fields, at the edge of a forest, enjoy the rest in the shadows of the evening with their own affection and love, joys and sorrows stored in their hearts. There, at this hour, which unknown bird, sitting on a branch of a tree, calls me; There, every evening, the joys and sorrows of the people blend with the song of this bird. In their land, all those poets, who lived long ago and are no more, whose names people do not remember but sing their songs, on some evening, lying in the grass on the banks of some river, listen to the song of this bird and sing along. That is the story of long ago - but, at that time, suddenly hearing these notes, the lovers yearned to look at each other; those separated, hearing the song of this bird,

9

sighed in the evening. But, all of them, with all their joys and sorrows, have left for good. When they played the game of life, it was exactly like we play; they wept like we do - they were not shadows, not illusions, not tales. On their bodies the touch of breeze was just as live - they picked flowers from their garden - they were children at one time - when they smiled sitting in the lap of their parents, it seemed they would never grow up! But, yet today, amidst this live crowds of people all around, how come they are no more? I see this very old bakul tree in the garden - on some morning, someone planted it with love - he knew that he will pick flowers, weave garlands; only that person is no more, that desire is no more, only the flowers bloom and wither. When I pick flowers, I do not know whose treasure of hope I am collecting, whose treasure of efforts I am weaving into a garland. Alas! If he came here and saw, all the efforts he put in here, all that he left behind here, neither him nor his name is remembered - as if pretending that it has been and is all by itself - as if there is no association with anyone including him. MS. pp. 2-3

10

2. But, this is perhaps the rule of the world. And perhaps, it is a meaningful rule. As long as you work, nature respects you. Till then the flowers will bloom for you alone, all the stars in the sky will shine for you only, as if the entire earth belongs to you. But, as soon as you are found to be useless, unfit for any work whatsoever, as soon as you are dead, you are quickly cast aside, out of sight - this very world transfers you to the backstage, far away. Like a straw you will be swept away in the turbulent stream of time. Screaming, you will float away, in a short while you will not be found anywhere around. If it was not so, this world would be ruled by the dead, here, there would be no room for the living, because, the dead are numerous, the living, only a few. So much so, that we have no place in our hearts for these dead residents. When we are unfit for work, soon enough, the nature clears us away. For life long work and life long love this is our award. But, award was not assured. This is what has been happening for a long time and this is what will happen for a long time. If this is true, I do not wish to abide by this draconian rule. I wish to go among those forgotten ones - my heart is anxious for them. Possibly, they have not forgotten me, possibly, they want me. Once, this world was their own domain - but in their own land, now they are refugees - nobody wants even a trace of them left. I have made a place for them, They will stay with me. If oblivion is my eternal abode and if memories are momentary, why not go to my homeland?

11

There - there is my childhood companion, who broke the playhouse of my life and took it away - who wept beside me while leaving, who gave me the last love while departing. Will that gift of love wilt every moment, in this land of the dead, by the midday rays of this world? When we meet, will there be nothing as a manifestation of this lifelong love? What can I take along but for a few strands of withered garland of listless memories? Seeing these strands, will those eyes not swell with tears? MS. pp. 3-4

12

3. O, forgotten by the world and forever remembered by me, as I used to sing to you earlier, why can I not to sing to you now? Lest you forget my voice, I offer all these writings that I am writing for you. Walking on the endless path if we come across each other by chance, lest you cannot recognise me, everyday, remembering you, I tell you this story - are you listening? There will be a day when no one on this earth will remember my story - but, will you not remember one or two of these stories that you loved? All these writings that you listened to with love, with which you had a special affiliation, just because you are out of sight, is there no other connection between you? Will you not remember even a word of these familiar writings? Or, in another land do you listen to the poems of another new poet? MS. pp. 5

13

4. Those whom we love - when they are around, this moonlight has a special meaning, these flowers and the trees in the garden have a special look - otherwise they all look the same! That is why, when one dear person departs, it is as if a desert wind blows all over the earth - one wonders, why all the trees on the earth do not dry up! But they do not and one cannot find a single reason for the same! It is as if the total beauty of the world is to keep our beloved within itself. That is the throne of our love. All around our love it is entwined, creeps up, blooms. Every day, at some great moment, seeing the face of the beloved, waves of love rise in our heart - today, in the morning, all around, in the ocean of beauty, waves rise keeping the beat with that - such strange colours, such strange fragrance, such strange songs! As if there will be no festival in the world tomorrow. As if the sun has risen suddenly after many days. When the heart lit up, the whole world illuminated its beauty. An unprecedented union of the heart with the whole world! When we are united with one person, that union can not be strictly restricted between the two, imperceptible, invisible, it spreads to the core of the world. When a flame is lit to light up a little corner, it cannot help light up the entire room. MS. pp. 5-6

14

5. One who went, took away benificent shade from the entire world. MS. pp. 6 6. When we are separated from a dear one, we have serious doubts about the whole world and finding no apparent reason to doubt, there is a feeling of shock; witnessing an unprecedented event, we suddenly doubt if we are dreaming and to verify the truth we try to touch things around us; similarly, when our dear one departs, we try to touch the world around us - whether all this is a shadow or not, illusion or not, whether all this around us will disappear or not! On realising that all this will remain unaffected, we feel the world is twice as cruel. These flowers, which said then, 'without her, we will not bloom', this moonlight said, 'without her, will not glow', today, they bloom and glow just the same. They are as real now as they were - no difference at all. That is why, the fact that she is not there comes to mind very frequently, because , but for her, everything else is very much there. MS. pp. 6-7

15

7. All those who know me, call me by my name. But all of them do not call the same person nor does the same person respond to all of them. Each one of them calls only a part of me and they know only that much of me. That is why, we must have a new name for those whom we love; because between all of them and us there is a wide difference. The one who went away knew me for so long - on so many mornings, so many afternoons, so many evenings did she see me. How many springs, how many monsoons, how many autumns have I spent with her. She gave me so much love, she played so often with me, through so many special events she has observed me at close quarters. The 'me' she knew were play of those seventeen years, joys and sorrows of seventeen years, spring and rains of seventeen years. When she used to call me, most of my short life used to respond with all the play of those seventeen years. But for her no one else knew 'that' nor will know 'that'. Now that she is gone, no one will call 'that' nor will 'that' respond to any call. That unique voice of hers, that very familiar, sweet and loving invitation of hers - but for that 'that' will not recognise anything else in this world. With the outside world, that person will not have any relations - from there she had once run away - in this life, in the extremely secret darkness of the deep recesses of my heart is her living memorial. I only wish seventeen more years pass by like this. So many new events will happen but she will have no association with all that.

16

So many new joys and sorrows will be without her response of a smile or a sob. Hundreds of days and nights will come by one after another - all without her! Towards her, however I am inclined, I will not get her special affection even for a moment. I feel - whatever new joys and sorrows she faces, I will have nothing to do with that. If we meet suddenly, after a long time, near her will be many, unknown to me, near me, will be many, unfamiliar to her. And yet, both of us will belong to each other, only to each other. MS. pp. 7-8

17

8. Somewhere the wedding bells are ringing. The day had just broken, when the wedding flute started playing. Earlier, lying in bed, half asleep, when I used to hear the notes of the flute, I used to feel that the world was a festival. From afar, only the joyful notes of the flute could one hear, the rest was an imaginary form of illusion. So much happiness, so much laughter, so much merriment, so much graceful coyness, joy of the dear and near ones, happy associations with one's own persons, looking at the faces of the beloved, embracing the children, cracking sweet jokes with love with people full of jest - so many of such sights appear before me in light of the sun. None of this is any more. Today, listening to the same flute, a part of me screams with anguish. Now, I only feel that all the festivals beginning with the flute will also end one day. Then the flute will play no more. In the end, the treasure of the parents' love, leaves the cruel world sighing and sobbing - one day, in the in the tender morning sun, the flute had played for her wedding too! She was a child then, with no sorrow in her heart, - she did not know anything. Amidst the songs of the flute, joy of the people, with garlands of flowers all around, in the light of the lamps, that little girl with a garland in her neck and a pair of anklets adorning her feet, presided gracefully. She felt the joy one feels playing a big game at a young age. Who knew what play she had embarked upon! That morning was as pleasant as this. In no time so many people became her very own, they became intimate with her, her joys and sorrows

18

were made of the joys and sorrows of others. With her tender heart she consoled in times of sorrow, with her two delicate hands she nursed the sick. One who came with the notes of the flute, where has she gone away today? Why did she weep? Renouncing frustrations of her poignant heart, relinquishing her lifelong disappointments on the funeral pyre, where did she go? Why did she not remain a little girl? Why did she not keep playing with her brothers and sisters for a long time? Dropping all the things she loved, leaving her own home, not even looking once at the people she loved a lot - the lap in which the children played, the hands which nursed the sick, the same loving lap, the same delicate hands, the same beautiful body - has it really turned into ash and gone away?! But that morning, did the sweet notes of the flute convey this story? Everyday, the flute plays somewhere or the other! But the playing of the flute, tramples on so many hearts, turns so many lives into a desert, breaks to pieces so many helpless hearts with new blows every day, every moment - hence, without uttering a word, with suffering writ large in their eyes, their hearts carry hidden fire of pain forever. Everything does not result in a sorrow, but everything does have an end - meaning of the end - extinguishing the festival lamps, a deep sigh revealing the mystery, at the end of immersion of the festival idols. Meaning of the end - the light of the sun suddenly turning pale - all of a sudden, all around the world, a desert without any joy, peace, life, purpose. Meaning of the end -

19

the heart does not say that everything is over and yet, it is evident all around - every moment, a tremendous shock of every new event is experienced afresh - no more, not again, nothing more! The same extremely ruthless, cruel 'no' is like an impregnable boulder - is like a colossal iron gate which does not open a crack even if one dies banging one's head against it! MS. pp. 8-10

20

9. Not everyone realises at once, how great an affair it is - a lifelong union of people. But, it is realised that it has more meaning than a lifelong separation. We blindly roam around the world, not knowing where we will land. One who is not where he wants to be is stuck there. In this life he has no escape. What should have been a home becomes a prison. Day and night we go along like a live mass of matter without realising that at every step how many parts of how many hearts do we crush, how much hope and how much hapiness around do we trample upon. All along we cannot hear their sobs and if we do, we do not feel anything about the same. All day long we cause pain, we endure pain, no way to escape it. Because we do not know how to be nice to each other. We cannot see or know, where and to whom we are a nuisance. We are like a boulder falling from the top of a mountain. An unfortunate flower in our path is crushed, a creeper is uprooted, grass withers - and perhaps, falling on someone's happy home, like a curse, ruin his happy world . There is no remedy for this. Everyone has some responsibility or other, everyone causes some pain or other in this world. So long as they can sustain the responsibility, all is well. But, there are times when they cannot. At such times, whatever they step upon, breaks, and frequently, they also fall down. Why does one committed to long term sadhana get involved with a loving heart? Due to what curse such a person meets a lover? When one with ever fleeting and highly intelligent mind enters the house after closing the main door behind,

21

finds one's way by cutting holes all around, such a sharpness, when thrust upon a simple heart, hurts like a dart. Those dead weight, like a dead person, are a burden upon the earth, they do not leave the earh either. Those unfortunate ones who are under them, they at once suffer a living death. Keeping the interest of the wholeworld aside, their selfish mind is always occupied with extending and expanding the scope of welfare of their own self. MS. pp. 10-11

22

10. When the heart suffers a serious shock, of its own free will, it wants to inflict more pain to itself. As if it wants to destroy the foundations of its shelter. It wants to give up all faith on which its life depends. Afraid of ruthless rationale, all the faith deliberately stored in the core of the heart, is pierced today, without effort, by arguments. At the loss of beloved, if he is consoled, he says, 'All this love, all this affection, all this magnnimity results in a handful of ash! Never, never!' And then, with insolence, he says, 'Nothing to be astonished about! That beautiful face - that vibrant body, with tender, beautiful and graceful heart - is not more than two handful of ash, who can sincerely believe that! How can you have faith in faith!' Sayng this he breaks into heart rending sobs. Sinking his ship in the dark ocean of the world, he does not wish to seek any other shores. A moment later he says he does not wish to keep anything else. He says, let everything go with her. But everything does not go. We ourselves remain. Having remained, like an insane person, why do we become a refugee? In this dark hour, why do we not cling more firmly to the shelter of the heart? At a time like this why do we not think that the rules of the world cannot be so severe, so cruel. It will not let me sink, it will support me. Wherever, there will be a shore somewhere - whether at the bottom of the ocean or across the ocean - whether dead or alive. No point in thinking any more. MS. pp. 11-12

23

11. You say, nature deceives us. Only deceiving us, it gets work done. Work done, we are shoved aside. But someone, whose factory is so large, in whose land such excellence pervades - can he really deceive so many helpless lives? Why would he pay counterfeit currency to get work done by all these insignificant, poor, sweating creatures scorched by the strife of the world, anxious to work day and night, riddled by sorrow? Can that currency not be used anywhere? if not here, somewhere else! Can such severe cruelty and mean deception blend with such excellence and such permanence? Merely by weaving a web of deception can such an extensive enterprise be created? After working all life with only a hope, if in the end one has to leave the world leaving behind even the warmth of the heart, and if the reward is nothing more than frustration and tears and if every one is a refugee in the desert of death - in that case, long ago, this cursed and demonic world would have drowned and died in its own ocean of sin. Because, there is no exception to the rule of nature for debt and repayment. Nobody can leave with the most insignificant debt. Even the interest has to be paid. One has to spend a lifetime repaying the debt of one's father or even grandfather. Hence, it is not possible for nature to remain a debtor to numerous creatures, eternally. In that case it would have doomed under its own rule. MS. pp. 12-13

24

12. Do you remember, the rajanigandha, you planted in front of the room, where you sat every morning? Till you were there, there were not many flowers on it. Today, blooming with many flowers, every morning it keeps staring at that empty room of yours. It feels it has hurt you and hence, you have gone away, somewhere. So it grows more flowers today. It tells you, 'Please come, I will give you flowers every day.' Alas! When she wants to see, she cannot see well - and when she goes away with an empty heart, like this life, the vision also ends. Then why call her back? Decorating the basket with all the love, the heart calls for her. I sit at the vacant door of her home, every morning rajanigandha blooms one after another, who will see them? When the flowers wilt and drop at whose gracious feet will they drop? Anyone who so desires, can pick up the flowers, weave a garland and throw it away. Even for a moment, your loving eyes will not behold them! MS/ pp. 13

25

13. No one understands someone else. They all come near and go away. Why does a loving smile end in a tear? When the breeze weeps the flowers do not bloom unrestrained. Why do flowers wilt alone in the evening? Beholding the face, let eyes meet eyes. Do not hold within the sweet words straight from the soul. This night will be no more, no words any more. In the morning, only the remnants of the remorse of the heart! MS. pp. 13-14

26

14. I am not surprised not to see you in your garden when it is blooming with flowers all around. But, I cannot believe, you are not sitting by the patients, when in every room a disease takes shape. You are not there at the time of festivals, in the times of adversity, in the times of disease. Every day guests come to your room. Like you, there is none to greet them with innate affection and tell them to sit down. That little girl whom you loved a lot has come this evening - who will offer her food with love? And who will look after whom? The spring that nurtured the entire world with love-unsought, affection and solace, is now dry. Now, only a few secluded, selfish and severe boulders are strewn here and there in its path. MS. pp. 14

27

15. Offended, where to have you gone, please return, o dear one! Day and night I cry out please return, o dear one! It is evening, my home is dark, no lamp is lit, o dear one! One after another, everyone has returned, none calls me, dear one! Its time, dear, let me do your hair, dress you up in a colourful saree. Dear, let me wipe your face and hear a few words from your beautiful face. Dear, what did you play today, who neglected you, gone away with tears in your eyes, your glum face comes to my mind! With two large eyes looking at them you went near them with great affection in your heart and yet, you were not embraced. This world is harsh and hard, except for the heart of the mother. Here, you are my loving child, I call you so much, why no response? You went away in the season of floweres, went away without seeing the flowers bloom, so many flowers bloom on your plants, none can you enjoy! Why is everyone picking up the flowers, you may return to pick them up! Pick them up and put them away, I will, to adorn your hair, when I meet you. In the evening, I sit with an empty lap - o dear one, why do you keep away? Its dark and everyone has returned home, please return, o dear one, please return to me. MS. p. 14-16

28

16. Enough now, will you please keep quiet? My dear one is asleep; now, if she awakes not, weep will I, seeing her weep! All her favourite play is over, with a heavy heart, weeping, she fell asleep; please make her cry no more. Can you not hear her piercing wails? With unbearable pain in the heart all she wants – a look at the moon – where else can she find solace? She loved all – where else can you find such tender care? Cared for all, she did – did they care for her? The tree she watered – its thorns pricked her feet! And yet, did she complain? Alas, none understood the language of her eyes! Today she is asleep, she never slept like this. All night her heart was agitated with pain. So many nights were spent in the breeze of the spring. From the eastern window moonlight shines on her. So many nights were spent with a flute playing far away, weeping, the melody hovers around the bed. So many nights were spent with bakul flowers in the lap, Gone are those nights, end of all the heartburns, let her now sleep in peace. Deaar mine, sob no more, weep no more. MS. P. 16-17

29

17. You sit and weave a garland, they wear it around their neck. When it withers, with indifference, it is thrown away. With love you shower your grace, they only accept it with indifference. When satiated, they turn around without looking back. Breaking your heart they go away. When you smile, they sit around. Seeing tears in your eyes, they keep a distance. Keeping the sorrows within, hiding the burning soul, spreading sweetness with a broken heart, smiling through tears with a heart about to burst with pain, in the end, withers without a word. MS. pp. 18 18. Why did you come with your love? Not being offered love, With one look at the world, why did you not leave? This world is indeed cruel, it invites none, it holds back none. Those who stay back, may stay. Those who leave, may leave. It cares for none. If your life long desires remained unfulfilled in this world, with an ashen face, slowly turning around, leave. No one will ask you to stay back. Carry with you, your pain and your tears, no one will shed a tear for you. MS. pp. 18

30

19. The flower that has to wither, withers - others keep blooming - blown away by the breeze or mixed with the dust. Spread fragrance, spread smile, now the game is over. For one who loved and left, why this contempt? MS. pp. 19 20. Turning around, why do you look? Come back, O come back. Those who do not comprehend the words, straight from your heart, walk away - trampling your flower like heart. Songs have you sung with a smile. Coming here, you have laid down your life. With tears in your eyes, come back, O come back. MS. pp. 19

31

21. Those who are good, those who can love, those who have a heart, what happiness can they find in this world? None at all! None whatsoever! They are like a stringed instrument, like veena - every muscle, every nerve of theirs is played upon by every strike of the world. Everyone listens to their songs and are enchanted hearing the same - their wailing notes become a melody but nobody sighs listening to the same. Let it be so. But when they can take the strike no more, when the string shatters, when it plays no more, why does everyone criticise, find faults, why none grieves for them? Considering insignificant, why does everyone discard them? O God, why don't you hide these instruments near you? Why do you keep them in the shops of the world? Call them to play music in the heaven. Atheists, rascals and insensitive clatter as they walk, coolly shattering the strings, they laugh; listening to the music from the heart in a lighter, playful vein, without remembering they go away. They do not believe that this veena is a favour of the Divine. They believe they themselves are God! Hence, this melodious, delicate and virtuous instrument is sometimes ridiculed, and being considered useless, is sometimes kicked upon hard, stifling its music forever. MS. pp. 19

32

22. I am thinking - the lute that played for the world for so long, how can that be silent in an instant - its melodious notes remain in memory for a short while, and ultimately disappear in eternity. What can one hope for if a benificent and loving heart comes to such a pass! They end their song or leave it unfinished and go away - subsequently, who would sing that song - or who would complete the same? MS. pp. 20 23. Why, why did you make her cry? Now, she goes away weeping. Her smiling face will not be seen any more. With tears in her eyes, with a heavy heart, she went away, not to return in this life time. For a brief sojourn in this alien land, why id she came with love and leave with a pain in her heart? All those games of happiness have come to an end. Now, with a smile appears her weeping face - how can one smile? Call her once again, after all, her heart is not insensitive, on the other hand, knowingly, she may not respond. MS. pp. 20

33

24. WHERE TO Ah! Where to will you go? In this vast and unfamiliar terrain all alone will you be - how will you find your way? Ah! Where to will you go? None of us will be with you, none of us to talk to. Stare as you can, not any more, our love can reach you. Ah! Where to will you go? Sitting here, all of us will cry - calling you with eyes blank and dry. Occasionally, you may hear the cries in that endless wilderness. Ah! Where to will you go? HArsh and vast is this world. All of them, they find their own way. You - the apple of the eye, suddenly, on the way to eternity! Whom will you count upon? Ah! Where to will you go? Those you may fervently long to see, dear and near ones will not be around. Ah! Where to will you go? Look at these flowers bloom, anxious with the advent of spring. Every day, with abundant love, the breeze brings back your happy memories. Ah! Where to will you go? All those games we played and loving memories of numerous stories. All those rounds of joys and sorrows, woven together, how to forget? Ah! Where to will you go? Now, forever, will you be a stranger, This room will not be yours any more. Those who embraced you once

34

will be like aliens now. Even once, don't you want to return? Ah! Where to will you go? Ah! Where to will you go? But do go, if you must. Wiping yur tears - go. leaving sorrows behind - go. May you get there, the rest and peaceful sleep you desired here. If you want to, do go. MS. pp. 23

35

TThhrreeee DDrraammaattiicc PPooeemmss

36

Introduction3

Between 1893 and 1900, during his most prolific phase as a writer, while he was looking after his estates around the river Padma, Tagore wrote six (as observed by this author), ‘Natya Kavya’- dramatic poems:

1. Viday Abhishap (1893) based on Mahabharat 2. Sati (October 1897) based on a Marathi story 3. Narakavas (November 1897) based on a little known episode in Van Parv of Mahabharat 4. Lakshmir Pariksha (December 1897) – Tagore’s own plot 5. Gandharir Avedan (November/December 1897) based on Mahabharat 6. Karna Kunti Samvad (February 1900) based on Mahabharat

The three poems transcreated here, (viz. Viday Abhishap, Gandharir Avedan and Karn-Kunti Samvad) are the ones based on well-known incidents of Mahabharat. In each one Tagore lets his creativity take precedence over the plot or sequence of events as well as the nature of characters presented in Mahabharat of Vyas. While introducing each of the poems Tagore’s presentation is compared with that of original Mahabharat. It was very difficult to transport the word ‘dharm’ - with all its nuances - into English. The most obvious choice would be ‘religion’. But religion has come to be accepted as a self-appointed moral guardian of society with its own rituals and blueprint of universe as well as life after death etc. The following elucidates this further: Dharma has much wider implications. In its most basic sense, it means the distinctive nature, property or propensity of a creature or object: it is the dharma of fire to burn, water to flow and the tiger to hunt. Hence the word can mean a total ethos or a way of life, especially as governed by virtuous law or values. A good man follows dharma not only as formally enjoined by religion, but as his own innate or ingrained imperative of virtue. Ultimately, the word can signify the deified principle of righteousness , the god Dharma.4 What is meant by ‘dharm’ here is something that is moral in its universal sense, something that is akin to duty. Hence, the choice was ‘ethics’ in most of the instances. Occasionally, it does sound a little odd or out of place and hence this explanation. Indeed, ‘dharm’ is the central pivot around which all the three poems revolve. In each one there is a conflict between individual perception of ethics and universal one.5

3 All the information about the poems, such as the date of writing, genesis, reports/reviews about them etc. have been quoted from a comprehensive biography in Bengali, - Rabi Jibani , based upon exhaustive research and with an excellent index - being prepared by Prasanta Kumar Paul since 1982 (ninth volume covering Tagore’s life upto 1926 was published in 2003). 4 Rabindranath Tagore: Selected Writings on Literature and Language, ed. Sisir Kumar Das and Sukanta Chaudhari, Oxford University Press, 2001, p. xii. 5 'Hridayanu Dharmadarshan', Nireeksha, Umashankar Joshi, Gurjar Grantharatna Karyalaya, Ahrnedabad, 1993, p. 36-43.

37

Tagore’s vision of both has been vividly brought out in each one of the poems. In an over-simplified summary one can say that individual perception is based upon the point of view of self or ego and the universal perception is the one from the point of view of mankind at large. The poet establishes the supremacy of the universal perception and goes on to convince the reader that any perception of ‘dharm’ arises naturally from within and needs no assistance from any external source, such as knowledge or scriptures. Another common thread between all the three poems is unrequited love. Love between a man and a woman as well as parental love – both remain unfulfilled creating an ambience of pathos. In each of the poems, the story unfolds in the ‘flashback’ mode, used effectively. They all begin at a very crucial moment in the lives of the principal characters. This is also a moment of farewell, except in ‘Karn Kunti Samvad’, where it is a moment of first meeting which turns out to be a farewell also. At such a delicate moment, through direct narration, distinct and indistinct suggestions, the poet succeeds in recreating the past, which is so essential to bring home the significance of the emotion-charged moment.

‘Viday Abhishap’

Completed on August 10, 1893, at Kaligram, and probably written while on a boat between Shajadpur and Patisar, First published in the periodical Sadhana in 1894, later that year Tagore published it as the book Chitrangada o Viday Abhishap. Written in Payar, a metre of 14 letters, as indicated by the manuscript, many alterations and corrections were made by Tagore in the first draft, but once he found the final form, it was preserved all through6 – quite unlike many other poems, which underwent significant changes several times. Translated by Tagore into English as “Kacha and Devayani” he included it in The Fugitive. The translation was a truncated version of the original, which has more than 300 lines. Devoid of many beautiful descriptions of nature, it was introduced with a brief note as under: Young Kacha came from Paradise to learn the secret of immortality from a Sage who taught the Titans, and whose daughter Devayani fell in love with him.7 Adhyay 76 of Adi Parv of Mahabharat by Vedavyas narrates the story of Kach in 72 shloks and Adhyay 77 narrates farewell of Kach in 23 shloks. As narrated by Vyas, Kach was instructed by the Gods to please Devayani to accomplish his

6 Rabi Jibani, vol. 3, Prasantakumar Paul, Ananda Publishers, Kolkata, p. 274. 7 The English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore, vol. 1, Poems, ed. Sisir Kumar Das, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 1994. p. 253.

38

mission. At the time of farewell, Devayani directly proposes to Kach, Who does not accept love of Devayani as she was the daughter of his guru. In response to the curse of Devayani, in Mahabharat, Kach also curses her. Tagore has elevated the character of Kach as he blesses Devayani in spite of her cursing him. The story slowly but beautifully unfolds in a flashback style, the technique Tagore used in all the three poems. The poem opens at the terminal point of a beautiful relationship, which unfolds in all its glory aided by Tagore's vibrant imagination and immaculate presentation which makes him a master story-teller. Tagore was a young man, 32 years old, when he wrote this poem and the farewell between the two youthful lovers has been sketched in a style inspired by the romantic poetry of Victorian England as well as Kalidas. The subtle and indirect way in which Devayani draws the attention of Kach towards their relationship adds a beautiful dimension to the dialogue and provides ample opportunity to the poet to draw life-like sketches of nature which put up a charming canopy under which the romance flourished without the knowledge or efforts of the lovers. Devayani succeeds in extracting a confession from Kach, who says, Her name is woven with my life. Could there be a more poetic and romantic homage to love? Here, Tagore, who is often verbose, is brilliantly brief. Under the umbrella of nostalgia, he unfolds the story of two hearts with calm and peace that precede a storm. The storm brews under ‘gratitude’ which precipitates firm resolve of Kach and when unleashed, reaches a crescendo of a curse. But Tagore, the prophet of peace and harbinger of harmony ends on a note of nobility – here, bestowed on Kach. It was the moral or ethical duty of Kach to honour the promise he made to the gods, even at the cost of his love for Devayani. Forsaking his love and inviting the wrath of Devayani, he opts for his 'dharm' as he knows it. Soon after this poem appeared in ‘Sadhana’, Tagore wrote about it in his essay ‘Kabyer Tatparya’ – The Meaning of a Poem – which was subsequently included in a book titled ‘Panchabhut’. The same provides an entirely new, perhaps unintended, insight to the story, presented in a wry and witty prose. An English transcreation of the same is presented in Annexure for the interested reader.

39

‘Gandharir Avedan’

‘Gandharir Avedan’, the second of the three ‘dramatic poems’ presented here, was probably written in November/December 1897 and appeared in a collection titled ‘Kahini’ in 1900. It is also composed in Payar, a metre of 14 letters. Tagore translated it into English and included it in ‘The Fugitive’ under the title of ‘The Mother's Prayer’, with the following brief introduction: Prince Duryodhana, the son of the blind Kaurav King Dhritarashtra, and of Queen Gandhari, has played with his cousins the Pandav Kinga for their kingdom, and won it by fraud.8 In the above translation, later part of the original poem is omitted and by and large it does no justice to the charm and beauty of the original. The poem has an interesting, but almost forgotten story about its genesis. In 1897, forty years after the [famous] ‘mutiny’ of 1857, the freedom movement once again gained momentum under the leadership of Tilak and others who transformed the previously meek and mild population by initiating violent protests against the British. Two Englishmen were assassinated in Pune. The British retaliated by arresting Tilak, sending the Natu brothers to exile, sending Damodar Chapekar to the gallows, etc. The press reacted with sharp and critical resentment to such oppressive practices. The British responded by introducing Sedition Bill in December 1897 and in spite of the feelings of resentment against such draconian measures, it became an Act in February 1898. As stated earlier, Tagore probably wrote ‘Gandharir Avedan’ in November/December 1897 at Santiniketan. In its first public recital on February 12, 1898, at the hall of the Calcutta University Institute in College Square, it was described as a poem composed by Babu Rabindranath Tagore on the exile of the pandavs. A week later, a short lived weekly, Sansar, reported, Last Saturday, ...Rabindranath recited a natyakavya, on the exile of pandavs – a dialogue between Dhritarashtra and Duryodhan. .. At the time of the recitation I felt that this poem is particularly useful in the present time. I think it is a satire on the way the politicians function under the Sedition Act. The President of the meeting said that the moral of the poem will teach good lessons to the politicians in the times of present movement.9

8 The English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore, vol. 1, Poems, ed. Sisir Kumar Das, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 1994. p.277. 9 Rabi Jibani, vol. 4, Prasanta Kumar Paul, Ananda Publishers, Kolkata, p. 160.

40

In Rabi Rashmi, Charuchandra Mukhopadhyay wrote, Dhritarashtra is British Parliament, Duryodhan bureaucracy, Gandhari, British sense of justice, Bhanumati, British prestige, Pandavs, Indians deprived of rights and Draupadi, Strength and glory of the ethical.10 A day before the Sedition Bill became an Act, i.e. on February 17,1898, there was a meeting in Town Hall of Kolkata to request the Viceroy to reconsider the decision. At that meeting Tagore delivered a speech titled ‘Kantharodh’, later included in his essay, ‘Raja Praja’. Some of the statements in this speech are similar to the ones made in ‘Gandharir Avedan’.11 This makes ‘Gandharir Avedan’, a topical poem based upon an incident of a mythical epic. Only a great poet can create a topical poem that becomes universal. In the original Mahabharat by Vyas, the plea of Gandhari takes up all of 12 shloks of 75th Adhyay of Sabha Parv. The entire story of Tagore’s poem is narrated in 60th to 81st Adhyay. It may be recalled that Pandavs lose their empire, themselves and Draupadi in the game of dice. After the shameful incident of disrobing Draupadi in the court at the instance of elders, Pandavs were returned their empire and were returning to their capital. Once again Duryodhan prevails upon his father to recall them for one final game of dice. It is at this juncture that Gandhari of Vyas appeals to her husband to disown their son, Duryodhan. However, the game is played, Pandavs lose once again, and as per the wager, prepare to leave for the forest. It is at this juncture that Tagore’s Gandhari appeals to her husband to disown Duryodhan. The dialogues between Gandhari and Bhanumati and her blessings to Pandavs and Draupadi appearing at the end of the poem are not based upon the Mahabharat. In the poem, Gandhari blesses the Pandavs, . . . may you be bestowed with strength from the wind, light from the sun, patience and pardon from the earth. In Mahabharat of Vyas, the same blessings are bestowed on Pandavs by Vidur! It is indeed intriguing to find Tagore borrowing from another source, particularly in the light of the fact that he changes the situation and even the characteristics of the players according to his own perception. But we also have Tagore saying elsewhere:12

10 Rabi Jibani, vol. 4, Prasanta Kumar Paul, Ananda Publishers, Kolkata, p. 161. 11 Ibid., p. 162. 12 Art and Tradition, A Lecture in Dacca, 1926,

41

A sign of greatness in great geniuses is their enormous capacity for borrowing, very often without their knowing it; they have unlimited credit in the world market of cultures. Only mediocrities are ashamed and afraid of borrowing, for they do not know how to pay back the debt in their own coin. As stated earlier, the poem opens at a poignant and delicate moment, when the pandavs are about to leave for the forest. In the initial dialogue, Duryodhan, the eldest kaurav, explains to his father, Dhritarashtra, the ethics of the throne, as he perceives it. The father, infatuated with love for his son, turns a blind eye to his royal duty. When his son does not heed to his advice, Gandhari, his mother the queen, pleads with her husband, to disown their son to preserve and uphold the royal ethics and punish him for his unethical practices. Dhritarashtra admits his paternal weakness and leaves the preservation of ethical duty to Providence. Gandhari, foreseeing doomsday, advises her daughter-in-law, Bhanumati, who in turn explains her own ethical duty as she perceives it. In the end, Gandhari, blesses the pandavs and Draupadi and seeks their pardon for the wrongdoings of her sons. The conflict between the insignificant duty and universal duty13 on the one hand and duty and love on the other hand, has been brought out distinctly by Tagore. His in-depth perception of human nature has been vividly brought out through allegories and similes. Tagore brilliantly portrays the pain of a father not only physically blind, but also blinded within by his paternal love for his son, who is willing to forsake happiness for his lust for triumph. Gandhari emerges as a queen alert and anxious to uphold the royal duty and a mother, who wishes her son well even though she requests her husband to disown the son. Not too often, has Duryodhan appeared as a character using rationale to justify his approach to life. The pen of Tagore sketches thought provoking pictures of human relationships in unusual situations that stimulate the human mind perennially perplexed between the right and the wrong.

‘Karn – Kunti Samvad’ ‘Karn-Kunti Samvad’, the last poem in his 1900 collection ‘Kahini’, also is in Payar. It was written on February 26,1900.14 Jagadishachandra Basu, the famous scientist and a dear friend of the poet, wrote from Darjeeling in a letter dated May 20, 1899, …Your pauranic poems are absolutely beautiful. When will you complete this series? Please write many more from Mahabharat. I request you to write about Karn. I am impressed with noble character of Bhishm,

13 'Hridayanu Dharmadarshan', Nireeksha, Umashankar Joshi, Gurjar Grantharatna Karyalaya, Ahrnedabad, 1993, p. 36-43. 14 Rabi Jibani, voI. 4, Prasanta Kumar Paul, Ananda Publishers, KoIkata, p. 262.

42

but with unfulfilled life of Karn -a mixture of virtues and weaknesses -, I have immense sympathy. Eventually whose life was not fulfilled, whose life was an endless conflict between insignificance and glory, who was a man and a god at the same time and whose defeat was more than victory – towards him, my heart is naturally attracted. One is not quite sure which pauranic poems the scientist is referring to, but in all probability, he may be referring to 'Chitrangada O Viday Abhishap', published in 1894.15 It is quite likely that this poem was written with a desire to comply with the request made a few months earlier, by a dear friend. Translated by Tagore, he gave the following brief introduction when he published in ‘The Fugitive” with the title ‘Karna-Kunti Dialogue’: The Pandav Queen Kunti before marriage had a son, Karna, who, in manhood, became the commander of the Kaurav host. To hide her shame she abandoned him at birth, and a charioteer, Adhiratha, brought him up as his son.16 Once again, it was not only a truncated version but also bereft of all the emotions, So eloquently expressed in Tagore’s proficient prosody. The poem opens at a crucial juncture in the relationship between the mother and the son. It is indeed their first meeting and turns out to be the last. At this terminal point the poem commences and reveals the past as it progresses. The son was abandoned by the mother on the day of his birth and he was brought up by Adhirath, the charioteer and his wife, Radha. Here also, Tagore’s presentation differs from that of Vyas’s Mahabharat. Vyas narrates the story in the last 5 shloks of 144th Adhyay, 12 shloks of 145th Adhyay and 27 shloks of 146th Adhyay. Tagore narrates the story in a flashback, in about 200 lines. To begin with, let us take a look at the motives of Kunti. Is it out of love of a mother for Karn that Kunti comes to fetch Karn after all these years? The conventions of the society that prevented her all these years – can she ignore them on the eve of the war? Or is it her fear of Arjun being defeated and destroyed by Karn? Is she trying to fetch Karn out of her love for Karn, or for Arjun? Answers to such questions are difficult to come by. Complex human nature compels acceptance of the ineffable rationale of the heart. In the absence of detailed background available in the epic, Mahabharat, it suffices to believe that Tagore’s Kunti has come to Karn merely out of her love for him. Her love remains unrequited, once again because of perception of ethics by Karn. However, in Mahabharat, Kunti’s thought pattern has been narrated at length in Adhyay 144.

15 Rabi Jibani, voI. 4, Prasanta Kumar Paul, Ananda Publishers, KoIkata, p.239. 16 The English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore, vol. 1, Poems, ed. Sisir Kumar Das, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 1994. p.303.

43

She thinks that Bhishm and Dron have a soft corner for the pandavs and hence, there is nothing to fear from these two stalwarts of war. But Karn, has always nursed antagonism towards Pandavs, because of his infatuation with Duryodhan. Hence, she should approach him, tell him the truth about his birth and convince him to join the pandavs. The 25th shlok: One who was within me and protected like a son Why would he not heed to my words – convincing and in the interest of the brothers. On the basis of this, one can conclude that Vyas’s Kunti approached Karn to protect the pandavs. Tagore’s poem takes place in the evening, when the sun and light are absent, whereas in the original, the meeting takes place in the early afternoon, at the end of morning prayers of Karn. A mother, going to tell her son that he was born to her before she was married, would indeed prefer the time of evening rather than broad daylight! In the original epic, Krishna has had a dialogue with Karn, during which they have discussed the truth about the birth of Karn. When Kunti approaches Karn, on the day before he leads the kaurav army, he is aware of the fact that he is a son of Kunti. Tagore adds an element of irony by making Kunti herself reveal the mystery of his birth. Tagore’s Kunti tells Karn,

Boy dear, on the first morning of your life, it was I, who introduced you to the world. .

Today, I have come to introduce myself to you, casting aside all the inhibitions,

all concerns about the gossips of the society. As a person, Tagore’s Kunti, who introduced Karn to the world, and yet, has to introduce herself to him, earns the sympathy of the readers but not that of Tagore’s Karn, who spares no spikes of satire in his armoury to hurt his mother! In the original epic, he assures her that he will not hurt any of her sons except Arjun and that she will always have five sons, irrespective of the result of battle between him and Arjun. Tagore's Karn makes no such promise but asks his mother – whom he does berate for forsaking him at the first dawn of his life – to desert him once again, but this time, with a noble blessing. The last few lines are indeed striking - Karn tells Kunti:

On the night of the birth, you had left me on the earth, without a name, without a home – in the same way,

with a ruthless heart, to my inglorious, infamous defeat, mother, desert me today. But, before you go, bless, o please bless me, bless me thus : stray, I may not, from the path of a hero's salvation, by greed for triumph, greed for fame or even an empire.

44

By asking his mother to desert him once again, he becomes an epitome of cruel satire and by asking for the blessing that he does, he comes out as a model of nobility – a mixture of ‘virtues and weaknesses’, Jagadishachandra Basu had written about! Once again, ‘dharm’ is the pivot around which the poem revolves. At the outset, Karn offers to part with anything but his ‘dharm’ and manhood. In the end he refuses to accede to his mother’s request because he would be violating his ‘dharm’. * * * * A few words about this transcreation, which was undertaken to better understand and enjoy the poems. No effort has been made to transport the poetic aspects of the poem in terms of prosody. In view of the fact that these are dialogues, a conscious effort has been made to ensure that the language, comes alive while reading aloud or reciting - perhaps, grammatically incorrect at times, but it preserves, if not enhances the idea. The sequence of lines has been changed, wherever necessary, for better presentation in English. Occasionally, words/ phrases with a slight change in the precise meaning have been used, so that the transcreation does not appear contrived or alien to English. I believe readers will enjoy this transcreation which brings out the essence, the meaning and the mood Tagore intended.

45

Curse at Farewell (Viday Abhishap)

Deputed by the Gods, Kach, son of Brihaspati, goes to Shukracharya, to acquire the knowledge of reviving the dead. Spending a thousand years there and entertaining Devayani, daughter of his guru, with dance and music, attaining his objective, Kach prepares to return to heaven. He goes to Devayani to bid farewell. Kach: Devayani, if you allow,

I would like to proceed to heaven. Today - it is the end of my stay at the abode of guru . Bless me -knowledge -a radiant jewel acquired, remains within for a long time to come, like imperishable rays of sun on the peak of sumeru.

Devayani: Fulfilled are your desires;

from the guru, you have acquired the scarce knowledge; arduous and austere endeavour of a thousand years is accomplished today; please, do look within, are there no more desires?

Kach: Nothing more. Devayani: Nothing more?

Look once again, exploring the depths of your heart; if a desire survives in a remote corner of your heart, like a fresh blade of grass, unseen and insignificant, but sharp.

Kach: My life is fulfilled,

nowhere any penury nor a void. Devayani: You are the happiest in all the worlds.

With your head held high and with all the glory proceed to the heaven with your own mission, heaven will resound with joy, captivating notes from auspicious conches will fill the air, freshly plucked blossoms from the celestial garden will be sprinkled on your head by the maidens of heaven. On the way to heaven, gifted maidens of paradise will greet you with screams of joy. O priest, in this lonely alien land you have spent your days in a lot of strife and strict regiment of studies. None there was here,

46

to remind you of the happy home or to soothe the pain of living in a foreign land. In our humble abode, we have offered hospitality as best as we could, but how can we offer the pleasures of the heaven or the beautiful heavenly maidens. I only hope you would not remember the flaws of our hospitality once you return to heaven.

Kach: With a beneficent smile, bid me farewell. Devayani: Smile! Dear friend, no heaven is this.

Like an insect in a flower, here, desires are there at the core, desires keep circling the desired like a wasp ever circling a closed lotus. Here, with happiness gone, memories sigh and sob in a deserted abode; here, scarce is a smile. Carry on friend, no point in wasting time, the gods must be anxious. Already on your way? Is everything over in a few words? Is this a farewell after a thousand years?

Kach: Devayani, what is my fault? Devayani: Alas, for a thousand years, this beautiful forest

gave you loving shade, offered you whispers of the leaves and it was here that you listened to the chirping birds today, will you leave all this, so easily and quickly? The trees are gloomy, the shade of the forest is darker with sorrow, the wind wails, dry leaves are shed by the trees; will you go away with a smile on your lips like a happy dream at the end of the night?

Kach: Devayani, this forest is like my own country to me,

this is where I was reborn. I do not look down upon it, always will I remember it with love.

Devayani: This is the same banyan tree,

where, while grazing the cattle, you used to rest every scorching afternoon; on your tired limbs, a hospitable shade was spread; with sweet whispers the breeze of the leaves lulled you into a deep, peaceful sleep; go away friend, but before you do, rest a while for the last time under the familiar tree, carry with you the greetings of this loving shade - wait a while, the heavens will not fall due to a short delay.

47

Kach: At the time of departure all these familiar friends appear in an unknown, new guise; to prevent a fleeing friend, anxiously they spread loving snares - beauty, never seen before -final appeal! O trees, friends of your protégé, I salute you. So many travellers will rest under your shade; like me, so many students, on so many days, will sit on the seat of grass under your quiet and deserted shade and study amidst soft hum of moths; after their morning bath, the children of saints will come and hang their wet clothes of bark on your branches; the cowherds will play in the afternoons; among all this do remember this old friend of yours.

Devayani: Do remember our cows;

imbibing the nectar of heaven with pride, do not forget that sacred cow.

Kach: Her milk is sweeter than the nectar;

she is like a mother, peaceful and radiant like a river - her countenance eradicates sins. Ignoring hunger and thirst, without getting tired, I have served her; in deep forest, on grass clad banks of river, I have roamed with her all day long; on the slope of the banks, after grazing soft and tender grass to her heart's desire, with a body heavy with languor, lying on grass under the shade of a tree, she would chew the cud all day long; once in a while, glancing with large, grateful eyes, she would lick my body with her loving eyes. Her steady and graceful look, as well as her plump and fair limbs, I shall always remember .

Devayani: And also remember our ever-flowing river, Venumati. Kach: Indeed, I will not forget her.

Flowing through flower-laden groves, singing songs of joy in her subtle ripples, always flowing with a gusto and serving like a village bride, she was my companion ever in my days abroad.

Devayani: Alas, friend, in your days abroad,

there was another companion with you who tried day and night to help you overcome the sorrows of stay in an alien land -oh, what a pity!

48

Kach: Her name is woven with my life. Devayani: Do you remember

the first day, when you had come as a youthful priest, like a dawn, young and fair, with a graceful, radiant body, sandalwood on the forehead, a garland of flowers around the neck, wearing a silken attire, with a natural, happy smile on your lips, in your eyes, came and stood there amidst blossoms of forest flowers.

Kach: You had just taken your bath,

with long and wet hair, dressed in a new white attire, like an image of dawn, bathed in light, alone, with a basket in hand, plucking fresh flowers for worship. I pleaded with you, 'Divine lady, this exertion does not become you, allow me to pluck flowers for you.'

Devayani: Wonderstruck, that very instant,

I asked who you were. Modestly you said, 'I have come to your doorstep, to become a disciple of your father, I am son of Brihaspati.'

Kach: I was doubtful

if the guru of demons would turn away a priest of the heaven.

Devayani: I went to him, and with a smile, said,

'Father, I have come to beg at your feet.' With love, he made me sit next to him, placing his hand on my head, softly and quietly he spoke, ‘There is nothing I cannot give you.’ I said, ‘The son of Brihaspati is at your door, accept him as your disciple, that is all I request.’ All that happened so long ago and yet, I feel, it was this morning!

Kach: The envious demons killed me thrice,

but, you, divine lady, was kind enough to revive me each time; I shall ever be grateful to you for that.

Devayani: Gratitude! If you forget it, I have no regrets.

Let my favours be reduced to ashes

49

I do not seek reward for my favours, but, do you have no other happy memories? If ever, within and without, songs of joy reverberate, on some evening, taking time off from studies on the banks of Venumati, sitting in the forest of flowers, if an unprecedented romance touched your heart, amidst groves of blossoms, like fragrance of a flower, if a sigh from your heart spread in the evening sky, remember that happy experience - forget gratitude. If a song sung here has brought any joy to your heart, or if seeing a dress, you have felt like appreciating the same, with a happy heart and satiated eyes you have felt ‘Today this appears beautiful’, remember that, when you have a moment, amidst all the pleasures of the heaven. So often, in this very forest, all around, with the dark grey clouds of July, black canopy of rains was spread and on a day of leisure, torrential showers and passionate imagination had afflicted the heart; so often, suddenly, unfettered spring had brought anxious and exulted waves of youthful joy, with the same musical flow of passion, the creepers, the flowers, the leaves, in forest after forest, were flooded with wave after wave of joy. Think of all those dawns, moonlit nights, dark, fragrant nights of new moon of this forest which have mingled with the joys and sorrows of your life – among all this, is there no morning or an evening, a bewitching night, a play of the heart, a joy or a face that you would like to cherish and perpetually inscribed in your memory? Only gratitude! No beauty, no love, nothing else? Kach: Dear, all else cannot be expressed, what flows within, like your blood, how can you reveal? Devayani: I know friend, so often, in an instant, in the light of my heart, have I seen through your heart, hence, the audacity of this woman - stay back, please stay back, do not go away. In the glory of renown, there is no happiness. Here, on the banks of Venumati, the two of us will create a heaven of our own; forgetting the world, two hearts of ours – solitary, tranquil and bewitched - will mingle with this deserted shade of the forest. O friend, I know your secrets. Kach: No Devayani, no.

50

Devayani: No? False deceit? Do I not know how you feel? Don't you know that love is the lord of the heart? A blooming flower may be covered with the leaves, but, its fragrance, can it ever be concealed? How often, raising your face and seeing me, hearing my voice, tremors of your heart spread on all your limbs, like light reflected from a trembling diamond. Have I not observed that? Friend, you have been trapped, now you are my captive. You cannot shatter these fetters. Even your god is not yours anymore. Kach: Oh dear, one with a radiant smile, for a thousand years in the realm of demons, did I follow an arduous routine for this? Devayani: Why not? Is it only for knowledge that people choose to suffer in this world? Does no man undertake an austere penance for a woman? Fasting and staring at the blazing sun, did Samvaran not undertake a gruelling penance to get Tapati for a wife? Alas, is it knowledge alone that is scarce, is love so easy to acquire? You do not know, for what you have undertaken penance. Knowledge, on one hand and me, on the other – sometimes, eagerly opting for one, at others, you opted for the other; your unresolved mind secretly prayed for both. Today, both of us have come together. Friend, select anyone you like. With a little courage, if you can instinctively say, ‘No happiness in knowledge, nor in renown, you are the only form of accomplishment, Devayani, I select you,’ nothing to be ashamed of, no harm whatsoever. After all, my friend, a woman's heart is an apt reward for penance of a thousand years. Kach: Dear mine, I had promised the gods that on acquiring the knowledge of reviving the dead, I shall return to heaven – that was my purpose. That promise, I have always remembered, today, fulfilling the same, my life is complete, no more desires for myself. Devayani: Fie on you, you liar!

51

Did you desire only knowledge? In the abode of your guru, were you only a student absorbed in your studies day and night? Were you indifferent to everything else? Leaving your school, roaming in forests for flowers, and weaving garlands why did you present them to this illiterate with a happy and smiling face? Was that your austere penance? Is that how students behave? In the morning, when you were engrossed in studies, if I came with an empty basket and stood before you with a smile, leaving aside your books, why did you greet me with reverence with fresh flowers moist with dew? Later in the day, when I would be watering the plants, seeing me tired, with compassion, why did you fetch water for me? Forsaking your study, why did you feed calves of my deer? In the evening, on the bank of the river, when love-laden eyes turned dark with the sky, why did you play the celestial music? Had you come only for the sake of knowledge, why did you win over my heart with your heavenly clever snare? Now I understand, winning me over, you wanted a place in the heart of my father - with your mission accomplished, expressing gratitude, today you wish to leave, like one tipping the sentry with satisfaction on attaining his objective in the royal court. Kach: O sensitive lady, hearing the truth, will you be happy? With ethics as witness, I can vouch, I have not deceived you; With a cheerful heart and forthright soul I won you over, if serving you was my fault, I am being reprimanded for the same. I wished not to tell you that. Tell me, why do you want to know my feelings, which are only mine and absolutely personal, with which none in the universe will benefit. Do I love you or not, today, what difference does it make? Whatever my mission, I shall accomplish. Even if heaven is not a heaven any more, if my heart roams in the faraway forest like an injured deer, if my soul burns with desire forever, even then, I shall proceed to heaven, bereft of happiness. Only when I offer my knowledge of reviving the dead to the gods, my life will be meaningful; without that I cannot imagine happiness for myself.

52

Devayani, forgive me, forgive my fault. Devayani: No forgiveness in my heart! O priest, because of you, the heart of this woman is now harsh! You will go away to heaven with all glory, forgetting all the pain and sorrow in the joy of your duty; What am I to do, which path to follow! What pride - what is left in my abortive, obstructed life? With no company, no goal, sit solitary in this forest with head bent down - is all I can do! Wherever I shall see, I will be pierced by merciless spikes of memories; hidden within, cruel shame will sting time and again. Fie on you, o ruthless traveller, from where did you come, resting under the shade of my life, under the pretext of spending a few moments of leisure, plucking the flowers of happiness of my life, weaving them into a garland; while leaving, not only did you not wear it, but breaking the fine thread, caste it away with scorn! All the glory of this life is crushed to dust! This is my curse to you: the knowledge for which you forsake me, will not be under your total command; you will merely carry it, teach it, not use it. Kach: Divine lady, I bless you, be happy, forget all your sorrow in abundant glory.

53

Gandhari’s Plea (Gandharir Avedan) Duryodhan: Father, I salute you. Dhritarashtra: O ill-intentioned, have you achieved what you desired? Duryodhan: I have achieved victory. Dhritarashtra: Are you happy now? Duryodhan: I am triumphant, I am victorious. Dhritarashtra: O ill-willed, in spite of acquiring the entire kingdom, are you not happy? Duryodhan: Your Majesty, happiness - I had not desired! Victory - victory, I had desired and today, I am victorious. What is happiness? It does not satiate the appetite of a warrior o lord of Kuru, today, I have had the nectar of victory, radiant and fiery, extracted from the ocean of envy. Father, not happy, triumphant am I.

Happy I was, when united we were, pandavs and kauravs like shameful stains on the face of the moon - happiness, devoid of work, pride or glory! Happy I was, when mere mention of pandav arms kept the diffident enemy away; happy I was, when the victorious pandavs shared the world with us merely out of paternal love and without a worry we enjoyed all the pleasures of the world with wonder infinite. Happy I was, when the cheers of victory of pandavs echoed in the ears of the kauravs; when the ray of the glory of the pandavs lit the dark house of kauravs. Father, happy I was, when with no glory of our own,

54

like a frog hibernating in winter, we rested in the bliss of the pandav glory. today, defeated, the pandavs proceed to the forest today, I am not happy, today, I am victorious, I am triumphant. Dhritarashtra: Deplorable! Your treason with your brothers! Why do you forget the ancestry you share! Duryodhan: I cannot forget - in spite of common ancestors, equal we are not in prosperity, pride or glory, had they been someone else, unrelated, it would not have mattered - moon, aglow in the night has no qualms about the sun, radiant in the afternoon, but, one eastern horizon cannot accommodate two suns. Today, the duel is over. Today, I am victorious, I am triumphant, today, I am alone. Dhritarashtra: Petty envy! Poisonous cobra! Duryodhan: Not petty, great is envy. To envy, is the duty of the great! Two large trees keep a distance, millions of grass blades embrace each other, stars cluster together in fraternity, the sun, the moon -alone! With its hazy rays, the crescent moon of pandavs has set, far away, behind the forest. Today, the sun of kurus is by itself – today, I am victorious, I am triumphant. Dhritarashtra: Today, principles of ethics are defeated. Duryodhan: Father, ethics for society and ethics for the throne are not the same. In society, equals help and support, equals can be friends, but the throne - it has one master! There, equal is the enemy enormous, a perpetual hurdle, cause for concern, obstacle ahead and a fear following, devouring fame, force and glory always, sharing the wealth and prosperity. Petty people share strength to remain strong

55

but the royal sceptre weakens when shared. If the emperor does not hold his head high and steady, always seen by the masses from far away, how can he rule far and wide ? There is no fraternity in royal ethics, only the ethics of victory; Lord, today I am fulfilled, today, I am victorious, I am triumphant – today, the obstacle ahead is overcome – five pandavs like five peaks have bowed down clearing the field ahead. Dhritarashtra: Cheating in gambling to win! Is that victory? Shameless, arrogant! Duryodhan: Father, one's strength, is his weapon; in war, that is what one counts upon. None can equal the nails and teeth of the tiger; is one ashamed to use bow and arrow to kill him? To offer one's self to death, like a fool, is no war. Only objective of war is victory; father, today, I am victorious, I am triumphant; hence, the arrogance! Dhritarashtra: Today, you are victorious, hence, criticism deploring you resonates through the sky and the earth. Duryodhan: Criticism! Not afraid of it any more, strangling it, I will stifle it forever. Crushed under my feet, defiant tongue of the clamorous city will be stunned. Without answering back, all these days I have been hearing – Duryodhan, the sinner; Duryodhan, the cruel; Duryodhan, the mean. Touching the royal sceptre, O lord, today, I shall proclaim to people, Duryodhan, the emperor, will not tolerate criticism, Duryodhan carries his own banner. Dhritarashtra: Dear son, listen, criticism, when unexpressed, spreads its strong and intricate roots, stealthily, in the darkness within, poisoning the heart forever. Dancing on the tongue, swift and nimble, criticism tires soon;

56

hidden in the fortress of the heart, let it not grow from strength to strength. Capture the serpents of criticism with the melody of flute and a smiling face, pacify it with the hymns of love. Duryodhan: Hurt the royal cause, unexpressed criticism does not; for that, concerned I am not. If loved not, grieved am I not, But, audacity -I shall not tolerate. Lord, gift of love is voluntary, the poorest of poor can give alms of love – let love be shared by pet cats, dogs at the door and the pandav brothers – I have nothing to do with it. Through empire, fear, I desire – destroying the pride of the proud, I want victory. Father, listen to my plea – all this while, your throne was surrounded by my critics, like cactus creating a ruthless fence, they created a rift between you and me; singing the glory of pandavs and criticising me always. Thus, father, of your love, we have always been deprived of; since childhood we have been feeble; with the obstacle of a huge boulder on the fount of father's love, we have been like a lean river – without a soul, force or speed, repelled at every step; pandavs, flourishing, undivided, unobstructed. From now on father, if this critic clan -Sanjay, Vidur and Bhishm – is not moved away from the throne, and if they continue with their wisdom, morals and ethics and sermons, deploring criticism with logic and snapping the royal tapes time and again, adding load to my royal sceptre, making the royal force diffident, insulting and humiliating the crown, then, O father, forgive me, if I give up the bed of thorns that this throne is and opt for the exile in the forest offering the empire to the pandavs. Dhritarashtra: Alas, prude son, better it would have been,

57

overcoming my love for you, had I heeded to the well-meaning, harsh critic. So much love, that throwing wisdom to the wind I support you in your unethical practices. So much love, that I invite your annihilation. The great forest of ancient dynasty of kuru, I am setting afire. And yet, son, you blame me for lack of love? With the greed for a jewel, if you desired a black cobra, to get it for you, despite being blind, I have caught it by its hood. Always have I been blind without and within, for you have I walked in the annihilating dark; well-wishers all scream and object; nocturnal vultures wail inauspicious omens; with every step the path narrows; hazards on the horizon pierce the body; yet, embracing you firmly with fearsome love, laughing like an intoxicated fool, in the light of a meteor, with the blind speed and force of the wind, I hurtle forward, to be devoured by destruction. Only you and me, with a firm clasp, in the company of the radiant lord of the heart. No vision ahead, nothing to prevent the past, only awful attraction of reckless ruin. All of a sudden, someday, there will be a stir of life, mace of destiny will hit on the head, till then, do not doubt paternal love, let your embrace remain firm; till then, go on plundering the wealth of greed; be victorious, be happy, be an emperor – the sole master – let the band for victory play, let the banner of victory fly in the sky, today, in the festival of victory , there will be no justice, no ethics, no friends, no Vidur, no Bhishm, no Sanjay, no fear of criticism or reprimand of society , no royal wealth of kuru dynasty , only the blind father and his blind son and the deadly god of death – only the love of the father and the curse of the providence, nothing else. (an emissary enters) Emissary: Lord, the priests are leaving their prayers and worship and await the pandavs at the cross-roads.

58

No citizens are home, all the shops are closed; it is evening and yet no prayers are offered, no lamps are lit. Herds of grieving men and women, with tears in their eyes, proceed to the city gate. Duryodhan: They do not know Duryodhan is aroused now. O foolish, unfortunates, your time has come now. Today, there will be an encounter -intimate and tough – between the ruled and the ruler. how long will the people be defiant – violent whiffs of a snake without poison, screams of an unarmed arrogant -how long? Usher: Lord, Queen Gandhari awaits your permission. Dhritarashtra: I await her. Duryodhan: Father, I will leave now. (leaves) Dhritarashtra: Get lost, quick. You are scared of virtue, how can you face a righteous mother's eyes, which are like a thunder about to strike. Of me, you are not ashamed. (Gandhari enters) Gandhari: An appeal for your kind consideration. Please accept it. Dhritarashtra: Have I ever disregarded love's request? Gandhari: At once disown - Dhritarashtra: Whom, my queen? Gandhari: The same fool, whose sins are trying the sword of ethics. Dhritarashtra: Who is that? Where is he? Just tell me his name. Gandhari: Son, Duryodhan. Dhritarashtra: Disown him? Gandhari: That is my request for your consideration. Dhritarashtra: O Gandhari, royal mother, appalling is your prayer.

59

Gandhari: Am I the only one praying for this? O Kaurav, from heaven, all the ancestors pray for the same. Disown, disown him – oppressed by him, the prosperity of kauravs is doomed. Dhritarashtra: Unethical will be reprimanded by ethics – a mere father am I. Gandhari: Am I not a mother? Have I not born him live in my womb? Beholding his innocent childish face, did my loving heart not overflow into my breasts with milk? Like a fruit embracing a tree did he not cling to me with two little arms, drawing smile from my smile, words from my words, life from my life? And yet, I urge you today, my Lord, disown the same Duryodhan, our son. Dhritarashtra: Disowning him, what will I be left with? Gandhari: Your ethics. Dhritarashtra: With ethics, what do you get? Gandhari: Sorrows, ever new. Unethical happiness of a son and an empire are like two spikes – how can I embrace them? Dhritarashtra: Alas, dear, dictates of ethics prevailed and once I returned the empire lost in a wager by the pandavs. Next instant paternal love resounded in my ears, ‘what have you done! None can simultaneously ride the boats of ethical and unethical; once the kuru sons are in the sinful current its futile to have a treaty with ethics sin seeks help at the door of sin. O unfortunate old man, devoid of intellect, under the spell of fickle doubt, what have you done? By returning the empire to pandavs insult will not be undone – it is like adding fresh wood to the fire. Handing over power to the insulted is suicidal.

60

Powerful should be crushed totally, not let off lightly. No useless play with sin; once invited, accept it totally.’ Sinning sense in the form of paternal love quietly pierced my ears with such needles. Calling the pandavs back, deceiving them in the wager, for long did I exile them to the forest. Alas, ethics, alas, ways of the world, who can know the secrets of the worldly life? Gandhari: Ethics is not for wealth, lord, nor is it a mere bridge to happiness; ethics is the end of ethics. An ignorant woman am I, how can I explain ethics to you, indeed, you know it all. Bound by their word, pandavs will go to the forest, they cannot be stopped – o lord of the earth, now this entire empire is yours, at once disown the son. Afflicting the innocent, do not be happy yourself; justice should not be turned back from the palace. O ethical emperor, today, accept unbearable pain and let me also suffer with you. Dhritarashtra: Alas, great queen, how true your sermon and severe your words! Gandhari: The son dances with joy with sugar coated poisonous fruit in his hands; infatuated with love, do not let him eat it, snatch it, throw it away, let him cry. Let him be exiled from this empire and wealth – founded on treason and sin – let him also share the miseries of the deprived pandavs. Dhritarashtra: Providence asserts the principles of ethics – awake and aware it is, ever alert is its sceptre of ethics; o sharp-witted, let their realm remain in their charge. a mere father I am. Gandhari: You are the emperor, king of kings, next in command to Providence, entrusted with protection of ethics. If any of your subjects drags away a pious woman from her home, insults her for no reason,

61

how will you punish him? Dhritarashtra: Exile. Gandhari: On behalf of all the women, I pray to the emperor today, for justice. Son Duryodhan is guilty, lord. O emperor, you are the witness. Men always have disputes due to self-interest; of that I do not know right from wrong; punishment, discrimination, politics and a myriad others – ways of men are known only to men! Force opposed by force, deceit by many different deceits, strategy against strategy; far away we are, involved with our homes, in the peace and quiet of our women's quarters. One who drags in the fire of malice from external duels – leaving company of men enters the women's quarters and indulges in insulting the helpless housewife with his harsh and cruel touch; man who avenges friction with the husband by hurting his wife, is not only wicked but also a coward. Lord, what is his punishment? Tolerate I can, birth of sin, in the unblemished puru dynasty . But lord, with a mother's pride I had believed that my sons were heroes. Alas, lord, on that day, when the walls of the palace melted by the heat of shame, scorn and compassion for distressed screams of panchali, running to the window, I saw, pulling her clothes, roaring with laughter, were my sons -demons; ethics knows, on that day, all my maternal pride was crushed forever. O lord of kurus, leaving India, where has manhood migrated? You, o great warrior, sat there like a lifeless statue, looking at each other;

some smiled, some whispered to each other in wonder – like lightning, lost without thunder, the swords succumbed to sleep in their scabbards. Lord, our son Duryodhan is guilty. Listen to my request lord, get rid of this shame of a mother; uphold the duty of a brave warrior; stem the cries of a pious woman, grievously insulted; respect the stooped justice – disown Duryodhan.

62

Dhritarashtra: O queen, futile are your blows on this decrepit heart, burning with remorse. Gandhari: Lord, I also feel the pain, perhaps, many times more! Justice is fair and just when the punished and the dispenser of punishment suffer equally. Punishing someone without any pain is oppression by the mighty. Punishment not given to your son should not be given to anyone. Those who are not your sons, they also have a father and in their eyes you will be guilty. It is said that we are all children of the Creator. For all His sons, He himself dispenses justice; suffering Himself, He makes them suffer, else, He would not have a right to dispense justice. An ignorant woman I am, this is what I have learned from the scriptures within. Should you indiscriminately forgive your son, you will have to pay for all the guilty punished by you so far – your judgements will be your ruthless sins and blemish your character . Disown Duryodhan, the sinner. Dhritarashtra: Dear, please hold your tongue. I cannot shatter the fetters of infatuation, sermons of ethics cause only severe pain, in vain – sinner son is disowned by Providence hence, I cannot disown him I am the only one for him. How can I leave the son who has dashed into the frenzied waves? Even if hopes of his rescue are given up, for my life, embraced to him,

I will be diving in a stream of sin with him, drowning in the depth of obliteration, I will die with him without any hesitation, sharing his hardships, suffering the fruits of his evil designs, is my sole solace. This is no time to dispense justice, nor for redress, nor is there a way - all that was to happen, has happened, whatever the outcome, will have to be faced. (departs) Gandhari: O my perturbed heart, peace to you. Await the providential proclamation with bowed head and patience.

63

After a long night, when time awakes and corrects itself, it's a day of severe sorrow. The wind, steady and still, asleep in the unbearable heat, suddenly wakes up into a storm, fiercely attacking own stagnancy, like a blind scorpion stinging itself with its menacing tail and incessantly hurting itself like glowing spike of thunder similarly, when time wakes up, one and all, shivering with fear, call it, time-terrible, brutal and cruel. O beautiful, bowing down your head, salute the same time - great and grand; listen, listen, pay attention, from the faraway land of destruction, like a roar of thunder, sound of the wheels of its chariot is heard. Spread your distressed and decrepit heart in its path. Keep awake, without a word, with unblinking eyes, staring and blank, offer the red lotus of your drenched and devastated heart. Then, when a dust storm is kicked up in the sky, when the earth rumbles and tumbles, suddenly screams of wail rise in space alas, o beauty, o helpless orphan, o bride of the brave, o mother of the brave, amidst that loud lament slowly spread your body in the dust, with eyes closed and head bent low. Then salute the destined consequence, wordless, ruthless, severe and sad peace! Salute firm and beneficent radiant, gracious pardon! Salute the end of terrible malice! Ultimate deliverance smeared with ashes of the crematorium! (Queen of Duryodhan, Bhanumati enters, addressing her ladies attending on her) Bhanumati: Indumati, Parabhruti, please carry the necklaces, clothes and jewellery on your head. Gandhari: Daughter, slowly. Is there a festival in the house of Pauravas? Bride mine, where are you proceeding decked up in this new dress and jewellery? Bhanumati: The enemy is defeated, it is a moment to enjoy, celebrate. Gandhari: One whose dear and near ones are enemies,

64

his soul is also his enemy, ethics is his enemy, invincible is his enemy. O beneficent, from where did you get new jewellery? Bhanumati: Conquering the earth with their own valour, the jewels and ornaments that the five spouses of panchali gave her – wearing which, on the day of religious rituals, the radiant rays of the jewels glittered with the destined arrogance of Draupadi and pierced the hearts of the kuru women, with those ornaments she had to deck me and proceed to the forest. Gandhari: O ignorant, you have not learned your lessons yet? Are you so proud of those ornaments? What a terrible charm is this, an attire of annihilation! Like the meteor of extinction at the end of an era, don't these bejewelled anklets burn and hurt you ? This jewel on your forehead is like the flame of a thunder fire for your wedded bliss. Seeing you, my heart weeps and wails, terrified am I all over – in your ornaments, my ears filled with fear, hear the reverberations of the dance of destruction. Bhanumati: Mother; we are the wives of valiant warriors – not afraid of adversity. Triumphant sometimes, trounced sometimes – in the noon time sky sometimes, in the sunset sky sometimes, the sun of the glory of warriors rises and sets. O mother of the valiant warriors, remembering this, although living in fear all the while, I am not afraid of perils even for a moment. I have learned from you to live through the hard times and I am also prepared to die, mocking at the adverse destiny. Gandhari: Daughter dear, you are not the only one facing the perils. When it devours with all its might, tears of widows mingle with the flow of blood of brave warriors and what fearful howling arises – jewels and ornaments drop from the hands of the brides, like blossoms from creepers in a storm. Daughter dear, do not break a built bridge. Within your home, for the fun of it do not uphold the banner of turmoil. Today is not a day of joy. Do not dress up with pride when misfortune strikes your dear and near ones. Today, with pure heart and disciplined mind, practice austerity; loosen your hairdo and with mind at peace, worship, daughter dear. On such a sinful day,

65

Providence will be ashamed of pride and arrogance – do not let that happen. Abandon these ornaments and that new red attire; halt the festive music, royal pageantry; call the priest and go to the temple of fire – with a pure heart await the Time. (Bhanumati departs -Draupadi, along with five Pandavs, enters) Yudhishthir: Mother, at the time of departure, we have come to seek your blessings. Gandhari: O children, at the end of the night of sorrow, the day of fortune will rise twice as radiant. My sorrowful son, you will be bestowed with strength from the wind, light from the sun, patience and pardon from the earth. In your penury, you will be covertly followed by the goddess of wealth in disguise; for you, from sorrow, she will quietly collect wealth inexhaustible. May your exile be without fear, always. With no fault or flaw on your part,

your unearned sorrow, your suffering, will bring a radiant light within, like gold heated in fire. This sorrow will be your great support. With this sorrow, providence will be your debtor; when it will repay its own debt, neither man nor god will cross your path! O sons, more than my own, all the sins of my sons will be annulled by my blessings. Persecuting the wrong, stir up the deep ocean of beneficence. (embracing Draupadi) O daughter mine, like a beautiful creeper grounded, o my moon devoured by Rahu, lift your head and listen to me. Those who have insulted you, will suffer interminable ignominy – imperishable their tarnished image. Your insult -persecution of a pious woman by cowardice – will be shared by all the women of the world. Go, o daughter dear, with head held high, go with your husband, create a heaven in the forest, happiness in sorrow, o bride mine, sharing the unbearable sorrow of your husband, fulfil your duty as a bride sharing death. In the royal abode, day and night,

66

there are a myriad comforts; in the forest only you will be happiness, company, wealth, solace, support, rest

and peace when tired, nursing in sickness, affluence in hard times, ornament of night and image of dawn. You alone will be love, service, mother, housewife – awake and aware, like a profusely fragrant white lotus, blossoming in all its glory, with a hundred petals.

67

Karn -Kunti Dialogue (Karn-Kunti Samvad) Karn: Praying to the evening sun, on the banks of sacred Ganga, sun of the charioteer, Adhirath, born from the womb of Radha, whose name is Karn, that is me,

tell me lady, who you are! Kunti: Boy dear, on the first morning of your life,

it was I, who introduced you to the world. . Today, I have come to introduce myself to you,

casting aside all the inhibitions, all concerns about the gossips of the society. Karn: Divine lady, like the snow on mountains in the sunlight, my heart softens, in the light of your lowered eyes. As if transcending incarnations, your voice, piercing my ears, causes immense pain. O unfamiliar woman, tell me, what mysterious bond connects my birth with you. Kunti: Patience, for a while, dear boy. Let the sun set. Let the evening be dark. Let me tell you, o valiant, Kunti I am. Karn: Are you Kunti? The mother of Arjun? Kunti: Indeed, the mother of Arjun! Knowing me, despise me not! Today, I remember, on the day of the competition in Hastinapur, you, a youth, slowly entered the arena, like a rising sun entering from the eastern end, a sky still sprinkled with stars. Amongst all the women behind the screen, who was the wordless, ill-fated one with love unfulfilled, suffering within her tormented breasts the bites of a thousand fangs of snakes? Whose eyes blessed all your limbs with kisses? The mother of Arjun it was! When Kripacharya asked the name of your father and announced with a smile, ‘one, not of the royal heritage, has no right to battle Arjun’ you remained standing there, looking down, bereft of words, red with disgrace – the same blaze of disgrace set her breasts afire – who was that unfortunate destitute? The mother of Arjun it was! Glory to son Duryodhan, who pronounced you the king of Anga - grateful am I to him. When you were crowned,

68

streams of tears welled up in both my eyes to consecrate your head. At that moment, making way, entered the arena, Adhirath, the charioteer, joyous and anxious. Amidst the curious crowds all around, dressed in your royal outfit, your consecrated head touched the feet of the old charioteer, greeting the father with a reverent salute. Friends of Pandavs, all, hooted you with a malicious laugh; At that instant, one who called you a hero, o hero among heroes, that mother of Arjun, I am. Karn: I salute you, o noble woman. You are a royal mother, why have you come alone? This is a battlefield and I am the General of Kuru army. Kunti: Son, I have come begging, please, do not let me return disappointed. Karn: Begging - from me! Everything will I offer at your feet, apart from my manhood and my religion, my duty. Kunti: I have come to fetch you. Karn: And where to will you take me? Kunti: To my longing bosom - to the lap of a mother . Karn: Blessed you are with five sons, fortunate you are, I am an insignificant king without any character or heritage – Where will you find a place for me? Kunti: Above all my sons you will preside, you are the eldest . Karn: With what pride and right can I claim that? Those who are deprived of their kingdom, how can I share their treasure of maternal love. Neither can it be gambled away, nor can it be won by sheer strength, such is the heart of the mother, a gift of the Providence. Kunti: My son, with a right from the same Providence once you had arrived in the same lap

69

with the same right, return with pride, come, do not think - amogst all the brothers, take your place in this mother's lap of mine. Karn: O lady divine, I listen to your dreamlike voice. Darkness has spread all over, the horizon has disappeared, even Ganga is quiet. I am led away to an illusory realm, to a forgotten abode, to the dawn of conscience. Like an ancient truth, your words touch my enchanted heart. Today, surrounded am I by unfulfilled childhood of mine, and darkness of my mother's womb. O mother royal, let your love shower, whether truly or in a dream, for a moment, let your hand rest on my forehead, my chin. I had heard from people that I was abandoned by my mother. Often, in a dream at night, did I behold my mother, coming slowly, to look me up, weeping, with pain of passion, I pleaded, ‘Mother, lift the veil, let me see your face’ Instantly, the image disappeared, Destroying my dream - yearning and anxious. The same dream, appears today in the evening, on the battlefield, on the banks of Ganga, in the guise of the mother of the Pandavs! Look, lady divine, on the other shore, in the Pandav camp, the lamps are lit, on this shore, not far from here, in the stables of Kauravs, a hundred thousand horses stamp their hooves. Tomorrow morning a great battle will rage. Tonight, why do I hear the loving voice of my mother, in the words of the mother of Arjun. The way she calls me – why does it sound like a sweet melody? Suddenly, I want to address the five Pandavs as my ‘brothers’. Kunti: Come along, son, come along, now. Karn: I will go mother, I will go along, no questions, no doubts, nothing to think about. Lady divine, you are my mother!

70

At your call my conscience has awakened drums of battle or conch of victory, nothing plays now. I feel - worthless is carnage of confrontation, fame of heroes, victory, defeat - take me along, but where will you go? Kunti: Over there, to the other shore, where the lamps burn in the silent tents on the pale yellow sandy banks. Karn: There, one separated from a mother, will find a mother forever! There, the polestar will shine all night long in your noble and 1ovely eyes! Lady divine, tell me once again, Your son, I am. Kunti: My son! Karn: Why then was I abandoned to this world, unknown, without dignity, without family, without honour, faraway, to a lap bereft of the eyes of the mother. Forever, why was I set afloat on the stream of neglect – why was I banished from the family of brothers. Alienating me and Arjun – since childhood both of us are drawn by a covert and concealed noose of malice with inevitable attraction. Mother, have you no answer? With my eyes closed silently penetrating layers of darkness, your ignominy touches all my limbs; let it be - don't tell me why you abandoned me. In this world, mother's love is the first gift of the Providence. You need not answer, why you deprived your child of that divine treasure! But, do tell me, why have you come today to take me back to your fold. Kunti: O child, like a thunder you take me to task – tearing this heart of mine to pieces. Due to the curse for abandoning you, my heart longs for a child, despite bearing five – hence, alas, in this wide world, to embrace you, my arms search and seek. For that child, deprived, a lamp, my heart lights, and burns itself to honour the lord of the world. To be able to see you today, fortunate am I. I had committed a cruel crime when you had not uttered even a word –

71

child, now with words of pardon absolve your erring mother . In my heart, the same pardon, blazing brighter than the fire of reproach, will sinter my sins and unblemished will I be. Karn: Mother, give me the dust of your feet – take these tears of mine. Kunti: To embrace you was not the fond hope that brought me to your door. Son, I have come to restore your rights to you. Not a son of a charioteer, a royal child you are. Leaving behind all insults, come along – come to where your five brothers are. Karn: Mother, a charioteer's son, I am and Radha is my mother no other honour is greater. Let Pandavs be Pandavs and Kauravs be Kauravs – none do I envy . Kunti: With your own might, regain the empire that is yours, o child. There is Yudhishthir to comfort you and Bhim, to shelter you, Arjun to steer your chariot, priest Dhaumy to chant the hymns – overcoming the enemy with your supreme might, live in the company of your relatives, rule unchallenged from a throne of luxury. Karn: A throne! Deprive me of the bond of the mother's affection, you did – and mother, now you console me with an empire! The treasure you once deprived me of, restoring the same is beyond your means. Mother, when I was born, in an instant you tore me apart from my mother, brothers, royal heritage. Today, if betraying my charioteer mother, I accept my royal mother, if shattering the bonds that bind me to the Kuru emperor, I opt for the royal throne, I will despise me! Kunti: My son, brave you are, blessed you are! Alas, duty, from you, such a stern reprimand is this! On that day, who knew, that an insignificant, helpless child being abandoned, will return one day with power and might from a dark path to kill the children of his own mother, with arms held in his own merciless hands -

72

oh, what a curse! Karn: Mother, do not fear. Let me tell you, Pandavs will prevail. Today, on the dark canvas of this night, I can clearly read in the star-light, the result of this brutal battle. At this silent and stunned moment, from the infinite sky, spreads to my heart, music of an enterprise without victory, an endeavor without hope. In the end, I behold peace of void. Do not invite me to forsake the side that will lose. Let the Pandavs be victorious, rulers, I shall remain with the defeated and disappointed. On the night of the birth, you had deserted me, without a home, without a name – in the same way, with a ruthless heart, mother, desert me today, to my defeat, without glory, without fame, but before you go, bless, o please bless me, just bless me thus: stray, I may not, from the path of a hero’s salvation, by greed for triumph, greed for fame or even an empire.

73

Annexure The Meaning of a Poem17

Srotasvini told me, ‘I wish to hear from you, the poem you have written about the dialogue between Kach and Devayani.’ Hearing this, I was proud of myself, but the pride devouring deity was alert and Dipti blurted out, ‘Don't take an offence, but I have not been able to understand the meaning or the objective of that poem. I don't think its well written.’ I kept quiet. But I did feel, if the opinion was expressed politely it would not have hurt and yet truth would not have been suppressed. Just as the writing could be inferior, the level of the reader could also be! I said aloud, ‘While the author does have a definite opinion about his own writing, history is replete with examples of his being wrong. On the other hand, the critics are also not beyond errors - no dearth of such instances in history either. What is beyond doubt is the fact that you do not approve of that writing of mine. Indeed, it is my misfortune - perhaps, yours too!’ With a serious face, Dipti said, ‘Possible!’ She pulled out a book and started reading the same. After this, Srotasvini did not request me to read that poem. Looking out of the window and addressing an imaginary person in the distant sky, Vyom said, ‘If you are talking about the meaning, I have found one from this poem of yours.’ Kshiti said, ‘First tell me the subject. Being scared of the poet, I had not declared that I have not read the poem as yet.

17 One of the essays of ‘Panchabhut’, by Tagore, published in 1897. This is a collection of 16 essays written as a diary and initially published individually in a periodical. The foregoing was published under the title of ‘Kabyer Tatparya’ in ‘Sadhana’ in 1894.These essays are written as a report of the discussion between the five basic elements, in their human forms – earth (Kshiti), water (Srotasvini), light (Dipti), wind (Samir) and sky (Vyom). Tagore, the narrator/moderator, is present as Bhutanath. Some of the essays are based upon an informal book kept at Jorasanko – the Tagore residence in Kolkata – where every individual expressed his views on various issues either on his own or in response to what the others had said therein. The deliberations do not necessarily converge to a conclusion. The characters are supposed to be based upon real persons in close contact with Tagore at that time. Srotasvini is Indiradevi – daughter of his brother, Satyendranath . Dipti is Saraladevi, daughter of his sister, Swarnakumari. Kshiti, Samir and Vyom are based upon Pramathanath Chawdhury – husband of Indiradevi - Maharaja of Natore, Akshaykumar Mitra or Lokendranath Palit.

74

Now, I have to let the cat out of the bag!’ Vyom said, ‘The Gods had sent the son of Brihaspati, Kach, to Shukracharya, guru of the demons, to acquire the knowledge of reviving the dead. For a thousand years, Kach entertained the daughter of Shukracharya, Devayani, with music, dance etc. and acquired the knowledge. At last, at the time of departure, Devayani expressed her love and asked Kach not to go. Despite a soft corner for Devayani, Kach returned to heaven, ignoring her pleas. Its such a short story. There is a minor difference between this and the Mahabharat, but it is insignificant.’ With fear writ large on his face, Kshiti said, ‘It may not be a long story, but I am afraid, the meaning will be longer!’ Ignoring Kshiti, Vyom went on, ‘The story is about the soul and the body.’ Hearing this, everyone was awestruck. Kshiti said, ‘Now I would like to leave with all my dignity along with my soul and body.’ Samir tugged at his shirt, made him sit down in a chair and said, ‘At the time of crisis, don’t leave us alone!’ Vyom continued, ‘The soul comes from the heaven to the hermitage of this world. He knows how to please. On the senses of the body, he plays the music of the heaven and casts a web of heavenly beauty. Throwing their routine to the winds, all the senses are moved by this heavenly dance.’ With his vacant eyes submerged in a dream, Vyom was carried away. Sitting erect in his chair, he continued, ‘From this point of view, within every man, there is an eternal act of love. The ignorant and dependent companion of the soul is driven crazy by it. The soul inspires such ambitions in every pore of the body that it cannot be fulfilled by bodily functions. The beauty presented before the eyes cannot be fathomed by vision – hence, it says, the eyes were not satiated despite beholding the beauty all life long – the music poring in the ears is not fathomed by the faculty of hearing, hence, it anxiously says, the ears heard the sweet words but the hearing was not touched! Like a creeper, even this ignorant companion, whose soul is awakened, captures the soul in tender and loving embrace of its numerous branches, slowly captivates it, serves it without rest, follows it like a shadow, ensures that it does not feel like an alien in an alien land, keeps its limbs and senses alert so that the hospitality is not lacking. After all this love, one day the soul departs, deserting the body – eternally and hopelessly in love. It says, dear, I love you with all my heart, yet, with a deep regret, I shall go away, leaving you. The body earnestly pleads, ‘Dear, if you had to forsake me one day,

75

why did you glorify me with love all along? Perhaps, I do not deserve you, but, crossing an infinite ocean, on a dark and mysterious night, why did you come to me in my glorious solitude? What quality of mine captivated you?’ Without answering these tragic questions, where does this foreigner disappear, nobody knows. End of that lifelong association, the final dialogue between the body and its lord and master – such a tragic scene of estrangement has not been described in any poem of love!’ Observing the expressions of Kshiti, Vyom wondered if a wisecrack was forthcoming. He continued, ‘You do not believe this is love. You feel I am talking about merely an allegory! No sir. It is the first love of the world and like the first love of life, it is the simplest and the strongest. When this first love, love of the body, first appeared, the earth was not divided into water and land, no poet had appeared nor had a historian, on that very day, on this watery, muddy, immature earth, it was proclaimed, this world is not merely mechanical; an ineffable, joyous and painful power called love is creating a grove of lotus from the mud. In the eyes of the believers, in that grove of lotus, dwell the goddess of beauty and emotions.’ Kshiti said, ‘I am indeed pleased to learn that within each one of us a great poetic activity is carried on – but, one must admit that the behaviour of fleeting soul with a simple body is not fair. I earnestly hope that my soul is not so restless and resides within the body for a reasonably long time. I would like you all to bless me so.’ Samir said, ‘Vyom, you have never said anything against the scriptures. Today, why do you talk like a Christian? The soul has been sent from the heaven to the hermitage of the world and in the company of the body, experiencing the joys and the sorrows, it matures here! This opinion of yours, is contrary to all those you have expressed so far.’ Vyom stated, ‘Don’t try to establish consistency of opinions. On such basic issues I have no squabble with any opinion. In the affairs of life every race accumulates wealth with the currency of its own domain. Success in such an enterprise is the important issue. The opinion about the soul being deputed to the world to gain experience is well accepted and hence, I am of the opinion that that currency is not counterfeit. As and when necessary, I shall establish that the currency that is useful in the affairs of life is acceptable in the divine bank also. In a compassionate tone Kshiti said, ‘Pardon me, but hearing you talk of love is awkward enough, now if you start talking of enterprise, I will have to be removed from here.

76

Though I am surprised myself, given an opportunity, I can also tell you a meaning of this poem.’ Vyom rested on the chair and put up his feet on the window sill. Kshiti continued, ‘I think that the gist of the evolution theory is expressed in this poem. The knowledge of reviving the dead means the art of living. It is distinctly observed in the world that a man studies this art day and night – for thousands, millions of years. But his love for mankind – which is the basis for his study – is momentary. As soon as a chapter is over, without any remorse, the ruthless lover, restless guest departs, forsaking him to the perils of destruction. Layer after layer of the earth is inscribed with the dirge of this cruel farewell. - ’ Before Kshiti could complete his statement, Dipti said furiously, ‘If you go on like this, there will be no end to meanings. Fire departs after burning the wood, piercing the cocoon the butterfly absconds, fruit appears when the flower withers, breaking through the seed a sapling sprouts, - numerous such meanings can be extracted.’ Vyom said seriously, ‘You are quite right. These are all examples, not meanings. The main point is that we cannot walk without using two feet. When the left foot is fixed behind, the right foot can proceed ahead and when the right foot is fixed ahead the left foot breaks lose and proceeds further. Once we tie ourselves down and the next moment break loose. We have to love and leave the love. This is the greatest sorrow of the world and all of us have to experience the same. This applies to the society also; in due course a new rule becomes an ancient ritual and ties us down; a social upheaval does away with it and relieves us. In order to walk, the foot planted has to be lifted the very next moment. Hence, in proceeding further, there is a pain of separation every moment - it is so decreed by destiny.’ Samir said, ‘There is a curse at the end of the story which has not been mentioned by any one of you. When Kach leaves, breaking lose from the bonds of Devayani’s love, she curses him that he will not be able to use the knowledge acquired by him, he will be able to merely teach the same to others. I have found out a meaning from the same; if you have the patience, I can narrate the same.’ Kshiti said, ‘I cannot tell you now, for how long will my patience hold! But do start and depending upon the circumstances, be kind enough to stop, if necessary.’ Samir continued, ‘The knowledge of reviving the dead is to be interpreted as art of living- living well. Suppose a poet has come to the world to learn the same and teach others. With his natural heavenly powers bewitching the world he learns the art. While he does love the world, when the world asks him to be tied down to it, he says, if I am tied down, if I am pulled in your whirlpool, I will not be able to teach this art to anyone. Although living amidst all, I must keep myself aloof. The world cursed him that what you have learned from me will not be useful to you,

77

you may teach the same to others. Due to this curse it is often seen that the knowledge of the guru is useful to the disciples, But, like a child, guru is not capable of using for himself, the knowledge gained from the world. Learned without any ulterior motive, learned with indifference, one can learn well, but unless one is engrossed in work, one cannot use the same. That is why, in the good old days, Brahmins were ministers and the kings consulted them. but, entrusted the throne, not only the Brahmins will be completely at sea, and like an ordinary stone they will throw away the kingdom! All that you were saying was very ordinary. If it is said that Ramayan conveys that many persons suffer in life in spite of being born in a royal family or that Shakuntal conveys that at an opportune moment a man and a woman love each other; this is not something special or a new meaning.’ With a little diffidence Srotasvini said, ‘I believe, poetry conveys all these simple things. In spite of being born in a royal family, in spite of a likelihood of all the luxuries, like a hunter, unlimited misery chases Ram and Sita from one peril to another; this ancient tale of human destiny and sorrow has attracted and softened the human heart. Even in the love of Shakuntala, there is no special significance, this ancient and simple story merely conveys that at some predestined moment, without any effort or plan, relentless love binds the hearts of a man and a woman. Being quite ordinary, ordinary society has been enjoying it. Perhaps, disrobing of Draupadi may be interpreted as death tearing apart the clothes of the earth covered with vegetation but there is no end to the clothes which, by the grace of god are ever renewed with beautiful new ones. However, in the story, were we agitated and in the end emotionally charged, at the mercy of the god to the devotee, because of this new and special meaning? Or was it due to a simple and ancient tale of a tortured lady helped in her crisis? Even in the dialogue of Kach-Devayani an eternal, ordinary and sorry tale of human heart is presented, those who consider it insignificant and give importance to its special significance, cannot really enjoy poetry.’ With a smile Samir addressed me, ‘Lady Srotasvini has exiled us from the right to enjoy poetry; now we would like to hear the verdict of the poet.’ Feeling shy and regretting, Srotasvini protested the slander again and again. I said, ‘I can only say that when I wrote the poem, I had no meaning in mind. Thanks to you all, I am glad to learn that the writing has not been in vain – the meaning overflows the lexicon! Poetry can inspire the creativity of the reader through the creativity of the poet; according to one’s nature, one finds beauty, other, perhaps, ethics or metaphysics. It is like lighting firecrackers – poetry is like a torch and the readers are like various kinds of firecrackers. As soon as lit, some, like a rocket, fly up in the air, some, rotate and sprout on the earth and others, like a bomb, create a ruckus. By and large, I agree with Lady Srotasvini. Many say that the stone is the primary part of the fruit and science would support them. Yet, most connoisseurs discard the stone after eating the pulp.

78

Similarly, even if there is a special moral in the poetry, a connoisseur of poetry cannot be blamed if he thoroughly enjoys the poetry, ignoring the moral. On the other hand, those who insist upon extracting only the moral, I bless them with success and happiness. Joy cannot be forced upon anyone. From safflower, some extract colour, some, oil from the seeds and others merely enjoy the beauty. From a poem, some extract history, some vision, some ethics, some find knowledge and others find nothing but poetry. All of them may be happy with what they find, I have no quarrels with anyone – there is nothing to gain from a quarrel.

79

TThhee EEnngglliisshh GGiittaannjjaallii

80

The English Gitanjali 'Gitanjali' is not only the most known collection of poems by Tagore but also the most known of all his books. Very few are aware of the fact that Tagore had written two 'Gitanjali's – the first one, a collection of 157 songs written in Bengali and published in 1910 and the second one is in English, published in 1912 and contains 103 prose poems of which 53 are translations of the poems of Bengali 'Gitanjali' and the rest are from such other collections as 'Gitali', 'Gitimalya', 'Chaitali', 'Kheya', 'Shishu' etc. It is more of a transcreation than translation. In some of the poems the liberties taken with the original are of such a magnitude that only the author of the original can get away with the same. For instance, poem no. 95 of English 'Gitanjali' is translated from poem nos. 89 and 90 of Bengali 'Gitanjali'. Whether the English 'Gitanjali' is Tagore's best or the most important work or not is a question that can easily lead to a controversy but its importance from the point of view of Tagore's international fame and consequent celebrity status is beyond the realm of a debate. The Nobel Prize for literature that Tagore was awarded in 1913 was also responsible for the unprecedented welcome Tagore received all around the world. A brief note should also be taken of a vital fact that but for English 'Gitanjali', which was Tagore's first translated work in English, which went on to be felicitated with a Nobel Prize, Tagore might have taken much longer or perhaps, might not have become the celebrated luminary that he was, outside Bengal - even on the Indian subcontinent. It would not be an exaggeration to state that instant acceptance and appreciation of English 'Gitanjali' in West as well as Tagore being awarded Nobel Prize were two stepping stones for emergence of Tagore from the confines of Bengal onto the Indian and the international scene. There is an interesting story as well as history associated with the English 'Gitanjali' and the Nobel Prize. After a quick look at the background, the genesis of the English 'Gitanjali' is presented, accompanied by a few of the poems and followed by the reviews they received at that time and the story of the Nobel Prize. The first decade of the 20th century was a decade of major changes in the life of Tagore. It was in this decade that he had to struggle on more than one front and face frustration and the pain of death of several of his dear and near ones. In the previous decade he had lived mostly in Shelidah on his favourite river Padma, looking after his landed estates. In 1901, he moved to Shantiniketan, where ha had established a school – ‘brahmacharyashram’. He faced unprecedented financial stringency and had to sell his house in Puri and the jewellery of his wife. After taking an active interest in the movement of bangabhang, he withdrew from political stream because of bitter experience of the politicians. His colleagues and people at large were quite upset with him because of this. In 1903, he lost his wife, Mrinalini Devi, in 1905, his daughter, Renuka, in 1905, his father, Maharshi Debendranath, and in 1907, his youngest son, Shamindranath. The pain of losing four family members in a span of five years cannot be expressed in words. In spite of such painful and frustrating experiences, because of his optimistic and levitating approach to life, instead of bitterness towards the world, he cultivated a mode of internal reflection, which resulted in spiritual poems. The poems of 'Naibedya', published in 1901, were primarily spiritual prayers. The summit was Bengali 'Gitanjali', published in 1910. Till then Tagore was not really known outside Bengal, where he was known only as an important poet of his time. Neither him nor his literature were universally accepted or acclaimed in Bengal. His friends and well-wishers such as Sister Nivedita, Jagadishachandra Bose - the great scientist, Ajit Chakravarti, Ramanand Chatterji, Jadunath Sarkar, Anand Kumaraswami etc. were pleading with

81

him to translate his works into English. But he was quite diffident about his own English. In his first major letter in English18, addressed to Myron H. Phelps, on January 4, 1909, he said, as I have never been used to express myself in the English language I shall not be able to give an adequate or effective idea of what I feel to be the truth about our country.19 On June 24, 1911, he wrote to Thanwardas Lilaram Vaswani, later known as Sadhu Vaswani, As I can very feebly and with difficulty express myself in English I ask your pardon and stop here.20 Hence, he encouraged his friends to translate his works. Sister Nivedita was the first known translator of his short story, 'Kabuliwalla', in 1900. The same was not published till 1910. The first known translation to appear in print was a translation of his short story, 'Kshudhit Pashan', by Panalal Bose, which appeared in Modern Review of 1910 under the title of 'Hungry Stones'. Subsequently, in 1911, translation of his 6 essays, 4 short stories and 5 poems had appeared in Modern Review. Devendranath Mitra, Jadunath Sarkar, Ajit Chakravarti, Anand Kumaraswami, Lokendranath Palit etc. were the translators. His friends, who were in England, spoke about him and his literature to their English literary friends. Hence, his name was known in the literary circles of England. In 1910, a group of English gentlemen interested in Indian Arts and culture had established India Society. Its president and a famous sculptor, William Rothenstein had come to India in November 1910. After visiting Ajanta, Ellora, Abu and Banaras, he was to visit Kolkata. However, he was so impressed with the beauty of the Ganges near Banaras that he decided against his visit to Kolkata. It was at the instance of two British judges of Kolkata High Court, who were visiting Banaras on vacation, and an invitation from Abanindranath Tagore that he changed his mind and visited Kolkata in January 1911. There he met the famous painter brothers, Abanindranath and Gaganendranath Tagore and visited their home at Jora Sanko. There he saw Rabindranath Tagore and was impressed with his personality and had sketched him. However, there was not much of an interaction between the two. Despite being advised by Anand Kumaraswami and invited by Rabindranath Tagore, he could not visit Shantiniketan. Before leaving for England in February 1911, he came across a short story - Postmaster – by Rabindranath, translated by Devendranath Mitra, published in Modern Review of January 1911. He wrote to Rabindranath, Yourself I shall always allow myself to regard with reverence & affection, & I hope you will allow me to write to you sometimes & that you will perhaps remember that I shall be grateful for any translations of poems or stories which may appear at any time.21

It was in June 1911 that he initially expressed his desire for a foreign tour in one of his letters. He said that due to indifferent health he longed to fly far away. In such a state of mind he wrote his famous play 'Dakghar'.22 With the thought of a prolonged absence due to a foreign tour, he made his will and entrusted various responsibilities of his landed estates and the school at Shantiniketan to specific individuals. His proposed foreign tour in October 1911 was postponed due to an accident met by the ship he was to travel on.23 In March 1912, the tour had to be cancelled at the eleventh hour due to his ill health. On this occasion his friends had gone to see him off at the port and were dismayed to see the ship leave without Tagore on board. Even his luggage was on board and had to

18 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, Ed. Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1997. p. 73 19 ibid., p. 74 20 ibid., p. 81 21 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Prasanta Kumar Pal, Ananda Publishers, Kolkata, 1993, p.194. 22 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p. 235 23 Ibid., p. 238

82

be called back from Madras.24 Under medical advice for complete rest, he went to Shelidah instead of Shantiniketan. Describing those times and the genesis of the English 'Gitanjali', on May 6, 1913, Tagore wrote to his niece, Indiradevi, Due to rounds of farewells I felt dizzy on the day of the departure and I had to call off my tour. I went away to Shelidah to rest. To keep my mind cool I wanted to do something not necessarily important. It was the month of April and the sky was filled with the fragrance of mango blossoms and with the chirping of the birds the entire day passed like an hour. . . I was thoroughly enjoying the April light, breeze and the fragrance. How can one keep quiet in such an environment? . . . But I did not feel strong enough to create anything new. So I sat down with the poems of 'Gitanjali' and started to translate them in English one after another. You might wonder why I undertook such a difficult task in such a weak state of health - let me assure you that there was no intention on my part to put up a brave front. Once before a festival of poetic delight was celebrated in my mind and I felt like repeating the same in another language. In no time a small notebook was filled. It was in my pocket during the voyage. . . Whenever I was restless during the voyage, I used to relax in the deck chair and translate a few more poems. . . When one notebook was filled I started writing in another one.25

This narration is not totally factual. It is on record that Tagore had written about 15 poems, subsequently published in 'Gitimalya', during this period. Hence, it is difficult to believe that he was too weak to create anything new. On the other hand, 'another (notebook)' has not been found so far! 26 Tagore used to talk at length about his current activities in his letters. However, but for a passing reference in one of his letters27, he did not mention about his endeavours in translation. The same could be due to his own inhibitions and diffidence about his prowess of English language. Finally, on May 26, 1912, he set sails on 'City of Glasgow' from Mumbai for England. His son, Rathindranath, his daughter-in-law, Pratimadevi and Somendrachandra Devavarma of Tripura accompanied him - indeed, the small notebook, containing the manuscript of English 'Gitanjali' was in his pocket. As mentioned by him in the letter to Indiradevi, the translation continued on the boat. Disembarking at Marseilles in France, they continued by train to Paris, where he met the Swedish linguist, Esais Tegner, who knew Bengali. They reached London in middle of June. Travelling in the tube train, Rathindranath forgot his attaché in the train. The only manuscript of the English 'Gitanjali' was in that attaché. Finding the same from Lost Property Office on the next day, Rathindranath felt relieved. The same was handed over to Rothenstein, the President of India Society.

Rothenstein was impressed with the manuscript. He has noted in his autobiography, 'Men and Memories',

That evening I read the poems. Here was poetry of a new order, which seemed to me on a level with that of the great mystics.

24 Ibid. p. 278 25 Ibid., p. 283 26 See Appendix 1. 27 An undated letter to Ajit Chakrabarti, in which he stated, 'I am trying to translate a few of my songs into English prose - if we meet, will show you.'

83

Rothenstein made three copies of the manuscript and sent them to the famous poet W. B. Yeats, Andrew Cecil Bradely, professor of Poetry at Oxford, and Stopford Brooke, well-known monotheist author. Bradley responded,

It looks as though we have at last a great poet amongst us again.

Brooke wrote,

I have read them with more than admiration, with great gratitude, for their spiritual help and for the joy they bring and confirm, and for the love of beauty, which they deepen far more than I can tell.28

Opinion of Yeats has been quoted in his now famous Introduction to the English 'Gitanjali',

I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of the omnibuses, and in restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would see how much it moved me.

Having heard such unqualified and flattering remarks from three giants of the western literature, Tagore was indeed elated. He wrote to Kshitimohan Sen,

Kshitimohan Babu, last night I dined with one of the poet here, Yeats. He read aloud the prose translations of some of my poems. It was a very beautiful reading in the right tone. I do not have much confidence in my own English - but he remarked that if someone were to say he could improve this piece of writing, that person did not understand literature. People here have taken to my work with such excessive enthusiasm that I cannot really accept it. . . perhaps it was for this that my God dragged me to this country at my age - for it is literature, art and suchlike that are the real bridges uniting one country with another. Maybe from all this I should totally eliminate my personal self and humbly acknowledge the best in my writing without hesitation. . . I feel as if God is expressing His own gladness through others' praise of my work; it is as if He has brought me from East to West in order to make me aware of the fact of His gladness. His grace cannot be accepted in a state of infatuation, which is why I am preparing myself to submit to the honour with my forehead touching the dust.29

On July 7, 1912, Rothenstein arranged a programme of poetry reading in his drawing room where such luminaries of the English literature as Ernest Rhys, Alice Meynell, Henry Nevinson, May Sinclair, Charles Trevelyan, and Margaret Radford etc. were present. Charles Freer Andrews, who was to become a lifelong friend and colleague of Gandhiji and Tagore, met Tagore for the first time at this programme.

Narrating the incident in his autobiography, Rathindranath Tagore says,

28 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p. 315 29 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, Op. Cit., p. 90

84

. . . the almost painful silence that followed the recitation; the flood of appreciative letters that poured in the next day30

May Sinclair wrote,

It was impossible for me to say anything to you about your poems last night, because they are of a kind not easily spoken about. May I say now that as long as I live, even if I were never to hear them again, I shall never forget the impression that they made. It is not only that they have an absolute beauty, a perfection as poetry, but that they have made present for me forever the divine . . . Now it is satisfaction – this flawless satisfaction – you gave me last night.31

Margaret Radford wrote,

. . . what a great experience it was, to me to hear your poems. I never felt as I felt last night save when I first read certain parts of our English Bible.32

Writing in 'The Golden Book of Tagore', 19 years after the incident, Andrews says,

. . . as I listened I was spell-bound. . . The music of the poems took possession of me, and their beauty enthralled me. . . From the lighted room and the Poet’s presence , and the sound of the music of his poems, I went out at last into the late evening twilight and walked in solitude on Hampstead Heath. The moon had just begun to rise and the air was full of enchantment. Darkness was slowly creeping over the earth, and a beautiful afterglow of light was still visible in the West. The glamour of it all was upon me, and I wandered across the Heath, up and down, hardly knowing where I was going. At that hour I was literally oblivious of time and space and things external. There was an inner vision of beauty that I saw with the eye of the spirit. It went far beyond the bounds of this temporal and material world.33

On July 10, 1912, a dinner was organised at Trocadero restaurant by India Society to greet Tagore. About 70 persons had gathered together. Along with Yeats, Rothenstein etc., H. G. Wells, E. B. Havell, Arnold, Nevinson, May Sinclair etc. were also there. S. K. Ratcliffe, ex-editor of The Statesman, was also there. In an article written in 1926, under the title of ‘An Indian who conquered Europe’ and published in The Daily News, he wrote,

A few days before that meeting I had asked him why he had allowed his 50th year to go by without having made any effort to reach the English-reading world. His answer, given with manifest sincerity, was very curious in the light of immediate events. The spirit of Bengali poetry, said he, is so remote from English that translation is impossible, and besides, he added, his own English was so feeble that he could not venture upon versions of his own. At that moment the English ‘Gitanjali’ was in his wallet. With it he was to conquer the globe.34

30 On the Edges of Time, Rathindranath Tagore, Visva Bharati, Kolkata, 2nd edition, 1981, p. 101 31 On the Edges of Time, Op. Cit., p. 102 - 103 32 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p. 316 33 The Golden Book of Tagore, ed. Ramananda Chatterjee, The Golden Book Committee, Kolkata, 1931, p. 24-25 34 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p. 318

85

On this occasion Yeats had recited three of the English 'Gitanjali' poems. These three poems were, No. 95, 22 and 64. No. 95, as stated earlier is translation of nos. 89 and 90 of Bengali 'Gitanjali'. First No. 95:

I was not aware of the moment

when I first crossed the threshold of this life.

What was the power

that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight!

When in the morning I looked upon the light

I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,

that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.

Even so, in death the same unknown will appear

as ever known to me. And because I love this life,

I know I shall love death as well.

The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away,

in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.

Man has no control or rights over birth as well as death. A firm belief that the unknown that has looked after him since birth will look after him in death also has been presented here in a few lines of magnificent poetic charm. To achieve this one needs to be bestowed with a world of imagination, a wealth of thoughts and devotion to the unknown. Only a few and rare personalities like Tagore are blessed with all of these.

Next was No. 22,

In the deep shadows of the rainy July,

with secret steps, thou walkest,

silent as night, eluding all watchers.

86

Today morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind,

and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky.

The woodlands have hushed their songs,

and doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street.

Oh my only friend, my best beloved,

the gates are open in my house -do not pass by like a dream.

The description of this night of rendezvous is romantic and picturesque. This rendezvous could be material as well as spiritual – between the soul and the divine soul. In poetry of Tagore man, nature, God, beloved, all of them are so entwined with each other that they often appear like an alternative for each other. Describing the darkness of July clouds as the closed eyes of the morning, the poet has painted a beautiful picture in words. In the final line, anticipation of a long tryst has been poetically and simply expressed as ‘do not pass by like a dream.’

The third poem to be recited that evening was No. 64:

On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses

I asked her, 'Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle?

My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light!' She raised her dark eyes for a moment

and looked at my face through the dusk. 'I have come to the river,' she said,

'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.'

I stood alone among the tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp

uselessly drifting in the tide.

In the silence of gathering night I asked her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit -

then where do you go with your lamp?

87

My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face

and stood for a moment doubtful. 'I have come,' she said at last,

'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void.

In the moonless gloom of midnight I asked her,

'Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart?

My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought

and gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have brought my light,' she said,

'to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp

uselessly lost among the lights.

This was the first step of the history then being created in the world of poetry, of literature. Responding to the greetings Tagore had humbly said,

I have not the power adequately to express my gratitude for the great honour you have done me. This is one of the proudest moments of my life. I have a speaking acquaintance with your glorious language; yet I can but feel in my own. My Bengali has been a jealous mistress, claiming all my homage and resenting rivals. Still, I have put up with her exactions with cheerful submission; I could do no other. I cannot do more than assure you that the unfailing kindness with which I have been greeted in England has moved me far more than I can tell. I have learned that, though our tongues are different and our habits dissimilar, at the bottom our hearts are one. The monsoon clouds, generated on the banks of Nile fertilise the far distant shores of the Ganges; ideas may have to cross from East to western shores to find a welcome in men’s hearts and fulfil their promise. East is East and West is West – God forbid that it should be otherwise – but the twain must meet in amity, peace and understanding; their meeting will be all the more fruitful because of their differences; it must lead both to holy wedlock before the common altar of humanity.35

Perhaps this was the first public utterance of what was to be inscribed on the logo of his ‘Visva Bharati’ – ‘visvam bhavtyek nidam’.

A few days later, hearing about the demise of the mother of Rothenstein, Tagore wrote to him,

35 Imagining Tagore - Rabindranath and the British Press, Sahitya Samsad, Kolkata, 2000, p. 5 - 6

88

You know my heart is with you in your present trial. I do not know what made me sit down to translate three of my poems, all on the subject of death, directly I came back from Cambridge yesterday. It seems to me that the sympathetic chords of heart are touched at some unseen communication. I feel I must send you the first one of those translations – the original of which sprang from a direct experience of death.36

This was translation of poem no. 5 of 'Smaran'- a book written after the death of and dedicated to the memory of his wife, published as poem no. 87 in the English 'Gitanjali'.

In desperate hope

I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not.

My house is small

and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky

and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish -

no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,

plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch

in the allness of the universe.

Here is the poet awake, aware and feeling. Discarding renunciation or asceticism, he depends upon his Lord, who is his friend, polestar as well as a source of solace. The pain of separation is intolerable but his approach is unique. He does not wish to forget or long for the departed one. He wants the void felt by him to be dipped in the ocean of perfection so that he may feel the departed one in the whole world. This is Tagore’s own vision. This is a vision of an optimistic and devout poet who loves the world in its totality. Bereft of the traditional or conventional approach, in this new and devotional vision I feel the freshness of a pleasant morning. 36 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p.320

89

Correcting the typescripts in their own ways and getting the approval of Tagore Yeats and Rothenstein were at work getting the English 'Gitanjali' published. Later on there were insinuations that the English of English 'Gitanjali' was superior only because Yeats extensively revised the same. This is not true. The manuscript that Tagore gifted to Rothenstein is preserved in the Houghton Library of Harvard University37. Comparing the same with the published version it is eminently evident that the corrections and/or revisions are minimal and insignificant. A Bengali scholar, 38 citing the number of lines and the number of corrections, has given a statistical proof of the same. An example comes to mind, where, in my opinion, the revision has been for the worse. Such an instance appears in Poem No. 39, which was a favourite of Gandhiji.

When the heart is hard and parched up,

come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides

shutting me out from beyond, come to me,

my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,

break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust,

O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.

There has been only one change from the original manuscript., which reads,

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,

break open the door, my king, and come with thy regal splendour.

37 See Appendix 1. 38 Saurindra Mitra, Khyati Akhyatir Nepathye, Ananda Publishers, Kolkata, 1977. (As reported in Reference 1, p.323.)

90

In my opinion the rhythm, image and the picture quality of 'thy regal splendour' is lost in 'the ceremony of a king'.

Indeed, there are other instances where the cadence or lucidity have improved due to the corrections or 'emendations'. It would be best to compare the manuscript with the printed version of 95 of the 103 verses, of which the manuscript in Tagore's hand is available.

In October, Tagore left for U.S.A. and India Society published the first limited edition of the English 'Gitanjali' in November 1912. The print order was 750, out of which 500 were reserved for the members of the Society and remaining 250 nos. were for sale. This publication was very well received. Almost all the English papers came out with rave reviews. Excerpts from a couple of them are presented here.

Times Literary Supplement of November 7, 1912:

. . . this Indian poet, without any obsolete timidity of thought, makes religion and philosophy one. He contemplates the universe as a primitive poet might contemplate a pair of lovers, and makes poetry out of it as naturally and simply. As we read his pieces we seem to be reading the Psalms of a David of our time who addresses a God realised his own act of faith and conceived according to his own experience of life. . . Some perhaps will refuse to fall under the spell of this Indian poet because his philosophy is not theirs. If it seems to us fantastic and alien, before we despise it we should ask ourselves the question, what is our philosophy? . . .If we cannot share the Indian poet’s faith, we must at least acknowledge that he has not sacrificed his reason to it. He plays neither an artistic nor an intellectual game. As a poet should be, he is so simple that anyone can understand him; yet this does not mean that there is little to understand. “From the words of the poet,” he says, “men take what meanings please them, yet their last meaning points to thee.”39

The Nation of November 16, 1912:

The poetry of mysticism – the poetry which is inspired by, and seeks to express, the soul’s direct vision of reality – is, or should be, the crown of literature, since it claims to fulfil the secret purpose of all art. It is seldom met in its perfection; for it demands in its creator a rare balance of qualities – a disciplined craftsmanship, an untamed ardour, a fearless and vivid intuition of truth. The mystic poet, in fact, if he would fulfil his high office as revealer of reality, must be at once – and in a supreme degree – an artist, a lover and a seer. Genius of this type will always be rare; but its importance for the spiritual progress of humanity cannot be exaggerated. the mystical poets . . . are the eyes of the race. . . Because they see all things lit by the Uncreated Light, and perpetually discover in the multiplicity of creation the infinite simplicity of God, they give to us our most sublime and disinterested vision of the world and of life. That vision is not the fluid and indefinite creation of metaphysical sentimentality; it is actual, practical and poignantly alive. . . It is transfused by the passionate love which is the expression of spirit’s instinct for its source and home. This is the vision, these qualities , which we look for in mystical poetry of the highest class. We find them alike in the writings of . . . the Sufi Rumi . . .(and others) . . To their small company another name must now be added – that of the Bengali poet, Rabindra Nath Tagore. . . These hundred-and-three lyrics, here translated by the author into rhythmical prose of singular beauty, presuppose as their origin that same

39 Imagining Tagore - Rabindranath and the British Press, Op. Cit., p. 8 - 10

91

personal and first-hand experience of the spiritual order – so changeless, and so various, so ineffable and so homely . . . Many a phrase is here and might have been written by the Christian contemplatives . . . for those interested in the spiritual history of man – the continuance in our own day of that living tradition of intercourse with reality which we owe to the mystical saints – the appearance of these poems is an event of great importance. From the point of view of pure literature. their high quality can hardly be contested; yet it is not mere literary excellence which their author has sought, nor is it here that their deepest interest lies. They are offerings, from finite to infinite – oblations, as their creator holds that all art should be, laid upon the altar of the world.40

Ezra Pound, who was then in London, had written to ‘Poetry’:

The appearance of the poems of Rabindranath Tagore translated by himself from Bengali into English, is an event in the history of English Poetry and of world poetry. I do not use these terms with the looseness of contemporary journalism.41

In March 1913, Macmillan & Co. brought out the first general edition of the English 'Gitanjali' and within eight months, before the Nobel Prize was announced, the same was reprinted ten times.

Now, we shall turn our attention to the Nobel Prize. According to the will of the Swedish industrialist, Alfred Nobel, the Nobel Prize for literature was being awarded since 1901. There is a belief in many a quarters that this Prize is not beyond politics – internal and international. There have been insinuations that Tagore was awarded this prize because of the influence of the Swedish Royal family, whose members had visited Jora Sanko in 1910/11. However, on the basis of the literature easily available about the award given in 1913, it can be concluded that any such doubts or apprehensions are misplaced.

As per the will of Alfred Nobel, all the awards – literature, science, mathematics etc. – are to be awarded to the individuals whose work in the previous year has resulted in the greatest benefit to the mankind, without any consideration of his nationality. 'Previous year' has been interpreted to mean 'recent past'. The Prize for literature has to meet two more criteria – it is to be awarded to 'the best work' in the direction of 'ideal'. Swedish Academy is entrusted with the authority to decide about the Prize. The candidates are nominated by the members of the Swedish Academy or any other organization with objects and/or constitution similar to those of the Swedish Academy, professors of languages or literature of any university or colleges affiliated with universities, past Nobel laureates and Presidents of any national institution of litterateurs. The list of candidates so received is passed on to a smaller Nobel Committee, which is constituted from among the members of the Swedish Academy. The Swedish Academy has 18 to 20 members whereas the Nobel Committee has only 4 or 5 members. The Committee after deliberations recommends one name to the Academy and generally, the Academy accepts the verdict of the Committee, but, the Academy has the right to overrule the recommendation of the Committee and select its own candidate. Some time in the seventies this procedure was modified and now

40 Imagining Tagore - Rabindranath and the British Press, Op. Cit., p. 11 - 13 41 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, p. 348

92

each of the Committee member makes his own report and thus can recommend his own candidate.42

In 1913, 28 candidates were duly nominated. Of these 28, as many as 8 received the Nobel Prize for literature between 1913 and 1927. 97 members of The Royal Society of Literature had nominated Thomas Hardy. Two other members of the same society had nominated two other candidates from England. In a simple one-line letter, which read,

As a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature of the United Kingdom, I have the Honour to propose the name of Rabindranath Tagore as a person qualified, in my opinion, to be awarded the Nobel Prize in literature.43

Thomas Sturge Moore had sponsored Tagore’s candidature. The Nobel Committee consisted of 5 members. Historian Harald Hjarne was the Chairman. The other members were, linguist Esaias Tegner, whom Tagore had met in Paris, poet, Erik Karlfeldt, educationist, Karl Melin and Per Hallstrom, the author.

In the report submitted to the Committee, Per Hallstrom wrote,

Being totally ignorant of this language and almost totally so of Indian literature in general, I cannot claim that what I have to say about 'Gitanjali' will in any way qualify as an expert opinion. I can only say that in my view the small collection of verse, translated into English by the author himself, considered on its merits, makes such an unexpectedly rich and genuine poetic impression that there is nothing extreme in the suggestion of rewarding it even with such a distinction as that concerned here. . . he is like a reawakening of a religious ecstasy and a life of the spirit, whose counterpart we have to go far back into Catholic mysticism to find. Compared with the psalms his feeling is Christian, but in all his exceptional gentleness he can approach them in fresh and innocent beauty. . . Every poem is a prayer and an immersion in unity and harmony. . . The form is artistic and strict, but the verbal style within it is extremely simple and unornamented, the rhythm schemes remind one of . . . the latest and the boldest efforts at free verse in French poetry.

After praising 'The Gardener', he ended with

It is at any event certain that no poet in Europe since the death of Goethe can compare in noble humanity, in unforced magnificence, in classical tranquillity.44

However, Harald Hjarne, the Chairman of the Committee, in his recommendation to the Academy, wrote,

Rabindranath Tagore, an Indian author from Bengal, is proposed by a member of the English Royal Society of Literature, who has however not considered it necessary to enclose any account of the

42 http://www.nobel.se 43 Rabindra Biksha, Rabindra Bhaban, Shantiniketan, volume 39, August 20001, p. 30 44 Ibid., p. 24 - 30

93

reasons for his high opinion of the poet and his work. In such circumstances acquainting themselves with his collection of poetry 'Gitanjali'(Song Offerings), recently published by himself in English in a kind of rhythmic prose style, has been a remarkable surprise to the members of the Committee. . . There is no doubt that in this case we are confronted with a literary phenomenon which demands serious attention, and that Rabindranath Tagore’s claim on our attention, . . will continue. We have therefore neither to precipitate in our final verdict in his favour nor to allow ourselves to be deflected by prejudice against the exotic in his bearing and the often insistent promotion by his Western admirers from a careful examination of the literature at all. A need for such orientation is what faces us, but because of the difficulties which the very nature of the task presents, and with the inadequate tools which we as yet have at our disposal, this need can only be satisfied provisionally and to a rather limited extent.

Claiming that the English of the talented and educated Indian is sufficient only for the 'purely practical tasks', he expresses his surprise at Tagore's command and style of English. Praising the same, he further stated,

'Gitanjali' is religious poetry, testimony to a mystic piety which has come as an unexpected revelation from the pagan East. . . it has to be acknowledged that he appears to be listening to the voices of nature in a fervent belief in noble ideals of mysterious origin. . . Prayer, praise and inner love pervade the song offerings that he submits to his unnamed God. . . His father, Debendranath Tagore, joined the religious movement, influenced by Christianity, known by the name of Brahmo Samaj, but attempted to give it a more acceptable nationalist emphasis. . . 'Gitanjali' represents only a selection from many other poems, which according to experts delight with their diversity of imaginative power, rare euphony and accomplished versification. It must therefore be considered too early to assess the significance of this collection in relation to the poet’s disposition in general and to the sources of inspiration, which have guided his development. . . For the time being, therefore, the Committee can merely content itself with an expression of its interest in the future career of the remarkable Indian poet.45

The Committee recommended the name of the French poet, Emile Faguet. However, Verner von Heidenstam, who was himself nominated for the Prize that very year and who was awarded the same in the very next year, in 1916 (there were no awards in 1914 and 1915, due to the war) and was participating in the deliberations for the first time, was quite forceful and convincing in his support of Tagore. He wrote,

On this year’s list I find one poet who towers over others. Just as a selection of Goethe’s poems could well convince us of Goethe’s greatness, even if we were unfamiliar with his other writings, so we can say quite definitely of these poems by Tagore, which we have had in our hands this summer, that through them we have come to know one of the very greatest poets of our age. I read them with strong emotion, and I can say that in the course of decades I have not met their like in poetic literature. The hours they gave me were special, as if I had been allowed to drink from a fresh and clear spring. The loving and intense religious sense that permeates all his thoughts and feelings, the purity of heart, and the noble and unaffected elevation of style – all amount to a total impression of deep and rare spiritual beauty. There is nothing disputable and disturbing, nothing vain, worldly, or petty, and if it can ever be said of a poet that he possesses the qualities that make him deserving of a Nobel Prize, then it must be Tagore. No one else now alive can in that respect, so far as I know, compete with him. For the first time, and perhaps also for the last time in the foreseeable future, we would have the chance to discover a great name before it has already spent years haunting the

45 Rabindra Biksha, volume 39, Op. Cit., p. 20 - 23

94

newspaper columns. If this is to be achieved, however, we must not tarry and miss the opportunity by waiting till another year.46

In November 1913, for the first time, the Swedish Academy overruled the recommendation of its Nobel Committee and awarded the Nobel Prize to Tagore. A telegram announcing the same was received in Shantiniketan on November 13, 1913. At that time, Edward Thompson was in Shantiniketan with Tagore and he has made detailed notes in his diary. Overnight Tagore became a celebrity all over the world. Within Bengal also his adversaries became his admirers.

On November 23, 1913, more than 500 persons came from Kolkata by a special train to Shantiniketan to felicitate Tagore. The entourage included many eminent citizens as well as litterateurs. They were received with great affection at the Bolpur station. Elaborate arrangements and decorations were made to greet them all the way from Bolpur to Shantiniketan. The students sang Tagore’s songs. The guests were greeted in traditional Indian style with the sounds of conch shell and a sandalwood paste mark on their foreheads. The meeting was presided over by Jagadishchandra Basu. Many litterateurs, various religious and other institutions and organizations greeted, honoured and felicitated Tagore. Tagore then stood up to respond. For reasons unknown till today – I am sure, despite the best efforts by Tagore friends, well wishers, researchers and aficionados – in an address described as verging on the hostile, he took the guests to tasks and refusing to accept their greetings, insulted them. It is surmised that he saw some of his adversaries sitting in front of him and years of contempt got the better of him. It is beyond the scope of this endeavour to surmise, speculate and justify or otherwise this strange behaviour on the part of one of the finest and balanced human beings. One should accept the incident as an example of a weak moment or a strange mystery of human nature. It may be noted that on November 27 – four days after the incident – Tagore had offered his apologies through a letter published in a newspaper. 47

The English 'Gitanjali' was responsible for revealing the most noble and the most ignoble elements of Tagore’s nature.

On December 10, 1913, in Stockholm, a function was organised to present the Nobel Prize to the winners. Tagore was not present at the function. In his speech Harald Hjarne said,48

The features of this poetry that won immediate and enthusiastic admiration are the perfection with which the poet’s own ideas and those he has borrowed have been harmonized into a complete whole; his rhythmically balanced style, that, to quote an English critic’s opinion, ‘combines at once the feminine grace of poetry with the virile power of prose’; his austere, by some termed classic, taste in the choice of words and his use of the other elements of expression in a borrowed tongue – those features, in short, that stamp an original work as such, but which at the same time render more

46 The Nobel Prize in Literature: A Study of the Criteria behind the Choices, Kjell Espmark, G. K. Hall & Co., Boston, p. 28 - 29 47 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p. 448 - 451 48 Nobel Lectures, Literature, 1901 – 1967, Elsevier Publishing Co. Amsterdam. For complete text, see Appendix 3.

95

difficult its production in another language. . . We do know, however, that the poet’s motivation extends to the effort of reconciling two spheres of civilization widely separated, which above all is the characteristic mark of our present epoch and constitutes its most important task and problem. The true inwardness of this work is most clearly and purely revealed in the efforts exerted in the Christian mission-field spread throughout the world. . . Thanks to this movement, fresh, bubbling springs of living water have been tapped, from which poetry in particular may draw inspiration, even though those springs are perhaps intermingled with alien streams, . . . the preaching of the Christian religion has provided in many places the first definite impulse towards a revival and regeneration of the vernacular language, i.e., its liberation from the bondage of an artificial tradition, and consequently also toward a development of its capacity for nurturing and sustaining a vein of living and natural poetry. . . He is . . far removed from all that we are accustomed to . . .as Oriental philosophy . . . He pursues his Vedic hymns, his Upanishads, and indeed the theses of Buddha himself, in such a manner that he discovers in them, what is for him an irrefutable truth. . . Praise, prayer, and fervent devotion pervade the song offerings that he lays at the feet of this nameless divinity of his. Ascetic and even ethic austerity would appear to be alien to his type of divinity worship, which may be characterized as a species of aesthetic theism. Piety of that description is in full concord with the whole of his poetry, and it has bestowed peace upon him. . . This is mysticism, if we would like to call it so, but not a mysticism that, relinquishing personality, seeks to become absorbed in an All that approaches Nothingness, but one that, with all the talents and faculties of the soul trained to their highest pitch, eagerly sets forth to meet the living Father of the whole creation. . . Tagore . . .in thought impelling pictures, has shown us how all things temporal are swallowed up in the eternal . .

As an example, citing poem No. 82 (given below), Hjarne concluded his speech.

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.

There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.

Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other

perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for our chances.

We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,

and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gates be shut;

but I find that yet there is time.

96

In a short message sent by telegram, Tagore had poetically expressed his gratitude. He had said,

I beg to convey to the Swedish Academy my grateful appreciation of the breadth of understanding which has brought the distant near and has made a stranger a brother.49

The last words are from poem no. 63 of the English 'Gitanjali'.

Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not.

Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own.

Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger.

I am uneasy at heart

when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new,

and that there also thou abidest.

Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same,

the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart

with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.

When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut.

Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of the many.

For this poem Ezra Pound had said,

He might have said this for his own poems or for all arts. Only art can tie a knot of friendship between strangers. Such expressions nurture the feeling of mutual respect and amity. These have more power than the propaganda of economic peace.

The story and the history of the English 'Gitanjali' end here. Within 10 months of its publication more than 20,000 copies were sold. It was translated immediately in almost all 49 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p. 455

97

the Western languages and it was acclaimed and applauded by great litterateurs of all the languages. Tagore’s international fame and reputation was built upon the success and acceptance of the English 'Gitanjali' and the Nobel Prize. The reception and respect accorded to Tagore in the ensuing years in the international arena was unprecedented for any poet or litterateur of any age.

Many factors contributed to the unqualified appreciation and accolades received by the English 'Gitanjali'. We have already seen the literary evaluation of the same. In retrospect, one feels that there were other non-literary reasons such as sociological, historical and psychological. The industrial revolution of the 19th century had brought about a multi-faceted change in the Western world and the society. Along with wealth and the conveniences, the social and daily life was drifting away from the accepted norms and values. The quest for material progress was claiming its pound of flesh from the quest within. The thinking and feeling segment of the society was a mute spectator and witness to these macabre events. At a time like this, the simple and serene prose poems of the English 'Gitanjali', offering their homage to a nameless, ineffable and personal God must have acted like a soothing balm to their pained hearts and they might have felt an inner peace and a new direction in the external world. Tagore’s poems were really inspired by Upanishads and to some extent by the Baul cult of Bengal. However, most of the Western critics attributed a Christian influence on them. Because of Tagore’s dress, appearance and perhaps diction, many westerners saw an image of Christ or a mystic saint in him. While there was no effort on his part to encourage this image, there were no efforts on record to discourage the same, despite his awareness of the prevalence of this rather vague but flawed image.50 For the western world, confused and lost in the stream of time, the English 'Gitanjali' proved to be a guiding polestar and a remedy of revival. In short, it was a necessity of its time.

In my opinion, the success of the English 'Gitanjali' was largely due to its style of prose poems. In May 1912, he had written in a letter,

I cannot see how my poems can be properly translated in English - certainly not in metre. Perhaps simple prose would be more suitable.51

It may be noted that at that time he must have translated several of his poems into English.

I also believe that only a great poet like Tagore can decide to use this style. As a translator, I have experienced some of the difficulties the poet and composer of graceful, metre-bound songs of Bengali must have encountered while translating the same in prose poems of English. While translating the Bengali verses into Gujarati prose poems, I have experienced the influence of the original verse leading my translation towards verse. Hence, I can understand how difficult it must have been for him to implement his decision.

I would like to present excerpts from two reviews by such eminent persons as Ezra Pound and Ernest Rhys before I end.

50 See Appendix 2 51 Rabi Jibani, vol. 6, Op. Cit., p.302

98

In March 1913, Ezra Pound wrote in Fortnightly Review,

The appearance of “The Poems of Rabindranath Tagore” is, to my mind, very important. I am by no means sure that I can convince the reader of this importance. For proof I must refer him to the text. He must read it quietly. He would do well to read it aloud, for this apparently simple English translation has been made by a great musician, by a great artist who is familiar with a music subtler than our own. . . The movement of his prose may escape you if you read it only from print, but read it aloud, a little tentatively, and the delicacy of its rhythm is at once apparent. . . It is the sort of prose rhythm a man would use after years of word arranging. . . But beneath and about it all is this spirit of curious quiet. . . As the sense of balance came back upon Europe in the days before the Renaissance, so it seems to me does this sense of a saner stillness come now to us in the midst of our clangour of mechanisms. . . There is in him the stillness of nature. The poems do not seem to have been produced by storm or by ignition, but seem to show the normal habit of his mind. He is at one with nature, and finds no contradictions. . . As fast as I select one poem for quotation, I am convinced, reading the next one, that I have chosen wrongly, and that this next one would have more helped to convince you. Perhaps simple confession is the best criticism after all. I do not want to confuse Mr. Tagore’s personality with his work, and yet the relation between the two is so close . . . When I leave Mr. Tagore I feel exactly as if I were a barbarian clothed in skins . . .52

On November 14, 1913, Ernest Rhys in Everyman,

. . . And if anyone should ask how his English settings compare with the Bengali originals, an Indian would reply that if they lose in melody by the change of rhythm and by turning the airy motion of the Indian song-measures into something slower and graver, their inner spirit is extraordinarily well maintained. The one is air, the other water, we may say in the specific gravity of song; but there is no doubt that Mr. tagore chose out of English the best medium available when he took the free unrhymed rhythms that he has used with such force and grace and affecting cadence. . . 'Gitanjali' – otherwise “Song Offerings” – is in essence the song-book of an Eastern mystic and a God-intoxicated poet. Almost every page is touched by the suspense of the visionary who waits on the hour of illumination.53

Leaving the debate of the place of the English 'Gitanjali' in the literature of Tagore and the world to the litterateurs, in conclusion, I would like to reiterate that

- the international personality of Tagore was built upon the English 'Gitanjali' and the Nobel Prize.

- the enthusiastic and instant appreciation and applause accorded to the English 'Gitanjali' can be attributed to its simple and vivid prose style, noble and levitating thoughts and unique vision.

- in retrospect, one can say that the English 'Gitanjali' was the need of the hour for the Western world.

52 Birthday Number, Viva Bharati Quarterly, 1941. p. 53 Imagining Tagore - Rabindranath and the British Press, Op. Cit., p.84 - 86

99

APPENDIX 1

The main manuscript of the English 'Gitanjali', gifted by Tagore to Rothenstein, contains a total of 86 verses in English and a few in Bengali. Out of these, 83 were included in the printed version. This manuscript is at Houghton Library of Harvard University at Cambridge, Mass., USA, catalogued under ‘Tagore, Rabindranath, 1861-1941. Papers’ as under:

bMS Eng 1159

(1) Tagore, Sir Rabindranath, 1861-1941. ['Gitanjali'] A.MS.(unsigned) in English and Bengali; [n.p., ca.1910] 88f.(106p.) . . . A notebook bound in blue roan.

The same is inscribed by Sir William Rothenstein:

Original MS. ... which the poet brought me from India on his initial visit to us at Oak Hill Park.

The above manuscript, which has been referred to in microfilm, is referred to as MS 1.

Another manuscript, catalogued under bMS 1159 is:

• (5) Tagore, Sir Rabindranath, 1861-1941. [The crescent moon, and poems from other works] A.MS.s.; [v.p.,v.d.] 70f.(72p.) Some are in the form of letters to Rothenstein; several are slightly revised in the autograph of William Butler Yeats.

On the above manuscript William Rothenstein has added the following note:

The original manuscript of the “Crescent Moon” . . .A number of the poems were translated while Tagore was staying with us at Oakridge Lynch during the summer of 1912, others at Oak Hill Park, others again came to me from India. Among the 'Gitanjali' poems at the end are 2 with Yeats’s pencilled emendations.

The above manuscript has also been referred to in microfilm. It is referred to as MS 2.

In the Table appearing below, is a chart showing the first lines (as they appear in the printed version – in one instance, Poem No. 25 in the printed version, the first line of the manuscript has been omitted), their no. in the manuscript (MS 1 or MS 2), their no. in the printed version (Book) and their original Bengali source.

As indicated by the same, the English manuscripts of Poem Nos. 31, 47, 48, 53, 54, 64, 68 and 86 (printed version) are not traceable as yet. It is also interesting to note that of these, 5 are of Kheya, 2 of Gitimalya and 1 of Naibedya.

100

MS NO FIRST LINE BOOK SOU RCE 1 3 Thou hast made me endless 1 Gitanjali 23 1 57 When thou commandest me 2 Gitanjali 78 1 50 I know not how thou singest 3 Gitanjali 22 1 67 Life of my life 4 Naibedya 75 1 38 I ask for a moments indulgence 5 Gitimalya 20 1 20 Pluck this little flower 6 Gitanjali 87

2 3 My song has put off 7 Gitanjali 125 2 4 The child who is decked 8 Gitanjali 127

1 23 O fool, to carry thyself upon thy shoulders 9 Gitanjali 105 1 24 There is thy footstool 10 Gitanjali 107 1 28 Leave this chanting and singing 11 Gitanjali 119 1 48 The time of my journey 12 Gitimalya 14

2 10 The song that I came to sing 13 Gitanjali 39 1 5 My desires are many 14 Gitanjali 2 1 13 I am here to sing thee songs 15 Gitanjali 31 1 45 I have had my invitation 16 Gitanjali 44 1 36 I am only waiting for love 17 Gitanjali 151 1 8 Clouds heap upon clouds 18 Gitanjali 16 1 19 If thou speaketh not 19 Gitanjali 71 1 39 On the day when the lotus 20 Gitimalya 17 1 42 I must launch out my boat 21 Gitimalya 16 1 9 In the deep shadow of the rainy July 22 Gitanjali 18 1 43 Art thou abroad on this stormy night 23 Gitanjali 20

2 9 If the day is done 24 Gitanjali 157 1 71 In the night of weariness 25 Gitanjali 51 1 46 He came and sat by my side 26 Gitanjali 61 1 49 Light oh where is the light 27 Gitanjali 17

2 11 Obstinate are the tremmels 28 Gitanjali 145 1 32 He, whom I enclose with my name 29 Gitanjali 143

2 8 I came out alone 30 Gitanjali 103 "Prisoner, tell me 31 Kheya Bandi 1 35 By all means they try to hold me 32 Gitanjali 152

2 7 When it was day they came into my house 33 Gitanjali 80 1 31 Let only that little remain 34 Gitanjali 138 1 72 Where the mind is without fear 35 Naibedya 72 1 73 This is my prayer to thee 36 Naibedya 99 1 82 I thought that my voyage 37 Gitanjali 124 1 81 That I want thee only thee 38 Gitanjali 88 1 17 When the heart is hard 39 Gitanjali 58 1 69 The rain has held back 40 Naibedya 86 1 74 Where dost thou stand 41 Kheya Prachhchhan 1 56 Early in the day 42 Gitanjali 63 1 63 The day was when I did not 43 Naibedya 33 1 1 This is my delight 44 Gitimalya 7 1 54 Hast thou not heard his silent steps 45 Gitanjali 62 1 14 I know not from what distant 46 Gitanjali 34 The night is nearly spent 47 Kheya Jagaran The morning sea of silence 48 Kheya Nirudyam 1 16 You came down from your throne 49 Gitanjali 56 1 75 I went abegging from door to door 50 Kheya Krupan 1 76 The night darkened 51 Kheya Agaman 1 77 I thought I should ask of thee 52 Kheya Dan Beautiful is thy wristlet 53 Gitimalya 37 I asked nothing from thee 54 Kheya Kuyar Dhare 1 52 Langour is in my heart 55 Gitimalya 18 1 27 Thus it is that thy joy 56 Gitanjali 121 1 55 Light my light 57 Achalayatan

101

MS NO FIRST LINE BOOK SOU RCE

1 83 Let all the strains of my joy 58 Gitanjali 134 1 12 Yes, I know, this is nothing 59 Gitanjali 30 1 84 On the seashore of endless 60 Shishu Jagat Parabarer 1 85 The sleep that flits 61 Shishu Khoka 1 86 When I bring to thee 62 Shishu Ken Madhur 1 6 Thou hast made known to me 63 Gitanjali 3 On the slope of the desolate river 64 Kheya Anavashyak 1 22 What divine drink wouldst thou 65 Gitanjali 101

2 5 She who ever had remained 66 Gitanjali 149 1 68 Thou art the sky 67 Naibedya 81 The sunbeam comes upon this earth 68 Gitimalya 29 1 61 The same stream of life 69 Naibedya 26 1 15 Is it beyond thee to be glad 70 Gitanjali 36 1 51 That I should make much of myself 71 Gitimalya 15 1 37 It is he the innermost one 72 Gitimalya 22 1 62 Deliverance is not for me 73 Naibedya 30 1 11 The day is no more 74 Gitanjali 26 1 65 Thy gifts to us mortals 75 Naibedya 44 1 59 Day after day 76 Naibedya 1 1 21 I know thee as my God 77 Gitanjali 92 1 79 When the creation was new 78 Kheya Haradhan 1 10 If it is not my portion to meet thee 79 Gitanjali 24 1 78 I am like a remnant 80 Kheya Lila 1 60 On many a idle day 81 Naibedya 24 1 64 Time is endless 82 Naibedya 39 1 80 Mother I shall weave 83 Gitanjali 10 1 44 It is the pang of severance 84 Gitanjali 25 1 29 When first they came out 85 Gitanjali 123 Death, thy servant is at my door 86 Naibedya 18

2 6 In desperate hope 87 Smaran 5 2 2 Deity of the ruined temple 88 Kalpana Bhagn Mandir

1 2 No more noisy loud words 89 Gitimalya 8 1 25 On the day when death 90 Gitanjali 114 1 26 O thou the last fulfilment 91 Gitanjali 116

2 1 I know that the day will come 92 Chaitali Durlabh Janm 1 41 I have got my leave 93 Gitimalya 26 1 40 At this time of my parting 94 Gitimalya 21 1 70 I was not aware of the moment 95 Naibedya 89/90 1 7 When I leave from hence 96 Gitanjali 142 1 18 When my play was with thee 97 Gitanjali 68 1 4 I will deck thee 98 Gitimalya 24 1 47 When I give up the helm 99 Gitimalya 6 1 53 I dive down into the depth 100 Gitanjali 47 1 30 Ever in my life have I sought 101 Gitanjali 132

2 1 I boasted among men that I had known you 102 Utsarg 6 1 34 In one salutation to thee 103 Gitanjali 148 33 On the day thou breakst through this my name 58 More life my lord yet more 66 Thy rod of justice

102

Appendix 2

Western Image of Tagore and His Translation

In retrospect, an important question persists. Did the English 'Gitanjali' and subsequent translations project a true image of Tagore, the litterateur or person?

The answer is an unqualified 'No'. The reasons are briefly touched upon below.

In critical reviews, in deliberations and citation of the Nobel Prize, Tagore was projected as an eastern mystic with a fresh spiritual message from the wisdom of east for the industrial society of west being driven to material norms at a velocity hitherto unknown. Was he a messiah? Not only the English 'Gitanjali', but also his flowing robes and beard must have added a dimension to that projected personality. Unfortunately, Tagore himself did little to discourage or correct this distorted projection. Perhaps, he let things happen and remained a silent spectator.

There have been insinuations that there was a deliberate attempt on the part of Tagore to project even his love poems as spiritual ones by clever manipulation of the text while translating the same. It must be realised that in these verses it is indeed difficult to distinguish between the human and the Divine love. A poem appearing in section 'Love'(prem) of 'Gitabitan', is also included in collection of devotional songs - Brahma-sangit (tomaare-i kariaachhi jibaner o dhrubataara) and the same was a favourite of and sung by none other than Swami Vivekanand!

As Tagore said in Poem No. 75 of 'Gitanjali'

From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them;

yet their last meaning points to thee.

Hence, I would not like to believe that there was a deliberate attempt on part of Tagore to give a spiritual slant to his love poems.

On the other hand, Tagore cannot escape the charge of remaining a silent spectator of misinterpretation and thus implicitly promoting his image of an eastern mystic. A case in point is Poem No. 74, quoted below in full:

The day is no more,

the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher.

103

The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water.

Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by,

the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river.

I know not, if I shall come back home. I know not, whom I shall chance to meet.

There at the fording, in the little boat,

the unknown man plays upon his lute.

Those familiar with the rural Bengali scene, would indeed associate this with the tryst with a paramour, particularly if one considered the word 'prem-nadi' (river of love) used in the original Bengali rendering. However, Yeats, in his preface to 'Gitanjali' said,

The traveller in the red-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master's home-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the Indian July, or the parching heat, are images of the moods of that heart in union or separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing upon a lute, like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God himself.

There has been no correction, contradiction or even a comment from Tagore on this statement. Shall we say he 'sits there smiling.'

On going through the translation of some narrative poems (later included in 'The Gardener'), Ezra Pound 'detected a whiff of didacticism'54 in them.

On February 5, 1913, Tagore replied,

I must say they have not been purposely made moral, they are not to guide people to right path. They merely express the enjoyment of some aspects of life which happen to be morally good. . . I am sure in the original there is nothing that savours the pulpit. Perhaps you miss that sense of enjoyment in

54 Rabindranath Tagore - The Myriad Minded Man, Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson, St. Martin's Press, New York, 1996. p.5

104

the English rendering and bereft of their music and suggestiveness of language they appear as merely didactic.55

It must be realised that quite often it is impossible to translate images, similes, phrases etc. grown in the culture and milieu of one language to another without the same appearing like an awkward alien in the native territory. For example hriday-kunj or prem-nadi of Bengali, if translated as 'grove of heart' or 'river of love' respectively, would indeed sound contrived in English. On the other hand, merely 'heart' or 'river' deprives not only the image but also some of the associated and implied sensuality. Indeed, there is no reprieve from such harsh ground realities of translation.

On December 12, 1920, E. J. Thompson wrote to Tagore,

I am going to revolutionise the western notion of you as a poet. . . You have been taking the line of least resistance for years, translating from a certain stratum - and that not the (most) striking one - of yr work, and unconsciously mixing the wine of Gitanjali with water . . . had you trusted the West more, had you given a selection of yr most imaginative stuff, you would have been rewarded.

On February 2, 1921, Tagore replied,

In my translations I timidly avoid all difficulties, which has the effect of making them smooth and thin. I know I am misrepresenting myself as a poet to the western readers. But when I began this career of falsifying my own coins I did it in play. Now I am becoming frightened of its enormity and am willing to make a confession of my misdeeds and withdraw into my original vocation as a mere Bengali poet.56

However, it is on record that he had his own perceptions of what a westerner would like or appreciate. As late as 1924, when questioned by Victoria Ocampo about a manuscript of an English translation being significantly different (or devoid of 'the most valuable part') from the oral verbatim translation offered by him earlier, he is reported to have said that he had omitted that as he did not think it would be noticed!57

On May 20, 1935, on the issue of publishing a collected version of all Tagore's works in English, Thomas Sturge Moore, the English poet who had nominated Tagore for Nobel Prize in 1913, said he 'could not advise republication without retranslation.' He further said,

Immediately after the war there had been a violent reaction towards hope and generosity but it was short-lived and people are no longer thirsty for spirituality and beauty, but relish cynicism, pessimism, and mechanical cruelty. Just as your work fed the first reaction it now seems tasteless to the second . . . But a real estimate of any poet takes a very long while to mature . . . It is in silence

55 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, Op. Cit., p. 106. 56 Selected Letters of RabindranathTagore, Op. Cit., p. 254. 57 The poem in question was 'Kankal', translated as Skeleton. In Your Blossoming Flower-Garden, Ketaki Kushari Dyson, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 1996, p. 163.

105

and stillness that solitary readers build the future of great poets, the crowds are often as fickle as the wind.

In an honest and eloquent reply Tagore wrote on June 11, 1935,

Languages are jealous sovereigns, and passports are rarely allowed for travellers to cross their strictly guarded boundaries. . . . Translations, however clever, can only transfigure dancing into acrobatic tricks, in most cases playing treason against the majesty of the original. I often imagine apes to be an attempt by the devil of a translator to render human form in the mould of his outlandish idiom. The case may be to some extent different in European languages which, in spite of their respective individual characteristics, have closely similar temperaments and atmospheres, the western culture being a truly common culture.

As for myself, I ought not to have intruded into your realm of glory with my offerings hastily giving them a foreign shine and certain assumed gestures familiar to you. I have done thereby injustice to myself and the shrine of Muse which proudly claims flowers from its own climate and culture. . .

In the meanwhile, let me assure you that I have not taken too much to heart the dying away of applause and the inattention of my yawning audience, for I know that I had staked a very small portion of my capital in this enterprise. Only I feel like a departing guest at a weary ceremony of farewell, when the railway train which is to take him away makes an unaccountable delay in spite of repeated whistles.58

In summary:

Insinuations that Tagore, in his translations gave a deliberate spiritual slant to his love poems, have little credibility.

His translations are likely to have been guided by his notion of what the west may or may not notice (or appreciate?)

Tagore was aware of inadequacy and limitations of translations including his own.

He accepted the charge of 'taking the line of least resistance' and not giving the west

'a selection of (his) most imaginative stuff'. As a result his translations were 'smooth and thin' and he was 'misrepresenting' himself. This is what he meant by 'falsifying' his own coins - an oft quoted quote, quoted out of context.

Tagore allowed his work to be interpreted without his own inputs and remained an inhibited, silent spectator to a 'halo' being harnessed to his image.

58 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, Op. Cit., p. 450-1.

106

107

Appendix 3

Presentation Speech delivered by Harald Hjarne,

Chairman of the Nobel Committee of the Swedish Academy,

in Stockholm on Decemeber 10, 1913.

In awarding the Nobel Prize in Literature to the Anglo-Indian poet, Rabindranath Tagore, the Academy has found itself in the happy position of being able to accord this recognition to an author who, in conformity with the express wording of Alfred Nobel's last will and testament, had during the current year, written the finest poems «of an idealistic tendency.» Moreover, after exhaustive and conscientious deliberation, having concluded that these poems of his most nearly approach the prescribed standard, the Academy thought that there was no reason to hesitate because the poet's name was still comparatively unknown in Europe, due to the distant location of his home. There was even less reason since the founder of the Prize laid it down in set terms as his «express wish and desire that, in the awarding of the Prize, no consideration should be paid to the nationality to which any proposed candidate might belong.» Tagore's Gitanjali: Song Offerings (1912), a collection of religious poems, was the one of his works that especially arrested the attention of the selecting critics. Since last year the book, in a real and full sense, has belonged to English literature, for the author himself, who by education and practice is a poet in his native Indian tongue, has bestowed upon the poems a new dress, alike perfect in form and personally original in inspiration. This has made them accessible to all in England, America, and the entire Western world for whom noble literature is of interest and moment. Quite independently of any knowledge of his Bengali poetry, irrespective, too, of differences of religious faiths, literary schools, or party aims, Tagore has been hailed from various quarters as a new and admirable master of that poetic art which has been a never-failing concomitant of the expansion of British civilization ever since the days of Queen Elizabeth. The features of this poetry that won immediate and enthusiastic admiration are the perfection with which the poet's own ideas and those he has borrowed have been harmonized into a complete whole; his rhythmically balanced style, that, to quote an English critic's opinion, «combines at once the feminine grace of poetry with the virile power of prose»; his austere, by some termed classic, taste in the choice of words and his use of the other elements of expression in a borrowed tongue - those features, in short, that stamp an original work as such, but which at the same time render more difficult its reproduction in another language. The same estimate is true of the second cycle of poems that came before us, The Gardener, Lyrics of Love and Life (1913). In this work, however, as the author himself points out, he has recast rather than interpreted his earlier inspirations. Here we see another phase of his personality, now subject to the alternately blissful and torturing experiences of youthful love, now prey to the feelings of longing and joy that the vicissitudes of life give rise to, the whole interspersed nevertheless with glimpses of a higher world. English translations of Tagore's prose stories have been published under the title Glimpses of Bengal Life (1913). Though the form of these tales does not bear his own stamp - the rendering being by another hand - their content gives evidence of his versatility and wide range of observation, of his heartfelt sympathy with the fates and experiences of differing types of men, and of his talent for plot construction and development.

108

Tagore has since published both a collection of poems, poetic pictures of childhood and home life, symbolically entitled The Crescent Moon (1913), and a number of lectures given before American and English university audiences, which in book form he calls Sâdhanâ: The Realisation of Life (1913). They embody his views of the ways in which man can arrive at a faith in the light of which it may be possible to live. This very seeking of his to discover the true relation between faith and thought makes Tagore stand out as a poet of rich endowment, characterized by his great profundity of thought, but most of all by his warmth of feeling and by the moving power of his figurative language. Seldom indeed in the realm of imaginative literature are attained so great a range and diversity of note and of colour, capable of expressing with equal harmony and grace the emotions of every mood from the longing of the soul after eternity to the joyous merriment prompted by the innocent child at play. Concerning our understanding of this poetry, by no means exotic but truly universally human in character, the future will probably add to what we know now. We do know, however, that the poet's motivation extends to the effort of reconciling two spheres of civilization widely separated, which above all is the characteristic mark of our present epoch and constitutes its most important task and problem. The true inwardness of this work is most clearly and purely revealed in the efforts exerted in the Christian mission-field throughout the world. In times to come, historical inquirers will know better how to appraise its importance and influence, even in what is at present hidden from our gaze and where no or only grudging recognition is accorded. They will undoubtedly form a higher estimate of it than the one now deemed fitting in many quarters. Thanks to this movement, fresh, bubbling springs of living water have been tapped, from which poetry in particular may draw inspiration, even though those springs are perhaps intermingled with alien streams, and whether or not they be traced to their right source or their origin be attributed to the depths of the dreamworld. More especially, the preaching of the Christian religion has provided in many places the first definite impulse toward a revival and regeneration of the vernacular language, i.e., its liberation from the bondage of an artificial tradition, and consequently also toward a development of its capacity for nurturing and sustaining a vein of living and natural poetry. The Christian mission has exercised its influence as a rejuvenating force in India, too, where in conjunction with religious revivals many of the vernaculars were early put to literary use, thereby acquiring status and stability. However, with only too regular frequency, they fossilized again under pressure from the new tradition that gradually established itself. But the influence of the Christian mission has extended far beyond the range of the actually registered proselytizing work. The struggle that the last century witnessed between the living vernaculars and the sacred language of ancient times for control over the new literatures springing into life would have had a very different course and outcome, had not the former found able support in the fostering care bestowed upon them by the self-sacrificing missionaries. It was in Bengal, the oldest Anglo-Indian province and the scene many years before of the indefatigable labours of that missionary pioneer, Carey, to promote the Christian religion and to improve the vernacular language, that Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861. He was a scion of a respected family that had already given evidence of intellectual ability in many areas. The surroundings in which the boy and young man grew up were in no sense primitive or calculated to hem in his conceptions of the world and of life. On the contrary, in his home there prevailed, along with a highly cultivated appreciation of art, a

109

profound reverence for the inquiring spirit and wisdom of the forefathers of the race, whose texts were used for family devotional worship. Around him, too, there was then coming into being a new literary spirit that consciously sought to reach forth to the people and to make itself acquainted with their life needs. This new spirit gained in force as reforms ere firmly effected by the Government, after the quelling of the widespread, confused Indian Mutiny. Rabindranath's father was one of the leading and most zealous members of a religious community to which his son still belongs. That body, known by the name of «Brahmo Samaj», did not arise as a sect of the ancient Hindu type, with the purpose of spreading the worship of some particular godhead as superior to all others. Rather, it was founded in the early part of the nineteenth century by an enlightened and influential man who had been much impressed by the doctrines of Christianity, which he had studied also in England. He endeavoured to give to the native Hindu traditions, handed down from the past, an interpretation in agreement with what he conceived to be the spirit and import of the Christian faith. Doctrinal controversy has since been rife regarding the interpretation of truth that he and his successors were thus led to give, whereby the community has been subdivided into a number of independent sects. The character, too, of the community, appealing essentially to highly trained intellectual minds, has from its inception always precluded any large growth of the numbers of its avowed adherents. Nevertheless, the indirect influence exercised by the body, even upon the development of popular education and literature, is held to be very considerable indeed. Among those community members who have grown up in recent years, Rabindranath Tagore has laboured to a pre-eminent degree. To them he has stood as a revered master and prophet. That intimate interplay of teacher and pupil so earnestly sought after has attained a deep, hearty, and simple manifestation, both in religious life and in literary training. To carry out his life's work Tagore equipped himself with a many-sided culture, European as well as Indian, extended and matured by travels abroad and by advanced study in London. In his youth he travelled widely in his own land, accompanying his father as far as the Himalayas. He was still quite young when he began to write in Bengali, and he has tried his hand in prose and poetry, lyrics and dramas. In addition to his descriptions of the life of he common people of his own country, he has dealt in separate works with questions in literary criticism, philosophy, and sociology. At one period, some time ago, there occurred a break in the busy round of his activities, for he then felt obliged, in accord with immemorial practice among his race, to pursue for a time a contemplative hermit life in a boat floating on the waters of a tributary of the sacred Ganges River. After he returned to ordinary life, his reputation among his own people as a man of refined wisdom and chastened piety grew greater from day to day. The open-air school which he established in western Bengal, beneath the sheltering branches of the mango tree, has brought up numbers of youths who as devoted disciples have spread his teaching throughout the land. To this place he has now retired, after spending nearly a year as an honoured guest in the literary circles of England and America and attending the Religious History Congress held in Paris last summer (1913). Wherever Tagore has encountered minds open to receive his high teaching, the reception accorded him has been that suited to a bearer of good tidings which are delivered, in language intelligible to all, from that treasure house of the East whose existence had long been conjectured. His own attitude, moreover, is that he is but the intermediary, giving freely of that to which by birth he has access. He is not at all anxious to shine before men

110

as a genius or as an inventor of some new thing. In contrast to the cult of work, which is the product of life in the fenced-in cities of the Western world, with its fostering of a restless, contentious spirit; in contrast to its struggle to conquer nature for the love of gain and profit, «as if we are living», Tagore says, «in a hostile world where we have to wrest everything we want from an unwilling and alien arrangement of things» (Sâdhanâ, p. 5); in contrast to all that enervating hurry and scurry, he places before us the culture that in the vast, peaceful, and enshrining forests of India attains its perfection, a culture that seeks primarily the quiet peace of the soul in ever-increasing harmony with the life of nature herself It is a poetical, not a historical, picture that Tagore here reveals to us to confirm his promise that a peace awaits us, too. By virtue of the right associated with the gift of prophecy, he freely depicts the scenes that have loomed before his creative vision at a period contemporary with the beginning of time. He is, however, as far removed as anyone in our midst from all that we are accustomed to hear dispensed and purveyed in the market places as Oriental philosophy, from painful dreams about the transmigration of souls and the impersonal karma, from the pantheistic, and in reality abstract, belief that is usually regarded as peculiarly characteristic of the higher civilization in India. Tagore himself is not even prepared to admit that a belief of that description can claim any authority from the profoundest utterances of the wise men of the past. He peruses his Vedic hymns, his Upanishads, and indeed the theses of Buddha himself, in such a manner that he discovers in them, what is for him an irrefutable truth. If he seeks the divinity in nature, he finds there a living personality with the features of omnipotence, the all-embracing lord of nature, whose preternatural spiritual power nevertheless likewise reveals its presence in all temporal life, small as well as great, but especially in the soul of man predestined for eternity. Praise, prayer, and fervent devotion pervade the song offerings that he lays at the feet of this nameless divinity of his. Ascetic and even ethic austerity would appear to be alien to his type of divinity worship, which may be characterized as a species of aesthetic theism. Piety of that description is in full concord with the whole of his poetry, and it has bestowed peace upon him. He proclaims the coming of that peace for weary and careworn souls even within the bounds of Christendom. This is mysticism, if we like to call it so, but not a mysticism that, relinquishing personality, seeks to become absorbed in an All that approaches a Nothingness, but one that, with all the talents and faculties of the soul trained to their highest pitch, eagerly sets forth to meet the living Father of the whole creation. This more strenuous type of mysticism was not wholly unknown even in India before the days of Tagore, hardly indeed among the ascetics and philosophers of ancient times but rather in the many forms of bhakti, a piety whose very essence is the profound love of and reliance upon God. Ever since the Middle Ages, influenced in some measure by the Christian and other foreign religions, bhakti has sought the ideals of its faith in the different phases of Hinduism, varied in character but each to all intents monotheistic in conception. All those higher forms of faith have disappeared or have been depraved past recognition, choked by the superabundant growth of that mixture of cults that has attracted to its banner all those Indian peoples who lacked an adequate power of resistance to its blandishments. Even though Tagore may have borrowed one or another note from the orchestral symphonies of his native predecessors, yet he treads upon firmer ground in this age that draws the peoples of the earth closer together along paths of peace, and of strife too, to joint and collective responsibilities, and that spends its own energies in dispatching greetings and good wishes far over land and sea. Tagore, though, in thought-impelling

111

pictures, has shown us how all things temporal are swallowed up in the eternal:

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time, we must scramble for our chances. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes try, while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut; but if I find that yet there is time.

(Gitanjali, 82.) From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam

112

TThhee PPooeett aanndd

TThhee PPrroopphheett

113

Preface Any relationship that commences rather late in life, that is not nurtured by staying or working together for a significant length of time and is subjected to public debate of sharp differences that exist on issues which are dear and important to the two individuals concerned, has a slim chance of developing into a relationship of mutual love, affection and respect verging on reverence. An exception to this is the relationship between Rabindranath Tagore and Mahatma Gandhi – the two towering personalities of their time, which represented the best of the vibrant Indian culture. When they met for the first time, Tagore was 54 and Gandhiji was 46. They never stayed or worked together for any length of time. Their views on non-cooperation, satyagraha, charakha and spinning were diametrically opposite and were debated in public through a series of articles. And yet, before he commenced his fast, Gandhiji sought blessings of Tagore. Whenever a need arose, Tagore threw the weight of his personality behind Gandhiji and finally, requested Gandhiji to look after Visva Bharati. To comprehend this complex relationship, as a small first step, an attempt is made here to present the two personalities as they emerge from their correspondence and articles on the relevant issues. Paritosh, Shailesh Parekh Krishna Society, October 2003 Ahmedabad – 380 006.

114

The Poet and The Prophet

With their lives spread over the later half of the 19th century and the earlier half of the 20th, both Rabindranath Tagore and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, (popularly and appropriately known as Mahatma Gandhi or Gandhiji), represented the best of Indian civilization and tradition. That two such eminent personalities were thrown up at the same time and shared the planet earth in terms of both time and space is indeed an indication of the vibrant nature of the ancient Indian civilization. Tagore, born in 1861 in Kolkata, was 8 years senior to Gandhiji who was born in Porabandar, at the other end of India. While the Tagore family was a leading family of Kolkata and was prosperous, modern and aware of the western ways, the Gandhi family was an average, conservative and orthodox family of Saurashtra. Both were average students who went to England to study law. While Gandhiji became a Barrister, Tagore returned to India without completing his studies. In the last decade of 19th century, Tagore was looking after his family estates and earning a name for himself in the realm of Bengali literature; Gandhiji was practicing law and working for the welfare of the Indian community in South Africa. In 1901, when Gandhiji came to Kolkata for the meeting of Indian National Congress, he wanted to meet the father of Rabindranath, Maharshi Debendranath, the famous Brahmo leader. Due to indifferent health of the later, the meeting could not take place, but Gandhiji did meet Jyotirindranath, elder brother of Rabindranath. This was the first encounter between the Tagore family and Gandhiji.59 In the same year, Tagore had started a school at Santiniketan. With his work for the Indian community and his Phoenix Ashram in South Africa, Gandhiji was earning international appreciation and acclaim whereas with Nobel Prize for literature for his Gitanjali in 1913, Tagore was also an international personality. Tagore was involved in various other fields besides literature. As early as 1901, his national spirit was expressed in songs of ‘Naibedya’. Before Gandhiji returned to India in 1915, Tagore had led an agitation against the partition of Bengal and had collected a large sum of Rs. 50,000.00 in a single rally. When he realised that it was not possible to keep the agitation nonviolent and nonpolitical, he withdrew himself and had to face many allegations for the same. Tagore was not at all happy with the education system introduced by the British. He believed that the progress of India depended upon the progress of the rural masses. Under the auspices of ‘Kalyanbritti’, he had established schools, dispensaries on his estates with the cooperation and contribution of the people and his family. 60Tagore introduced all these thoughts and concepts even before Gandhiji returned to India. In 1913, with the blessings and good wishes of Tagore, the English missionaries, Charles Freer Andrews and William Pearson went to Gandhiji in South Africa. While Pearson passed away prematurely in an accident in Italy in 1923, Andrews remained a trusted friend and confidante of both Tagore and Gandhiji for the rest of his life. It was in 1914 that Gandhiji decided to return to India and to wind up his Phoenix Ashram. His students preceded him and after a short spell at Gurukul of Swami Shraddhanand, arrived at Santiniketan at the instance of Andrews and at the invitation of Tagore. The letter that Tagore wrote to Gandhiji, thanking him for sending his wards to Santiniketan, is the first of the 60 surviving communications between the two. In this undated letter, probably written in January 1915, Tagore wrote61,

1.A Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle, Compiled by Kshitis Roy and Mohit Kumar Mazumdar, Rabindra Bhavana, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan, 2001. p. 2 2.Ananda Sankar Ray, Visits to Patisar and Shelidaha, Rabindranath Tagore, A 125th Birth Anniversary Volume, Govt. of W. Bengal, Dept. of Information & Cultural Affairs, Kolkata, 1988. 61 The Mahatma and The Poet, Compiled & Edited by Sabyasachi Bhattacharya, National Book Trust, New Delhi, 1997. p. 44

115

Dear Mr. Gandhi, That you could think of my school as the right and the likely place where your Phoenix boys could take shelter, when they are in India, has given me pleasure – and that pleasure has been greatly enhanced when I saw those dear boys in that place. We all feel that their influence will be of great value to our boys and I hope that they, in turn, will gain something which will make their stay in Santiniketan fruitful. I write this letter to thank you for allowing your boys to become our boys and thus, form a living link in the sadhana of both of our lives. Very sincerely yours, Rabindranath Tagore At the beginning of this link in the sadhana of life, Tagore was 54 years old and Gandhiji was 46. This link remained not only unbroken but was vibrant with mutual love and affection for the next 26 years – till the death of Tagore in 1941. At the beginning of a relationship, so late in life, to call it a link in the sadhana of life, was a prophecy of Tagore, which came true, proving him a visionary. On one hand he thanked Gandhiji and on the other, soon after the boys of Phoenix had reached Santiniketan he had written to his good friend Andrews on 15.11.191462, ‘ . . . Phoenix boys . . . have discipline where they should have ideals. They are trained to obey which is bad for a human being, for obedience is good, not because it is good in itself but because it is a sacrifice. These boys are in danger of forgetting to wish for anything, and wishing is the best part of attainment. . . .’ Tagore and Gandhiji, both were unhappy with the education system introduced by the British. Hence, both had started their own schools in which they were offering education that they thought was meaningful. But, their approaches were quite different from each other. In spite of total agreement63 on the issue or the cause of the problem, the solutions suggested and adopted were almost always at significant variance from each other. This will be observed in several instances as we go along. On 17.2.1915, Gandhiji arrived at Santiniketan for the first time. Tagore was away at that time. Before Tagore returned to Santiniketan, Gandhiji had to rush to Pune due to sudden demise of Gokhale. On 6.3.1915, Gandhiji returned to Santiniketan and met Tagore for the first time. During his stay, with the permission of Tagore, he initiated a programme of self-help by doing away with the services of paid cooks and the students and the teachers running the kitchen.64 Till today, 10th of March is observed as Gandhi Punyah at Santiniketan, and all the servants are given a day off by the ashramites.65 In December 1917, Gandhiji was again in Kolkata for the meeting of Indian National Congress. Tagore’s now famous play, ‘Dakghar’ was being performed for the first time in India. Gandhiji saw the same and met Tagore66. On 21.1.1918, from Motihari (Bihar), Gandhiji sought opinion of Tagore on the use of Hindi as a national language. Gandhiji also wanted Hindi to be the working language of Congress. Tagore replied that Hindi was the only possible national language but it will be a long time before the same 62 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, Edited by Krishna Dutta & Andrew Robinson, Cambridge University Press, 1997. p. 156 63 For a detailed analysis of the agreement between the two refer to ‘Gandhi and Tagore: Where the Twain Met’, Tapan Raychaudhuri, Perceptions, Emotions, Sensibilities: Essays on India’s Colonial and Post-colonial Experiences, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1999. 64 An Autobiography or The Story of My Experiments with Truth by M. K. Gandhi, translated by Mahadev Desai, Deluxe Edition, Navajivan Trust, Ahmedabad. p.569 65 Rabindranath Tagore: The Myriad Minded Man, Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson, St. Marin’s Press, New York, 1996, p.197 66 Gandhijini Dinavari, Compiled by Chandulal Bhagubhai Dalal, Gujarat Rajya, Gandhinagar-382010, 2nd edition, 1990. p. 52

116

can be used as a working language for Congress as all the Indians could not express themselves freely and adequately in Hindi as yet67. While launching his satyagraha movement to protest against the Rowlatt Act Gandhiji wrote to Tagore on 5.4.1919 from Mumbai, ‘I have been pleading . . . for a message from you for publication in the national struggle which . . .is in reality a struggle for liberty worthy of a self-respecting nation. . . – a message of hope and inspiration for those who have to go through the fire. . . .The forces arrayed against me are . . .enormous. I do not dread them, for I have an unquenchable belief that they are supporting untruth and that if we have sufficient faith in truth, it will enable us to overpower the former. . . I am . . anxious to gather round this mighty struggle the ennobling assistance of those who approve it. . . .’ On 12.4.1919, Tagore addressed Gandhiji as Mahatma in an open letter68 (perhaps prophetic) in which he stated that ‘ . . .fight against evil by the help of the good . . . is for the heroes and not for men led by impulses of the moment . . . . In this crisis, you, as a great leader of men have stood among us to proclaim your faith in the ideal which you know to be that of India . . .’ On the very next day, the massacre of Jallianwala Bagh took place. On 30.5.1919, Tagore requested the Viceroy to relieve him of his knighthood. In April 1920, at the time of 6th Gujarati Sahitya Parishad in Ahmedabad, Tagore was invited at the instance of Gandhiji. Tagore attended the same and spent 4 days in Ahmedabad and one night (2.4.1920)69 at the ashram with Gandhiji. Tagore was welcomed with a lot of fanfare and traditional Indian rituals, which were perhaps not in keeping with the simplicity associated with Ashram. Maganlal Gandhi and Vinoba Bhave vehemently protested the same. Pacifying them in a letter of 3.5.1920, Gandhiji wrote, ‘ . . . I have been only a witness with regard to Gurudev . . . I am totally impartial to all that happened. I believe that it was our duty to welcome him beautifully . . . Gurudev is an extra-ordinary person. He is a poet, a saint and loves the nation. This synthesis is divine. He deserves to be worshipped . . .’70 In 1921, the differences between the two on the issue of non-cooperation appeared in articles like Call of Truth, Poet’s Anxiety, The Great Sentinel in Modern Review and Young India. Tagore objected to the negative aspect of non-cooperation. He believed that all the programmes should be constructive. Although dissatisfied with the British education system, he believed that the same should not be boycotted until alternative institutions are made available to the students. He also advocated that each ideal or programme should have scope for debate and difference of opinion. Any ideal or programme followed under instruction or because of blind faith was an insult of truth according to him. Tagore made all his arguments on the plane of philosophy with the aid of historical facts and quoting the Indian scriptures on the lines of principles of love and harmony preached in the Indian civilization.

67 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 44-45 68 For full text in the hands of Tagore, see Appendix 1. 69 Gandhijini Dinavari, op. cit. p. 100 70 Mahadevbhaini Dayari, Part 5, edited by Narahari D. Parikh, Mahadev Desai Janm Shatabdi Samiti, Ahmedabad, 1993, p. 173

117

Gandhiji on the other hand, respecting the poetic greatness of Tagore and acknowledging his right to dwell in the realm of ideals as a poet, firmly stated that unacceptance of untruth was as necessary as the acceptance of truth although the former was negative. He believed that failure of non-cooperation would not be a failure of the principle but the defeat of truth itself. Defending the boycott of the British educational institutions he said, ‘I want the cultures of all lands to blow about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any. I refuse to live in other people’s house as an interloper, a beggar or as a slave.’ He believed that the British education does not help the growth of a man’s character and hence, boycott of the same was not harmful at all. This debate had reached such a state of frenzy that their common friend Andrews was worried about a permanent chasm between the friendship of the two. So he arranged a meeting between the two in Kolkata. Accordingly, Tagore and Gandhiji met at Jora Sanko – the Tagore family residence in Kolkata on 6.9.1921. Apart from the two, Andrews was the only person present. He said, ‘ . . they had a difference of temperament so wide that it was extremely difficult to arrive at a common intellectual understanding, though the moral ties of friendship remained entirely unbroken.’71 Some time in 1922, Tagore had narrated the incident to his good friend L. K. Elmhirst, who has reported the same in his ‘Personal Memories of Tagore’ in 1961.72 ' . . . he (Tagore) told me, 'Gandhiji came to visit me at my home, Jorasanko, in Calcutta. He wanted very much to win my support for one or other of the various planks of his political programme. ''Gurudev,'' he started, ''you were yourself a leader and promoter of the Swadeshi movement in India over twenty years ago. You always wanted Indians to stand on their own feet as Indians and not to try to be poor copies of Englishmen. My Swaraj movement is the natural child of your Swadeshi. Join me and strengthen it.'' I answered, ''Gandhiji, the whole world is suffering from a cult of selfish and shortsighted nationalism. India has always offered hospitality to all nations and creeds. I have come to believe that we in India still have much to learn from the West and its science and we still, through education, have to learn to collaborate among ourselves.'' ''But I now already have achieved Hindu- Muslim unity, Gurudev.'' ''No, I do not agree. You have introduced it only on the Political platform where Muslim and Hindu happily join together to crack a whip at the British. I have never had any love for British officialdom but can you really say you have a genuine friendship with the Muslim deep in your hearts? When the British either walk out or are driven out, what will happen then?'' ''But my whole movement is based on the principle of non-violence, Gurudev, and that is why as a poet, who believes in peace, you can enter my movement and work for it.''

71 A Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle, op. cit. p. 10 72 Rabindranath Tagore: A Centenary Volume – 1861-1961, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 1961, p. 14-15.

118

''Come and look over the edge of my verandah, Gandhiji. Look down there and see what your non-violent followers are up to. They have stolen cloth from the shops in the Chitpore Road, they've lit that bonfire in my courtyard and are now howling round it like a lot of demented dervishes. Is that non-violence? We are, as you yourself know, Gandhiji, a very emotional people. Can you keep these emotions under a strict control with your non-violent principles? You know you can't. Only by educating their children together for two or three generations can you eventually overcome the violent feeling that still exists between Hindu and Muslim.'' ''Well, Gurudev, you say you believe in education of Indians by Indians. You can therefore support my movement for establishing a national system of education. Thousands of young teachers and students are leaving the government and missionary schools and enlisting in these new schools every day.'' ''Yes, and you first pick out the best of them to man your political programme and the more stupid you allow to stay behind and open schools of a kind that offer only a travesty of education and not the real thing, I don't yet believe in your national education plan. India should today be inviting teachers and professors from all over the world to come and teach in India, and also to learn from us of our own cultural heritage. This is what I am now trying to encourage at Santiniketan.'' ''Well,'' said Gandhiji, ''Gurudev, if you can do nothing else for me you can at least put these young impractical bhadralog, with their Calcutta degrees, to shame by getting them all to sit down and spin. You can lead the whole nation and spin yourself.'' ''Poems I can spin, songs I can spin, but what a mess I would make, Gandhiji, of your precious cotton!'' ' In the very next year, in 1922, Tagore visited Ahmedabad and in spite of the absence of Gandhiji, who was in jail at the time, visited Ashram and in a touching discourse explained to the inmates of ashram the meaning of Mahatma. He said, ‘(Mahatma) . . . implies the emancipated soul that realizes itself in all souls.’73 In May 1925, Gandhiji visited Santiniketan once again. When led to his room bedecked with leaves and flowers, he asked, ‘Why this bridal chamber for me?’ Tagore replied with a smile, ‘Santiniketan, the ever young queen of our hearts welcomes you.’74 Once again Gandhiji tried but failed to convince Tagore about the importance of Charakha and spinning. In September 1925, Modern review published an article by Tagore under the title of The Cult of Charakha, in which Tagore elaborately presented his point of view. He firmly believed that spinning was a monotonous activity, which had been given undue importance. Though he believed that progress of the villages was a prerequisite for the progress and revival of India, he could not accept programmes of rural reconstruction and movement for freedom centred on spinning or charakha. He also felt that a lot of people were supporting the charakha without thinking and were paying only lip service. Tagore believed that each ideal and thought should be acceptable from within. For him, acceptance of any ideal as a gesture of obedience or out of reverence or blind faith was an insult of the ideal itself as well as of the glory of human mind.

15.Tagore in Ahmedabad, Niranjan Bhagat, Image Publications P. Ltd., Ahmedabad, 2003, private Circulation, p.43 16.A Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle, op. cit. p. 11

119

In November 1925, Gandhiji published his rejoinder in Young India under the title of The Poet and the Charakha. Chiding Tagore in a lighter vein, he reiterated his opinion firmly. In the above article, Gandhiji had referred to Tagore as Sir Rabindranath and many had felt that it was a harsh sarcasm. Hence, Gandhiji wrote a letter to Vidhushekhar Shastri of Santiniketan, justifying his use of the expression and asking him to find out if Tagore was harbouring any ill feelings about the same. Reacting to this, on 27.12.1925, Tagore wrote to Gandhiji, ‘I have seen the letter you have written to our Shastrimoshaya. It is full of your noble spirit. You have my assurance that even if you ever hit me hard in the cause of what you think as truth our personal relationships based upon mutual respect will bear that strain and will remain uninjured.’75 On September 23, 1925, Tagore, oppressed by the prevailing atmosphere in India, writes to his friend and the famous philosopher Romain Rolland, ‘ . . . how great is the mental strain that my stay in India imposes upon me. It is the moral loneliness, which is a constant and invisible burden that oppresses me most. I wish it were possible for me to join hands with Mahatma Gandhi and thus at once surrender myself to the current of popular approbation. But I can no longer hide it from myself that we are radically different in our apprehension and pursuit of truth. Today to disagree with Mahatma and yet to find rest in one’s surroundings in India is not possible . . .’76 In January 1930, Tagore had visited Ahmedabad to collect funds for Visva Bharati. During that visit, on 18th, he had spent an evening with Gandhiji in his Ashram. In Young India dated 23.1.1930, Mahadev Desai reported, ‘(Tagore) had a cold, and the signs of strain, exhaustion and, if he will pardon me, of old age were quite visible on his countenance. . . . “I am 70 now, Mahatmaji,” he said, “and so am considerably older than you.” “But,” said Gandhiji with a hearty smile, “when an old man of 60 cannot dance, a young poet of 70 can dance.”77 Gandhiji marched to Dandi, two months later, in March 1930. In July 1930, in a small village called Oberammergau, in Germany, Tagore witnessed a performance (staged every 10 years, since 1634) of a passion play based on the life of Christ. He was so influenced by it that he wrote a long poem, titled ‘The Child’, directly in English. This is the only noteworthy poem by Tagore written directly in English. The central character of the poem appears to be a combination of Christ and Gandhiji. The atmosphere of the poem is a reflection of the then prevailing situation in India and abroad. In retrospect, Gandhiji met the same end as the central character of the poem did. Whether this was a coincidence or another prophecy of Tagore coming true, is a matter beyond the scope of this endeavour.78

75 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 98 76 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, Edited by Krishna Dutta & Andrew Robinson, Cambridge University Press, 1997. p. 322 77 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 190 78 See Appendix 2 for complete text of ‘The Child’.

120

Towards the end of 1930, when Gandhiji declined the invitation to attend the first Round Table Conference, Tagore was in England. Tagore’s opinion was published in The Spectator of 15.11.1930. He stated that he personally believed that the Conference provided an excellent platform and an opportunity to express the views and woes of India and Gandhiji before the world at large. After an elaborate presentation, Tagore ended with, ‘It was the great personality of Mahatma Gandhi which inspired this courage, under persecutions frankly brutal or cowardly insidious, into the heart of the dumb multitudes of India, suffering for ages from the diffidence of their own human power. I myself have too often doubted the possibility of such a sudden quickening of life in a country whose mind has remained parched under a long drought of education. But a miracle has happened through the magical touch of Mahatma’s own indomitable spirit and his courageous faith in human nature. And after this experience of mine, I hesitate to doubt his wisdom . . . Let me believe in his firmness of attitude, and not in my doubts.’79 A profound thinker like Tagore compromises his own opinion out of love and reverence towards Gandhiji or due to the unprecedented response and commitment received from the multitudes to the ideals of Gandhiji could be a matter of an independent debate. On 3.1.1932, while launching his movement of non-cooperation, Gandhiji wrote to Tagore, ‘I am just stretching my tired limbs on the mattress and as I try to steal a wink of sleep, I think of you. I want you to give your best to the sacrificial fire that is being lighted.’ 80 This letter was written at 4.00 in the morning and Gandhiji was arrested within minutes. On the news reaching Kolkata, the programmes to celebrate the 70th birthday were suspended and Tagore sent a telegram to the British Prime Minister, ‘The policy of indiscriminate repression . . . causing permanent alienation of our people from yours.’81 In September of the same year, as a protest against the proposal of the British Government to provide a separate electorate for the harijans, Gandhiji decided to fast unto death. He was then serving a sentence in the Yeravada prison at Pune. The messages exchanged between the two at about the same time are an indication of the extreme affection felt by them for each other. On 19.9.1932, Tagore sent a telegram to Gandhiji, ‘It is worth sacrificing precious life for the sake of India’s unity and her integrity stop Though we cannot anticipate what effect it may have upon our rulers, who may not understand its immense importance for our people, we feel certain that the supreme appeal of such self offering to the conscience of our own countrymen will not be in vain stop I fervently hope that we will not callously allow such national tragedy to reach its extreme length stop Our sorrowing hearts will follow your sublime penance with reverence and love’ On 20.9.1932, Gandhiji had written to Tagore, ‘This is early morning 3 o’clock of Tuesday. I enter the fiery gate at noon. If you can bless the effort, I want it. You have been to me a true friend because you have been a candid friend often speaking your thoughts aloud. I had looked forward to a firm opinion from you, one way or the other. But you have refused to criticise. Though it can now only be during my fast, I will yet prize your criticism, if your heart condemns my action. I am not too proud 79 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 197 80 ibid. p. 133 81 A Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle, op. cit. p. 14

121

to make an open confession of my blunder, whatever the cost of confession, if I find myself in error. If your heart approves of the action I want your blessing. It will sustain me. I hope I have made myself clear.’ As Gandhiji was handing over the letter to the Jail Superintendent, he received the telegram sent by Tagore and he added a postscript, ‘ Just as I was handing this to the Superintendent, I got your loving and magnificent wire. It will sustain me in the midst of the storm I am about to enter. ‘82 On the same day, explaining the significance of the supreme sacrifice of Gandhiji, Tagore told the inmates of Santiniketan and Sriniketan, ‘The penance which Mahatmaji has taken upon himself is not a ritual but a message to all India and to the world. If we must make that message our own we should accept it in the right manner through proper process of realisation. The gift of sacrifice has to be received in a spirit of sacrifice.’ At a gathering in Santiniketan orthodox Hindus had accepted refreshments served by the Hindus considered to be of the lowest caste.83 On 24.9.1932, Tagore left for Pune to be with Gandhiji and was present with him when the fast was broken on 26.9.1932. At the instance of Mahadev Desai, before Gandhiji broke his fast, Tagore sang his favourite song – No. 39 of English Gitanjali and No. 58 of Bengali Gitanjali, When the heart is dried and parched – in a tune that occurred to him on the spur of the moment.84 On 4.11.1932, replying to a letter from Charlie Andrews, Gandhiji wrote, ‘ . . . Gurudev is still at it. That little fast brought me many treasures. Gurudev was the richest find. If someone had said, ‘fast to find Gurudev’ I should have done it without a second thought. I was dying to find a corner in his heart. Thank God, I found it through the fast. . . .’85 On 2.5.1933, once again before commencing another fast, Gandhiji wrote to Tagore, ‘It is just now 1.45 a.m. and I think of you and some other friends. If your heart endorses contemplated fast, I want your blessings again.’ Tagore was in Darjeeling then. In two long letters dated 9.5.1933 and 11.5.1933 he said, ‘Death when it is physically or morally inevitable has to be bravely endured, but we have not the liberty to court it unless there is absolutely no other alternative for the expression of the ultimate purpose of life itself. It is not unlikely that you are mistaken about the imperative necessity of your present vow, and when we realise that there is a grave risk of its fatal termination we shudder at the possibility of the tremendous mistake never having the opportunity of being rectified. I cannot help beseeching you not to offer such an ultimatum of mortification to God for his scheme of things and almost refuse the great gift of life with all its opportunities to hold up till its last moment the ideal of perfection which justifies humanity.

82 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 133-134 83 A Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle, op. cit. p. 15 84 See Appendix 3 for complete text of Poem No. 39 of Gitanjali 85Mahadevbhaini Dayari, Part 2, edited by Narahari D. Parikh, Mahadev Desai Janm Shatabdi Samiti, Ahmedabad, 1993, p. 202

122

However, I must confess that I have not the vision which you have before your mind, nor can I fully realise the call which has come only to yourself, and therefore whatever may happen I shall try to believe that you are right in your resolve and that my misgivings may be the outcome of a timidity of ignorance. In the next letter, on 11.5.1933, he wrote, ‘The logical consequence of your example, if followed, will be an elimination of all noble souls from the world, leaving the morally feeble and downtrodden multitude to sink into the fathomless depth of ignorance and inequity. You have no right to say that this process of penance can only be efficacious through your own individual endeavour and for others it has no meaning. If that were true, you ought to have performed it in absolute secrecy as a special mystic rite which only claims its one sacrifice beginning and ending in yourself. You ask others actively to devote their energy to extricate the evil which smothers our national life and enjoin only upon yourself an extreme form of sacrifice which is of passive character. For lesser man than yourself it opens up an easy and futile path of duty by urging them to take a plunge into a dark abyss of self-mortification. You cannot blame them if they follow you in this special method of purification of their country, for all messages must be universal in their application, and if not, they should never be expressed at all. The suffering that has been caused to me by the vow you have taken has compelled me to write to you thus - for I cannot bear the sight of a sublimely noble career journeying towards a finality which, to my mind, lacks a perfectly satisfying justification. And once again, I appeal to you for the sake of the dignity of our nation, which is truly impersonated in you, and for the sake of millions of my countrymen who need your living touch and help to desist from any act that you think is good only for you and not for the rest of humanity.’86 Gandhiji survived the fast of 21 days. But by July 1933, Tagore realized that by the pact arrived at in Pune, social and political life of Bengal would be jeopardised.87 Tagore’s press statement of 24.7.1933 read, ‘Upon the settlement of this question Mr. Gandhi’s life depended and the intolerable anxiety caused by such a crisis drove precipitately to a commitment which I now realise as a mistake from the point of view of our country’s permanent interest. Never having any experience in political dealings, while entertaining a great love for Mr. Gandhi and a complete faith in his wisdom in Indian politics, I dared not wait for further consideration, which was unfortunate as justice has certainly been sacrificed in the case of Bengal..’ Gandhiji maintained that he was not convinced about injustice to Bengal. Closing the chapter, on August 8, 1933, Tagore wrote to Gandhiji, ‘I wish I could accept your words and remain silently contended about it but it has become impossible for me knowing for certain that the communal award advocated by the Pact, if it remains unaltered will inflict a serious injury upon the social and political life in Bengal. Justice is an important aspect of truth and if it is allowed to be violated for the sake of immediate peace or speedy cutting of some political knots in the long run, it is sure to come back to those who are apparently benefited by it and will claim a very heavy price for the concession cheaply gained. . . I am not a politician and I look upon the whole thing from

86 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 140-143 87 For a detailed statistical analysis refer to p. 339, Rabindranath Tagore: The Myriad Minded Man, op. cit.

123

the point of view of humanity, which will cruelly suffer when its claim to justice is ignored. I give you in this letter only my own considered opinion and do not desire any answer for it.’88 Later in 1933, Tagore wrote ‘Chandalika’ – a drama about an untouchable maiden, based on an old Buddhist legend. It was staged in Kolkata in September.89 Once again in 1934, a storm of differences burst on account of an earthquake in Bihar. Before making the differences public, the letters written to each other reveal the grace of these great souls. On 28.1.1934, Tagore wrote to Gandhiji, ‘The press reports that you in a recent speech . . . spoke as follows, . . . the earthquake is a divine chastisement for the great sin we have committed against those whom we describe as Harijans. . . . if this be your real view on the matter, I do not think it should go unchallenged. Herewith you will find a rejoinder from me. If you are correctly reported in the press, would you kindly send it to the press?’ On 2.2.1934 Gandhiji wired Tagore, ‘Your letter have given considered opinion Harijan posting advance copy if after reading it you deem necessary publish your protest it can be published at your end or mine as you desire.’90 Subsequently, views of both were published in Harijan. Tagore’s point of view was scientific and rational whereas that of Gandhiji was based upon his intuition and orthodox concept of religion as well as of sin. Both were equally firm in their own opinions as well as mutual esteem. Next year, on 12.9.1935, Tagore expressed his concern about Santiniketan to Gandhiji, perhaps for the first time. He wrote, ‘Over thirty years I have practically given my all to this mission of my life . . . I faced all my difficulties unaided and through my struggles the institution grew up in its manifold aspects. . . . when I am 75 I feel the burden of my responsibility growing too heavy for me, . . . Constant begging excursions with absurdly meager results added to . . . my daily anxieties and have brought (me) to an extreme verge of exhaustion. . . . I know of none else . . . to relieve me of perpetual worry at this last period of my waning life and health.’ On 13.10.1935, Gandhiji, accepting the responsibility, wrote, ‘You may depend upon my straining every nerve to find the required money. . . . It will take sometime . . . It is unthinkable that you should have to undertake another begging mission at your age. The necessary funds must come to you. . ‘91 In March 1936, Tagore had undertaken a performance tour to collect funds for Visva Bharati. While he was in Delhi, Gandhiji sent him a sum of Rs. 60,000.00 with a request to cancel the rest of the programme and to promise never to undertake such an enterprise ever again. In February 1937, Tagore nominated Gandhiji as a Life Trustee of Visva Bharati. Gandhiji was willing to accept the position out of love and reverence for Tagore but was not sure of his own capacity to shoulder the responsibility of providing financial security. He had also heard that

88 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 149 89 Rabindranath Tagore: The Myriad Minded Man, op. cit. p.309 90 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 156 91 ibid. p. 161-162

124

breaking the promise given earlier, Tagore was once again contemplating a performance tour to collect funds. On 19.2.1937, Gandhiji wrote, ‘ . . . I would ask you on bended knees to forgo the expedition if it is really decided upon. And in any case I would beg of you to recall my appointment as one of the Trustees.’ On 26.2.1937, an infuriated Tagore retorted, ‘In your letter you have strangely accused me of contemplating to break my promise and go to Ahmedabad for the purpose of raising funds. You were not certain of the facts and had no justification for hinting such a charge against me. Allow me to be frank in return and to tell you that possibly your own temperament prevents you to understand the dignity of the mission which I am glad to call my own - a mission that is not merely concerned with the economic problem of India or her sectarian religions, but which comprehends the culture of the human mind in its broadest sense. And when I feel the urge to send abroad some poetical creation of mine, which according to me carries within it a permanent standard of beauty, I expect, not alms or favour, but grateful homage to my art from those who have the sensitiveness of soul to respond to it. And if I have to receive contribution in the shape of admission fees from the audience, I claim it as very much less than what is due to me in return for the rare benefit conferred upon them. Therefore, I must refuse to accept the term "begging expedition" as an accurate or worthy expression coming from your pen.’ On 2.3.1937, Gandhiji replied with patience and grace, ‘Your letter has caused me much distress. That a letter which was written out of love and reverence should have been so misunderstood is a revelation. . . . I wanted, somehow or other, to wean you from any further begging expedition - a phrase which you and I used often enough in Delhi. Of course I know your religion and all India is proud of it. Let us have as much of it as you can give but never with the burden hanging over your head of collecting money for Visva Bharati against the expression of yourself before the public. I hope this letter will undo the grief that has caused to you by my previous letter.’92 Six months later, on 10.9.1937, Tagore had a serious attack of erysipelas and on recovering, when he saw the anxious message from Gandhiji, inquiring about his health, on 19.9.1937, he responded, ‘The first thing that welcomed me into the world of life after the period of stupor I passed through was your message of affectionate anxiety and it was fully worth the cost of sufferings which were unremitting in their long persistence.’ On 23.9.1937, Gandhiji replied, ‘I verily believe that the silent prayers from the hearts of your admirers have been heard and you are still with us. You are not a mere singer of the world. Your living word is a guide and an inspiration to the thousands. May you be spared for many a long years.’ All this indicates that the personal relationship of love and affection between these two great persons transcended their personalities. Generally, such a relationship develops only after a prolonged period of staying or working together. Justifying the same, Tagore wrote to Gertrude Sen on 26?.11.1937, ‘I am quite sensible of the honour you do me in inviting me to write an article for Asia

92The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 165-166

125

on Mahatma Gandhi, but, fortunately or unfortunately, I am even more sensible of my incompetence for the task. . . . though I hold Gandhiji dear and cannot but feel the force of his personality, I can hardly be said to know him intimately. We have never lived together or worked together for any length of time. What understanding and appreciation we have of each other is more or less intuitive.’93 Only three months later, on 13.2.1938, Tagore wrote in Sunday Statesman, an article in defense of Gandhiji – whom he did not know! ‘An ascetic himself, he does not frown upon the joys of others, but works for the enlivening of their existence day and night. He exalts poverty in his own life, but no man in India has striven more assiduously than he for the material welfare of his people. A reformer with the zeal of a revolutionary, he imposes severe restraints on the very passions he provokes. Something of an idolater and also an iconoclast, he leaves the old gods in their dusty niches of sanctity and simply lures the old worship to better and more humane purposes. Professing his adherence to the caste system, he launches his firmest attack against it where it keeps its strongest guards, and yet he has hardly suffered from popular disapprobation as would have been the case with a lesser man . . . He advises his followers to hate evil without hating the evil-doer. It sounds an impossible precept, but he has made it as true as it can be made in his own life. . . . Great as he is as a politician, as an organiser, as a leader of men, as a moral reformer, he is greater than all these as a man, because none of these aspects and activities limits his humanity. . . . Though an incorrigible idealist and given to referring all conduct to certain pet formulae of his own, he is essentially a lover of men and not of mere ideas. . . . If he proposes an experiment for society, he must first subject himself to its ordeals. If he calls for a sacrifice, he must first pay its price himself. . . . this man seems greater than his virtues, great as they are. . . . Perhaps none of the reforms with which his name is associated was originally his in conception. . . . Nevertheless, it remains true, that they have never had the same energising power in them as when he took them up, for now they are quickened by the great life-force of the complete man who is absolutely one with his ideas, whose visions blend perfectly with his whole being. . . His emphasis on the truth and purity of the means, from which he has evolved his creed of nonviolence, is but another aspect of his deep and insistent humanity . . . he will always be remembered as one who made his life a lesson for all ages to come.’94 Again in 1939, writing for the commemoration volume edited by S. Radhakrishnan to celebrate seventieth birthday of Mahatma Gandhi, he wrote95 ‘Occasionally there appear in the arena of politics, makers of history, whose mental height is above the common level of humanity. They wield an instrument of power, which is almost physical in its compelling force and often relentless, exploiting the weakness in human nature - its greed, fear, or vanity. When Mahatma Gandhi came and opened up the path of freedom for India, he had no obvious medium of power in his hand, no overwhelming authority of coercion. The influence, which emanated from his personality, was ineffable, like music, like beauty. Its claim upon others was great because of its revelation of a spontaneous self-giving. This is the reason why our people have hardly ever laid emphasis upon his natural cleverness in manipulating recalcitrant facts. They have rather dwelt upon the truth, which shines through his character in lucid simplicity. This is why, though his realm of activity lies in practical politics, peoples' minds have been struck by the analogy of his character with that of the great masters, whose spiritual inspiration comprehends and 93 Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore, op. cit. p. 489 94 ibid. p. 538-540 95 ‘A Tribute to Mahatma Gandhi’, English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore, Volume 3, A Miscellany, edited by Sisir Kumar Das, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 1996, p. 846

126

yet transcends all varied manifestations of humanity, and makes the face of worldliness turn to the light that comes from the eternal source of wisdom.’ These are perhaps the most honest and candid evaluations of Gandhiji. In February 1940, Gandhiji visited Santiniketan. This was the last meeting between the two. On 18.2.1940, at a reception held in Amrakunj to welcome Gandhiji, Tagore said, ‘Homage to the great naturally seeks its manifestation in the language of simplicity, and we offer you these few words to let you know that we accept you as our own and as one who belongs to all humanity. . . . Let us for a while pass beyond the bounds of this turmoil and make our meeting today a simple meeting of hearts whose memory will remain when all the moral confusions of our distracted politics will be allayed and the eternal value of our true endeavours will be revealed.’ In reply, Gandhiji said, ‘I describe my present trip to Santiniketan as a pilgrimage. Santiniketan has truly, this time, proved for me a 'niketan' of 'shanti' - an abode of peace. I have come here leaving behind me all the cares and burdens of politics, simply to have Gurudev's darshan and blessings. . . . I know that his blessings are with me always. But it has been my privilege today to receive the same from him in person, and that fills me with joy.’96 After visiting various departments of Visva Bharati, one evening, Tagore’s dance-drama, Chandalika was performed for Gandhiji. Describing the incident, Mahadev Desai said that he had hardly ever seen Gandhiji so engrossed and interested in any other entertainment programme.97 Tagore, in a lighter vein, offered the gift of his mud-hut Syamali to Gandhiji if he promised an annual visit. Gandhiji replied that no gift was legally valid, if it was conditional.98 On 19.2.1940, as Gandhiji was leaving, Tagore placed a letter in his hands, which read, ‘And now, before you take your leave from Santiniketan, I make my fervent appeal to you, accept this institution under your protection giving it an assurance of permanence if you consider it to be a national asset. Visva-Bharati is like a vessel which is carrying the cargo of my life's best treasure and I hope it may claim a special care from my countrymen for its preservation.’ Accepting the responsibility, Gandhiji wrote, ‘The touching note that you put into my hands as we parted has gone straight into my heart. Of course Visva-Bhrati is a national institution. It is undoubtedly also international. You may depend upon my doing all I can in the common endeavour to assure its permanence.’99 The last exchange of their telegrams reveals their sense of humour. On the 81st birthday of Tagore, Gandhiji wired, ‘Four score not enough may you finish five’ In reply Tagore said,

96 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 208, 211 97 ibid.p. 213 98 A Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle, op. cit. p. 27-28 99 The Mahatma and The Poet, op. cit. p. 177-178

127

‘Thanks message but four score is impertinence, five score intolerable’ This was the end of their correspondence. On August 7, 1941, Tagore breathed his last. The foregoing was an overview of a relationship spanning 26 years, 60 telegrams and letters, and interspersed with about 10 personal meetings and 12 articles. This has revealed only those differences that were debated in public through articles. Many other issues on which there were significant differences such as religion, nationalism, art, sex etc. have not been referred to. An elaborate presentation of their ideals and thoughts and an in depth analysis of their differences is beyond the scope of this endeavour. Hence, emphasis is laid on their wisdom, love, affection, reverence and sense of humour revealed through their correspondence. Though they had total agreement on the basic issues and problems, their proposed solutions or plan of action almost always differed significantly. Both were fine and profound thinkers. Tagore always evaluated every proposal from the point of view of ideals whereas Gandhiji thought of the same from the point of view of the multitude. One dwelled in ideals, the other tried to instill the same in the multitude. Tagore believed that every ideal must be acceptable from within. He was well aware of the dangers of handing over to the multitude, the instruments successfully utilised by the Mahatma. Tagore had implicitly predicted the misuse of non-cooperation and satyagrah. The foregoing chronology reveals that Tagore reacted to every proposal of Gandhiji after evaluating the same from the point of view of ideals. Initially, his protests were candid, firm and perhaps, vehement. Later on, perhaps after realising Gandhiji’s strength and success in mobilising and inspiring the multitude, he appears to have mellowed and supported Gandhiji’s ways remaining firm in his own position. However, whenever an incident, like the Bihar earthquake or ‘begging expedition’ arose, he spoke his mind without mincing words. Rabindranath is revealed in the form of an ardent, vocal and candid idealist, who eventually offers his best treasures to a fellow traveler in the quest of truth. With goodwill and reverence for the fellow traveler, Gandhiji appears as a serene saint with firm faith in self and inspiring the multitude. One believed in creation, the other in construction. One was a utopian, the other utilitarian. Romain Rolland had this to say for these two great souls, ‘The controversy between Tagore and Gandhi, between two great minds, both moved by mutual admiration and esteem, but as fatally separated in their feeling as a philosopher can be from an apostle, a St. Paul from a Plato, is important. For on the one side we have the spirit of religious faith and charity seeking to found a new humanity. On the other we have intelligence, free-born, serene and broad, seeking to unite the aspirations of all humanity in sympathy and understanding.’100 On 27.8.1941, soon after the death of Tagore, Jawaharlal Nehru wrote to Krishna Kripalani, ‘Gurudev and Gandhiji . . . their message was for the world. And yet both were hundred percent India's children and inheritors, representatives and expositors of her age-long culture. . . . The surprising thing is that both of these men with so much in common and drawing inspiration from the same wells of wisdom and thought and culture should differ from each other so greatly. No two persons could probably differ so much as Gandhiji and Tagore.’101 In 1961, he wrote, 100 Tagore and Gandhiji, Confluence of Minds, Panchanan Saha, Barasat Barta, Kolkata, 2001, p.9 101 Rabindranath Tagore: A Biography, Krishna Kripalani, Visva Bharati, Kolkata, 2nd edition, 1980, p.455

128

‘Tagore was the poet and the singer; Gandhiji was the man of action, the true revolutionary, single-minded in his aim and going as the arrow from the bow. To Tagore poetry and music were the essence of life, which gave it rhythm, and his philosophy was one of living in harmony with nature. Gandhiji did not talk or perhaps read much of poetry or art, yet his life itself was a poem in action, and he wanted to put himself in harmony not only with nature but also with the lowest in nature.’102 A relationship – link of life’s sadhana – that started only at the age of about 50, that did not involve persons who had stayed or worked together for any length of time, that was tossed around in the turmoil of storm of creation versus construction, and yet reaches unprecedented heights of intimacy, is an astonishing feat surrounded by mystery. This is possible only when one can transcend the personality and reach and realise the person within. Tagore and Gandhiji, the two seekers of truth, were fellow travelers in quest of truth, traversing their own separate paths with infallible and irrepressible faith in their own path and trust in the singular sincerity of the other towards their goal. On 12.1.1929, after returning from Santiniketan, Mirabahen – Madeleine Slade, a disciple of Gandhiji – wrote to Tagore, ‘... I now realize how Shantiniketan & Sabarmati are two fair daughters of the same great motherland – both with exquisite beauties of their own – different to look upon outwardly, & yet with that fundamental likeness which only daughters of the same parent can bear. . ‘ On 19.1.1929, Tagore replied in his inimitable poetic style, ‘Human life has its two aspects – one is the discipline of truth, and the other is the fullness of expression. Sabarmati represents that discipline of truth, for Mahatmaji is born with the pure fire of truth – his nature is one with it. Being a poet my mission is to inspire life’s fullness of expression – and I hope Santiniketan carries that ideal in all its activities. . . . According to the Upanishad the reconciliation of the contradiction between tapasya and ananda is at the root of creation - and Mahatmaji is the prophet of tapasya and I am the poet of ananda.’103 While I do not know whether synthesis of the teaching and preaching of the prophet and the poet will lead to creation or not, I do believe that synergy of the two should reveal the path of the welfare of the world.

102 A Centenary Volume: Rabindranath Tagore-1861-1941, op. cit. p. xiv 103 Visva Bharati Quarterly, 1, No.1, 1985. p. 21-23

129

Appendix 1

Open Letter from Rabindranath Tagore written to Gandhiji

on April 12, 1919

130

131

132

133

134

Appendix 2

Notes to Section III, English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore,

Volume One, Poems, edited by Sisir Kumar Das.

pp. 618,

THE CHILD (1931) First published by Allen and Unwin, London, in 1931. This is the only major poem by Tagore written directly in English. Two years later he translated it into Bengali under the title Sisu Tirtha (literally, 'The Child-Pilgrimage') included in Punascha (1932). The poem was written in July 1930 when Tagore visited the village Oberammergau, about forty miles from Munich, to watch the passion play that is enacted there since 1634 once every ten years. This is a major work in modern Indian poetry on a biblical theme although the relation between The Child and the text of The Oberammergau Passion Play by Joseph Alois Daisenberger which Tagore had seen performed is very slender indeed.

135

1 ‘WHAT OF the night?' they ask. No answer comes. For the blind Time gropes in a maze and knows not its path or purpose. The darkness in the valley stares like the dead eye-sockets of a giant, the clouds like a nightmare oppress the sky, and the massive shadows lie scattered like the torn limbs of the night. A lurid glow waxes and wanes on the horizon, - is it an ultimate threat from an alien star, or an elemental hunger licking the sky? Things are deliriously wild, they are a noise whose grammar is a groan, and words smothered out of shape and sense. They are the refuse, the rejections, the fruitless failures of life, abrupt ruins of prodigal pride, - fragments of a bridge over the oblivion of a vanished stream, godless shrines that shelter reptiles, marble steps that lead to blankness. Sudden tumults rise in the sky and wrestle and a startled shudder runs along the sleepless hours. Are they from desperate floods hammering against their cave walls, or from some fanatic storms whirling and howling incantations? Are they the cry of an ancient forest flinging up its hoarded fire in a last extravagant suicide, or screams of a paralytic crowd scourged by lunatics blind and deaf? Underneath the noisy terror a stealthy hum creeps up like bubbling volcanic mud, a mixture of sinister whispers, rumours and slanders, and hisses of derision. The men gathered there are vague like torn pages of an epic. Groping in groups or single, their torchlight tattoos their faces in chequered lines, in patterns of frightfulness. The maniacs suddenly strike their neighbours on suspicion and a hubbub of an indiscriminate fight bursts forth echoing from hill to hill. The women weep and wail, they cry that their children are lost in a wilderness of contrary paths with confusion at the end. Others defiantly ribald shake with raucous laughter their lascivious limbs unshrinkingly loud, for they think that nothing matters.

136

2 THERE ON THE crest of the hill stands the Man of faith amid the snow-white silence, He scans the sky for some signal of light, and when the clouds thicken and the nightbirds scream as they fly, he cries, 'Brothers, despair not, for Man is great.' But they never heed him, for they believe that the elemental brute is eternal and goodness in its depth is darkly cunning in deception. When beaten and wounded they cry, 'Brother, where art thou?' The answer comes, 'I am by our side.'- But they cannot see in the dark and they argue that the voice is of their own desperate desire, that men are ever condemned to fight for phantoms in an interminable desert of mutual menace. 3 THE CLOUDS part, the morning star appears in the East, a breath of relief springs up from the heart of the earth, the murmur of leaves ripples along the forest path, and the early bird sings. 'The time has come,' proclaims the Man of faith. 'The time for what?' 'For the pilgrimage.' They sit and think, they know not the meaning, and yet they seem to understand according to their desires. The touch of the dawn goes deep into the soil and life shivers along through the roots of all things. 'To the pilgrimage of fulfillment,' a small voice whispers, nobody knows whence. Taken up by the crowd it swells into a mighty meaning. Men raise their heads and look up, women lift their arms in reverence, children clap their hands and laugh. The early glow of the sun shines like a golden garland on the forehead of the Man of faith, and they all cry: 'Brother, we salute thee!'

137

4 MEN BEGIN to gather from all quarters, from across the seas, the mountains and pathless wastes, They come from the valley of the Nile and the banks of the Ganges, from the snow-sunk uplands of Thibet, from high-walled cities of glittering towers, from the dense dark tangle of savage wilderness. Some walk, some ride on camels, horses and elephants, on chariots with banners vieing with the clouds of dawn. The priests of all creeds burn incense, chanting verses as they go. The monarchs march at the head of their armies, lances flashing in the sun and drums beating loud. Ragged beggars and courtiers pompously decorated, agile young scholars and teachers burdened with learned age jostle each other in the crowd. Women come chatting and laughing, mothers, maidens and brides, with offerings of flowers and fruit, sandal paste and scented water. Mingled with them is the harlot, shrill of voice and loud in tint and tinsel. The gossip is there who secretly poisons the well of human sympathy and chuckles. The maimed and the cripple join the throng with the blind and the sick, the dissolute, the thief and the man who makes a trade of his God for profit and mimics the saint. 'The fulfillment! ' They dare not talk aloud, but in their minds they magnify their own greed, and dream of boundless power, of unlimited impunity for pilfering and plunder, and eternity of feast for their unclean gluttonous flesh.

138

5 THE MAN OF faith moves on along pitiless paths strewn with flints over scorching sands and steep mountainous tracks. They follow him, the strong and the weak, the aged and young, the rulers of realms, the tillers of the soil. Some grow weary and footsore, some angry and suspicious. They ask at every dragging step, 'How much further is the end?' The Man of faith sings in answer; they scowl and shake their fists and yet they cannot resist him; the pressure of the moving mass and indefinite hope push them forward. They shorten their sleep and curtail their rest, they out-vie each other in their speed, they are ever afraid lest they may be too late for their chance while others be more fortunate. The days pass, the ever-receding horizon tempts them with renewed lure of the unseen till they are sick. Their faces harden, their curses grow louder and louder. 6 IT IS NIGHT. The travellers spread their mats on the ground under the Banyan tree. A gust of wind blows out the lamp and the darkness deepens like a sleep into a swoon. Someone from the crowd suddenly stands up and pointing to the leader with merciless finger breaks out: 'False prophet, thou hast deceived us!' Others take up the cry one by one, women hiss their hatred and men growl. At last one bolder than others suddenly deals him a blow. They cannot see his face, but fall upon him in a fury of destruction and hit him till he lies prone upon the ground his life extinct. The night is still, the sound of the distant waterfall comes muffled, and a faint breath of jasmine floats in the air.

139

7 THE PILGRIMS are afraid. The women begins to cry, the men in an agony of wretchedness shout at them to stop. Dogs break out barking and are cruelly whipped into silence broken by moans. The night seems endless and men and women begin to wrangle as to who among them was to blame. They shriek and shout and as they are ready to unsheathe their knives the darkness pales, the morning light overflows the mountain tops. Suddenly they become still and gasp for breath as they gaze at the figure lying dead. The women sob out loud and men hide their faces in their hands. A few try to slink away unnoticed, but their crime keeps them chained to their victim. They ask each other in bewilderment, 'who will show us the path?' The old man from the East bends his head and says: 'The Victim.' They sit still and silent. Again speaks the old man, 'We refused him in doubt, we killed him in anger, now we shall accept him in love, for in his death he lives in the life of us all, the great Victim.' And they all stand up and mingle their voices and sing, 'Victory to the Victim.'

140

8 'TO THE pilgrimage' calls the young, 'to love, to power, to knowledge, to wealth overflowing,' We shall conquer the world and the world beyond this,' they all cry exultant in a thundering cataract of voices, The meaning is not the same to them all, but only the impulse, the moving confluence of wills that recks not death and disaster. No longer they ask for their way, no more doubts are there to burden their minds or weariness to clog their feet. The spirit of the Leader is within them and ever beyond them- the Leader who has crossed death and all limits. They travel over the fields where the seeds are sown, by the granary where the harvest is gathered, and across the barren soil where famine dwells and skeletons cry for the return of their flesh. They pass through populous cities humming with life, through dumb desolation hugging in ruined past, and hovels for the unclad and unclean, a mockery of home for the homeless. They travel through long hours of the summer day, and as the light wanes in the evening they ask the man who reads the sky: 'Brother, is yonder the tower of our final hope and peace?' The wise man shakes his head and says: 'It is the last vanishing cloud of the sunset.' 'Friends,' exhorts the young, 'do not stop. Through the night' s blindness we must struggle into the Kingdom of living light.' They go on in the dark. The road seems to know its own meaning and dust underfoot dumbly speaks of direction. The stars - celestial wayfarers - sing in silent chorus: 'Move on, comrades! ' In the air floats the voice of the Leader: 'The goal is nigh.'

141

9 THE FIRST FLUSH of dawn glistens on the dew-dripping leaves of the forest. The man who reads the sky cries: 'Friends, we have come! ' They stop and look around. On both sides of the road the corn is ripe to the horizon, - the glad golden answer of the earth to the morning light. The current of daily life moves slowly between the village near the hill and the one by the riverbank. The potter's wheel goes round, the woodcutter brings fuel to the market, the cow-herd takes his cattle to the pasture, and the woman with the pitcher on her head walks to the well. But where is the King's castle, the mine of gold, the secret book of magic, the sage who knows love's utter wisdom? 'The stars cannot be wrong,' assures the reader of the sky. 'Their signal points to that spot.' And reverently he walks to a wayside spring from which wells up a stream of water, a liquid light, like the morning melting into a chorus of tears and laughter. Near it in a palm grove surrounded by a strange hush stands a leaf- thatched hut, at whose portal sits the poet of the unknown shore, and sings: 'Mother, open the gate!' 10 A RAY OF morning sun strikes aslant at the door. The assembled crowd feel in their blood the primaeval chant of creation: 'Mother, open the gate!' The gate opens. The mother is seated on a straw bed with the babe on her lap, Like the dawn with the morning star, The sun's ray that was waiting at the door outside falls on the head of the child. The poet strikes his lute and sings out: 'Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.' They kneel down, - the king and the beggar, the saint and the sinner, the wise and the fool, -and cry: 'Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living. ' The old man from the East murmurs to himself. 'I have seen!'

142

Appendix 3

Gitanjali 39

When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides

shutting me out from beyond, come to me,

my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched,

shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king,

and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful,

come with thy light and thy thunder.

Translated from Bengali by Rabindranath Tagore

143

Incidental

It was July 2003. The moving spirit of Ravindra Bhavan, Niranjanbhai Bhagat, was to leave for his annual sojourn in England for four months, beginning August. Hence, Bholabhai, Niranjanbhai and myself were discussing what talks to hold during his absence of four months. Somehow, the topic of Gurudev and Gandhiji cropped up and I spoke up that I could not comprehend the relationship between these two great men, who were so different in their approach to all the main issues which were close to their hearts and yet had so much love and reverence for each other - so much so that in the end, Tagore humbly places his Visva Bharati under the tutelage of Gandhiji! Immediately, Bholabhai suggested that I talk on that subject. With a little hesitation and diffidence on my part, the proposal was accepted and it was decided to hold the talk on 2.10.2003 - birth anniversary of Gandhiji. The suggestions of friends like William Radice, Ketaki Dyson, Supriya Roy were invited and the relevant literature was collected. I had a copy of Sabyasachi Bhattacharya's The Mahatma and the Poet. Supriya Roy was kind enough to send a copy of Gandhi-Tagore Chronicle. Dr. Panchanan Saha's Confluence of Minds and Sibnarayan Ray's From the Broken Nest to Visva Bharati were procured from them. Gandhijini Dinavari was used to verify certain dates. Other references were taken from The Golden Book of Tagore, Centenary Volume, Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson's Myriad Minded Man and Selected Letters. A lecture in Gujarati, with some of the letters quoted in English, was delivered at 6.00 p.m. on 2.10.2003, under the auspices of Ravindra Bhavan, Ahmedabad, in the Govardhan Smriti Mandir of Gujarati Sahitya Parishad. The same has been refined and presented here in English. I believe that the original correspondence and articles in English, have their own charm and hence, the English version. Paritosh, Krishna Society, Shailesh Parekh Ahmedabad - 380 006. 12.10.2003