she’d heard a poet’s own humming of kajari chants.
Trees thrilled by densest downpour’s drumming,
in flesh and spirit at one with one’s leman:
came such a night, with the same Srabon abundance. –
My mind kept saying: Impossible, it’s impossible!
On I drifted in the darkest deep of night,
the rain playing sky’s music on my veins.
A honey-whiff from a jasmine grove, wind-borne,
the tidings I used to get from chains on her braids:
it rose again, the fragrance of those flowers. –
My mind kept saying: Impossible, it’s impossible!
In a reverie, I wandered by thought’s error
to the window which had so often beckoned me.
I heard a sitar playing a musical air,
a song of mine, twined with a hint of tears.
You left the poet, but kept the poet’s honour. –
My mind kept saying: Impossible, it’s impossible!
[Santiniketan, 16 July 1940]
FROM Rogashajyay (1940)
No. 22
In the noontide between sleep and wake
perhaps in a dream I saw
the sheath of my being slip
and fall in the stream
of an unknown river,
carrying with it my name, my reputation,
all of a miser’s heap,
shameful memories signed by
delicious moments.
Glories and infamies
floated away on the waves,
couldn’t be brought back.
Then did I, ego-less, argue within myself:
of all my losses
which one hurt me the most?
It wasn’t my past, with which in joys and sorrows
my days and nights had passed.
It was my future,
which I’d never had,
in which my desires,
like seeds within the earth’s womb,
had, with their sprouting hopes,
dreamt through the long night
of the light that hadn’t arrived.
[Santiniketan, 24 November 1940]
No. 38
When the god of death gave the command for annihilation,
men took on themselves the task of self-destruction.
Depressed, I’ve thought: why doesn’t a sudden disaster
hit this errant planet which has veered from its course,
so we all die together, in one big blazing pyre?
But then I reflect: if through suffering on suffering
sin hasn’t rotted, its seed will surely sleep
in the ashes of the holocaust, and on the breast
of a new creation
once more raise its thorns.
[Santiniketan, 5 December 1940]
FROM Arogya (1941)
No. 7
Silently comes the fierce night, batters down
the sapped body’s enfeebled door-bolt,
enters within, commences to ravish
life’s glorious loveliness, till the mind,
under darkness’s attack, acknowledges it’s beaten.
When the shame of that defeat, that infirmity’s ignominy
have done their worst, suddenly upon the horizon
appears the day’s banner, drawn in golden rays,
and as if from some far centre of the firmament
arises a clamour – ‘Lies! All lies!’
In the morning’s serene light I see myself
as one who has conquered suffering, on the tower
of the exhausted body’s fortress.
[Santiniketan, 27 January 1941]
No. 9
In creation’s vast field
the play of fireworks in the skies
with suns and stars
is on a cosmic scale.
I too came from the invisible without beginning
with a minute fire-particle to a tiny spot
of space and time.
Now as I enter the last act, the lamp’s flame
flickers, the shadows reveal
the illusory nature of this play.
Joys and sorrows, dramatic disguises,
slowly become slack.
Hundreds of actors and actresses through the ages
have left their many-coloured costumes outside the door
of the theatre. I look and see
in the greenroom of hundreds of extinguished stars
the king of the theatre standing still, alone.
[Santiniketan, 3 February 1941]
FROM Janmadine (1941)
No. 28
This life of mine’s been nurtured by a river.
In its arteries flow
the gifts of mountain-peaks.
Its fields have been shaped by many alluvial layers.
Mysterious vital juices from diverse sources
have spread themselves in harvests upon harvests.
From the east and the west networks of song-streams
lull its sleep and wake.
Ambassadress of the cosmos, that river,
she who brings the far near, bids us greet
the unknown at our doorsteps, – it was she
who wove the day of my birth. And for ever
on her streams, untied, my mobile home
drifts from bank to bank.
I am an outcast. I am a vagabond.
Boundless bounty piles my birthday plate
again and again with food, making no bones about it.
[Santiniketan, 23 February 1941]
FROM Shesh Lekha (1941)
No. 5
One more time, if I may,
I would like to find that seat
on the lap of which is spread
a caress from a foreign land.
Runaway dreams from the past
may flock there yet again
and with their inchoate hummings
build a nest for me once more.
Resurrecting the happy hours,
it may make my waking sweet
and to the flute that has fallen silent
restore the melodious airs.
At the window, arms outstretched,
it may waylay the scents of spring
as the great silence’s pacing
is heard in the midnight universe.
It will lock for ever in my ears
the whispers of that beloved woman
who has spread this seat for me
with her love from a foreign land.
It will keep for ever unsleeping
that message, so sad, so tender,
of that woman whose language I did not know
but whose eyes were eloquent.
[Santiniketan, 6 April 1941]
No. 11
On Rupnarayan’s bank
I awoke
and knew the world
was no dream.
In blood’s alphabet
I saw my countenance.
I knew myself
in blow on blow received,
in pain on pain.
Truth is hard,
and I loved the hard:
it never deceives.
This life’s a penance of suffering unto death,
to gain truth’s terrible price,
to clear all debts in death.
[Santiniketan, 13 May 1941]
No. 13
When existence first manifested itself,
the first day’s sun asked:
‘Who are you?’
There was no answer.
Years passed.
The day’s last sun
put its last question
on the shore of the western ocean
in a hushed evening –
‘Who are you?’ –
but got no answer.
[Calcutta, 27 July 1941]
No. 14
Time and again the obscure night of suffering
has knoc
ked at my door.
Its only arms, as far as I’ve been able to make out,
are the tortuous poses of pain, grotesque gestures of terror –
in brief, its role as a conjuror in the darkness.
Each time I’ve believed those horrid masks to be true,
disastrously I’ve lost.
This game of winning and losing, life’s false jugglery,
nightmare that clings to our steps from childhood on,
replete with torment’s jests.
Fear’s variety show on film –
death’s smart artistry projected onto the dark.
[Calcutta, 29 July 1941]
No. 15
Your creation’s path you’ve spread with a magical net
of tricks, enchantress,
laying with expert hands the snares
of false beliefs
for life’s innocents.
With this trickery you’ve stamped human greatness:
for such a one you haven’t left veiled nights.
The path that your stars
show him
is his inner way,
ever transparent,
ever illuminated
by his simple faith.
However crooked outside, it’s straight within:
that’s his pride.
Others say he’s been deceived,
but he receives
truth within, bathed in his inner light.
Nothing can cheat him:
he carries his last reward
to his own storehouse.
He who easily endures your tricks receives
from your hands
a lasting claim to peace.
[Calcutta, 30 July 1941]
Songs
All the songs can be found in Gitabitan, the standard collection of Tagore’s songs, which is available separately or as part of his collected works. Any other work where a particular song occurs is mentioned along with the place and date of composition. If there is an uncertainty about the date of composition, any information available on its first publication is given. Several new songs have been added in the present edition. All the songs are arranged in a chronological sequence as far as possible, except that the bunch of songs from Gitanjali have been kept together for convenience and presented in the order intended by the poet, as indicated by their serial numbers.
1.
O beggar, you’ve made me a beggar,
what more do you need?
My mendicant, what’s this beseeching song
you sing as you walk by?
Every morning with riches new
to please you was my heart’s desire,
my mendicant!
Alas, in a flash I placed all at your feet;
nothing’s now left.
O beggar, you’ve made me a beggar,
what more do you need?
With my own breast’s cloth-end
I’ve clothed your nakedness.
For your pleasure I’ve
emptied my universe.
My heart, my mind, my life’s springtime
already lie in your cupped palms,
my mendicant!
Should you want more, give me something first;
then can I hand it back.
[Potisar, 27 September 1897. In Kalpana (1900).]
2.
I live with so little
that what I lose, I lose.
A particle goes
and ‘Woe is me!’ cries my soul.
Like a river-bank, in vain
I try to grasp the passing flow.
One by one they knock against my breast
and then they move away – the waves.
Whatever passes and what remains:
if I could surrender all to you,
then would nothing perish
but everything awake
in your resplendent greatness.
In you are so many suns and moons:
not a molecule, not an atom’s lost.
Will not my crumbs of lost jewels be at your feet?
[1900/1901? In Naibedya (1901).]
3.
I want, I want, I want with all my strength,
and you save me – by denying me what I crave.
My life’s a garner of your mercy’s duress.
All that you’ve given me without my asking for them –
this sky, its light, this body, this mind, life’s pulse –
daily you see to it that I deserve such precious gifts,
delivering me
from the crisis
of too much desire.
I am sometimes forgetful, and sometimes I walk
on the track that leads in your direction.
And you are cruel: you move away from my sight.
That this is your kindness – I know, I know, alas!
You send me away because you wish to receive me.
You are filling my life so it deserves union with you,
delivering me
from the crisis
of flagging desire.
[Calcutta, 27 June, 1907. No. 2 of Gitanjali (1910).]
4.
So many unknowns you made me know,
in so many homes allotted me some space!
What was far you made near, friend!
and gave the stranger a brother’s face.
When I leave a familiar dwelling-place,
I panic, wondering ‘whatever’s coming next?’
That you abide in all that’s new to me
is at that moment from my mind effaced.
What was far you made near, friend!
and gave the stranger a brother’s face.
In life and death in this wide universe
wherever your fancy takes me,
surely you, whom I’ve known all my life,
will yourself introduce me to each face!
Once you are known, there are no strangers,
no interdictions, no scary dangers.
Uniting all, you remain watchful:
may you always be in my gaze!
What was far you made near, friend!
and gave the stranger a brother’s face.
[1906-7 (1313)? First published in the rainy season of 1908 (Srabon 1315). No. 3 of Gitanjali (1910).]
5.
‘Save me in danger!’ is never my prayer to you:
I would rather be unafraid of danger.
If you can’t comfort me in sorrow, never mind:
it’s sorrow itself I would like to conquer.
If there’s none to support me,
let my own strength wake,
and if in this world I face loss
or heaps of deceit,
may my own mind never concede defeat!
‘Redeem me, please!’ is never my prayer to you:
I would rather have the strength to cross over on my own.
If you can’t lighten my load, never mind:
may I have the strength to carry it myself!
In happy days with deep humility
I’ll get to know your face,
so that in nights of sorrow
when the whole world seems to cheat,
I don’t doubt your grace!
[Calcutta, 26 June 1907. No. 4 of Gitanjali (1910).]
6.
Sunshine and shadows play hide-and-seek today
in the paddy-fields!
These white cloud-rafts soft-floating in the sky’s blue –
who has set them adrift?
Today the bees forget to gather nectar:
they just fly about, they’re blind drunk on light!
And why are pairs of chakravaka birds
milling on the river’s sands?
Listen, mates, we ain’t going home today –
no! not indoors!
We’ll smash the sky and plunder
what’s outdoors!
Like crests of foam on tidal waters
laughter scuds along the wind t
oday.
We’re gonna skip work
and play the flute all day!
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, Bhadra 1315 (post-rains 1908)? No. 8 of Gitanjali (1910), and also in the play Sharadotsab (September 1908).]
7.
A soft wind stirs the white sail without a spot.
Never, never have I seen such navigation.
From which shore does it bring its alien riches?
My mind wants to glide with it,
leaving on this edge all wanting and all getting.
Water drips behind. Low thunder calls.
Clouds give way. On a face the red rays fall.
Who are you, pilot? Whose beloved are you?
I wonder, but have no answer.
In which mode will you tune your instrument?
What are the magic words you’ll intone?
[Bolpur-Santiniketan, 19 August 1908 (3 Bhadra 1315). No. 12 of Gitanjali (1910) and also in the play Sharadotsab (1908).]
8.
Clouds have gathered on clouds,
darkness descends.
Why do you keep me sitting alone
by the door?
In working days, busy with different chores,
I keep the company of diverse men,
but today I’m waiting to have a rendez-vous
with you, only with you!
Why do you keep me sitting alone
by the door?
If you slight me,
if you don’t show yourself,
how will I pass such a