28
Chandni Chowk, Cuttack
3 September 1891
Our lawyer, Hariballabh-babu, is a man of rounded and expansive proportions—his air is one of a very tall and large Krishna-Vishnu. He’s getting on in years. A pleated shawl on his shoulder, very well turned out, the smell of essence on his body, two layers of chin, a proportionate moustache, rolling forehead, big swimming eyes half shut with self-conceit, the pupils of the eyes rising up towards the sky when he speaks—he speaks in a deep rumbling tone in a very mild, slow, and smiling way—time seems to stand like an obedient servant silently by his side, waiting for him—not the tiniest hurry about anything at all. He turned up his eyes and asked me at one point, ‘Where is Jyoti now?’* My insides petrifying with respect at the unflappable seriousness of the questioner, I replied in low and modest tones, letting him know that my brother was in the capital. He said, ‘I was a fellow student of Birendra’s.’† Hearing which my soul was even more overcome. After this, when he suggested that my sudden and untimely arrival here without waiting for anybody’s advice was childish and an ill-thought-out move, you can image how wan and taken aback I became. I hung my head and kept repeating—I didn’t know anything about the actual situation, I’ve never come before, this is my first visit. Subsequently we began to argue about ‘when did Jyoti visit last’. Calculating this led to complete disagreement between Baṛ-dā and him. He said, ’74–’75, Baṛ-dā said, earlier. This will give you some idea how difficult history-writing is. That’s why I think I’d better start putting a date to my letters from now on.
29
Tiron
7 September 1891
The ghat at Baliya is quite pleasant to look at. Tall trees on either side—taken all in all, the canal brings that small river in Poona to mind…. I thought about it quite a bit and decided that if I had known this canal to be a river then I would have liked it much more. Both banks have tall coconut trees, mango trees and all sorts of other shady trees, a clean sloping bank covered with lovely green grass and innumerable blue lajjābatīlatā flowers; sometimes a screw-pine forest; at places where the trees thin out a bit you can see an endless field stretching out beyond the high banks of the canal; the fields are such an intense green in the rains that the eyes seem to simply drown in them; occasionally, a small village encircled by date and coconut trees; and the entire scene shaded and dark under the cool shade of the stooping, cloud-covered monsoon sky. The canal bends and winds its way gracefully through the middle of its two clean, green, tender, grassy banks. A slow current; at places where it becomes very narrow there are red and white lotuses and tall grasses to be seen at the edge of the water; all in all, very much like an English stream. But still one regrets the fact that this is nothing more than an irrigation canal—the sound of its flowing water has no primeval ancientness, it doesn’t know the mystery of a distant, lonely mountain cave—not named after some old feminine name, it has not breastfed the villages on either side of its banks from time immemorial—it can never babble—
Men may come and men may go
But I go on forever.
Even large lakes that belong to ancient times have attained greater glory. From this you can quite make out why an old and great lineage commands so much respect even if it is, in many respects, poor. It is as though there is an aura of the wealth and beauty of many ages upon it. A gold trader suddenly grown big may obtain a lot of gold, but doesn’t find the lustre of that gold very quickly. In any case, a hundred years later, when the trees on the shore are much larger than they are now, when the sparkling-white milestones will have become worn and moss-covered, when the 1871 carved into the lock will seem very far away, if I could travel on this boat on this canal to look into our estates at Pandua with my great-grandson, undoubtedly my mind would be labouring under a completely different set of feelings. But alas for my great-grandson! God knows what fate holds for him! Perhaps an obscure and undistinguished clerkship. A fragment of the Tagore family, torn from it and flung far away, like a dark, extinguished splinter of a meteorite. But I have so many troubles in the present that there’s absolutely no need to lament for my great-grandson…. We reached Tarpur at four o’clock. Our journey by palanquin began here. I had thought the road was about twelve miles and that we would reach our bungalow by eight in the evening. Field after field, village after village, mile upon mile passed—the twelve miles seemed endless. At about seven-thirty I asked the bearers how much further, they said—not much more, a little more than six miles. Hearing this, I tried to rearrange myself within the palanquin. Not more than half of me fits into a palanquin—my back aches, my feet go numb, my head starts feeling knocked-about—it might have been more convenient within the palanquin if only there was some way to tuck myself up three or four times and keep myself folded. The road was absolutely terrible. Knee-deep mud everywhere—in some places the bearers were treading very warily, step by step, for fear of slipping. They lost their footing three or four times, but managed to regain balance. Occasionally, there was no road—the rice fields were full of water—we moved ahead, splashing through all of it. The night was very dark because of the clouds, it was drizzling, and the flame of the torch kept going out from time to time for lack of oil—and had to be lit again by a lot of blowing on it; the bearers began to quarrel about the lack of light. After having advanced in this manner for some distance the barakandāj [armed footman] folded his hands and submitted that we had arrived at a river and now needed to convey the palanquin on a boat, except the boats hadn’t reached yet, but would very soon—so now the palanquins would have to be set down for some time. So down went the palanquins. But then there was simply no sign of the boats. Slowly the torch went out. In that dark night on the riverbank, the footmen began to call out in their hoarse voices to the boatmen as loudly as they could—the other bank of the river echoed their call, but no boatmen answered. ‘Mukunda-a-a-a-a!’ ‘Balkrishnaa-a-a-a!’ ‘Neelkantha-a-a-a-a!’ Such was the desperation in those voices that Mukunda [Vishnu] and Neelkantha [Shiva] might well have descended from their respective abodes in heaven—but our helmsman had stopped his ears and was resting unperturbed in his abode. There was nothing on that isolated shore, not even a hut, only an empty bullock cart lying by the roadside sans driver or passenger—our bearers sat down upon it and began to chatter among themselves in their foreign tongue. The night resonated with the sound of frogs chattering and crickets calling. I thought to myself that we would perhaps have to stay the night here itself, mangled and crushed and squeezed in the palanquin—perhaps Mukunda and Neelkantha might arrive tomorrow morning. I began to sing to myself—
Oh, if you come to me smiling at the end of the night
Will my smile remain?
This tarnished body, weary with waking,
What will you say when you see me?
Well, whatever will be said will be in the Oriya language, I wouldn’t understand a thing. But there’s no doubt about the fact that there will be no smile on my face. A long time passed in this manner. Then suddenly, with a rhythmic hňui-hňai, hňui-hňai sound, Baṛ-dā’s palanquin appeared. Seeing that there was no prospect of any boats arriving, Baṛ-dā ordered that the river had to be crossed with the palanquins carried on their heads. Hearing this, the bearers began to hesitate, and some hesitation and pity made an appearance in my mind as well. Anyway, after a lot of argument they took the name of god and descended into the river with the palanquins on their heads. They crossed the river with a lot of difficulty. It was half past ten in the night then. I curled up and lay down as best I could. I had just begun to nod off when suddenly one of the bearers slipped and the whole palanquin was given a good shake—waking up all of a sudden, my heart began to thud loudly in my ears. After that, half asleep and half awake, we reached the bungalow at Pandua in the late hours of the night.
30
Tiron
9 September 1891
Yesterday, after a long time, the cloud and rain cleared and golden ?
?arat sunlight appeared.* It was as if I’d completely forgotten that there was such a thing as sunlight in the world; yesterday, when the sun suddenly broke out at about ten or eleven in the morning, I was filled with amazement—as if I’d seen something completely new. It turned out to be a beautiful day. In the afternoon I was sitting in the front of the veranda after my bath and lunch, with my legs stretched out on the easy chair, half lying down, daydreaming. In front of me I could see some coconut trees of the compound of our house—beyond that, as far as the eye could see, only fields of grain, and right at the end of the fields just an indication of some trees in faint blue. The doves were cooing and occasionally the sound of the bells the cows wore could be heard. The squirrel sits upon its tail and looks up all of a sudden, turning its head this way and that, and then in an instant climbs up the tree trunk to disappear among the branches with its tail lifted upon its back. There’s a very still, silent, and secluded feeling. The wind, unobstructed, blows freely through—the leaves of the coconut fronds quiver with a trembling sound. Three or four farmers are grouped together at one place in the field, uprooting the small saplings of grain and tying them up in bundles. That’s the only work to be seen being done anywhere.
31
Shilaidaha
1 October 1891
Woke up late to see marvellous sunlight and the river’s śarat waters full to the brim and spilling over. The banks and the river waters were almost at the same level—the fields of grain a beautiful green and the village trees dense and alive at the end of the rains. How can I tell you how lovely it looked! There was a sharp shower of heavy rain in the afternoon. After that, in the evening, the sun set by the Padma in our coconut groves. I had climbed up on the riverbank and was strolling slowly along. In front of me, in the distance, the evening shadows were lengthening in the mango orchards, and on my way back, the sky behind the coconut trees was turning golden with gold. Unless you come here you forget how amazingly beautiful the world is and what a large heart she has and how full of a deep fulfilment she is. In the evening when I sit quietly on the boat, the waters silent, the riverbank growing hazy, the sun’s rays slowly losing their light on the margins of the sky, my whole body and mind feel such a touch—strangely generous, large, and incommunicable—of silent nature with her downcast eyes! What peace, what affection, what greatness, what limitless tender melancholy! From these inhabited fields of crops to that desolate world of the stars, the sky fills to the brim from end to end with such a stunned heartfelt feeling, and I sit alone, immersed in this limitless mindscape—only the maulabī stands next to me and jabbers on and on, making me disconsolate.
32
Shilaidaha
Tuesday, 6 October 1891
It’s quite a lovely day today, Bob. One or two boats have come up to the ghat—those who live abroad are returning home in the Puja holidays with bundles, boxes and wicker baskets full of all sorts of gifts and things after an entire calendar year. I saw a babu who, the moment the boat approached the ghat, changed from his old clothes into a new pleated dhuti, putting on a white silk China coat on top of his gear, and, with a twisted scarf hung with great care over one shoulder and an umbrella on his back, then set off towards his village. The fields, full of grain, quiver with a shivering sound—piles of white clouds in the sky—the heads of mango and coconut trees can be seen above that—the coconut fronds are trembling in the breeze—one or two kāś flowers are preparing to bloom upon the sandbank—all together, it’s a very happy scene. The feelings of the man who has just returned to his village from foreign lands, his eagerness to meet his family, and the sky in this śarat season, this earth, this cool, light breeze of the morning and the dense, ceaseless shudder within all of the trees, grass, flowers and river’s waves, all this mixed together had completely overcome this lonely youth by the window in joy and sorrow. In this world, if you sit alone by the window and simply open your eyes and look, new desires are born in your heart—not exactly new—the old desires begin to take all sorts of new forms. Day before yesterday I was sitting in the same way quietly by the window, when a boatman passed by on a dinghy, singing a song—not that he had a very good voice—suddenly I remembered how many years ago, when I was a boy, I had travelled with Bābāmaśāẏ [Father] on a boat to the Padma—one night, waking up around two o’clock, I had opened the window and, looking out, I saw the still river lit brilliantly by the moonlight and a boy rowing alone on a small dinghy singing a song in such a sweet voice—I had never heard a sweeter song till then. Suddenly I thought, what if my life could be returned to me from that day onward! Then I could test it once more and see—this time round I wouldn’t leave it lying thirsty and dry and unfulfilled—I would take the poet’s song and set out with the evening tide on a slender dinghy to float upon the world; to sing and to captivate and to go and see what the world contains; for once, to let myself be known and to know others; carried enthusiastically along by life, by youth, to travel around the world like the blowing wind, and then to return to spend a fulfilled and happy old age at home as a poet. It’s not as if it’s a very high ideal. To do good for mankind and to die like Christ may be a much greater ideal—but being the sort of person I am overall, I’ve never even contemplated that, nor do I wish to wither and die like that…. I don’t want to sacrifice this precious life to a self-inflicted lack by starving, looking at the sky, not sleeping, continuously quarrelling with myself and constantly depriving both this world and my humanity at every step. Instead of thinking that the creator of this world has cheated us and that it’s the devil’s trap, if I can trust it and love it and, if fate is willing, be loved in turn; if I could live like a man and die like one, then that is enough—it is not my work to try and disappear into air like a god.
33
Shilaidaha
15 October 1891
Last evening I was strolling around the riverbank towards a golden sunset in the west and back again towards a silver moon rising in the east, twirling my moustache as I walked—nature looking at me with the deep, silent and tender melancholy of a mother looking at a sick child—the river water as still as the sky, and our two tied boats lying like sleeping waterbirds with their faces hidden in their wings. All at once the maulabī came up and informed me in a scared whisper, ‘Calcutta’s Bhojiya has come.’ … I can’t tell you how many impossible anxieties sprang up instantly in my mind…. Anyway, suppressing my inward agitation, I went and sat down upon the royal chair in a grave and serious manner and sent for Bhojiya—the moment she entered the room, Bhojiya began to whine and fell at my feet, and I realized at once that if there was any disaster that had occurred, then it had happened to Bhojiya herself. After that she began to narrate a serial tale of disconnected misfortunes in her angular Bengali, howling and snivelling all the while. With great perseverance, we managed to get to the root of her story, which was this: Bhojiya and her mother used to quarrel quite frequently—nothing surprising about that—after all, they are both from a race of heroic women in western Aryavarta—not known for being soft-hearted. One evening, the mother and daughter got into a fight that went from the verbal domain to the physical—not the sort of embrace that comes from affectionate conversation but the fisticuffs that ensue from abusive language. It was the mother who lost that bout of wrestling—and she was also grievously wounded in the process. Bhojiya maintains her mother chased after her aiming a brass bowl at her head, and while she was trying to protect herself her bangle hit her mother on the head or somewhere and there was bloodshed. Anyway, all this resulted in Choto-bau immediately banishing her from the second floor to the lower reaches. Since then, she absolutely refuses to forgive her. Just look at that, Bob, a whining domestic warfront from the second floor in Calcutta has opened up in the middle of all the official work of this place. This happened about three or four days ago now, but I hadn’t been informed—and then a sudden thunder-strike without notice in the form of Bhojiya [binā noṭise bhajiẏāghāt].
34
Shil
aidaha
18 October 1891
I feel that the moment you travel outside Calcutta, man’s belief in his own permanence and greatness recedes to a great extent. Here, man is less and the earth is more—all around, you can see the sort of things that cannot be made today, repaired tomorrow, and sold off the day after, things that have always been standing firmly through man’s birth, death, actions and deeds—that travel in the same way every day and flow without rest through all time. When I come to the countryside, I don’t see man as an individual any more—just as the river flows through many countries, so too man flows, chattering and winding, through woods and villages and cities forever—this does not end. Men may come and men may go but I go on forever—that’s not quite the right way to put it. Man too goes on like a river does, through many tributaries and branches, one end of which lies in the fountainhead of birth and the other in the sea of death—two dark mysteries on both sides and a varied līlā* of work and play and chatter in between—this has no end in any age. There, listen, the farmer is singing in his field, the fisherman’s dinghy floats by, the morning lengthens, the sun grows warmer—at the ghat some bathe and some draw water—in this way, on both sides of this peaceful river, hundreds and hundreds of years rush by with a murmuring sound through the villages and the shade of the trees—and a tender sound rises from it all: I go on forever! In the still silence of the afternoon, when some cowherd boy calls out to his companion at the top of his voice, and a boat returns homeward with a smacking sound of the oars, and the women push at the water with their pitchers and that itself makes a gurgling sound, and alongside that the many unintentional sounds of nature in mid-afternoon—one or two birds calling, bees humming, the boat bending slowly in the wind, creating its own compassionate sound—all together it’s such a tender lullaby—as if a mother has been trying the entire afternoon to comfort her hurt son by lulling him to sleep, saying: don’t worry now, don’t cry now, no more hitting and punching, don’t fight and argue, forget about it for a little while, try and sleep a little! Saying this, she slowly pats a hot forehead.