Letters From a Young Poet 1887 1895

by Rabindranath Tagore

  On Saturday afternoon, after lunch, Bolu, Bihari-babu and I got into a hired phaeton carriage and spread out our blankets and bedding, and, with three pillows tucked behind three backs, and a cāprāśi [orderly] perched upon the coachbox, started our journey…. The rivers here dry up when the rains are over; Cuttack is situated by the side of two such rivers. One of these is called the Mahanadi, and the other is called the Kathjuri. We had to cross the Kathjuri on our way. We had to get down from the carriage there and get into a palanquin. The white sands stretched for miles. In English they call it a riverbed, and it is a bed indeed. It is like the relinquished bed in the morning—it rises and falls in places whichever way the river current has turned on its side, or wherever it has applied some pressure—nobody has tried to carefully smooth down that dishevelled bed evenly, everything is still in disarray and scattered—at the other side of these vast sands a narrow little stream of clear water flows by faintly. In Kalidasa’s Meghdūt we read a description of the separated loved one, the yaksha’s wife, lying on her side like the lean outline of the new moon on the day of the Kṛshnapaksha fortnight in the east. Looking at this sliver of river at the end of the rains, another metaphor seems to come to mind for the pining woman….

  The road from Cuttack to Puri is a very good one. It has been maintained with such care that you don’t see the marks of carriage wheels upon it anywhere. The road is on a higher level, with both sides falling off in either direction. It is shaded by large trees. Mostly mango trees. At this time of year, most of the mango trees are in flower, and their smell makes the whole road distraught. An attractive, saffron-coloured, neat and clean road has made its way between the dense, long rows of trees—ploughed farmland descends from it on either side. Occasionally, you see a village surrounded by mango, aśvattha, banyan and coconut trees. There are no jungles here, or ponds full of water hyacinth or bamboo groves like in our Bengal—the whole country seems to have been tidied up as if for a Brahmin’s feast, altogether there’s quite an air of pilgrimage about it. We were supposed to stop midway at a ḍāk bungalow in a place called Sardaipur. On the way there we had to cross two rivers again. One was called Baluhonta, and the other, Bhargavi. There wasn’t much river in them—from time to time just a little clear water shining in some places in the dry sand. On the bank, a number of covered bullock carts stood upon the sand, sweet shops had been set up under roofs of round leaves—passengers ate on the roadside under the trees and inside small rows of huts, and teams of beggars began to whine in a variety of voices and languages the moment they saw new travellers and carriages or palanquins.

  We reached the bungalow at Sardaipur in the evening. The bungalows here are pretty. Small, clean, hidden amidst trees and groves, secluded—one feels like spending a couple of days in these rest houses and really getting some rest. We all set out to look around after having our tea. The sun had just set at that time—in the evening twilight, the entire sky, vast fields, distant hills and a small broken-down temple on top of a hill appeared washed in a peaceful, beautiful exaltation. How do I say any more than this to you—you know how often I have written to you expressing the intense, deep love I have for this sort of evening scene. Not a single living creature was to be seen upon that long and silent road intersecting the rows of trees and the vast low-lying lands on either side; I wished that we too could be quiet and walk through the middle of this silence slowly, with our heads bent—but there was no let up in the conversation….

  We woke up on Sunday morning to a cloudy sky. We had our bread and tea, finished our morning bath and got into the carriage. The phaeton’s veil could be discarded because the sun was covered with clouds. The closer we got to Puri, the more travellers we saw on the road. Covered bullock carts were travelling together like a crowd of misfortunes. There were people sleeping, cooking, and gathered in groups by the road, under the trees, beside the ponds. Yet, until then we had barely come across any travellers. There are times when this long road absolutely fills up with people, and in the old days both sides of this road would be strewn with the bodies of travellers who had died of plague or starvation. Even today when it gets crowded a lot of people die of disease, starvation, and the travails of travel….

  The trees on both sides of the road began to decrease the nearer we got to Puri. Occasionally there were temples, and inns and large ponds began to be appear more and more frequently. We could also see plenty of sannyāsīs, beggars and travellers. Some of these beggars followed our carriage for almost half an hour at a time, running continuously while invoking the blessings of Lord Jagannath upon us all, panting as they begged. They’re almost all of them quite healthy, well-built and strong Brahmins. Puri is near the sea, so there aren’t that many trees near it. There is a sort of large lake on the right side of the road, and on the other side, above the tops of the trees to the west, the temple’s spire can be seen. From the incremental density in the rows of temples and the crowds of travellers on the roadside I realized we were very near Puri. We were to stay in the circuit house, which was outside the town. Suddenly at one point the moment we emerged from the groves of trees we saw a spread-out shore of sand and a line of deep blue sea. On the shore two or three scattered white houses, a chapel and some wells. There were paved footpaths in the sand and occasionally a bench to sit on. I can’t even begin to express how much I like the sea at Puri; perhaps it might suffice if I tell you that a poor person like me is thinking about borrowing some money to build a bungalow here. I kept thinking of Kalidasa’s Meghdūt when I saw this road in Orissa. In the Meghdūt we read about the village Dasharna fenced with keẏā trees, and here too there are many villages bordered with keẏā trees. All along the horizon one can see blue mountains at the edges and what in the Meghdẏt is called the nagnadī, or the mountainous streams, those that flow with water only in the rainy season, and are full of sand and gravel in the summer—there are many rivers of that sort over here. And on top of that our journey to Puri this time has been conducted almost entirely in cloudy weather, with the dark shadows of the clouds falling upon the large coconut groves, temples, and farmer’s fields, and the lines of the mountains on the horizon and the lines of the clouds had come together as one. And then tonight we are going to see the ruins of the Sun Temple at Konarak.

  82

  Cuttack

  25 February 1893

  You’ll see that my writing will progress in leaps and bounds today—today I shall surely finish the Diary I had begun to write for the Caitra issue of Sādhanā, which, like a heavily loaded bullock cart on a broken road, hadn’t been making any progress at all. When my mind is a little unhappy, Sādhanā seems like an unbearable load. When I’m happy, I feel I can lift up the entire load on my own. Then I think, I’m going to work for my country, and I will be successful. The encouragement of others or favourable circumstances don’t seem necessary, and I feel that for my own work I alone am enough. But sometimes I see a vision of myself in the distant future—I see that I have become white-haired and old, and I have almost reached the end of a large, disorderly forest through which I have carved a long, straight road, and at the other end of the forest the travellers who have come after me have begun to enter that road, one or two of whom can be seen in the evening light. I know for sure that ‘my efforts shall never be in vain’. Very slowly, little by little, I shall capture the heart of my country—at least some of my words shall find a place in its heart. When I think like this, the attraction of Sādhanā increases for me. Then I think Sādhanā is like an axe in my hand which will cut through the large societal wilderness of my country—I won’t let it lie neglected to gather rust—I shall always keep it in my grasp. If I can find helpers, well and good; if I don’t, then I must work alone.

  83

  Cuttack

  27 February 1893

  But the person called M—— who was sitting on the stage had given such a long speech that the audience had become very impatient. If you have to listen continuously to so many words the mind b
ecomes quite frantic—it’s just the opposite effect of meditation. One is happier sitting at home playing cards or dice. This is why I don’t feel like going to the weekly sermon at the Brahmo Samaj. Everything has a good and a bad side, an appropriate and an inappropriate side. You really can’t say that it’s my duty to go every week and patiently sit and listen to any old person who is going to speak in any which way he likes about religion. Instead, it makes me feel dissatisfied and rebellious. The person who speaks well should speak, and I will hear what he says—that’s the rule. The nobler the subject matter, the better the speaker should be. But it’s become the case that a religious speech is frequently assigned to an incapable person. That’s because people think a good deed is done the moment they hear anything religious—that’s why anybody can climb up on a rock and speak anyhow and people listen silently and do their duty and leave. That’s why nobody judges the capability of a man making a religious speech. I think this is completely wrong. A person with a finer appreciation for a particular subject cannot tolerate fraudulence in that subject. I cannot comprehend how those who have any appreciation of religion or literature can tolerate this pallid and tasteless flow of old nonsense. And I don’t see how such a sermon can make those without it develop any sense of appreciation either. Actually, what George Eliot calls otherworldliness is how many people think unconsciously of religion—they think that the time you spend in any religion-related activity is like an investment entered into some ledger where the interest rates keeps increasing. But I think it’s a great loss if a worthy subject is not spoken about well enough. Not only is your mental equilibrium ruined, your innate conscious ability to understand is also destroyed. Just as listening regularly to songs that are not sung in tune is bad education, so too listening regularly to unsuitable religious sermons is a very harmful thing for mankind. That’s why I don’t want to get onto the stage myself to speak either: I know I don’t have a natural ability for it, nor is there an irresistible urge in me to do it—and I don’t consider it my duty to go every Wednesday to listen to ——’s sermons—rather, when Baṛ-dada speaks then my heart is wholly absorbed and I benefit from it. When incompetent people begin to speak, my mind fills with an unbearable impatience and irritation which is detrimental.

  84

  Cuttack

  Tuesday, 28 February 1893

  I’m in complete agreement with what you’ve said. I don’t remember what I wrote to you; perhaps, in my frustration, I’d said too much. But, in my opinion, we need to be unknown and operate in private for a long time to come now. This is the time for us to get ready, not the time to dance around in front of others unprepared. The time when one is building something is a very secret time. Very small boys and girls who are allowed to participate all the time in the amusements and meetings of adults don’t progress any further—if they speak a few clever words and imitate their elders’ amusing ways and are applauded for it, they think, ‘We’re perfect now, quite equal to our older brothers’—similarly at this stage in our national childhood if we too hanker after a bit of applause and a seat at the side of the meeting by displaying our outer polish and a couple of brisk English mannerisms, we will make the mistake of thinking that we have accomplished everything. All those hard tasks without immediate reward, difficult duties, the complete dedication of heart and mind without which the national character cannot be formed—those will seem unnecessary and insignificant. Take a look at just one example—all those patriots who make good speeches in English, how they look down on Bengali language and literature! And the temporary benefit from that one good English speech is so slight in comparison with all that is lost because of that scorn! Once somebody has been honoured with a seat at the India or Bengal Council, how little that person comparatively values working from within society! Someone who has dressed up as an Englishman and been allowed to sit briefly at one side of an English table doesn’t care an iota about winning the hearts of his countrymen any more! This is entirely natural. But we need to be extra careful exactly because it’s natural. I know that if the Governor saheb spends two days on the second floor of our house reclining upon that easy chair of mine and calls me ‘my dear’ while puffing on his cheroot, then this Rabi that I am, who has assumed an aspect like a ball of fire in the mid-afternoon sun, I too may be swallowed up whole in a single ring of smoke expelled from those outcaste lips of Lansdowne. What a satisfied smile would spread over my entire face then, and what sticky sweetness drip from my speech! That’s the chief worry! That’s why the second-floor terrace needs to be locked (just in case our Governor saheb comes by to smoke a cheroot with his dearest friend Tagore under that tin roof)! The Pandavas spent one year in hiding when they were preparing for the Kurukshetra war—Guru Govind spent many years out of sight, making himself ready in solitude, before he accepted the status of Guru. That is the time for us now. If we don’t keep ourselves secluded at our lonely workplace to work for our own people and our own society in the deepest, most serious and completely engaged way, if we once let our hearts be distracted, if we desire constant applause for the small incomplete tasks that we have accomplished long before we are really done—then nothing will be attained. Trees derive nourishment from the sun, but seeds shrivel up and die in it—similarly, the initial stages of work should not be exposed to outside praise or blame, criticism or scorn—it’s only when it becomes a little older and pushes out of the soil that it can accept the sun and the rain and use them to become strong. Let the English criticize us, praise us, whatever—let them be unhappy with us or happy—we must not spare a single glance in that direction but continue to dedicate our lives to working for our neglected country, our neglected language, our humiliated people. It’s not an easy thing to enter a doorway so low and dark, so full of insult, rejection and ignominy! Once you are used to the luxury of fame and honour, how will you survive in poverty! You constantly think—how do I get the English to read my book, how to get a slap on the back from the English, how to ensure that my detestable countrymen don’t mistake me for one of their own, and how to see to it that the English accept me as a great exception to the rule in my country. I don’t blame those who have once tasted the honour of English company thinking it’s an invaluable thing—it’s a tremendous attraction and temptation, no doubt about it. But that is exactly why I want to hide inside my hole. ——’s raja prefers to go to Simla and play tennis with the sahebs and dance with the mems rather than sit in his own country and govern it—and the sahebs and mems praise him much more than they do the Raja of Darbhanga, saying there is no difference between him and an Englishman—how difficult it must be for him now to be in —— and rule his kingdom! Perhaps I too might have been exactly like that—after all, I too am a Bengali, I too lack a fierce independence of my own. That’s why I must store it secretly and nurture it with a lot of care—and until it becomes strong and able to protect itself I must keep it hidden and supply it with fuel and straw. After that I shall not be afraid of anybody, after that I won’t be ashamed of myself—but for now I cannot trust myself.

  85

  Baliya

  Friday, 3 March 1893

  We are still on the boat. It’s a small boat. This boat’s been made by building a roof on a large jolly boat—I see now that its chief ambition seems to be to humble the pride of tall people like me—the moment I make the mistake of raising my head a little, an enormous slap from a plank of wood hits me hard on the head—it takes the wind out of you completely—that’s why I’ve been going around with my head bowed since yesterday. There’s no need to tell you, of course, that I manage to knock my head on things, stumble, get cuts on my hands or legs, and suffer similar mishaps quite effortlessly even in the safest of places; in that context, it’s not difficult to imagine the misery of an absentminded six-foot-tall man in this four-and-a-half-foot boat. All the sorrow and pain that was written on this forehead now increases anew every time I try to stand up. Even that I really don’t mind so much—but last night I couldn’t slee
p the entire night because of mosquitoes—and that I find extremely unfair. I’m used to putting up with all sorts of discomfort, but lack of sleep is something I find difficult to get used to. That’s why all the joints of my body seem to have become loose today—I’m lying flat on the bed, resting on my left elbow with the portfolio spread out on the pillow, writing to you in the laziest way. And then over here winter’s gone and summer is at hand—the sun has become warmer and a slow, cool, damp breeze comes and touches my back from the window beside me. Today neither the winter nor civilization has any purchase with me—the cāpkān and cogā [outer garment] hang from the hook in an extreme embrace—I’m blithely spending the morning in a blue-and-red striped jin night suit, the bell isn’t ringing, the uniformed khansama isn’t coming in to salaam—I’m enjoying the untidy, relaxed state of the half-civilized. The birds are calling, and on the shore the two big banyan trees’ leaves make a shivering sound in the breeze, the sun on the surface of the trembling water flashes and shines when it comes inside our boat, and the morning proceeds in this loose sort of way. In Cuttack, watching the hurrying of the boys going to school and Bihari-babu going to court, one really felt that time was expensive and civilized society very busy. Here time is not divided into small well-defined sections—only into the two large divisions of night and day.