Letters From a Young Poet 1887 1895

by Rabindranath Tagore

  86

  Teertal

  Friday, 3 March 1893

  This cloud and rain is all very well in a concrete building, but not very congenial for two imprisoned souls in a small boat. In the first place, the moment you stand up or move about you get a knock on the head, but on top of that if you have water falling on your head, it might alleviate the pain a little, but it completely fills up my ‘cup of woes’. I had thought that the rain and storm had finished in a way, and that the freshly bathed earth-beauty would now dry her loose wet hair with her back to the sun, that she would put her wet green sari to dry upon the branches of the trees, spread it out upon the fields—and her vernal orange āncal would dry up and flutter lightly in the air. But it’s not quite like that yet—there’s no let-up in the rains. I had the forethought to borrow a copy of Meghdūt from somebody in Cuttack at the end of this Phalgun—the day the skies above the endless fields of grain in front of our small house in Pandua are a wet, calm, deep blue, like the tear-filled, adoring eyes of love, I will sit on the veranda and recite from it. Unfortunately, I can never memorize anything—I don’t have the great luxury of being able to recite the appropriate verse at the appropriate time. When I need to, by the time I fumble around trying to find the book to read from, the moment is gone. Just imagine how difficult it would be if you felt like crying because you’ve been hurt, but you have to send the doorman to the house at Bathgate to bring back a bottle of tears! That’s why each time I set out for the mofussil [district] I have to take a great number of books with me—not that I read all of them every time, but you never know beforehand when you might feel the need for a particular book, that’s why you have to keep all the arrangements at hand. It would be much easier if men’s minds had particular seasons—just as we travel with only winter clothes in the winter and there’s no need to take the ulster* with us in the summer, so too, if only we knew when winter or spring would arrive in our minds, we could take the appropriate poetry or prose along with us in advance. But then the mind doesn’t have six seasons, it has a full fifty-two—like a packet of cards—you never know which one you’ll pick—and I don’t know the name of the whimsical player who sits inside and deals out the cards for this whimsical card game. That’s why there’s no end to man’s preparations—there’s no accounting for the kinds of and number of things that need to be kept at hand. That’s why I have an entire range of books with me, from ‘Nepalese Buddhistic Literature’ to Shakespeare. I’m not going to touch most of these, but there’s no saying when I might need which one. On other trips I have always brought along my Vaishnava poets and Sanskrit books; this time I didn’t, which is why I feel I need them the most. If I had had the Meghdūt with me when I had travelled in Puri and Khandagiri, I would have been very happy. But I didn’t have the Meghdūt, I had Caird’s Philosophical Essays with me instead—that’s what one calls ‘her-pher’ [this for that].

  87

  Cuttack

  Monday, 6 March 1893

  You’ve asked me if I’m happy to have been praised by the magistrate of Puri. The question arises in your mind because I haven’t told you the whole story. So let me give you a detailed account. At first when Bihari-babu had asked me to call upon the magistrate of Puri, I had hesitated a great deal, but when they reassured me and said they wanted me to do it, I went ahead in spite of my reservations. Writing my name down upon a couple of cards, I set out with Bihari-babu and the others. They didn’t have cards with them—they just sent word and at the same time sent up my two cards. After five minutes we received the news that we could meet the saheb the next day in the morning. Bihari-babu and Mrs Gupta were very surprised. We all proceeded to sidle out of the magistrate’s front door and leave. Bihari-babu was very annoyed. Then in the evening a letter arrived to say that Mrs Walsh (the magistrate’s called Walsh) was very sorry. Her caprasi had not informed her that the judge saheb and his memsaheb had sent word. I too had thought so. But the fact of the matter is that the magistrate does not want to disregard the judge saheb, but if any ‘native’ gentleman presents himself, then he is told to come back the next day to meet him. Perhaps he thinks it very forward to have cards sent to Mrs Magistrate. Of course he can always say he doesn’t have time that day, but to tell me to come back at a time of his own choosing to salaam him—which nawab’s son does he think he is? The fault, though, lies with our own countrymen—they go and solicit for jobs, and salaam and wait at their doors at the appointed time because they’re thinking of their daily bread and butter—so it’s inconceivable that a person like me, with a Bengali name, should show off my sense of social duty and ‘call’ upon the magistrate and Mrs Magistrate. So it’s a bit much to go and get upset with the magistrate over this matter. But this is something I’ve been thinking about quite a lot—that it’s really the ultimate botheration trying to lovingly establish a social relationship with them. I may be a bhadralok, and a well-respected one at that, but that has absolutely no value for them. They don’t give us any purchase until we’ve extinguished our distinctive national characteristics and worn an artificial honour given out by them. Take a look at the barristers in our country, for example—however anglicized they might be, or fond of English society, when they return to this country they can never establish a relationship with the sahebs. Even in the bar library, like a dark spot on a full moon, they exist in a separate, limited dark space, naturally segregated. What’s the point of it, really, what’s the great need for it! Are we so sick of our own homes? However dark our dark relatives may be, they are not, after all, darker than us. As long as the English honour me separately from my countrymen, that honour is insulting and inconsequential. When the Puri magistrate met me the next day and invited me over—do you think I was very happy about that? Don’t even think that. Ignoring the invitation would have been too explicit a way of showing I was upset and would have belittled the nature of my real distress—besides which it would have meant upsetting Bihari-babu a great deal. So I went to dinner, shook hands with the magistrate’s sister-in-law and smiled and sat down to dinner, agreed with the lady next to me on the beauty of the seaside scenery, and expressed my happiness at the fact that the sea breezes of Puri made the summers more bearable. Then I listened to some singing, sang myself, applauded, and received applause. This little bit of appreciation that one gets—does it really enter the heart? Isn’t it a bit like satisfying one’s curiosity? Isn’t it like testing to see which sort of food from our cuisine is palatable to the taste buds of a species entirely different from us? Do they really like everything that I like? And is everything they don’t like really not good? If that’s not the case, then why should I be so happy with the applause from those white hands? If we begin to attach disproportionate importance to English applause, we shall have to neglect many a good thing of our country and accept many awful things of theirs. Then it could be that I’d be ashamed to step out without my socks on, but I wouldn’t shy from donning evening dress for their dances. Then I won’t be anxious about completely abandoning the civilized manners of our country and blithely taking up some common uncivilized custom of their country. I’ll abandon our country’s āckān [short coat] because it’s not exactly to my liking, but I’ll put their country’s hat upon my head even if it looks dreadful. Applause and handshakes from white hands are very terrible things for us; they give us the minimum of superficial respect, but underneath, they destroy our self-respect. Consciously or unconsciously, we begin to structure our lives according to the dictates of that applause, and that makes us very small indeed. I address myself and say, ‘Oh vessel of clay, stay away from that vessel of brass: you will crumble to pieces if it gets angry and strikes you, and if it is friendly with you and gives you a slap on the back, then too you’ll get a hole in your side and drown in the depths’—so listen to the advice of the aged Aesop and stay away—that’s the basic moral. Let it stay in the big house, and I, a small vessel, in a small house with minor jobs to do, but if it manages to break you then you have nei
ther the small house nor big—you will become the same as the earth from which you were made. Then maybe the owner of the big house might pick you up as a clay fragment and display you on one side of his drawing-room cabinet like a curiosity—it is better to be firmly ensconced by the waist of a housewife in a small village—there’s more honour there.

  88

  Cuttack

  Tuesday, 7 March 1893

  Poor Suri wasn’t created to pass examinations. He should have sidestepped all that and become ‘literary’ like me. But the problem for him is that just as he himself is quite comfortably sunk in the depths of his easychair, his mind too is quite comfortably settled within its inner quarters—its vast peace is difficult to disturb. We may be unsociable, inefficient, and unsuccessful in worldly affairs, and yet our mind is not confined to a corner but constantly taking off in flight—it’s difficult to tie it down even for a moment. That’s the chief sign of craziness. There’s no craziness in Suri, he’s very calm. He has the sort of deep, unworried, unhurried feeling that the face of nature displays. For a constantly restless person like me, the seclusion of nature and the still, calm company of a person like Suri is very essential. When he embraces me in his characteristically peaceable and calm manner, putting both his arms around me, it is as if he’s raised a dam against all my restiveness. There are some people who, without doing anything at all, achieve unlooked-for results; Suri belongs to that group. It’s almost as if it’s really not necessary for him to pass a lot of exams, get prizes, write, do something big or have a good job—one feels that he has accomplished something even without having done anything. For most people, being useless doesn’t look good, that only accentuates their incompetence. But even if Su doesn’t do anything at all, nobody will be able to look down on him as incompetent. The busyness of work is like a cover for most people. It’s very necessary for commonplace people, it covers up their poverty and their thinness. But those who are the naturally fulfilled type can retain their dignity and good appearance even when they are without any cover of work. If you saw that type of sixteen-to-the-anna laxness in any other boy except Suri, I’m sure it would have been unbearable, but Suri’s laziness has a sort of sweetness about it. That’s not because I love him—the main reason for that is because sitting quietly by himself, he’s become quite mature, and he’s not the slightest bit indifferent to his relatives. It’s when laziness is inflated with stupidity and neglect of others to become greasy and plump that it’s really an object of scorn. Suri saheb seems to be soaked in a sweet juice of laziness that is full of empathy and good sense. The tree that blooms with fragrant flowers need not also bear edible fruit. I often think to myself that if I had not had a couple of natural strengths such as poetic and other talents then it would have been difficult to find someone as unbearable, prickly and fruitless as me in this world. I too am unemployable by birth, but I’ve managed to get by somehow on this journey because I had a natural talent for writing. Otherwise none of you would have been able to love me at all, Bob. I know that for sure. Everybody loves Suri—not because of his work, or his ability, or his effort—but because of the harmony and beauty integral to his character. But society demands work of a man regardless of his character—that’s why sometimes I wish someone would give Suri a shake so that he becomes more self-aware and tries harder—not for us, but for outsiders. When others ask ‘What do you do’, why should Suren reply ‘I don’t do anything’! After all, they wouldn’t know his worth. There’s a simple and easy nobility in him because of which he attracts the love and respect of all his relatives and friends, which is why he functions as an example for those who know him. But until a man establishes himself in society he remains unsuccessful. Then what’s to be done? Everybody doesn’t have the strength to be everything. I’m completely satisfied with the way Suri is. To have had all of you as close relatives after I was born in this world is something I feel grateful about. Only I know how much all of you have helped me. Those who are good don’t know how valuable their love is. Suri and you love me—and although I expect it, it also seems very surprising to me. If I think about it properly, I don’t feel I deserve anything good, everything seems like a special favour—I get so much so easily that I don’t understand properly how immeasurable and unlimited that getting is, but even so, if perhaps I get a little less, I feel that it’s very unfair neglect. The most important sign of the fact that man is undeserving is his—ingratitude.

  89

  Calcutta

  16 March 1893

  A little bit of sun is out today after a long time—what a relief—all this while the cloudy days seemed to be lying there huddled in a wet, black blanket, but today the day has appeared wearing the yellow garb of spring and a happy, healthy countenance. Just think, it’s the start of Caitra, but this time it’s still not hot at all—I wear a cāpkān and jobbā [long coat] during the day, and at night I wrap myself in a shawl and blanket—to lie under the stars on the open terrace in the south wind, all of us crowded together on the cotton mat, is beyond imagining. Everybody is saying that such an unprecedented affair’s never happened in the country before. One has heard of no rain in the rainy season, or that it wasn’t cold enough in the winter, but managing to cheat the Bengali summer is a very surprising thing….

  Su—— was conducting the conversation in the most accomplished style. Brushing up close and bending over, he was conducting a conversation in English with a slight smile on his face, head inclined, showing the pictures in the album and making all the right moves. He didn’t show the slightest bit of discomfort or the sort of constraint or shyness that a boy from a Bengali home would normally display in such a situation.

  I was very amused and surprised to see this. I don’t think I’d be able to conduct a conversation with the weaker sex with such absolute ease and sweetness and confidence even now that I’m almost thirty-two years old. I stumble when I walk, stutter when I must speak, can’t decide where to keep my hands, feel it’s my duty to arrange my long legs somehow, but always fail to do anything about them—by the time I’ve decided whether to keep them tucked away under me, or in front, or behind, I’m unable to match the correct answers to the appropriate questions. In the presence of three gas lamps and a roomful of people, to establish one’s self solidly by the side of some young woman in an instant, without hesitation, like a piece of iron attracted to a magnet, is impossible for timid, anxious creatures such as myself…. Our boys with the looks of the god Kārtik keep standing respectfully in the wings, their fair faces growing redder with shyness all the time—they don’t have the skill to elbow through the crowd and find a nice soft spot and warmly cosy up. What could be more regrettable than that!

  90

  Calcutta

  6 April 1893

  Nowadays I sometimes have conversations with Mo—— about all manner of things—I like that a great deal. My mind continually hungers for these sort of discussions. It’s as if my mind is starved all day and night in this wretched, desolate country—it keeps feeding upon itself from within. There’s nobody here who’s alive, who thinks, who speaks—who protests, who encourages, who listens to you, who understands you—who tries to look beneath the surface into your heart! Some are busy amusing themselves, some are lazy, some go to office—nobody has the slightest headache about the fact that the living thing that is a man’s mind is drying up until it is half-dead. I went to Priya-babu’s house this morning; it was as if I’d consumed a lot of food and drink there.

  91

  Calcutta

  16 April 1893

  I have my doubts about how you’ll feel reading this sitting in a hotel in the midst of the chaos of your journey. How far apart that sea in Puri and your hotel in Agra are from one another! The deep, ancient relationship we have with this earth, this sea—unless we sit down alone in nature, face-to-face with it, how do we ever understand it or feel it within our hearts? When there was no soil on this earth and the oceans were completely alone, my restless heart of today wou
ld have rocked silently upon the waves of that desolate sea; one seems to understand that when gazing at the ocean and hearing its concerted sound. Sitting here alone, my inner ocean too is being rocked in the same way—deep within it something is being created—so many uncertain hopes, unnecessary fears, so many kinds of creation and destruction, heaven and hell, trust and suspicion, so many feelings and conjectures based upon that which is beyond man, or experience, or evidence—the endless mystery of beauty, the fathomless frustration of love—all sorts of amazing, immeasurable things entwined and entangled in the mind of man. Unless one sits down alone under a free sky or on the shore of a vast ocean, one cannot experience one’s own hidden inner mystery properly. But there’s no point in my worrying myself to bits regarding all this—I have said what came to my mind and that’s all—after that, let the ocean’s waves keep pulsating in the same way and let men continue to huff and puff and run around in circles.

  92

  Calcutta

  30 April 1893

  That’s why I was able to keep lying on the terrace till ten at night yesterday.

  A Caturda moon* had risen in the sky—there was a wonderful breeze—there was no one else on the terrace. I was lying there on my own and thinking about my entire life. This second-floor terrace, this moonlight, this south wind is mixed up in my life’s memories in so many ways. The leaves of the śisu trees in the south garden were making a shivering sound, and I was trying to bring my childhood feelings to mind with my eyes half shut. Old memories are like wine—the longer they stay stored in your heart, the sweeter their colour and taste and intoxication. These bottles of our memories should be kept cooled for our old age ‘in deep delved earth’—to be tasted then a drop at a time on moonlit nights on the terrace—I’m sure we’d like that. When we’re young we aren’t satisfied with only imagination and memory; because then our blood is strong, our bodies energetic—we want to engage in some sort of work. But in old age, when we are naturally unable to work and the excessive energy of our youth is not bearing down upon us, then perhaps only memories are enough—our past memories then fall upon our calm minds like moonlight upon still waters with such clarity that they are difficult to distinguish from present affairs.