Letters From a Young Poet 1887 1895

by Rabindranath Tagore

  243

  Patishar

  28 November 1895

  I’ve been wanting to put my hand to some writing, but I still can’t get my mind to concentrate on work—I don’t know how long it’s going to take to dispel this deep apathy, perhaps by then it will be time to return to Calcutta. It seems like a long time since I’ve come to the mofussil and that I’ve spent all these days being continuously useless—if I’d been obsessed with composing songs the days would have been filled with an incessant humming and passed intoxicated and the hours would have been spent unconsciously addicted to music. Of late I’ve been looking after jamidāri work, reading newspapers, reading books and eating my meals. If I could only force myself somehow to throw myself midstream into the flow of writing, I wouldn’t care for this world one bit any longer—my world would then be my own world, there I alone would be king, there I would be the god of all happiness, unhappiness and beauty. How many days am I made up of, after all, and how long will my joys and sorrows exist—but the stream of ideas that wells up from a source at the beginning of time and flows through a thousand minds towards eternity—that is the connection between me and all of the past and the future—in that kingdom of thought I am a complete man, not a particular individual named Rabi—there my joy and my pain permeate the universe. The unfortunate thing is that the established goddess of that kingdom of thought is far more restless than the restive goddess Lakshmi—when I want her, she doesn’t always appear, but when she wants me, then I cannot delay for a moment. I have to set aside the most urgent of tasks in the world and report my presence at her feet. In Calcutta, when I become frantic and fatigued with all the confrontations and the battles, I imagine my muse sitting, bowl of nectar in hand, in some distant secluded corner—but when I finally arrive there I see that stony Calcutta has followed me and my muse has hidden herself again in the most distant seclusion. Perhaps one day in the evening she will come silently and stand behind me in the starlight upon the roof of the boat and slowly rest her soft hand upon my shoulder, and I, gradually lifting my face, will see her mute face in the endless, mute sky—and there will be no more incompleteness.

  244

  Patishar

  29 November 1895

  There’s no doubt any more about the fact that I have written to you many times about Kaligram, but still, unless you repeat yourself you cannot maintain a correspondence, and perhaps it might not exactly even be repetition—because old things too strike us in new ways; every time I renew my acquaintance with my ever-familiar favourite things, it is always partly a fresh acquaintance; a new sense of wonder appears from somewhere each time. Kaligram is not a place that is among my favourite things, but once I arrive here, its old familiar features acquire a new attraction for me. I’m really enjoying this very small river and completely domestic sort of landscape. The river bends right ahead, just where there’s a small village and a few trees, ripening fields of grain on one side, and on the high bank of the river five or six cows shooing away flies with their tails, munching on grass with a chewing sound, while on the other side the empty fields stretch on and on—there’s moss floating on the river water, the occasional bamboo pole planted by fishermen in the water; a kingfisher sits upon a bamboo pole still as a picture; a flock of kites fly in the sky’s bright sunlight. It is afternoon, and in front me blossoming mustard flowers on a parcel of a mustard field near the milkman’s house blaze like fire—the women of the house draw water and feed the cows; in the mopped courtyard, the tethered cows bury their heads in tubs and eat their fodder; straw has been kept in heaps; a pond is being dug near the milkman’s house for our kāchāri, and Hindustani women in colourful clothes take the soil in baskets on their heads and dump it in a nearby pit of water. Here everything is close at hand. On both sides of the river, this side and that, there is a not-very-large lake that disappears within the bend of the river—on either side of this lake are the only two villages. Sitting in the middle of this lake, I’m surrounded on all sides by all the everyday work and business of these two villages. This is my whole world. These people sit in front of their houses and smoke, bathe and wash clothes; they cross the small river on small canoes, paddling the water with their hands; in the afternoon one or two idle women sit unmoving for a long time on the side of the house that is shady, watching the world go by as the day passes; the village schoolboys return home carrying their shabby books in a bundle—in the evening, lights are lit in the rooms, the cowsheds are wafted with smoke, the two villages fall silent like two nests—I’ve lifted up the spine of the shutters on my window and absorbed myself in studying the accomplishments of Goethe in the royal court at Weimar. Where am I, in a boat in Patishar by the banks of the river Nagor, and where the court poet Goethe of the work-abundant royal court of Weimar.

  245

  Shahjadpur

  4 December 1895

  A very old thought has been constantly coming up in my mind since morning—that the world is transient. Yet grief, sorrow and death affect us in such a way as though the world were permanent. Even if it’s all a mirage, māẏā, or whatever, still the widowed wife has to rear her infant children on her own—the philosophy of the Vedanta will not make the affection in a mother’s heart disappear! However irrevocable and powerful death may be, the bonds of love are not any less strong. Even after repeated defeats since the beginning of time, why does this endless conflict between given certainty and futile desire continue unabated? I was sitting and extending my imagination into the future a hundred years from now. I was thinking of what it was like a hundred years ago, that on an Agrahāẏaṇ morning in 1795 there would have been just this sort of winter, this sort of sunlight, this sort of commotion of people—but there’s not a trace of that morning in this one. In those days too, so many festivals, so much grief, so many births and deaths, tears and laughter must have appeared like burning truths. And then again, the morning of the 19th of Agrahāẏaṇ will appear at the appointed time over the world in the year 1995 too. This same sort of dew-wet grass, this winter breeze, the mild sun—but not the slightest shadow, not a trace of the memory of Jna——’s death or his bereft widow and orphaned children’s severest grief and sorrow will be cast upon that day—and I too, who, on a morning a hundred years before was thinking of myself as an aspect of the complete and living truth as I felt myself firmly established among my friends, relations, and near and dear ones, adjacent to the limitless world and the beginning of time—not a trace shall remain anywhere of me in the entire memory of the awakened human heart on that morning! On that day I will be without sorrow, without desire, without regret—yet this earth and this sky will be here.

  246

  Kaligram

  6 December 1895

  I had written to you saying that everything in Kaligram is small-scale and near at hand. But that’s only when I’m staying in the boat upon the river. The river is a small one, both its banks are high, and the boat too is narrow, so you can’t see very far all around—only a limited rural scene can be seen. Yesterday after a long time I climbed up on the riverbank on the opposite shore after sunset to walk there—as soon as I went up there I suddenly saw that the sky had no beginning or end, that the deserted field stretched wide open till the horizon—how far those tiny little villages of mine were! How narrow the little line of water at one end! On the fields at Shilaidaha, one can see trees and villages and woods—here there is nothing all around, only blue sky and white earth, and in the middle, a lonely, homeless, endless dusk—it seems as if a bride veiled in gold walks alone through the limitless field with the veil barely pulled across her face. Slowly, slowly, she travels this entire circular earth, across so many thousands of villages, rivers, fields, mountains, seas, cities and forests, throughout the ages, alone, with her astonished, tearful, wan gaze, silently, with tired steps—if she has no husband then who has dressed her up in this golden wedding attire! On which eternal western shore is her husband’s house? Yesterday, upon ascending that field, a certain
rhythm and music and poetry seemed to well up suddenly in my head. But I couldn’t give it form, and perhaps it was impossible to do so. As impossible as attempting to collect all the glitter of dusk to melt into a single golden image. That inner fervour I felt has been dispersed into that soundless, silent dusk above the field at Patishar, and has set with it. If my mind has drawn a golden line or two of its own upon the limitless canvas of that evening sky—will that be visible any more? When that dusk comes again to that field today, it will bring no sign of yesterday with it.

  247

  On the river

  Saturday, 7 December 1895

  The boat set off again today at dawn—we left the narrow river behind and emerged into an expansive marsh. The bright sun and the keen winter breeze are enjoyable. The dew-bright world looks like a morning flower newly blossomed in the sky. Having emerged from the small cave-like river at Patishar after a long time, my mind today has spread its wings across the sky, my boat floats along, I seem to be flying through this calm, clear sunlight. This place too is quite wonderful. The land and water are like conjoined twins, brother and sister—there’s no great difference between the two; water and land are on the same level; one part shines like steel in the sun, while another part is green with layers of herbivorous soil and mossy grass. Many varieties of herons and kites fly around, from white to brick-red, cormorants with long, shiny, black necks take a dive into the water and swim playfully around, chests puffed up; the fishermen have hung out their nets on bamboo poles—that’s where the long-beaked kingfishers have their āddā. Before we know it, the banks on either side grow higher at a certain place, and land and water divide—river in the middle, banks on either side, Agrahāẏaṇ’s yellow fields of grain on the banks; their heads bent, cows graze absorbedly upon the high banks, and near their mouthfuls of grass the śālik birds dance around, hunting for worms—on occasional islands of high ground are two or three straw huts surrounded by a few banana and kul trees and pumpkin vines, on whose porches stand naked children and curious housewives, staring amazed at my boat—black and white ducks huddle in groups by the waterside, busily cleaning the feathers on their backs with their beaks—far away, bamboo groves and dense rows of trees stand blocking the horizon—a little further away empty fields on either side—then again suddenly at one place the shouts of boys, the laughter and chatter of bathing women, the wail of a grieving older woman, the slapping sound of clothes being washed—I lift up my head at the sound of splashing bathing-water and see that we have arrived at the ghat of a densely shaded village; there are a couple of boats tied here and a reluctant bawling boy is being forcibly held down by the arm and bathed by his mother.

  248

  On the river to Shilaidaha

  Sunday, 8 December 1895

  I’ve been on the river since yesterday. We’d hoped to make it to Shilaidaha by today, but I don’t see any sign of that happening now. I’m not unhappy about that—the few days I get en route are days of unadulterated holiday for me—no work to be done apart from what I want to think or do of my own volition. I’m looking out of both windows, reading and writing—on every side there’s white sand and pale blue water, in the distance green fields and blue sky above. Occasionally in one or two places there was a touch of danger—the Padma’s waters are receding now in the winter, you see, which is why the narrow flow of water becomes tremendously forceful at certain spots. The water seems to cut the bottom of the boat with the scraping sound of a steel knife as it flows. Your eyes begin to hurt if you look at that fast-flowing water. I’ve been sitting the entire day with my rough book for poetry open, pencil in hand, writing a few lines now and then, and lazily gazing in this or that direction. I woke up at four in the morning today—got up and swathed myself in some warm clothes, lit the lamp, and finished a poem called ‘Urbśīa’, then I went to have my bath at seven-thirty—in this way I’ve completed two quite long poems in these last couple of days. If you can get this sort of free time, uninterrupted and whole, over entire days of open sky and unlimited light, you can then nurture a poem in all its colours and flavours just as nature causes her flowers to bloom and fruits to ripen. Or else there’s always a sense of hurry within—willingly or unwillingly, the mind is chased and harried down so many paths and wrong turns where the imagination receives no help at all. That’s why sometimes I think that if I can travel by boat for a month or a month and a half and keep going west—separating myself from all news of home and all discussion of work—to completely disappear from sight into forgetfulness and cessation like that distant bird rising in the sky—then I could complete so many pieces of writing in that abundance of leisure. I have no greater duty than that of writing. I have accepted this injunction within my heart and come to the world—when I obey it, my joys and sorrows are all lighter, when I don’t, then a horde of joys and sorrows are at my throat like a pack of greyhounds—what sort of terrible torture is this for a man!

  249

  On the way to Shahjadpur

  11 December 1895

  Ore bās re! What a terrible affair! We’ve just gone past the kāňcikāṭhā—an enormous hurdle has been crossed. This place is like a narrow, winding canal—an enormous amount of water rushes through this small space falling like a foaming, puffed-up waterfall—the angry water grabs, tears and pulls the entire boat along by the tuft of its hair—it runs along like lightning, so that there’s no time to even think of what has happened or what is happening—the oarsmen and boatmen begin to shout and cry out loudly—the water gurgles and splashes, the stunned heart stops breathing, astonished, and then in ten minutes you cross over the danger spot and absolutely leap into the lap of safety. We’ve left behind the marshes of Kaligram and reached the river now. Now, with the help of a supportive current, we’ll fly along with a whistling sound through high and winding banks of ripe grain and blossoming mustard fields on both sides. The smell of these mustard fields entrances me, bringing I don’t know what picture and atmosphere of beauty to mind—something like a field full of sunlight seen many years ago, a cool, calm breeze, a winding village road by a pond, a veiled bride with a pitcher at her waist, and, along with all that, I’m reminded of a generous, clear sky permeated with the mild fragrance of a mustard field—as if the smell of those mustard flowers were somehow entangled with the deep, happy memory of a time of satiated love and fulfilling peace.

  250

  Shilaidaha

  12 December 1895

  The other day I was suddenly quite surprised by a very small and minor incident. I’ve written to you before that nowadays in the evenings I light a lamp on the boat and sit and read until I feel sleepy, because one’s own solitary company is not always desirable, especially in the evenings. There’s a proverb that says that people who have no work indulge their aunts by accompanying them on a pilgrimage to the Ganga—a conveniently gratuitous aunt is rarely to be found close at hand when you need one, so then you have only your own mind to occupy yourself—rather than that, I think it’s better to keep yourself occupied with a book. The other evening, I was sitting and reading an English critical work on poetry and beauty and art and other such gobbledegook—while reading the dire argumentation around all this significant stuff there are times when I feel, tiredly, that everything is an empty mirage—that all twelve annas of it are made up, just words on top of words. That day too, as I read, I was filled with a dry, jaded feeling, and a mocking monster of doubt appeared in my mind. As it was getting quite late at night, I slammed the book shut with a bang, flung it on the table with a thud, and blew out the lamp with the intention of going to sleep. The moment the light was extinguished, moonlight flooded into the boat from the open windows on all sides and scattered all around. How astonished and taken aback I was! My tiny little ray of lamplight had been smiling the dry smile of a villain, yet that completely insignificant smile of contempt had entirely obscured the limitlessly deep smile of this universe’s love! What had I been searching for in the heaps of sentences of this
dry book—the one I had been looking for had been standing outside all this time, silently filling the entire sky. If by chance I had not seen her, and gone to bed in the dark, then too she would have had no objection to that small wick of my lamp, but would have set silently. If I hadn’t caught a glimpse of her even for a moment in this life and had gone to bed for the last time in the darkness of the last day of my life, then too that lighted lamp would have won, for she would still have spread across the entire world in the same sort of silence and with the same sweet smile—she would not have hidden herself, nor would she have shown herself.

  Since then, nowadays in the evenings I’ve begun to put out the lighted lamp.

  251

  Shilaidaha

  14 December 1895

  Nowadays, between my writing and my leisure, I’ve begun to read a slim biography of the poet Keats little by little. Just in case it finishes in one go, I read it slowly, savouring it and saving it—I’ve been enjoying reading it. Of all the English poets I know, I feel the most intimate connection with Keats. There may be many more important poets than him, but none so much after my own heart. Unfortunately he died young, and was given little time to write…. Keats’s language is full of the sincerity of a very real experience of joy. His art and his heart have come together in the same melodic pattern—whatever he has created has always had a pulsating connection with his heart. The poems of a majority of the modern poets such as Tennyson or Swinburne have the air of having been carved in stone—they write poetically, and there is a great beauty in what they write, but the inner heart of the poet is not a witness to the truth of that writing. Tennyson’s poem ‘Maud’ has a wellspring of lyricism that is both multi-hued and intensely heartfelt, it’s true, but still, Mrs Browning’s sonnets are far more intimately true. The unconscious poet in Tennyson writes lines that are then coloured over by the brushstrokes of the self-conscious artist Tennyson and increasingly obscured from view. In Keats’s writing, the natural and deep joy of the poet’s heart radiates outward, full of life and brightness, through the skilful craft of his compositions. That’s what attracts me to it so much. Keats’s writing is not holistic and almost no poem of his achieves perfection from the first line through to the last, but by the strength of their particular genuinely beautiful living quality, they are able to give intimate company to our living hearts. When I get back to Calcutta I’ll give you this biography of Keats to read. His incomplete short life is so tender and sad.