Boyhood Days
Did I ever tell you that I hate the traffic signals in NY? especially the Jaywalker in me is impatient to skip every walk sign at the end of the road, it is habitual , I explain to the wide eyed videsi by my side, he chuckles and waves before that black Limo misses me by an inch, I like the thrill, the high of not walking to the whims of some signal, I am free and I am agile, like a fox...
Tagore with Mrinalini Devi, his wife (1983)
So with these simple pleasures I sit by the side of my window and open "boyhood days" the biography of Rabindranath Tagore . The book was picked up by me on a random search in a book store. The book is not a novel it is a collection of beautiful prose and poetry, introduced by Amartyasen and crafted gently by Radha Chakravarthy.
Tagore with Mrinalini Devi, his wife (1983)Tagore wrote this book shortly before his death, but his memories are so vivid and come across with such intense color,one is spell bound by the beauty of it all.
First of all let me tell you, I had never heard of Puffin Classics!, maybe I had read some Puffin classics and had passed them as Penguin, but I wonder whether Penguin missed this one?
The book delves in to the Tagore household, the days of splendor and opulence, it is as if you are watching a movie by Satyajit ray, You sense the camera moving from one shot to the other recreating the depth of an era bygone, awakening our senses to the scent, texture and
taste.
For the most part Tagore is talking about the world that he had seen as a young child and with modernization how things had changed, he is casual about it, he doesn't blame the new world but he coaxes the readers to use our own discretion to choose , his narrative is fluid, gentle and lifts you to a wonderland, the judgments are kept aside, it's breathtaking beauty that you want to experience...
read this in his own words..
Those days, our house was full of people, and degrees of familiarity were not clearly demarcated. All around us was the hustle and bustle of male and female attendants deployed in different quarters of the household:
Pyari the maid, crossing the front yard, on her hip a dhama or large rattan basket laden with vegetables; Dukhan the bearer, fetching water from the ganga in pitchers suspended from the bankh balanced on his shoulder; the weaver-woman, making for the inner quarters of the house, to peddle saris designed with the latest borders...
Tagore has noticed every piece of activity in his household, nothing or no detail has missed his sight, even in terms of woman's attire, or man's fancy, he documents a period in his life when Babumoshais lived in splendor.
It seems that Tagore was the youngest of the boys and mostly found alone either reading or
discovering the human relationships.
When Kadambari was a young bride of nine, married to his elder brother Jyotirdutta, his interactions with her must have brought him closer to her, since they both were almost of the same age , they had much in common and were playmates on many vocations.
When he refers to her in this book as "my bouthakuran" , there is a hint of greif and mirth that unfolds in his thoughts...as if childhood had never left his side.
Kadambari committed suicide when she was 24(1984), soon after Rabinder married Mrinalini an uneducated , illiterate bride, Mrinalini died at the age of 30 . We do not know the reasons of Kadambari's death but, speculations are ripe, I sense a loss so deep in his words , it could only be termed as losing one's soul or friend who was nearest to him,there is no hint of lust but an unbridled legacy of love in it's purest form, delicate and fragile.
In his own words
"nowadays, people seem suddenly more mature, in every respect, than those who belonged to those earlier times. Those days, everyone, old or young, was youthful at heart"
he adds
"Here began a new chapter of my lonely, nomadic existence on the terrace, for into my life came human companionship, and affection. "
Having written this, I am unable to describe how important it is to pick up this book, I think it is a period piece Satyajit Ray must have missed...
Radha Chakravarthy, who translated Tagor's book ,let's loose Bengali words and imbibes them as if they were English words, they do not hurt your mind but enhances the nostalgia one feels about the Tagore Household.
Tagore did not go to school, most often he flunked and hid from the regiment of "education"
maybe, by not being in school ...he learned everything from the real world around him?
If anyone of you gets your hands on this, I will happily stop counting the traffic signal, curtail my sense of freedom and gleefully join you to explore the mind that brought about "Shanti niketan" an institution that has taught brilliant leaders, philosophers and artists...
© denice _menace., all rights reserved.
In case you missed...
Some other recent posts by denice _menace
© 1998-2008 Copyright Sulekha.com Connecting Indians Worldwide, All Rights Reserved.
Recommend