MY ON-GOING JOURNEY WITH TAGORE:

The year was 2002. I had freshly shifted base to the intellectual capital of India from a relatively cultural town in Assam called Dibrugarh, and was smeared all over with convent traditions and vocabulary. When I was called a bookworm there, it was because of the completed Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie, Sidney Sheldon series and many Mills and Boons that made my repertoire. Of course, I was well read in the classics department too. However, having no option for studying Bangla, that was an unknown territory for me. All I knew of Bengali literature was, it was penned by authors who wouldn’t have easy-to-pronounce surnames or easy-to-learn spellings, which could be written in a familiar Assamese script if tried. And that the bible of Bengali Literature was always bound in an off-saffron cover in varied range of thickness. Always revered by each Bengali household; stacks of songs, poems, dance-drama came out of them, out of a beautiful signature (I am still bowled by an old-fashioned concept of “good handwriting”), Rabindranath Thakur.

And 2002 it was. The year I came to know that my calling out ‘Uncle’, ‘Aunty’ to elders was seen as snooty. Or using “tumi” with friends was rude! The year with which I began noting how people unbelievingly disbelieved my not knowing Tagore. I was staying without my parents at my grandfather’s place who used to bash me l-r-c for my lack of knowledge in the same. The difference however was, he consistently kept adding, “It is never late to begin”. I had taken up English Honours and I used to refer to Tagore now audaciously and arrogantly as Robin. It was cool, I was dared to be different (like Harry in calling aloud Voldemort)!

And so it went on. My combined ignorance and negligence. It was not until 2005 when it all changed, en route my first exposure to the Kolkata Film Festival, held in the Nandan-premises. I happened to get down at a tube station called Rabindra Sadan. And missed my second Bergman for it. “Is this real?” I asked myself. This man doodled like me! His only weapon seemed to be the similar white page and black ink! And his scribbles were all mesmerizingly calligraphic in quality. I may have not understood most of the content, but it was pure bliss just staring at them. I got back home and related the incident to Dadubhai who kept smiling and after the enthusiastic one-sided conversation got over, he quietly handed over to me the translated version of Gitanjali. After I read a few poems therein and saw the parallel script-scribbles that I decided I must do something about understanding this stalwart better.

I began reading out one paragraph of a Bengali daily each morning to Dadubhai; earlier it was just the reading –out which was the habit. Now I deliberately read it in a manner in which I could negotiate with the words as well, and thus began my coaching in knowing my mother-tongue better. Slowly I began looking into the poetry of Robindro-Songeet and found them as profound too. No, timeless would be the exact word, and feeling. But I was depending hugely on the translations. It was not until I was asked to proof-read a friend’s M Phil dissertation, understandably in English, yet a major part on Tagore, I was encouraged with his short stories enough to be motivated to read most stories of Golpo-Guchho in original. I kept a Bengali-English dictionary at close quarter though! What followed was a revelation. This man seemed so mature in his understanding of individual, society and the nation, that I was wondering if he was actually a “thakur”.

Another dear friend who stays in the lane next to Jora Sanko, gave me a guided tour of the Tagore house with sufficient snippets of information on his life. By this time my Bangla had improved in leaps and I was reading him in and out. And then Shishu happened. Perhaps the moment next to the tube-station which now cements my love for this man. I understand my writing ‘man’ or anything less than ‘Kobiguru’ can attract a whole lot of criticism from Tagore-specialists, but somewhere in my heart I know if he knew that I was referring him in such words, he wouldn’t have minded.

Shishu stirred in me an emotion unparallel. It was so lucid, so easy, just so nice, for lack of another better word! That one collection of poems opened up for me an entirely new world of writings for children, in Bengal and the world over. I now did not fear to read Abanindra Nath Tagore, Sukumar Ray, Lila Majumdar and compare-contrast the worlds of Oscar Wilde or Alice with any! Chhelebela was like a live window through which I was inspired to look into others’ childhood worlds as well. Rabindranath Tagore means an instant power-pop for me. I can randomly open any page out of Shishu or travel in the world of Golpo-Solpo, refer to his Khhapchhara, Chhora or Chhora O Chhobi, to find how he is so invincible to Bangla Literature as much as to my life. These are relatively lesser read Tagore texts which have the same humane-ness in them, perhaps more.

Before I end, I must mention Shey, a text I had read in translation. The original has been out of print till very lately. It is one of those gems of Tagore which classify him as rare. His writings have made me a brave-heart in treading an unknown language, in re-surfacing the joys and complexes of childhood, in writing this article. Where I can add, Tagore’s criss-crossing of lines and words have brought about in me a confidence, to live life bravely and learn from mistakes. His writings have made me realize that there can actually be no end to learning. Saying so, I move on to Shohoj Path.