Rabindranath Tagore(1861 –1941)

Gitanjali (Bengali: গীতাঞ্জলি, “Song offering”) is a collection of poems by the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913, for its English translation, Song Offerings, making him the first non-European and the first Asian & the only Indian to receive this honor. The English version of Gitanjali or Song Offerings/Singing Angel is a collection of 103 English prose poems, which are Tagore’s own English translations of his Bengali poems, and was first published in November 1912 by the India Society in London. It contained translations of 53 poems from the original Bengali Gitanjali, as well as 50 other poems from his other works such as “Gitimalya -a bouquet of songs,” “Naivedya-offering,” “Kheya-the boat,” and “Katha-stories.” The translations were often radical, leaving out or altering large chunks of the poem and in one instance fusing two separate poems (song 95, which unifies songs 89 and 90 of Naivedya). The English Gitanjali became popular in the West, and was widely translated.

When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous.   In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and lead me running from glade to glade.   On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence.   Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars.                                      (Song 97)

In modern English:   When I played with you, I never questioned who you were. I knew neither shyness nor fear; my life was lively and loud. In the early morning, you would call me from my sleep like a friend and lead me running from glade to glade. In those days, I never cared to know the meaning of the songs you sang to me. Only my voice joined the tunes, and my heart danced to their rhythm. Now, when playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that has come upon me? The world, with eyes fixed on your feet, stands in awe with all its silent stars.

I was not aware of the moment when

I first crossed the threshold of this life.

What was the power that made me open out

into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight!

When in the morning I looked upon the light

I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,

that the in-scrutable without name and form had taken me

in its arms in the form of my own mother.

Even so, in death the same unknown will appear

as ever known to me. And because I love this life,

I know I shall love death as well.

The child cries out when from the right breast the mother

takes it away, in the very next moment to find

in the left one its consolation.

(Song 95)

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), born into the Tagore family of Kolkata, which played a central role in the literary renaissance of Bengal, was a poet, novelist, painter, musician, and thinker. He breathed new life into poetry by using colloquial language, moving away from the tradition of relying on classical Sanskrit. His short stories, born out of his life among the people, are considered masterpieces. The poetry collection “Gitanjali,” which brought Tagore the first Nobel Prize in Literature awarded to an Asian, consists of 103 prose poems that sing of existential solitude, love, life, and journeys. In Bengal, there were wandering minstrels known as ‘Baul’ who sang and danced about God and truth in the streets, and Tagore drew much inspiration from them. “Gitanjali” means “Song Offerings,” and to Tagore, the ‘Beloved’ is God, the object of love and joy, the lover, and the great self-inherent in all things. Tagore is still revered today as a founding father of India, along with Gandhi. The national anthems of India, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka are based on Tagore’s poems. He interacted with Western writers such as Yeats, Ezra Pound, and Romain Rolland, as well as with Einstein, and taught Eastern philosophy to physicist Heisenberg.

When I go from hence let this be my parting word,

that what I have seen is unsurpassable.

I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus

that expands on the ocean of light,

and thus am I blessed-let this be my parting word.

In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play

and here have I caught sight of him that is formless.

My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch

who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here,

let it come-let this be my parting word.

(Song 96)

Part of a poem written by Tagore in Hungary, 1926

The national anthems of India “Jana Gana Mana”

জনগণমন-অধিনায়ক জয় হে ভারতভাগ্যবিধাতা!

পঞ্জাব সিন্ধু গুজরাট মরাঠা দ্রাবিড় উৎকল বঙ্গ

বিন্ধ্য হিমাচল যমুনা গঙ্গা উচ্ছলজলধিতরঙ্গ

তব শুভ নামে জাগে, তব শুভ আশিষ মাগে,

গাহে তব জয়গাথা।

জনগণমঙ্গলদায়ক জয় হে ভারতভাগ্যবিধাতা!

জয় হে, জয় হে, জয় হে, জয় জয় জয় জয় হে॥

Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people,

dispenser of India’s destiny.

Thy name rouses the hearts of the Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat and Maratha

of the Dravida, Orissa and Bengal.

It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas, mingles in the music of the Yamuna and Ganges

and is chanted by the waves of the Indian Ocean.

They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.

The saving of all people waits in thy hand,

thou dispenser of India’s destiny.

Victory, Victory, Victory to thee.

Title page of the 1913 Macmillan edition of Tagore’s Gitanjali

Rabindranath with Einstein in 1930

Jawaharlal Nehru and Rabindranath Tagore, February 1940

Tagore’s house in Shilaidaha, Bangladesh(*photos from wiki)

William Butler Yeats’s “Introduction” to Gitanjali

A few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, “I know no German, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I would go to the British Museum and find books in English that would tell me something of his life, and of the history of his thought. But though these prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for years, I shall not know anything of his life, and of the movements of thought that have made them possible, if some Indian traveller will not tell me.” It seemed to him natural that I should be moved, for he said, “I read Rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world.” I said, “An Englishman living in London in the reign of Richard the Second had he been shown translations from Petrarch or from Dante, would have found no books to answer his questions, but would have questioned some Florentine banker or Lombard merchant as I question you. For all I know, so abundant and simple is this poetry, the new Renaissance has been born in your country and I shall never know of it except by hearsay.” He answered, “We have other poets, but none that are his equal; we call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet seems to me as famous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music as in poetry, and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burmah[sic] wherever Bengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he wrote his first novel; and plays, written when he was but little older, are still played in Calcutta. I so much admire the completeness of his life; when he was very young he wrote much of natural objects, he would sit all day in his garden; from his twenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a great sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our language”; and then he said with deep emotion, “words can never express what I owed at seventeen to his love poetry. After that his art grew deeper, it became religious and philosophical; all the aspirations of mankind are in his hymns. He is the first among our saints who has not refused to live, but has spoken out of Life itself, and that is why we give him our love.” I may have changed his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought. “A little while ago he was to read divine service in one of our churches—we of the Brahma Samaj use your word ‘church’ in English—it was the largest in Calcutta and not only was it crowded, people even standing in the windows, but the streets were all but impassable because of the people.”

Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded strange in our world, where we hide great and little things under the same veil of obvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. When we were making the cathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? “Every morning at three—I know, for I have seen it”—one said to me, “he sits immovable in contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his reverie upon the nature of God. His father, the Maha Rishi, would sometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river, he fell into contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape, and the rowers waited for eight hours before they could continue their journey.” He then told me of Mr. Tagore’s family and how for generations great men have come out of its cradles. “Today,” he said, “there are Gogonendranath and Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists; and Dwijendranath, Rabindranath’s brother, who is a great philosopher. The squirrels come from the boughs and climb to his knees and the birds alight upon his hands.” I notice in these men’s thought a sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held that doctrine of Nietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself upon physical things. I said, “In the East you know how to keep a family illustrious. The other day the curator of a Museum pointed out to me a little dark-skinned man who was arranging their Chinese prints and said, ‘That is the hereditary connoisseur of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family to hold the post.” He answered. “When Rabindranath was aboy, he had all round him in his home literature and music.” I thought of the abundance, of the simplicity of the poems, and said, “In your country is there much propagandist writing, much criticism? We have to do so much, especially in my own country, that our minds gradually cease to be creative, and yet we cannot help it. If our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have taste, we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and readers. Four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with bad taste, whether in our own minds or the minds of others.” “I understand,” he replied, “we too have our propagandist writing. In the villages they recite long mythological poems adapted from the Sanscrit [sic] in the Middle Ages, and they often insert passages telling the people that they must do their duties. 

II

I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the tops of omnibuses and in restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would see how much it moved me. These lyrics—which are in the original, my Indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of color, or metrical invention—display in their thought a world I have dreamed of all my life long. The work of a supreme culture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes. A tradition, where poetry and religion are the same thing, has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned and unlearned metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble. If the civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind which—as one divines—runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is most subtle in these verses will have come, in a few generations, to the beggar on the roads. When there was but one mind in England Chaucer wrote his Troilus and Cressida, and though he had written to be read, or to be read out—for our time was coming on apace—he was sung by minstrels for a while. Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer’s forerunners, writes music for his words, and one understands at every moment that he is so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of surprise, because he is doing something which has never seemed strange, unnatural, or in need of defence. These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies’ tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried about by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men upon rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. The traveller in the red-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting he master’s home-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of an Indian July, or the parching heat, are images of the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing upon a lute, like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God Himself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us, seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are not moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image, as though we had walked in Rossetti’s willow wood, or heard, perhaps for the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream. 

Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints—however familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their thought—has ceased to hold our attention. We know that we must at last forsake the world, and we are accustomed in moments of weariness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking; but how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen so many paintings, listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh and the cry of the soul seem one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may not dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with the violent rhetoric of the Book of Revelation? We would, if we might, find, as in this book, words full of courtesy. “I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door—and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbors for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey.” And it is our own mood, when it is furthest from À Kempis or John of the Cross, that cries, “And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.” Yet it is not only in our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. We had not known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the pathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in that mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly, on the women that we have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness. “Entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment,” [sic] This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the scourge; being but a lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter, painting the dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history.

III We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics—all dull things in the doing—while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. He often seems to contrast his life with that of those who have lived more after our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the world, and always humbly as though he were only sure his way is best for him: “Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.” At another time, remembering how his life had once a different shape, he will say, “Many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence.” An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the season’s great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or from religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his brother’s hands, I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelanore [sic]. Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints, “They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim; they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures; they know not how to cast nets.”  

—September 1912 *Poets.org

by HeeSun

HeeSun is a poet and storybook writer who belongs to the UitC at the University of Toronto. She brings hope to people and brightens the world with beautiful poems, songs, and stories. She is a valued member of the Arts and Letters Club of Toronto and Pen International