<p>Rabindranath Tagore was born on the 7th of this month. When I think of Tagore, I think of the ocean in its infinite expanse, unfathomable depths, and mystique. As a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, philosopher, composer of music and songs, social reformer, linguist, and humanist, Tagore inhabited many universes. He was a renaissance man who reshaped our civilisational ethos and had a profound influence on modern India and Bengal in particular. A staunch nationalist, he revered Gandhi but differed with him on many issues. The word polymath would be inadequate to capture the genius of the man whom Gandhi called Gurudev.</p>.<p>Tagore, the only Indian to have won the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1913, had a penetrating power of perception. Looking at a flower, he could bring alive in words the mystery of creation (Fruit-Gathering) – “No, it is not yours to open buds into blossoms. Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it blossom. Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces... But no colours appear, and no perfume... Ah! It is not for you to open the buds into a blossom. He who can open the buds does it so simply. He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs through its veins. At his breath the flower spreads its wings... Colours flush out like long heart-longings, the perfume betrays a sweet secret. He who can open the bud does it so simply”.</p>.<p>Tagore possessed a piercing power of sight that unravelled human nature beneath its many layers through sublime poetry. He shone that light on even revered saints shorn of self-righteousness, deeply aware of his own failings. He writes in the collection of poems The Gardener – “At midnight the would-be ascetic announced: ‘This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who has held me for so long in delusion here?’ God whispered, ‘I’, but the ears of the man were stopped. With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on one side of the bed. The man said, ‘Who are ye that have fooled me so long?’ The voice said again, ‘They are God,’ but he heard it not. The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother. God commanded, ‘Stop, fool, leave not thy home,’ but still he heard not. God sighed and complained, ‘Why does my servant wander to seek me, forsaking me?’”</p>.<p>As I read Tagore, my thoughts waded into the world of our own Masti Venkatesha Iyengar, the father of the modern Kannada short story who dived into depths of the human soul and traversed diverse literary forms. In Acharavanta Iyengaru (The Orthodox Iyengar), Masti writes about Sushila, a middle-aged Christian nurse, and a widowed conservative Iyengar, a store clerk who works at the hospital. One day, she tells him – “It has been a year since your wife died. Why are you still living alone, without anyone to cook or take care of you? Why can’t you marry again?”</p>.<p>The man asks her if she could be his companion. She is startled but recovering quickly, she points out that he’s a Brahmin and she a Christian; can they marry? He replies ingenuously – “We needn’t marry. Let’s live together; there’s nothing special about being married.” She agrees. Later, he takes her to the chief of the hospital to announce that she’s moving in with him. The boss is happy and wishes them a happy life.</p>.<p>The couple lives a good life – she is affable, dignified, and well-liked in the neighbourhood; he keeps to himself, his office, and his cooking. She refers to him as her husband, to the amusement of neighbours who know they practise different faiths.</p>.<p>One morning, Sushila is at the door of a neighbour’s home, crying inconsolably. Her partner, who was ill with fever for over a week, has died. She begs the neighbour’s husband for help to cremate her partner with full Sri Vaishnavite rituals spanning 13 days, in accordance with the man’s wish. She says – “He was not my husband but we were more than a lawfully wedded couple. We loved each other and lived in perfect harmony. He was a good man; I want his soul to be in peace.”</p>.<p>Moved, the neighbours get together, approach a Sri Vaishnava Mutt and ensure that the priests perform all the prescribed Vedic ceremonies for the deceased man. Masti wonders how sublime the emotions that bind lovers’ hearts are – noble, wondrous, and transcending societal and other earthly barriers.</p>
<p>Rabindranath Tagore was born on the 7th of this month. When I think of Tagore, I think of the ocean in its infinite expanse, unfathomable depths, and mystique. As a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, philosopher, composer of music and songs, social reformer, linguist, and humanist, Tagore inhabited many universes. He was a renaissance man who reshaped our civilisational ethos and had a profound influence on modern India and Bengal in particular. A staunch nationalist, he revered Gandhi but differed with him on many issues. The word polymath would be inadequate to capture the genius of the man whom Gandhi called Gurudev.</p>.<p>Tagore, the only Indian to have won the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1913, had a penetrating power of perception. Looking at a flower, he could bring alive in words the mystery of creation (Fruit-Gathering) – “No, it is not yours to open buds into blossoms. Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it blossom. Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces... But no colours appear, and no perfume... Ah! It is not for you to open the buds into a blossom. He who can open the buds does it so simply. He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs through its veins. At his breath the flower spreads its wings... Colours flush out like long heart-longings, the perfume betrays a sweet secret. He who can open the bud does it so simply”.</p>.<p>Tagore possessed a piercing power of sight that unravelled human nature beneath its many layers through sublime poetry. He shone that light on even revered saints shorn of self-righteousness, deeply aware of his own failings. He writes in the collection of poems The Gardener – “At midnight the would-be ascetic announced: ‘This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who has held me for so long in delusion here?’ God whispered, ‘I’, but the ears of the man were stopped. With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on one side of the bed. The man said, ‘Who are ye that have fooled me so long?’ The voice said again, ‘They are God,’ but he heard it not. The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother. God commanded, ‘Stop, fool, leave not thy home,’ but still he heard not. God sighed and complained, ‘Why does my servant wander to seek me, forsaking me?’”</p>.<p>As I read Tagore, my thoughts waded into the world of our own Masti Venkatesha Iyengar, the father of the modern Kannada short story who dived into depths of the human soul and traversed diverse literary forms. In Acharavanta Iyengaru (The Orthodox Iyengar), Masti writes about Sushila, a middle-aged Christian nurse, and a widowed conservative Iyengar, a store clerk who works at the hospital. One day, she tells him – “It has been a year since your wife died. Why are you still living alone, without anyone to cook or take care of you? Why can’t you marry again?”</p>.<p>The man asks her if she could be his companion. She is startled but recovering quickly, she points out that he’s a Brahmin and she a Christian; can they marry? He replies ingenuously – “We needn’t marry. Let’s live together; there’s nothing special about being married.” She agrees. Later, he takes her to the chief of the hospital to announce that she’s moving in with him. The boss is happy and wishes them a happy life.</p>.<p>The couple lives a good life – she is affable, dignified, and well-liked in the neighbourhood; he keeps to himself, his office, and his cooking. She refers to him as her husband, to the amusement of neighbours who know they practise different faiths.</p>.<p>One morning, Sushila is at the door of a neighbour’s home, crying inconsolably. Her partner, who was ill with fever for over a week, has died. She begs the neighbour’s husband for help to cremate her partner with full Sri Vaishnavite rituals spanning 13 days, in accordance with the man’s wish. She says – “He was not my husband but we were more than a lawfully wedded couple. We loved each other and lived in perfect harmony. He was a good man; I want his soul to be in peace.”</p>.<p>Moved, the neighbours get together, approach a Sri Vaishnava Mutt and ensure that the priests perform all the prescribed Vedic ceremonies for the deceased man. Masti wonders how sublime the emotions that bind lovers’ hearts are – noble, wondrous, and transcending societal and other earthly barriers.</p>
