The Original Santiniketan 100 years ago
A Shepherd with Cattles
The Chatimtala
The Road to Asram
To
My Love,
Back to roots.
It is may be a long time again that I felt like writing a letter to you. I know questions can arose but I have also answers. Letter is truly a product of emotion and senses. And I can only write when I feel. Because my letter to you, my love is not just only a letter but also a kind of freedom to me. As well a kind of surrender. Thus now at this moment I think I can truly surrender myself. And the first line should be these three words.
Back to roots.
As nothing else I can think about my trip to Santiniketan. The place of Rabindranath Tagore. A place where nature offer herself in abundance, a place where monsoon halts itself as if in a debt of uncherished promises, a place which saw a transformation from a large tract of village plots to now almost a town, a place where Tagore gave his everything of himself in order to create an Ashram a place of solitude where people from all over the world can come and gain peace.
Santiniketan.
The Home of Peace.
But to me Santiniketan means a lot more. When ever I come here I found the place in different shades, different colours. People say the place has lost its glamour and became commercial in affect of globalisation but still I found the place an abode of nature, a shelter of peace. Santiniketan means….
….where the red soil invites you in its own local village tunes..where the crescent shaped moon sometime shines like the bends of Khowai..where vast blue sky kisses the green fields and the number of trees..where a wonderer almost like a monk plays flute in local train..where thin masses of fog spreaded itself slowly over the tip of the grains of rice..where straw-thatched huts in a silent night represent the theme of old Santiniketan..where sounds of unknown night birds fill up the air..where Santhal girls stroll in a group through the red mudded soil with heaps of straw in their heads..where each day sun light kisses its first ray on ‘Udayan’ and spreads through ‘Uttarayan’ , ‘Konark’, ‘Shyamali’ and ‘Udichi’(the houses where Tagore lived)..where Chatimtala still reflects the spirit of ‘Ashram’..where the landscapes of forgotten days still get portrayed in rejected wrecked thatched huts and through the path of ‘Bhubandanga’, ‘Paruldanga’, ‘Bolpur Dakbanglo’, ‘Sriniketan’ ..where the sculptures of Ramkinkar stands immortal..where the dark narrow road gets flashed in car light offering a flavour of a forest..where a shepherd carries his herds of cattles through a lonely unbuilt red grained path..where students of Viswabharati Universty in white sarrees ornaments in dance and songs the arrival of spring or ‘Vasantutsav’..where the rail lines like the last spot of the earth halts beside a desolate station called ‘ Prantik’..where still slender Kopai river flows in a melancholy tune..where the winter or ‘Poush’ is greeted through the festival of fair (Poushmela).where still music and lyrics..themes and tunes..songs and words are scattered in every grains of red soil..where in regular intervals a ‘Baul’ like a wondering monk sings..
“ Khnachar bhitar Achin Pakhi kemne ase jai
Dhorte parle mon beri ditem tahar paye..”
( “How can that imprisoned unknown bird can fly
If I can ever catch it I will surrender myself in sigh!”)
Indeed this is Santiniketan.
As Tagore has written:
“ But how great my surprise at the day’s end
I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least
little grain of gold among the poor heap.
I bitterly wept and wished that I had had
the heart to give thee my all!”
( One should have the heart to surrender all, thus the beggar who just gave a single grain of corn to the King (God) found at the end of the day the single corn has turned into a piece of gold!)
Thus I always try to open my heart and surrender completely to the world.
More so in this place of Rabindranath.
Where one should just follow his heart.
And his uncherished dreams.
“ Is there no joy in the deep of your heart?
At every footfall of yours,
will not the harp of the road break out
in sweet music of pain!”
Thus one should walk on.
May be through a lost road.
May be through an unknown road.
I too keep on walking.
From
Subha
My Love,
Back to roots.
It is may be a long time again that I felt like writing a letter to you. I know questions can arose but I have also answers. Letter is truly a product of emotion and senses. And I can only write when I feel. Because my letter to you, my love is not just only a letter but also a kind of freedom to me. As well a kind of surrender. Thus now at this moment I think I can truly surrender myself. And the first line should be these three words.
Back to roots.
As nothing else I can think about my trip to Santiniketan. The place of Rabindranath Tagore. A place where nature offer herself in abundance, a place where monsoon halts itself as if in a debt of uncherished promises, a place which saw a transformation from a large tract of village plots to now almost a town, a place where Tagore gave his everything of himself in order to create an Ashram a place of solitude where people from all over the world can come and gain peace.
Santiniketan.
The Home of Peace.
But to me Santiniketan means a lot more. When ever I come here I found the place in different shades, different colours. People say the place has lost its glamour and became commercial in affect of globalisation but still I found the place an abode of nature, a shelter of peace. Santiniketan means….
….where the red soil invites you in its own local village tunes..where the crescent shaped moon sometime shines like the bends of Khowai..where vast blue sky kisses the green fields and the number of trees..where a wonderer almost like a monk plays flute in local train..where thin masses of fog spreaded itself slowly over the tip of the grains of rice..where straw-thatched huts in a silent night represent the theme of old Santiniketan..where sounds of unknown night birds fill up the air..where Santhal girls stroll in a group through the red mudded soil with heaps of straw in their heads..where each day sun light kisses its first ray on ‘Udayan’ and spreads through ‘Uttarayan’ , ‘Konark’, ‘Shyamali’ and ‘Udichi’(the houses where Tagore lived)..where Chatimtala still reflects the spirit of ‘Ashram’..where the landscapes of forgotten days still get portrayed in rejected wrecked thatched huts and through the path of ‘Bhubandanga’, ‘Paruldanga’, ‘Bolpur Dakbanglo’, ‘Sriniketan’ ..where the sculptures of Ramkinkar stands immortal..where the dark narrow road gets flashed in car light offering a flavour of a forest..where a shepherd carries his herds of cattles through a lonely unbuilt red grained path..where students of Viswabharati Universty in white sarrees ornaments in dance and songs the arrival of spring or ‘Vasantutsav’..where the rail lines like the last spot of the earth halts beside a desolate station called ‘ Prantik’..where still slender Kopai river flows in a melancholy tune..where the winter or ‘Poush’ is greeted through the festival of fair (Poushmela).where still music and lyrics..themes and tunes..songs and words are scattered in every grains of red soil..where in regular intervals a ‘Baul’ like a wondering monk sings..
“ Khnachar bhitar Achin Pakhi kemne ase jai
Dhorte parle mon beri ditem tahar paye..”
( “How can that imprisoned unknown bird can fly
If I can ever catch it I will surrender myself in sigh!”)
Indeed this is Santiniketan.
As Tagore has written:
“ But how great my surprise at the day’s end
I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least
little grain of gold among the poor heap.
I bitterly wept and wished that I had had
the heart to give thee my all!”
( One should have the heart to surrender all, thus the beggar who just gave a single grain of corn to the King (God) found at the end of the day the single corn has turned into a piece of gold!)
Thus I always try to open my heart and surrender completely to the world.
More so in this place of Rabindranath.
Where one should just follow his heart.
And his uncherished dreams.
“ Is there no joy in the deep of your heart?
At every footfall of yours,
will not the harp of the road break out
in sweet music of pain!”
Thus one should walk on.
May be through a lost road.
May be through an unknown road.
I too keep on walking.
From
Subha
4 comments:
I liked the bit where he gives the corn to the king (God) and it turns into gold. Fine wisdom.
We all should come from the heart, no matter who we are. :D
very interesting write up!!!!
Again, my dear friend what you have written is a joy to read. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Best wishes,
Annie
Your poetry-in-prose is mesmerising. It seems to have a mystical touch.
However, just as one discordant note marrs the beauty of a harmonious tune, your quirky grammer spoils the mood that you have so deftly created.
For example:
"questions can arose" should be
questions can arise.
"nature offer herself" should be
nature offers herself.
Please have your posts proof-read by a friend before posting so that we may enjoy the full effect of your wonderful words.
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