The Home and the World by Rabindranath Tagore (elon musk reading list TXT) 📕

was Ito go on living all by myself?

I had no memento of Amulya save that pistol--his reverence-

offering. It seemed to me that this was a sign given by

Providence. This guilt which had contaminated my life at its

very root--my God in the form of a child had left with me the

means of wiping it away, and then vanished. Oh the loving gift--

the saving grave that lay hidden within it!

I opened my box and took out the pistol, lifting it reverently to

my forehead. At that moment the gongs clanged out from the

temple attached to our house. I prostrated myself in salutation.

In the evening I feasted the whole household with my cakes. "You

have managed a wonderful birthday feast--and all by yourself

too!" exclaimed my sister-in-law. "But you must leave something

for us to do." With this she turned on her gramophone and let

loose the shrill treble of the Calcutta actresses all over the

place. It seemed like a stable full of neighing fillies.

It got quite late before the feasting was over. I had a sudden

longing to end my birthday celebration by taking the dust of my

husband's feet. I went up to the bedroom and found him fast

asleep. He had had such a worrying, trying day. I raised the

edge of the mosquito curtain very very gently, and laid my head

near his feet. My hair must have touched him, for he moved his

legs in his sleep and pushed my head away.

I then went out and sat in the west verandah. A silk-cotton

tree, which had shed all its leaves, stood there in the distance,

like a skeleton. Behind it the crescent moon was setting. All

of a sudden I had the feeling that the very stars in the sky were

afraid of me--that the whole of the night world was looking

askance at me. Why? Because I was alone.

There is nothing so strange in creation as the man who is alone.

Even he whose near ones have all died, one by one, is not alone--

companionship comes for him from behind the screen of death. But

he, whose kin are there, yet no longer near, who has dropped out

of all the varied companionship of a full home--the starry

universe itself seems to bristle to look on him in his darkness.

Where I am, I am not. I am far away from those who are around

me. I live and move upon a world-wide chasm of separation,

unstable as the dew-drop upon the lotus leaf.

Why do not men change wholly when they change? When I look into

my heart, I find everything that was there, still there--only

they are topsy-turvy. Things that were well-ordered have become

jumbled up. The gems that were strung into a necklace are now

rolling in the dust. And so my heart is breaking.

I feel I want to die. Yet in my heart everything still lives--

nor even in death can I see the end of it all: rather, in death

there seems to be ever so much more of repining. What is to be

ended must be ended in this life--there is no other way out.

Oh forgive me just once, only this time, Lord! All that you gave

into my hands as the wealth of my life, I have made into my

burden. I can neither bear it longer, nor give it up. O Lord,

sound once again those flute strains which you played for me,

long ago, standing at the rosy edge of my morning sky--and let

all my complexities become simple and easy. Nothing save the

music of your flute can make whole that which has been broken,

and pure that which has been sullied. Create my home anew with

your music. No other way can I see.

I threw myself prone on the ground and sobbed aloud. It was for

mercy that I prayed--some little mercy from somewhere, some

shelter, some sign of forgiveness, some hope that might bring

about the end. "Lord," I vowed to myself, "I will lie here,

waiting and waiting, touching neither food nor drink, so long as

your blessing does not reach me."

I heard the sound of footsteps. Who says that the gods do not

show themselves to mortal men? I did not raise my face to look

up, lest the sight of it should break the spell. Come, oh come,

come and let your feet touch my head. Come, Lord, and set your

foot upon my throbbing heart, and at that moment let me die.

He came and sat near my head. Who? My husband! At the first

touch of his presence I felt that I should swoon. And then the

pain at my heart burst its way out in an overwhelming flood of

tears, tearing through all my obstructing veins and nerves. I

strained his feet to my bosom--oh, why could not their impress

remain there for ever?

He tenderly stroked my head. I received his blessing. Now I

shall be able to take up the penalty of public humiliation which

will be mine tomorrow, and offer it, in all sincerity, at the

feet of my God.

But what keeps crushing my heart is the thought that the festive

flutes which were played at my wedding, nine years ago, welcoming

me to this house, will never sound for me again in this life.

What rigour of penance is there which can serve to bring me once

more, as a bride adorned for her husband, to my place upon that

same bridal seat? How many years, how many ages, aeons, must

pass before I can find my way back to that day of nine years ago?

God can create new things, but has even He the power to create

afresh that which has been destroyed?

Chapter Twelve

Nikhil's Story

XV

TODAY we are going to Calcutta. Our joys and sorrows lie heavy

on us if we merely go on accumulating them. Keeping them and

accumulating them alike are false. As master of the house I am

in an artificial position--in reality I am a wayfarer on the path

of life. That is why the true Master of the House gets hurt at

every step and at last there comes the supreme hurt of death.

My union with you, my love, was only of the wayside; it was well

enough so long as we followed the same road; it will only hamper

us if we try to preserve it further. We are now leaving its

bonds behind. We are started on our journey beyond, and it will

be enough if we can throw each other a glance, or feel the touch

of each other's hands in passing. After that? After that there

is the larger world-path, the endless current of universal life.

How little can you deprive me of, my love, after all? Whenever I

set my ear to it, I can hear the flute which is playing, its

fountain of melody gushing forth from the flute-stops of

separation. The immortal draught of the goddess is never

exhausted. She sometimes breaks the bowl from which we drink it,

only to smile at seeing us so disconsolate over the trifling

loss. I will not stop to pick up my broken bowl. I will march

forward, albeit with unsatisfied heart.

The Bara Rani came and asked me: "What is the meaning, brother,

of all these books being packed up and sent off in box-loads?"

"It only means," I replied, "that I have not yet been able to get

over my fondness for them."

"I only wish you would keep your fondness for some other things

as well! Do you mean you are never coming back home?"

"I shall be coming and going, but shall not immure myself here

any more."

"Oh indeed! Then just come along to my room and see how many

things I have been unable to shake off my fondness

for." With this she took me by the hand and marched me off.

In my sister-in-law's rooms I found numberless boxes and bundles

ready packed. She opened one of the boxes and said: "See,

brother, look at all my pan-making things. In this bottle

I have catechu powder scented with the pollen of screw-pine

blossoms. These little tin boxes are all for different kinds of

spices. I have not forgotten my playing cards and draught-board

either. If you two are over-busy, I shall manage to make other

friends there, who will give me a game. Do you remember this

comb? It was one of the Swadeshi combs you brought for

me..."

"But what is all this for, Sister Rani? Why have you been

packing up all these things?"

"Do you think I am not going with you?"

"What an extraordinary idea!"

"Don't you be afraid! I am not going there to flirt with you,

nor to quarrel with the Chota Rani! One must die sooner or

later, and it is just as well to be on the bank of the holy

Ganges before it is too late. It is too horrible to think of

being cremated in your wretched burning-ground here, under that

stumpy banian tree--that is why I have been refusing to die, and

have plagued you all this time."

At last I could hear the true voice of home. The Bara Rani came

into our house as its bride, when I was only six years old. We

have played together, through the drowsy afternoons, in a corner

of the roof-terrace. I have thrown down to her green amras from

the tree-top, to be made into deliciously indigestible chutnies

by slicing them up with mustard, salt and fragrant herbs. It was

my part to gather for her all the forbidden things from the

store-room to be used in the marriage celebration of her doll;

for, in the penal code of my grandmother, I alone was exempt from

punishment. And I used to be appointed her messenger to my

brother, whenever she wanted to coax something special out of

him, because he could not resist my importunity. I also remember

how, when I suffered under the rigorous r�gime of the doctors of

those days--who would not allow anything except warm water and

sugared cardamom seeds during feverish attacks--my sister-in-law

could not bear my privation and used to bring me delicacies on

the sly. What a scolding she got one day when she was caught!

And then, as we grew up, our mutual joys and sorrows took on

deeper tones of intimacy. How we quarrelled! Sometimes

conflicts of worldly interests roused suspicions and jealousies,

making breaches in our love; and when the Chota Rani came in

between us, these breaches seemed as if they would never be

mended, but it always turned out that the healing forces at

bottom proved more powerful than the wounds on the surface.

So has a true relationship grown up between us, from our

childhood up till now, and its branching foliage has spread and

broadened over every room and verandah and terrace of this great

house. When I saw the Bara Rani make ready, with all her

belongings, to depart from this house of ours, all the ties that

bound us, to their wide-spreading ends, felt the shock.

The reason was clear to me, why she had made up her mind to drift

away