Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was the youngest son of Debendranath Tagore, a leader of the Brahmo Samaj, which was a new religious sect in nineteenth-century Bengal and which attempted a revival of the ultimate monistic basis of Hinduism as laid down in the Upanishads. He was educated at home; and although at seventeen he was sent to England for formal schooling, he did not finish his studies there. In his mature years, in addition to his many-sided literary activities, he managed the family estates, a project which brought him into close touch with common humanity and increased his interest in social reforms. He also started an experimental school at Shantiniketan where he tried his Upanishadic ideals of education. From time to time he participated in the Indian nationalist movement, though in his own non-sentimental and visionary way; and Gandhi, the political father of modern India, was his devoted friend. Tagore was knighted by the ruling British Government in 1915, but within a few years he resigned the honour as a protest against British policies in India.
Tagore had early success as a writer in his native Bengal. With his translations of some of his poems he became rapidly known in the West. In fact his fame attained a luminous height, taking him across continents on lecture tours and tours of friendship. For the world he became the voice of India's spiritual heritage; and for India, especially for Bengal, he became a great living institution.
Although Tagore wrote successfully in all literary genres, he was first of all a poet. Among his fifty and odd volumes of poetry are Manasi (1890) [The Ideal One], Sonar Tari (1894) [The Golden Boat], Gitanjali (1910) [Song Offerings], Gitimalya (1914) [Wreath of Songs], and Balaka (1916) [The Flight of Cranes]. The English renderings of his poetry, which include The Gardener (1913), Fruit-Gathering (1916), and The Fugitive (1921), do not generally correspond to particular volumes in the original Bengali; and in spite of its title, Gitanjali: Song Offerings (1912), the most acclaimed of them, contains poems from other works besides its namesake. Tagore's major plays are Raja (1910) [The King of the Dark Chamber], Dakghar (1912) [The Post Office], Achalayatan (1912) [The Immovable], Muktadhara (1922) [The Waterfall], and Raktakaravi (1926) [Red Oleanders]. He is the author of several volumes of short stories and a number of novels, among them Gora (1910), Ghare-Baire (1916) [The Home and the World], and Yogayog (1929) [Crosscurrents]. Besides these, he wrote musical dramas, dance dramas, essays of all types, travel diaries, and two autobiographies, one in his middle years and the other shortly before his death in 1941. Tagore also left numerous drawings and paintings, and songs for which he wrote the music himself.
Rabindranath Tagore
Selections from GitanJali
"The song that I came to sing remains unsung"
The song that I came to sing remains
unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in
unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words
have not been rightly set; only there is the
agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the
wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I
listened to his voice; only I have heard his
gentle footsteps from the road before my
house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading
his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not
been lit and I cannot ask him into my
house.
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but the meeting is not yet.
"Clouds heap upon clouds and it
darkens"
Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens.
Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside
at the door all alone?
In the busy moments of the noontide
work I am with the crowd, but on this dark
lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.
If thou showest me not thy face, if thou
leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I
am to pass these long, rainy hours.
I keep gazing on the far away gloom of
the sky, and my hear wanders wailing
with the restless wind.
"On many an idle day have I grieved over"
On many an idle day have I grieved over
lost time. But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life
in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things though art
nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into
blossoms, and ripening flowers into
fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased. In the
morning I woke up and found my garden
full with wonders of flowers.
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