Letters from a Young Poet (33 page)

Shilaidaha
9 August 1894

The river is absolutely full to the brim. One can barely see the shore on the other side. The water is bubbling up and boiling in some places, and again in some others somebody seems to be pressing down on the restless water with both hands and ironing out the creases to hang it up to dry. Nowadays I often see the dead bodies of small birds come floating down the current—the history of their deaths is quite clear. They had their nests in the branches of the mango trees in some mango orchard at the edge of a village. They had returned to their nests in the evening and were sleeping, their soft, warm wings gathered together, their bodies tired; suddenly at night the Padma turned over on her side and immediately the soil at the base of the tree crumbled, and the tree fell into the water with all its anxious spread-out roots; the
birds, expelled from their nests, woke suddenly in the night for just a moment—and then there was no need to wake any more. The sight of the floating dead bodies of these birds suddenly strikes the heart quite hard. One realizes that the life that we love more than anything has very little value for nature. I've noticed that when I'm in the districts, animals and birds and other living things come very close to me—one doesn't think of one's self as very much different or of a higher status than them. The difference between me and other living things feels trifling in the face of a vast, all-enveloping, mysterious natural world. The deaths of these birds that float by in such neglect don't seem any less important than my own death. In the cities, human society is so complex and human endeavour so bright that man becomes extremely important there—so, cruelly, he does not consider any other life even worth equating with his own. In Europe too, man is so complex and so important that animals are considered to be only animals. Indians don't think twice about the fact that one is a man in this birth and an animal in the next, and then from animal to man again—they feel very strongly that even insects by virtue of being living things are on an equal level with you—that is why in our śāstras pity for all living things has not been discarded as an impossible excess of feeling. When I come to this generous mofussil, and an intimate relationship develops between our bodies, the Indian part of my personality awakens—I can enter into the happiness and sorrow of all living things. If one has to eat the meat of birds simply in order to quell one's hunger, then I'm reminded of our own young ones. Then I cannot unconsciously disregard how keenly the small beating breast of a bird, covered in the softest of feathers, feels the happiness of life. That's why every time I come to the mofussil I feel a real repugnance towards meat-eating, and later when I enter Calcutta society again I turn non-vegetarian once more. There all living things except man become inanimate objects. In the villages, I am an Indian, and when I go to Calcutta, I am a European. Who knows which one is my actual character?

Shilaidaha
10 August 1894

Last night, not very late, I was woken by the sound of water. A great tumult and powerful restlessness had suddenly come to the river. Perhaps all of a sudden a new current of water had entered it. This sort of thing happens almost every day. You've been sitting for some time when suddenly you see that with a gurgling, splashing sound, the river has awoken and there is a great celebration all around. If you put your foot on the planks of the boat you can clearly feel what a variety of forces run untiringly underneath it—at different times it either trembles or wavers or swells up or falls with a thud. Exactly as if you're feeling the pulse of the land. Last night at midnight a sudden surge of restless joy came and quickened the dance of this pulse rate quite a bit. I sat for a long time on the
bench
by the window. There was a very misty light, which made the entire wild river seem even madder. Occasional clouds in the sky. The shadow of a great big flickering star lengthened upon the water for quite a distance, shivering like a shuddering, piercing sorrow. Both banks of the river lay unconscious, shrouded in indistinct light and deep sleep. In the middle, a sleepless mad restlessness flowed on in full force and disappeared. If you wake up and sit like this in the middle of the night, in the midst of such a scene, you feel as if you and the world are somehow in some way made anew, as if the world of daylight and commerce with men had become utterly untrue. Again, waking up this morning, how faraway and indistinct that world of my night seems to have become. For man, both are true, yet both are terribly independent of one another. It seems to me as if the world of the day is European music—in tune and out of tune, in part and in the whole—coming together like a huge, forceful tangle of
harmony
, and the world of the night is our Indian music, a pure, tender, serious, unmixed rāginī. Both move us, yet both are opposed to each other. There's a hesitation and a tremendous opposition right at the root of nature, where everything is divided between king and queen—there's nothing we can do about it: day and night, variety and wholeness, the expressive and the eternal. We Indians live in that kingdom of night. We are entranced by that which is timeless and whole. Ours is the song of personal solitude, Europe's is that of social accompaniment. Our music takes the listener outside of the limits of man's everyday vicissitudes to that lonely land of renunciation that is at the root of the entire universe, while Europe's music dances in different ways to the endless rise and fall of man's joys and sorrows.

Shilaidaha
12 August 1894

Are you enjoying Goethe's biography? You will have noticed one thing—that although Goethe was in some respects a very aloof personality, he still had a connection with men, he was absorbed in man. The royal court he inhabited had a living affection for literature; Germany was stirred at the time by certain forceful currents of thought—important thinkers and intellectuals like Herder, Schlegel, Humboldt, Schiller and Kant had arisen in different corners of the country, and both the company of the men of those times and the revolution in thought countrywide were very alive. We wretched Bengali writers feel that lack of man's inner life very keenly—we cannot always keep our imagination alive by supplying it with the provision of truth; our minds do not impact upon other minds and so our compositions remain joyless to a large extent. The people of our country have read so much English literature, but the pressure of thought has not spread corporeally in their bones—there is no hunger for thought in them, no mental
substance has taken shape yet within their material bodies, that's why the need for a life of the mind is absolutely minimal in them—yet there's no way one can make that out from their conversation, because they've learnt all the mannerisms of the English language. They feel very little, think very little and do very little work—that is why their company brings no pleasure. If even Goethe needed a friend like Schiller, how do I explain how absolutely indispensable the life-giving company of one real, genuine thinker is to people like us! It is necessary to feel a loving touch, a sort of constant warmth from the presence of human company upon the place where our entire life's achievements stand—otherwise its flowers and fruits do not accumulate enough colour, smell or taste.

Shilaidaha
13 August 1894

Although some of my published writing is insignificant, such as what I write only in order to fill up the spaces of
S
ā
dhan
ā, still, even there I try my utmost to take as much care as possible. I try to express my inner truth in my writing with an appropriate respect and genuineness—I can never neglect my Saraswati under any circumstance. Recently … I read an English article written by … a famous
artist
. I disagreed with him on a number of subjects, but I saw that we were alike in two respects. First, that one has to make one's ideal of beauty and one's talent succeed despite the incompleteness of the material world, and second, a fierce desire to express one's self. That doesn't mean wanting to talk about yourself because of conceit; but all that I really think, really feel or really have has to be expressed as truly as possible—that's the only true end—this feeling is absolutely integral to my character—a restless inner force works constantly in that direction. Yet I don't
feel that that force is mine alone, it seems that it is an energy spread over the world that works through me. Almost everything I write seems to me to be beyond my own powers—in fact, even my minor prose pieces. Something outside of my own abilities comes naturally and does its own work even in all the logical argumentation that I've prepared beforehand and turns the whole thing into something unthought-of by me. My greatest joy in life is in dedicating myself, enchanted, to that force. Not only does it allow me to express myself, it also makes me feel, makes me love. That's why my own feelings are new and surprising to me each time. The sorts of feelings that arise in my mind when I am in the midst of nature seem to be beyond my own powers, my own character. That's why I feel that I will never be able to explain it to anybody or make them believe it. All my feelings have that ingredient of something that is more than me. In my fondness for Meera I feel the presence of such a limitless mystery that she does not remain just my daughter Meera any more—she becomes a part of the fundamental mystery and beauty of this world, and my affectionate enthusiasm becomes like a meditative prayer. I believe that all our affection, all our love is like a mysterious prayer—only, unconsciously so. Love means the awakened appearance of the inner force of the universe within us—it is a momentary experience of the joy that is at the root of the constant joy of the universe. Otherwise it has no meaning at all. The omniscient power of attraction that ties the entire rotating world together by a single thread is the same force that makes the apple fall from the tree to the ground. That force in the material world is similar to the force of world-enveloping joy in the mind—and we feel love within our hearts and beauty in the world because of that force—the endless activity of joy within the world is what works within my mind as well. If we see the two separately then it has no real meaning any more. There is only one proper answer to the question of why we feel such joy in nature and in man (however minute or restless that joy may
be):
ānandāddhyeba khalvimāni bhūtāni jāẏante, ānanden jātāni jībanti, ānandaṃ praẏantyabisaṃbiśanti
.
^*
If you don't understand what this means yourself there's no way you can explain it to anyone else.

Shilaidaha
16 August 1894

It's the Śuklapaksha fortnight now, you see, so I get bright moonlight during my walks—then I return to the
boat
and sit down on the easy chair with my legs stretched out. After that little bit of bodily exertion, that chair, that moonlight, that sound of the water, are all bearers of the joys of heaven to me. The river has swollen to the point where its line merges with the shore, so that sitting on the
boat
it is possible to see the entire landscape of shore and river spread out right in front of my eyes. To my south is the expanse of a large field with autumnal rice crops in some places—most of it is green grass, on one side is a narrow path composed by the signs of treading feet, in front of me to the east is the bazaar's barn in front of which hay is piled up in heaps—that worn-out hut and the heaps of hay look very beautiful in the moonlight. The evening—above my head, in front of my eyes, under my feet, all around me—rises with such a beautiful, peaceful, solitary yet full silence, standing close to me like a person with such human intensity, that the entire scene, from the stars in the sky to the distant shadows of the Padma's shores, surrounds me on all sides like a small secret room made for my own secluded comfort—and the two living things within me, me and my inner
soul, we occupy the entire room and sit there—and all the animals, birds and living things in this scene are incorporated into the two of us—the murmuring sound of the water reaches the ears all the time, the bright hands of the moonlight keep stroking the face, the head, with its affectionate touch, the
cakor
bird in the sky calls out and leaves, the fisherman's boat slips easily through the middle of the Padma on a strong current without any effort, the softly spread-out sky enters my every pore and ever so slowly cools down my heated body—I lie there with my eyes shut, my ears pricked, my body extended, as though I'm the one and only thing that nature cares for: all her hundreds of handmaidens look after me. The imagination too has no boundaries, she too decorates a ceremonial plate with both her hands and comes and stands by my side encircled by a host of shadowy, magical servant girls—I feel the soft touch of her fingers along with the slow breeze running through my hair.

Shilaidaha
19 August 1894

This time I have brought the Bengali works of Rammohun Roy with me—it has about three Sanskrit Vedanta books and their translations; I've found them very helpful. Many people are quite convinced by the account of the world and its origins that's found in the Vedantas. As important and highly intelligent a person as Rammohun Roy was a Vedantic, and Doyson saheb too has praised the Vedantas throughout, but none of my doubts have been dispelled. In some respects, what the Vedanta says is simple compared to many other opinions; because one is simpler than two. The words ‘creation' and the ‘lord of creation' may sound quite consistent and simple, but there's no problem more complex
than that for the mind of man. The Vedanta sits there having torn through the
Gordian knot
and brought the two together; whatever else it has achieved, it has certainly reduced the problem by half. There is no creation at all, and we are not there either—there is only one Brahma and perhaps we too are there. The surprising thing is that man can make room in his mind for such a thought—even more strange is the fact that this thought is not actually as odd as it sounds. In fact, it is very hard to prove that anything exists. That Vedantic opinion is nowadays spreading in Europe too, but it's doubtful if it will survive in the water and air of that place. Or maybe it will assume a new incarnation there. Whatever it is, nowadays in the evenings when the moon rises and I sit outside on the
boat
on my easy chair with my legs stretched out and my eyes half shut, and the soft evening breeze keeps touching my overwrought, heated forehead, then this water, land and sky, this murmuring river, the occasional wayfarer upon the shore and the coming and going of the occasional fisherman's
dinghy
on the water, the obscure edges of the field in the moonlight and the distant, almost asleep villages surrounded by rows of trees—all of it appears like a shadow, like
māẏā
, yet that māẏā embraces life and the mind more truly than truth itself—and then it seems that it cannot be that the salvation of the human soul lies in freedom from the hands of this māẏā. The philosopher may say, the measure in which the world seems to be experienced as māẏā at twilight is the measure of freedom, and the fact that I continue to derive pleasure from it is actually the pleasure of freedom—that is, that the ties that bind me during the day because I perceive of this world as real become very loose in the evenings when everything becomes shadowy; it is only when I'll be convinced from within that this world is completely and absolutely false that I'll attain a full independence and within that independence attain
brahmmatva
. This is something I understand and feel only very fractionally; maybe one day, before I've reached old age, I'll see that I've achieved freedom from this world.