Letters from a Young Poet (49 page)

Shahjadpur
4 December 1895

A very old thought has been constantly coming up in my mind since morning—that the world is transient. Yet grief, sorrow and death affect us in such a way as though the world were permanent. Even if it's all a mirage, māẏā, or whatever, still the widowed wife has to rear her infant children on her own—the philosophy of the Vedanta will not make the affection in a mother's heart disappear! However irrevocable and powerful death may be, the bonds of love are not any less strong. Even after repeated defeats since the beginning of time, why does this endless conflict between given certainty and futile desire continue unabated? I was sitting and extending my imagination into the future a hundred years from now. I was thinking of what it was like a hundred years ago, that on an Agrahāẏaṇ morning in 1795 there would have been just this sort of winter, this sort of sunlight, this sort of commotion of people—but there's not a trace of that morning in this one. In those days too, so many festivals, so much grief, so many births and deaths, tears and laughter must have appeared like burning truths. And then again, the morning of the 19th of Agrahāẏaṇ will appear at the appointed time over the world in the year 1995 too. This same sort of dew-wet grass, this winter breeze, the mild sun—but not the slightest shadow, not a trace of the memory of Jna——'s death or his bereft widow and orphaned children's severest grief and sorrow will be cast upon that day—and I too, who, on a morning a hundred years before was thinking of myself as an aspect of the complete and living truth as I felt myself firmly established among my friends, relations, and near and dear ones, adjacent to the limitless world and the beginning of time—not a trace shall remain anywhere of me in the entire memory of the awakened human heart on that morning! On that day I will be
without sorrow, without desire, without regret—yet this earth and this sky will be here.

Kaligram
6 December 1895

I had written to you saying that everything in Kaligram is small-scale and near at hand. But that's only when I'm staying in the
boat
upon the river. The river is a small one, both its banks are high, and the boat too is narrow, so you can't see very far all around—only a limited rural scene can be seen. Yesterday after a long time I climbed up on the riverbank on the opposite shore after sunset to walk there—as soon as I went up there I suddenly saw that the sky had no beginning or end, that the deserted field stretched wide open till the horizon—how far those tiny little villages of mine were! How narrow the little line of water at one end! On the fields at Shilaidaha, one can see trees and villages and woods—here there is nothing all around, only blue sky and white earth, and in the middle, a lonely, homeless, endless dusk—it seems as if a bride veiled in gold walks alone through the limitless field with the veil barely pulled across her face. Slowly, slowly, she travels this entire circular earth, across so many thousands of villages, rivers, fields, mountains, seas, cities and forests, throughout the ages, alone, with her astonished, tearful, wan gaze, silently, with tired steps—if she has no husband then who has dressed her up in this golden wedding attire! On which eternal western shore is her husband's house? Yesterday, upon ascending that field, a certain rhythm and music and poetry seemed to well up suddenly in my head. But I couldn't give it form, and perhaps it was impossible to do so. As impossible as attempting to collect all the glitter of dusk to melt into a single golden image. That inner fervour I felt has been dispersed
into that soundless, silent dusk above the field at Patishar, and has set with it. If my mind has drawn a golden line or two of its own upon the limitless canvas of that evening sky—will that be visible any more? When that dusk comes again to that field today, it will bring no sign of yesterday with it.

On the river
Saturday, 7 December 1895

The
boat
set off again today at dawn—we left the narrow river behind and emerged into an expansive marsh. The bright sun and the keen winter breeze are enjoyable. The dew-bright world looks like a morning flower newly blossomed in the sky. Having emerged from the small cave-like river at Patishar after a long time, my mind today has spread its wings across the sky, my
boat
floats along, I seem to be flying through this calm, clear sunlight. This place too is quite wonderful. The land and water are like conjoined twins, brother and sister—there's no great difference between the two; water and land are on the same level; one part shines like steel in the sun, while another part is green with layers of herbivorous soil and mossy grass. Many varieties of herons and kites fly around, from white to brick-red, cormorants with long, shiny, black necks take a dive into the water and swim playfully around, chests puffed up; the fishermen have hung out their nets on bamboo poles—that's where the long-beaked kingfishers have their āddā. Before we know it, the banks on either side grow higher at a certain place, and land and water divide—river in the middle, banks on either side, Agrahāẏaṇ's yellow fields of grain on the banks; their heads bent, cows graze absorbedly upon the high banks, and near their mouthfuls of grass the śā
lik
birds dance around, hunting for worms—on occasional islands of high ground are two or three straw huts surrounded by
a few banana and kul trees and pumpkin vines, on whose porches stand naked children and curious housewives, staring amazed at my
boat
—black and white ducks huddle in groups by the waterside, busily cleaning the feathers on their backs with their beaks—far away, bamboo groves and dense rows of trees stand blocking the horizon—a little further away empty fields on either side—then again suddenly at one place the shouts of boys, the laughter and chatter of bathing women, the wail of a grieving older woman, the slapping sound of clothes being washed—I lift up my head at the sound of splashing bathing-water and see that we have arrived at the ghat of a densely shaded village; there are a couple of boats tied here and a reluctant bawling boy is being forcibly held down by the arm and bathed by his mother.

On the river to Shilaidaha
Sunday, 8 December 1895

I've been on the river since yesterday. We'd hoped to make it to Shilaidaha by today, but I don't see any sign of that happening now. I'm not unhappy about that—the few days I get en route are days of unadulterated holiday for me—no work to be done apart from what I want to think or do of my own volition. I'm looking out of both windows, reading and writing—on every side there's white sand and pale blue water, in the distance green fields and blue sky above. Occasionally in one or two places there was a touch of danger—the Padma's waters are receding now in the winter, you see, which is why the narrow flow of water becomes tremendously forceful at certain spots. The water seems to cut the bottom of the boat with the scraping sound of a steel knife as it flows. Your eyes begin to hurt if you look at that fast-flowing water. I've been sitting the entire day with my rough book for poetry
open, pencil in hand, writing a few lines now and then, and lazily gazing in this or that direction. I woke up at four in the morning today—got up and swathed myself in some warm clothes, lit the lamp, and finished a poem called ‘
Urbśīa
', then I went to have my bath at seven-thirty—in this way I've completed two quite long poems in these last couple of days. If you can get this sort of free time, uninterrupted and whole, over entire days of open sky and unlimited light, you can then nurture a poem in all its colours and flavours just as nature causes her flowers to bloom and fruits to ripen. Or else there's always a sense of hurry within—willingly or unwillingly, the mind is chased and harried down so many paths and wrong turns where the imagination receives no help at all. That's why sometimes I think that if I can travel by
boat
for a month or a month and a half and keep going west—separating myself from all news of home and all discussion of work—to completely disappear from sight into forgetfulness and cessation like that distant bird rising in the sky—then I could complete so many pieces of writing in that abundance of leisure. I have no greater duty than that of writing. I have accepted this injunction within my heart and come to the world—when I obey it, my joys and sorrows are all lighter, when I don't, then a horde of joys and sorrows are at my throat like a pack of greyhounds—what sort of terrible torture is this for a man!

On the way to Shahjadpur
11 December 1895

Ore b
ā
s re!
What a terrible affair! We've just gone past the k
āňcikāṭhā
—an enormous hurdle has been crossed. This place is like a narrow, winding canal—an enormous amount of water
rushes through this small space falling like a foaming, puffed-up waterfall—the angry water grabs, tears and pulls the entire
boat
along by the tuft of its hair—it runs along like lightning, so that there's no time to even think of what has happened or what is happening—the oarsmen and boatmen begin to shout and cry out loudly—the water gurgles and splashes, the stunned heart stops breathing, astonished, and then in ten minutes you cross over the danger spot and absolutely leap into the lap of safety. We've left behind the marshes of Kaligram and reached the river now. Now, with the help of a supportive current, we'll fly along with a whistling sound through high and winding banks of ripe grain and blossoming mustard fields on both sides. The smell of these mustard fields entrances me, bringing I don't know what picture and atmosphere of beauty to mind—something like a field full of sunlight seen many years ago, a cool, calm breeze, a winding village road by a pond, a veiled bride with a pitcher at her waist, and, along with all that, I'm reminded of a generous, clear sky permeated with the mild fragrance of a mustard field—as if the smell of those mustard flowers were somehow entangled with the deep, happy memory of a time of satiated love and fulfilling peace.

Shilaidaha
12 December 1895

The other day I was suddenly quite surprised by a very small and minor incident. I've written to you before that nowadays in the evenings I light a lamp on the
boat
and sit and read until I feel sleepy, because one's own solitary company is not always desirable, especially in the evenings. There's a proverb that says that people
who have no work indulge their aunts by accompanying them on a pilgrimage to the Ganga—a conveniently gratuitous aunt is rarely to be found close at hand when you need one, so then you have only your own mind to occupy yourself—rather than that, I think it's better to keep yourself occupied with a book. The other evening, I was sitting and reading an English critical work on poetry and beauty and art and other such gobbledegook—while reading the dire argumentation around all this significant stuff there are times when I feel, tiredly, that everything is an empty mirage—that all twelve annas of it are made up, just words on top of words. That day too, as I read, I was filled with a dry, jaded feeling, and a mocking monster of doubt appeared in my mind. As it was getting quite late at night, I slammed the book shut with a bang, flung it on the table with a thud, and blew out the lamp with the intention of going to sleep. The moment the light was extinguished, moonlight flooded into the
boat
from the open windows on all sides and scattered all around. How astonished and taken aback I was! My tiny little ray of lamplight had been smiling the dry smile of a villain, yet that completely insignificant smile of contempt had entirely obscured the limitlessly deep smile of this universe's love! What had I been searching for in the heaps of sentences of this dry book—the one I had been looking for had been standing outside all this time, silently filling the entire sky. If by chance I had not seen her, and gone to bed in the dark, then too she would have had no objection to that small wick of my lamp, but would have set silently. If I hadn't caught a glimpse of her even for a moment in this life and had gone to bed for the last time in the darkness of the last day of my life, then too that lighted lamp would have won, for she would still have spread across the entire world in the same sort of silence and with the same sweet smile—she would not have hidden herself, nor would she have shown herself.

Since then, nowadays in the evenings I've begun to put out the lighted lamp.

Shilaidaha
14 December 1895

Nowadays, between my writing and my leisure, I've begun to read a slim biography of the poet Keats little by little. Just in case it finishes in one go, I read it slowly, savouring it and saving it—I've been enjoying reading it. Of all the English poets I know, I feel the most intimate connection with Keats. There may be many more important poets than him, but none so much after my own heart. Unfortunately he died young, and was given little time to write…. Keats's language is full of the sincerity of a very real experience of joy. His
art
and his heart have come together in the same melodic pattern—whatever he has created has always had a pulsating connection with his heart. The poems of a majority of the modern poets such as Tennyson or Swinburne have the air of having been carved in stone—they write poetically, and there is a great beauty in what they write, but the inner heart of the poet is not a witness to the truth of that writing. Tennyson's poem ‘Maud' has a wellspring of
lyricism
that is both multi-hued and intensely heartfelt, it's true, but still, Mrs Browning's sonnets are far more intimately true. The unconscious poet in Tennyson writes lines that are then coloured over by the brushstrokes of the self-conscious artist Tennyson and increasingly obscured from view. In Keats's writing, the natural and deep joy of the poet's heart radiates outward, full of life and brightness, through the skilful craft of his compositions. That's what attracts me to it so much. Keats's writing is not holistic and almost no poem of his achieves perfection from the first line through to the last, but by the strength of their particular genuinely beautiful living quality, they are able to give intimate company to our living hearts. When I get back to Calcutta I'll give you this biography of Keats to read. His incomplete short life is so tender and sad.