A Gift From Tagore

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
its an idea which just came to me when i was sitting in Nandan and gazing at the beautifully sculpted statue of Rabindranath Tagore. This is not an autobiography. Please read till the end.. Hope you enjoy it!!

Submitted: June 22, 2012

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Submitted: June 22, 2012

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My Gift From Tagore
 
Tagore was confined for too long. He had been a standing epitome of literature, music, art, theatre,culture and above all a 
 
representative of the country. But now as he stood watching the flourish of all that he had done all those years, he felt unhappy. 
 
The artist painted and practised his sketches above and below the ground, the innumerous songs he composed were still sung by 
 
the youth and blended by many musicians across the world into different forms of melody, his plays were staged at every theatre 
 
in the world and the Gitanjali was still a reflection of wonder for many poets of the generation. But still he felt distant from all of 
 
them. He could not reach out to them, or speak to them and feel their dreams and aspirations which he had been a part of for so 
 
long. He felt an like an audience in the greatest game of the world- life. The people around swayed, floated and drifted along the 
 
waters of life everyday around him, but without him. He wanted again to listen to his very own Rabindrasangeet, stage another 
 
play and renew artistic excellence to a greater form. The birds around him chirpped every single moment and tried to provide him 
 
company as the days turned into nights and the light of the world shown again the next morning illuminating him and all around 
 
him. The seasons he felt accompanied his lonliness but brought the promise of change in the daily man's life but not in him. Tagore 
 
felt that he needed to travel, to seek out to the common man once again with renewed enthusiasm. 
 
'Ah! the common man,' thought Tagore. as he journeyed from the place where he had been confined for too long. The common man. 
 
For whom he had dedicated his life to. In whose image he was born and grown. Who represented the entire world and whose 
 
struggles, strifes, hopes, aspirations, tastes, beleifs and success was embedded deep within his works. Then the days of 
 
childhood floated right befor his eyes. It was as if he had left his Thakurbari just the other day. His friends, brothers, sisters aunts, 
 
uncles and relatives who had been a share to those endless hours of joy, learning and even in the plays he wrote and directed as 
 
a child. Then those horrifying moments of imperialism which forced him to deny Knighthood from the British Government due to 
 
the Jalianwalah Bagh tragedy. He even reflected upon those corners of the world where he visited to understand the complexities 
 
of human thought. 
 
But " Sonar Bangla" seemed forlorn. All this while everyday he could watch the office goer scurrying along the street, the endless 
 
people of different stages of the world queing for a movie ticket, the lonely musician strumming vigorously on the guitar, the dew 
 
on a grass far away sparkling brightly in the summer sun and the bridge nearby transporting souls from one end of the road to the 
 
other. But now he was surrounded by nature alone. A row of beautiful, differnent flowers along a very well paved lane lay right in 
 
front of him. He was about to begin his journey to meet the common man again, but found that the boundary around him could not 
 
be crossed. He had earlier felt that he would either be called "too old" or "a man out of his senses" for this endeavour but he had 
 
reflected the solution to this problem in his own teachings and found the answer- " Where the mind is without fear, the head is held 
 
high...."
 
But here was a different problem. The gates to his freedom were locked! The circular fence of captivity around him separated him 
 
from mankind. He needed brutal force to break them open but even courage has to be accompanied by proper strength but at this 
 
age and he had neither of them. The fence was too high to cross over. He felt like a prisoner which  added to his lonliness and 
 
that saddened him further. He looked around for help, but as it was a time for half the world to rest, no one was around. But 
 
Tagore had the patience of endurance. He thought about waiting until the day after a good night's sleep over the horizon would 
 
come on time to unify him with the world by breaking off his boundaries. As morning would arrive he would find someone to open 
 
the gate. "Man was born free, but everywher he is in chains," Tagore contemplated.
 
But Tagore felt that earlier he had the better view of the world around him. He could watch them more clearly as he was at a place 
 
slightly above the ground by a couple of feet or two. He thought of waiting where he had been waiting earlier for this moment. But 
 
this turned to be a fatal decision!
 
No sooner than he started to climb up than he slipped and fell.
 
The next day, journalists reporters and people from all spheres of the world gathered around him. They all wondered " how the 
 
statue of Rabindranath Tagore at Nandan had been found broken by accident?"
 
 
 
 
P.S.- The story has such a title because the thought came to me when I was sitting at Nandan the other evening and just staring at 
 
the beautifully sculpted statue of one of the greatest men on earth, Rabindranath Tagore. I consider it as a gift from him.


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