#tagore tales

[pop-goes-the-weasel]

Tumblr, allow me to present a Substack I have started: Tagore Tales.

Rabindranath Tagore is the first non-white Nobel Laureate and is a polymath commonly most known for his poetry. He is among the most significant litterateurs of South Asia, who lived through and participated in the tumultuous days of India's Independence Movement, all while founding a University and advocating for social development.

This Substack will focus on his short stories. All his writing is in public domain, but many of the translations are not. Thus, I will be sharing some of my own

This humble effort by yours truly to acquaint you with the stories that touch the heart of nearly every Bengali child in school and still serve as our guiding light in a rapidly deteriorating world.

See you on the 9th of May!

[woundedwizard]

I upped the max unit cuz the last time quite a number of people said 15

[linguisticparadox]

If you would like to get a taste of non-white, non-western literature, then this is your reminder to sign up for Tagore Tales by @pop-goes-the-weasel here: https://tagoretales.substack.com/

The story so far is really spooky and the prose is gorgeous!

[lavinaigrette]

Delighted that part 1 of The Hungry Stones features our favourite literary recurring character—a train.

[vickyvicarious]

Finally catching up on Kabuliwala, and I was immediately charmed by the opening narration/'conversation'. Captured excited kid babble really well in my opinion, and our narrator's love for his daughter is so sweet and apparent even when he's trying to shoo her away so he can get some work done. It's very sweet.

[sunsetsrainbowsandyou]

Tagore said "আমারও পরানো যাহা চায়/তুমি তাই, তুমি তাই গো" but how do you put in words/verse that you are so loved, you fail to find the exact letters and words to make a poem out of it because all the words you think of and write down and erase look like they cannot fully understand the amount of love you feel and hold for him?

That all the words you're thinking of writing feel like they're falling short?

Do you make new words for your lover?

Can I make new words for you, too?

[miraclesabound]

Tagore Tales will start on Tuesday!

[carnivalfair]

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times… In life after life, in age after age, forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs, that you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms, In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain, its ancient tale of being apart or together. As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge, clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time: You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount. At the heart of time, love of one for another. We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell - old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you the love of all man’s days both past and forever: Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life. The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours – and the songs of every poet past and forever.

-- Rabindranath Tagore

bonus: no glasses version

[sambhavami]

Krishna: a character adored for over two thousand years, revered as one of the most significant political masterminds of the ancient world with his words forming the philosophical core of the country today. Concurrently, he is the god shrouded in inimitable domesticity- as a friend, a lover, and a child. No other deity in the Hindu pantheon has probably achieved as dear a position in the hearts of people as this flute-wielding cowherd of Gokula.

For generations, he has shined as the muse of countless poetfolk, of unfinished business, of unspoken desires and of repressed lovers' qualms. In Meera's longing for her marble beloved, and in Kothai's dulcet dreams of a celestial wedding, Krishna blossoms not as a warrior, but rather as a confidante of young women- the keeper of all secrets.

Curse, o ye, this wedding of devotion, 

For I was better off unmarried,

Writes the lovestruck Nawab Sadiq Hilm,

I was well enough at my mother's; 

Oh, why did I pine for him?!

Who am I, or what: go ask Rizwan, the gatekeeper

For heaven has been rejected by my forebearers!

He says, in a nostalgic ode to the cowmaids from old tales. To the ones that massage the dust off their feet on Krishna's fevered forehead to soothe his illness, even as the apparent disrespect dooms their afterlives.

Jayadeva notes a more rugged form of Krishna, one that is almost hungry for love. His Radha smiles down upon Radharaman Dutta's kalankini. Of course, she would accept even infamy if it was in relation to her Krishna. However, in time, this epithet has been reclaimed as a celebration of the meteoric, tempestuous love that this unseemly duo had carved out for themselves of the pages of a mostly unwilling history.

Tagore's Krishna is mysterious, eagerly anticipated but rarely seen. Rather, here Radha's pining is crushing and all-encompassing, inherited from Chandidas' virahini. Radha's guttural desire to transform Krishna into herself, subjecting him to the same suffering that she undergoes as a woman in love with a furious ideology more than a man, reverberates eerily against the lighthearted cross-dressing tale of Surdas'.

As often as bards favour the songs extolling the love of the cowherd and the wedded maiden, Krishna's wives are seldom accorded any thought outside of Vasudeva's family tree. Their silence speaks to the stringent rules of a typical patriarchal household. Some of them do speak, and hence Satyabhama becomes conceited and Kalindi wayward. However, the mere few lines that they are mercifully allotted in the text are enough to speak to their resilience. The lines inadvertently hold up a window to the million unspoken words and unexchanged glances. It speaks to the long years, happy and sad. It speaks to the nights of waiting for the beloved to return. It speaks to the quiet lunches in curtained rooms and taste tests in the kitchen.

Each of Krishna's eight wives has their own life, and their own equation with Krishna. Each of their distinct personalities, coupled with their unique introductions to the prince has the potential to bring a distinct flavour to the story of Krishna, the statesman. The understanding that Krishna's heart belonged first to Vrindavana and then to his ambition, must have weighed somewhat on their hearts and yet, the choice to patch up the battle-hardened cowherd, after every blow, sans complaint, and send him out into the world as the architect of history, must have demanded restraint.

The distinct turn of events that brings each of the chief eight queens to Krishna's is quite interesting. Rukmini, the first, demonstrates heart, even if it is born out of desperation. Seizing control of her life, she sends a message, relying solely on rumours of his compassion. Her gamble yields returns manifold as Krishna not only rescues her from an unwanted marriage, but instates her as his chief consort, elevating her, alongside himself, to a divine status. Far from the impulsiveness of her youth, Pandhari's Rakhumai, astute beside her beloved, proudly bears a conch-shell, calling for harmony and community. In life as well, Rukmini brings to Krishna much needed stability, and oversees the blossoming of the city of Dwarika as well as Krishna's growing household.

Jambavati and Satyabhama are given in marriage to the prince by their respective fathers and do not seem to have much of a voice at the time. Jambavati fulfills an ancient destiny, a forgotten promise, then going on to mother the child that ultimately brings about the demise of the Yadava clan. Satyabhama, though often maligned with unfair accusations, is self-reliant. Making no attempt to hide herself from the eye of society, takes her rightful place beside Krishna, not on a throne, but by his side in battlefields. Kalindi however, is an extremely interesting character in Krishna's story. Enmeshed between mortal and divine, she exists as neither. Chancing upon the prince, she unabashedly declares her intentions to be married, and yet she is uncharacteristically silent after her marriage. Lakshmana and Mitravinda, are both won in conquest. They might have been able to sympathize with Rukmini, given their kin had turned against them, on account of their choice of a life partner. Bhadra, on the other hand, has no fancy contests to boast of, or an adventurous rescue. She marries Krishna at the behest of her brother, the only highlight being the arduous journey she undertakes from Kekaya to Dwarika.

After their marriages, these women practically disappear from the narrative until their last moments. We can assume that they were all presumably content with a life outside the spotlight. One can only hope to be privy to their lives after marriage, to know their dreams, nightmares and daily chores. They enter Krishna's life at crucial junctions, and I choose to believe they each had a unique effect on Krishna's worldview, bringing with them a fresh outlook into the mostly stagnant golden city.

[abatelunare]

Quelli che hanno autorità non si stancano mai di mostrare la possibilità degli abusi della libertà, per giustificarne le repressioni, ma senza tale possibilità la libertà non sarebbe neanch'essa libera (Rabindranath Tagore, Oltre il ricordo).

[pop-goes-the-weasel]

hi hi! just wanted to say i am beyond excited for kabuliwala!! opened my mail and did a little happy dance :D can't wait to see people experience it! thank you for running the substack ❤

A wonderful story, is it not? Seemed a shame to not make more people aware of it. The themes being so universal and so relevant more than a century later, it is sad that so few people outside South Asia know of this.

P.S. I found some good subtitled versions of the Kabuliwala movie adaptation.....

[twinkleallnight]

The Stolen Interview

Book: TRR AU

Characters: Rashad x Kiara, Joelle Theron.

Word count: ~2000+

Disclaimer: All characters belong to pixelberry.

Rating: Mature

Warning: Fluff

Prompt: prompt 1 by @choicesflashfics in bold

: Day 1 of @kiaratheronappreciationweek

Special thank you @lizzybeth1986 for brainstorming and the valuable inputs.

The warm sun rays of spring, sieved through the white clouds on the Castelsarreillan abode that nested the Theron family.

A pleasant breeze traversed through the windows of the library to flutter the pages of “Geetanjali” by Rabindranath Tagore, a book the youngest Theron, Kiara, was engrossed into.

As if just on cue, her phone chimed to distract her further. Her brown eyes fell on the known name flashing on the screen, bringing a smile on her face. She pushed her owl-shaped bookmark on the page she was reading and swiped the green button on her phone.

“Bonjour!” she chirped.

“Hello and sorry to disturb your reading hours.” The sultry male voice replied.

“How do you know that I am reading?”

“A little bird gave away your secrets to me.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Kiara questioned.

“Nah, just been observing you. What are you reading?”

“Geetanjali.”

“Oooh! You seem to be inclined to the east.”

“Since our last discussion. You have piqued my interest in that culture.” Kiara confessed honestly.

“And here I thought the interest was in a handsome brainy guy.”

Kiara giggled, “Someone has too many wrong notions about himself.”

“I guess I can challenge the smart lady of Castelsarreillan.”

“Bet!” she almost jumped in excitement.

“Okay. Accepted. Open the doors then.”

Kiara looked at the closed ornate doors of the library in surprise. She rushed to open the doors and found Rashad beaming at her, phone still against his ear.

“Bonne soirée ma dame!” he flashed the widest smile.

“Aadaab!” She cupped her hand raising it to her forehead to greet him.

“Your way or my way, it’s a lovely evening.”

“It surely is. Please come in.” She walked him in. “What brings you here, today?”

“I am here to meet your mother on my father’s behalf. I dropped in a bit early to catch up with you.”

“I am glad you did.”

He saw the book she was reading, “How are you finding this one?”

“It’s a unique experience. I haven’t read much of your culture before this.”

“This is just a part of my culture, you may say. Every time I visited India with Ma, I discovered a new treasure chest.”

“Like?” she raised her brows. Rashad loved this particular expression of hers. It made her eyes look like two big brown balls shining, bewildered.

He bit on his lip to hide his emotions and then continued, “English, French, Swiss, German etcetera. They all collectively form the European culture. Similarly, there are regional divisions that come under the roof of Indian culture.”

“Does Tagore come from your region?”

Rashad shook his head. “No, he is from the neighbouring land of Bengal. He was a Nobel laureate. Ma introduced his poems to me. She had a Pandora box of stories.”

“I love listening to those tales. I wish I could have met her in person.” Kiara expressed sincerely.

Rashad pursed his lips at the mention of his mother but then quickly changed the topic. “I would love nothing more than to spoil you with attention, but it’s going to have to wait until later. How about you come along with me for my meeting with your mother?”

“That sounds good. Just give me a moment.”

Kiara picked her book and neatly arranged it in a stack on the right. Rashad made a quick note of the titles she had placed on that rack. He knew she had a habit of arranging her “to read” books there. And he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to discuss and debate the reviews with her. He enjoyed following what she read and the talks that followed. Sometimes he quietly would push a book to her to gain her views about it. He was in awe of her intellectual prowess of varied subjects.

***************”*

Duchess Joelle Theron’s studio

“What do you think? Is this, okay? Am I looking good?” Rashad whispered while adjusting his tie maybe the tenth time.

Kiara swatted at his hand. “Stop fidgeting.”

Rashad’s eyes widened at her gesture.

Kiara gave a playful smile to lighten his mood, “You look handsome. As always.” She pinched his cheek and pulled it.

Rashad squealed, “Ouch.” And started rubbing on his stubble where she had pulled so hard.

Kiara covered her mouth with her hand to hide her laughter.

Rashad cleared his throat and adjusted his pose when he heard his two workmen lumbering down the hall with a heavy life-size painting in their hands.

“What is this?” Kiara gasped.

“You will see.” Rashad swelled up his chest with pride. “A small gift from the duchy of Domavallier for Castelsarreillan.” He guided the men to place the painting against a wall.

Just then Joelle, Kiara’s mother walked in

“Good evening, Lord Rashad.”

“Good evening, your grace. Please call me Rashad.”

“Rashad.” She smiled. Rashad looked from her to Kiara in amazement.

“What’s wrong?” Her brows furrowed.

“Oh, it’s nothing, your grace. Just that I realised where Lady Kiara’s bright smile comes from.”

Joelle narrowed her eyes, “I don’t know whether I should be flattered by your compliment to me or worry about your keen interest in my daughter’s smile.”

Rashad lowered his eyes to the floor. “My apologies.”

Joelle laughed, making Kiara jump with surprise. “Do you think these old bones can’t do some teasing?”

Rashad rubbed the back of his neck nervously. ‘This isn’t going well,’ he thought.

“So, what have we got here?” She pointed at the covered painting.

Rashad quickly stepped forward to unveil his gift, “It’s a small token from us on occasion of the upcoming flower festival in your duchy.”

He lifted the covers and Kiara drew in a breath. “Its Raja Ravi Varma’s painting!” She exclaimed.

It depicted a lady standing against a pillar plucking a lone flower in her hand. It looked like words were frozen on her lips. She was standing in anticipation. Her other hand caressed the tender petals of the pink flower while a man quietly stared at her from the other side of the pillar. He seemed to be mesmerized by her beauty. His expressions showed as if he was waiting for a reply from her.

Joelle gave her an astonished look. “You know about this famous Indian artist?”

“Of course, Maman. Raja Ravi Varma remains the most renowned painter of the 19th century from Travancore, India.”

Joelle addressed Rashad. “You must be knowing that He was a royal.”

“Yes,” he momentarily looked at Kiara, “Raja means King.” Giving the polyglot feed for the day, he shifted back to Joelle, “he belonged to a kingdom that interestingly followed the matrilineal system.”

Kiara pitched in, “They still follow matriarchy in few of those regions.”

Joelle nodded, a small smile on her lips. “What do you know about this painting, dear?”

“Maman, this painting is titled ‘The stolen interview’ a hushed moment between two lovers. Varma was famous for combining European techniques and Indian style in his work.

Joelle raised her chin, “I am impressed Kiki. When and where did you collect all that knowledge of Indian art?”

“Ummm, Rashad mentioned it from one of his tours to India.” She sheepishly looked at Rashad while he tried to hide the blush in vain.

Joelle gave Rashad an approving nod. “Rashad, please convey my regards to your father. This is the most beautiful and unexpected gift. I will treasure it for my lifetime.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Rashad bowed his head with respect.

“Hakim will be here in an hour. Kiki, why don’t you give Rashad a tour of our vineyard in the meanwhile?”

“Sure, Maman.”

“See you soon, your grace.” Rashad scurried behind Kiara.

Joelle nodded; her eyes fixed on the painting.

Kiara guided Rashad out of the hall. Joelle turned to look at their receding figures. Her lips curled up in a knowing smile.

“Phew!” Rashad released a breath that he unknowingly was holding back. He loosened the knot of his tie and wiped the sweat beads from his forehead.

Kiara gave him a questioning look.

“How did that go?” He had his hands on his hips.

“What?” Kiara asked, confused.

“Nothing,” he waved off his hand. “You won’t understand.”

Kiara shrugged her shoulders and started walking.

Rashad matched her steps. “By the way I had just mentioned the art of Raja Ravi Varma. You went into the depth of the subject.”

“And I have you to thank for all that detailed study.”

“Me? How?”

“I picked up the book about the artist co-authored by Eric and Christian from your study.” She revealed.

Rashad stopped in his tracks and turned to her, his jaw hanging open.

“What is it?” Kiara gazed into his dark eyes.

“Lady! You never cease to amaze me.”

“I can’t help when someone raises my curiosity like that. So, I read all about his life, his work, his lithography.”

Rashad shook his head, smiling, “Did someone ever tell you that you are a walking encyclopaedia?”

Kiara strutted ahead proudly, “I like that Nickname.”

“Look at you gloating now! Are you going to fill me up with details about the vineyards too?”

“Now that you asked for it, I may.” She stretched out her hand, “This way my Lord.”

Rashad dramatically bowed, “After you milady.”

They both laughed at their silly act and walked down to the vineyards.

Joelle stood in the window watching them tread away. Hakim joined her, “Sorry, I am late. What are you looking at Jo.” He followed her gaze. “Is that Lord Rashad with Kiara?”

Joelle smiled and nodded. “Our daughter seems to be making some smart choices.”

*******************

In the vineyards

Kiara was busy explaining the quality of the fruit, the terroir, the production and storage process while Rashad heard out keenly. He plucked a few tiny flowers that grew on the winding path.

“They are like rose pearls, embedded into the green gown of the landscape.”

“What a poetic way of defining it. Here.” He handed out a flower to her.

“Thank you.” She gladly accepted it.

They came across a clearing that looked upon the valley.

“And this,” Kiara stretched out her arms, “is my favorite place.”

They both stood looking at the serenity before them. The soft breeze brought waft of the fresh crop every now and then.

After sometime Rashad turned to look at Kiara. She was still holding the flower he gave her. Her other hand caressing the petals while she kept looking in the distance.

“The stolen interview.” He said softly.

“What?” She shifted her focus to him.

He pointed at the flower in her hand. “The way you are holding and touching it, reminded me of the lady in the painting.”

Kiara shook her head, making light of it.

“Kiara?”

She searched his eyes in anticipation.

“I don’t want to stand on the other side of the pillar and keep stealing moments to watch you. I want to be on your side of the pillar.”

Kiara looked out at the valley again.

“Rashad, can you see the end of the land from here?” She questioned him, instead of replying to his words.

Rashad turned his attention to the valley too. He knew this was not going to be an easy conversation. “It’s a breath-taking beauty. What a vast expanse, as if it’s never ending.”

“That’s what attracts me the most. I want my life to be just like that. I want to keep exploring, learning, growing, crossing new horizons every passing year. I…I don’t know if …you….”

“I would love to be a part of such a journey.” Rashad stretched out his hand, palm opening to her.

Kiara looked at his inviting hand. She reflected on the time since she had known him. He encouraged her, he competed with her. He challenged her, he channelled her. His patience around difficult situations, his maturity in dealing with matters of state and his witty replies.

She turned to look at the valley again. He clearly gave her every chance to learn, explore and grow. She didn’t realize when she had grown fond of his company.

Rashad’s heart was pounding hard. Had he hurried through it all? In an attempt to strengthen the bonds, was he going to lose a good friend? She had turned to look away from him. She was now looking at the valley. That’s it. That’s the end. He closed his eyes, finding it difficult to face the truth. He slowly retrieved his hand….when he felt her slender fingers. His eyes snapped open.

Kiara had discreetly slipped her hand in his, though she was still gauzing the skies above the valley.

Rashad held her hand and matched her gaze. A subtle smile played on his lips. They both stood facing the valley silently, in their own moment of a stolen interview.

Tags: @3pawandme @alj4890 @angelasscribbles @bascmve01 @bebepac @busywoman @choicesficwriterscreations @dcbbw @gkittylove99 @harleybeaumont @iaminlovewithtrr @karahalloway @kingliam2019 @lizzybeth1986 @lovingchoices14 @nestledonthaveone @neotericthemis @mom2000aggie @phoenixrising0308 @princess-geek @riseandshinelittleblossom @sazanes @secretaryunpaid @sfb123 @sillydg @tessa-liam @tinkie1973 @txemrn @walkerdrakewalker @yourmajesty09

[linguisticparadox]

[entheognosis]

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times... In life after life, in age after age, forever. My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs, That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms, In life after life, in age after age, forever. Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain, It's ancient tale of being apart or together. As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge, Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time. You become an image of what is remembered forever.

Rabindranath Tagore

[vickyvicarious]

Kadambini died, and proved that she was not dead.

WHAT A LINE.

[lunamagicablu]

Quanto più uno vive solo, sul fiume o in aperta campagna, tanto più si rende conto che non c’è nulla di più bello e più grande del compiere gli obblighi della propria vita quotidiana, semplicemente e naturalmente. Dall’erba dei campi alle stelle del cielo, ogni cosa fa proprio questo; c’è tale pace profonda e tale immensa bellezza nella natura, proprio perché nulla cerca di trasgredire i suoi limiti. (Rabindranath Tagore) *************************** The more one lives alone, on the river or in the open countryside, the more one realizes that there is nothing more beautiful and greater than fulfilling the obligations of one's daily life, simply and naturally. From the grass in the fields to the stars in the sky, everything does just that; there is such profound peace and such immense beauty in nature, precisely because nothing seeks to transgress its limits. Rabindranath Tagore