The leafless tree had no time to blossom, the snow had no time to melt.

And yet this two-day interlude will for ever hold me in my arms, its feel

will never fade from my life.

– Rabindranath Tagore¹

 

OF the myriad aspects in the life of Rabindranath, his travelogues celebrate the wayfarer in him. ‘I am a wayfarer of an endless road,’ he said, ‘My greetings of a wanderer to thee!’ Rabindranath’s earliest journeys were in his mind and he has left us accounts of these as well as of the later physical journeys in various travel writings – letters, diaries, poems, songs, and essays. All of these are written in Bengali. Right from his childhood he made innumerable trips both within India and abroad. His first visit to England at the young age of seventeen was on 20 September 1878 when he accompanied his brother Satyendranath, whose wife Jnanadanandini had already set up a home in Brighton and was living there with her two children, Surendranath and Indira, aged six and five years.

Rabindranath’s stay in England was for more than one year, living in London, Brighton, Tunbridge Wells and Torquay. The different experiences of this trip were published in the form of letters he wrote back home and which were published serially in the family periodical, Bharati. These were later collected as Yurop Probasir Patra (Letters From a Sojourner in Europe). Interestingly, although these letters give a lot of detail regarding Rabindranath’s stay in England, it is difficult to arrange these accounts chronologically as they bear no dates.

It is also interesting to note that earlier in 1885, under Jnanadanandini’s editorial venture, a children’s magazine called Balak was published from the Tagore household in Calcutta. Though the lifespan of this magazine was less than a year and only eleven issues were totally published, it contained different writings of the young Rabindranath, who would handle a lot of things for the publication. This magazine was later merged with Bharati and edited by his elder sister Swarnakumari Devi. Among the different kinds of entries that Rabindranath contributed for Balak are two interesting travel pieces. One called ‘Dus Diner Chhuti’( Ten Days’ Holiday) narrates his trip to Hazaribagh during school holidays. The second one called ‘Borof Pora’ (Snowfall) describes his first experience of snowfall in England in the winter of 1878 when he was living in Brighton along with his brother Satyendranath’s family.

Among the various projects that Rabindranath left incomplete is the editing and publication of the second volume of Paschatya Bhraman (Travels to the West) according to his own choice. During his third visit to England and USA in 1912-13, he wrote some essays for publications in various Bengali journals, Tatvabodhini, Prabasi, and Bharati. Tagore was anxious to have these collected in a travel book. In 1939, when Rabindranath himself set about to prepare this book, he selected fourteen of these essays for publication. These also included some from the 1920 trip to England and the US. He rewrote the essays using the colloquial chalit bhasha instead of the formal sadhu bhasha; he also revised the text substantially.

 

After his death, due to several editorial interventions, the volume that was published as Pother Sonchoy (Gleanings of the Road) by Visva-Bharati in 1946 contained twenty-two essays. Beginning with the first article called ‘Jatrar Purbapatra’ (The Prelude to the Journey), many of these pieces are not travel articles per se; they speak of different philosophical issues that cross the poet’s mind, different people he meets, or different experiences he encounters. The last article of this collection is called ‘Letter from America’ and though not an actual letter, it describes the poet’s first experience of snowfall in America in 1912.

The following section contains two articles, translated from Bengali for the first time by Somdatta Mandal. The first one ‘Snowfall’ is from Balak, and the other from Pother Sonchoy. By juxtaposing the two essays on snowfall and the feelings and emotions expressed by the poet, the reader can clearly understand how unlike the sense of wonder in the first narration, the second one begins in the same mood but soon moves to more philosophical ruminations.

 

Snow Fall

Rabindranath Tagore

The outlines of pictures gradually blur out of the mind; the shadows of all that we see everyday come ahead and crowd it, replacing the things we had seen a few days earlier. We cannot clearly understand where the earlier images get lost in the melee.

I went to England in the year 1878 A.D. That was about seven years ago. At that time I was pretty young too. I can remember overall what I had seen in England, but all her pictures are no longer clear in my mind. I cannot match one line with another. A kind of mist has already descended on my memories of England. The pictures have to be brought out occasionally and aired in the sun. That is why I have brought out my memories in the sunlight today.

It was the middle of October when I had reached England. I didn’t feel it to be too cold then. We stayed in Brighton. It was pretty sunny in Brighton then. Happy with the sunshine, all men, both young and old, had come in hordes to the seashore. The sick and the elderly people moved in pushcarts with one or two young girls or any other member of the family accompanying them. The ladies were dressed up in different kinds of clothing with umbrellas over their heads. Small boys dragged iron wheels and also ran along with them. Some ladies sat on the seashore with open umbrellas over their heads. Some were busy following the movement of the waves and collecting different kinds of seashells.

 

An Italian beggar was moving around playing an organ. Vegetable and milk vendors were returning after supplying their products in different houses. A man and a woman were riding their own horses on the pathway and the dressed up stable boys were following them. Some schoolmasters were walking with a big group of boys following them; on the other hand, each schoolmistress had a whole trail of schoolgirls following her. They had come to enjoy the sea breeze, or if not, at least the sunshine. Quite often we would run around the grassy fields near the seashore. Though the age was not conducive for running around, we didn’t mind because no one suitable was present there to criticize us for our out-of-the-way behaviour. The best time for our outing was ten or eleven o’clock in the morning. Whatever it might be, the seaside was celebrating the festival of sunshine when we reached Brighton.

 

As the days went by, the cold started increasing. The mud on the streets froze in the cold weather. The dew on the grass would freeze too and it seemed as if someone had scattered lime powder everywhere. On waking up in the morning I found that ice crystals had formed different designs on the windowpane. Sometimes I also found one or two sparrows lying on the road that had died in the cold. The few yellow leaves remaining on the trees also fell down, leaving the lean bare branches behind. The small little robin birds came to the glass windows with reliable hearts begging for bits of bread. Everyone assured us that we would soon witness snowfall.

Christmas was almost approaching. It was biting cold on a moonlit night. The doors and the windows of the room were all shut tight with the curtains drawn over them. The gas was burning. A fire was lit to warm up the place. After dinner we were all around the fireplace busy chatting. The two young boys attacked me. In spite of having plenty of proof, I do not want to mention here that they never behaved politely with me. They have grown up now, they even read Balak; so I do not want to write about them and then make my life more miserable answering their questions. A few days later they will also learn to protest. Because I would not be able to counter them, I remained quiet. You readers can guess whatever you like about their behaviour – I will not volunteer to take any responsibility on my shoulders.

Everyone was sitting warm enough when suddenly we got the news of the snowfall. As all our doors were shut, we did not know when it began. All of us including the children ran outside to see the beautiful sight. The cold seemed to have frozen the moonlight in layers and stuck on the streets, on the grass, the bare branches, the sloped slate roofs. There was no one on the street. All the houses in front of us had their doors and windows shut. The night and quietness, the moonlight and the snow all blended together to create a wonderful scene! The children (and I too) picked up the snow on the grass and turned them into little balls. As soon as we brought them in they melted into water.

 

For me this was the first night of snowfall. After this I have seen snowfall several times. But describing it is not easy, especially after so many years. I was walking on the street covering myself entirely in black woollen clothes. The sky was grey. Little flakes of snow were falling all around like quinine powder. It did not fall like raindrops – it came in lightly as if flying or dancing. It came and touched your clothes lightly; you could dust and get them. The wheels of cars left their marks on the soft white layers of snow. One also felt sad to leave dirty and muddied shoe imprints on the white layer of snow. It seemed as if the petals of the parijat flower were falling from the sky. Snow also got stuck on the black dresses and black umbrellas of the pedestrians.

It was wonderful to watch how everything gradually got covered with snow. At first it fell merely like some white streaks on the streets. There was a small plot of land in front of our house. It had a few saplings and creepers – no leaves on the shrubs but just bare branches. Those branches were still not covered with snow, so it was a mixture of green and white. The saplings seemed to be freezing in the cold. Their clothes were gone; wearing white funeral clothes of snow, the sap in their veins also seemed to be freezing. The black slate roof of the house was gradually turning grey and then white. Soon the streets were also covered with snow – the small saplings got buried in it. The snow also piled up on the narrow windowsill. The noses of the few pedestrians on the street turned blue, their faces shrivelled in the cold. Far off at a distance, the church steeple could be faintly visible like a white ghost in the sky.

It is very difficult now in this hot and humid summer month to even imagine how cold it was. I remember how after taking a cold-water bath in the morning my hands would become so numb that I could not find the handkerchief in my pocket. There was no limit to the amount of warm clothes on my body. In spite of the thick shoes and socks, the soles of my feet would become cold in no time. Even after getting inside a bundle of blankets at night, I would be worried how I would turn on the other side because whenever I turned, I would get a shock.

 

We heard the story about four fishermen who had gone out to fish in the sea. When a ship came near their boat they saw that the four of them had already frozen to death. The coachman who was sleeping on his carriage at night had also died. The water in the pipes often froze and caused the pipes to burst. Snow had covered up the River Thames. The lake inside Hyde Park was also frozen. Hundreds of people wore a kind of iron shoe and skated over that lake everyday.

This skating was a wonderful affair. Hundreds of people wearing skating shoes turned and bent and twisted and glided over that hard lake. The way people skated was similar to the way a boat moved with its sail. With the body slightly tilted on one side, one could float easily on the ground. No effort was needed to step forward – one did not have to quarrel with the ground or defeat it with each footstep.

Trying to bring back the winter of England in our country even through our imagination is futile. The heat here arises very quickly, melts like the snow and cannot be grasped. It is not sufficiently welcomed within the blankets and quilts here.

 

Letter From America²

Today is Sunday. The church bells are ringing. On opening my eyes in the morning I saw everything has turned white with snow. The black sloped roofs of the houses have opened their bosoms to the arrival of this all-encompassing whiteness and they are saying, ‘Sit down on the darkness lightly!’ Doing away with the dirt roads on which people walked forever, this stream of static whiteness seems to be moving along forcefully. There is not a single leaf on the trees; the bright, holy and pure branches pointing upwards have received its blessings. The grass on both sides of the road have not succumbed their youth completely, but they are gradually bending their heads in defeat. The birds have stopped calling; there is no sound anywhere in the sky. The snow is flying down but its footsteps cannot be heard at all.

 

The monsoon comes with the sound of the rain, the murmuring of the leaves and branches, the arrival of which is sounded everywhere like the announcement of the arrival of a king – but while we were all asleep, the gateway of the sky had opened silently; no messenger arrived with its news, it did not wake anybody from their sleep. From the secluded hermitage of heaven, silence is descending on the earth; it does not have the rolling sound of chariot wheels; Matli, the charioteer of Lord Indra is not controlling the wild horses with the reins of lightning and bringing it to us; it is descending with its white wings spread out – its spread very tender and its movement very smooth. There is no collision anywhere; it does not hurt anyone a bit. The sun is covered; there is no fierceness of its rays; but the whole world is lit with a smooth radiance – this brightness seems to be covered with peace and humility – its covering is its expression.

In this quiet winter morning I bow my head in obeisance to the arrival of this beautiful pure whiteness – I welcome it in my heart. I say – ‘You gradually cover up everything – all my thoughts, my imagination, cover up all my work. Covering up the darkness of midnight let your purity descend on my life silently, let it awaken my new dawn with pure whiteness – let all faults be wiped away forever – do not keep any defects anywhere – just as the light from your heavens is perpetually pure so also cover up my life with unending whiteness.’

 

I am bathing my soul in the unending whiteness of this morning. It is too cold and difficult. I will have to bare myself naked like an infant and gradually sink into it so that nothing will be left behind – whiteness above, whiteness in the middle, whiteness in front, whiteness at the back, whiteness in the beginning, whiteness at the end – an all encompassing whiteness like Shiva. Sinking my entire body and mind in this whiteness I shall bow to the lord who is benefactor and saviour and also to Him who is different.

I am watching how the appearance of old age can be so great, so deeply beautiful. All the diversities have been gradually and silently covered up; the unending whiteness has hidden behind it. All the songs have been covered, life has been covered, all the varieties of colours have got submerged in white. But this is not the shadow of death. What we know as death is black in colour; emptiness is not white as light; it is dark as a new moon night. The white rays of the sun have covered up all the red and blue rays; but instead of destroying, have completely absorbed it. Today the deep song of silence has filled up my soul. Today the trees and plants have all shed their covering; not a single leaf has been spared; it has absorbed all the wealth of life. The woods seem to have completed all their sermons and only silently praying to them with the mantra of ‘OM’.

 

It seems to me that the worshipping Gouri has rejected all the jewellery of spring flowers and dressing in pure white clothes is praying for the white image of Shiva. In this she is eroding both the desire that ignites and the desire that creates separation. All the evil of fiery passion is gradually diminishing; as far as we can see, everything is covered in white and there are no impediments for the union with Shiva. Now the wedding is approaching; the message is already written in the holy light of the seven stars in the sky and in depth of this worship serious preparations are going on; the festival songs are getting accumulated there; the basket of flowers meant for the exchange of garlands is being filled up behind the eyes of the world.

Welcome this worship, O my soul, bend myself low and quiet me – let the white peace cover you in layers and establish all your efforts in seriousness; let the angel of purity come once and do away with all the waste of this life from one end to the other; after that this quiet covering of worship will be lifted one day; covering the entire world, the vase of joy will be filled up to the brim and there will arise new awakening, new life, new celebration of union.

 

Footnotes:

1. See Introduction by Supriya Roy. Rabindranath Tagore, Letters From a Sojourner in Europe, Visva-Bharati, Kolkata, 2008, pp. 11-18.

2. From Pother Sonchoy 22 (Gleanings of the Road) 24/25 November 1912.