Rabindranath Tagore as a Literary Artist

K. CHANDRASEKHARAN
Baffling as certainly an endeavour to provide an exhaustive list of Tagore’s achievements in the various fields like music, dance, painting, histrionics, education, etc., would be, even the effort to describe his output within the limited field of literary and poetic writing would be, difficult. Indeed his contribution to ever so many types and forms of writing is amazing, if not defying adequate enumeration. As one of his admirers, the late Mahamahopadhyaya Harprasada Sastri, said: “He has tried all phases of literature–couplets, stanzas, short poems, long pieces, short stories, fables, novels and prose romances, dramas, farces, comedies and tragedies, songs, opera, Kirtans, Palas and, last but not least, lyric poems. He has succeeded in every phase of literature he has touched, but he has succeeded, beyond measure, in the last phase of literature. His essays are illuminating, his sarcasms biting, his satires piercing. His estimate of old poets is deeply appreciative, and his grammatical and lexicographical speculations go further inwards than those of most of us.”

We can add to what has been said above, that he has written also much on religious topics, educational problems, social questions, economic and philosophical speculations and on music. He is reported to be an authority on metrical forms. He is also one of the most informed of Bengali critics. His epistolary exuberance is perhaps unrivalled, in his own language, for its quality, quantity and manner. In his venture on prose poems he has few equals. His familiarity and real interest in modern science received no greater satisfaction than in producing a beautiful book upon it by the name of Visva Parichaya. In the field of writing charades in Bengali he was almost a genius. Dance-plays were of his favourite creations. Nursery rhymes, primers for school children, nonsense verses, picture books for youngsters, can also be added to illustrate the fecundity of his imaginative writings.

Still, though Rabindranath’s range is so enviably extensive, his genius is essentially lyrical. But even the term ‘lyrical’ in his case has to be taken with a qualification, in that, however much he has given scope to his personal experience, there is a vast deal more of his output, in which he has objectively reacted to life. Maybe the lyric is one-pointed at any particular moment and can be distinguished from the dramatic. In other words, in some of his moods the author remains intensely aware of one aspect of a matter which, in such moments, cannot be anything far removed from his own conception of the Truth. It is in this way Tagore is lyrical. In all his short stories, essays, dramas, songs, he is taken up with one extremely intimate theme and is identified with it. One thing is certain and we need not hesitate to express it, that creativity in literature derives much of its vitality and sustenance from sincerity of feeling, keenness of insight, skill in delineation of character, artistry and deftness with which observation is related. Indeed both lyric and drama trace their sources to one particular individual’s experience; still they are representative of many other kindred souls that are dumb of poetic speech. In lyric we perceive, an empathy and identification by the author with his theme, while in play-writing is visible an amount of detachment and forbearance of opposition. Call it lyricism or by any other name, Tagore’s sympathy for all forms of life was real and rich. It looks as if there is no bit of what he observed in life that could escape his pen. He was fond of describing himself as only a poet, as if it meant something very insignificant. But the fact is, to be a poet in his manner is to be immeasurably great.

A criticism is generally levelled at him that, because of the large quantity of his writing, he fell a prey to frequent repetition of some idea or thought in them. True, there is repetition of ideas and situations as well, occurring in some of his plays and essays. This, to a superficial reader, may even seem detracting from his originality and freshness. Yet there is not really so much of it as to deserve criticism. For instance, a few poems may speak of a strain of melody and the sweet-throated bird that pours it out. But this does not by itself make all of them same on as repetitions of one single idea in three succeeding pieces. If scanned with care each will be found to possess a particular idea, very near what occurs in the three others, yet not without a distinctiveness that makes the difference. Persons who are familiar with Karnatic music, know that the Sangatis of a Pallavi of great composers like Thyagayya often appear as mere repetitions to the uninformed ear, though containing minute points of elaboration and differentiation, which develop clearly the growth of the song into a surpassing climax of mood and feeling. Of course to those who will not undergo the discipline of a seasoned critic, everything will appear as redundancy of execution and purposeless elaboration.

There can be a further argument as to why at all should any poet worth the name, do that sort of thing so as to cause strain on the listener or reader to scan beauty and meaning in them. Well, let us try to comfort such lazy individuals with the answer, that a writer’s emotions require perhaps more than a couple of lines similar for gaining his own sense of fulfilment. The critic also will have to reconcile himself to the fact that he is under no compulsion to read all of them. Again it may be only on a par with the other criticism that, had the poet written less, leaving decipherable marks of excellence on the pathway of his progress, he could have helped a great deal more for a correct assessment of his art. The answer will readily form on the lips of the sober among us, that a writer of such overwhelming originality and fecundity as Tagore cannot restrain his moods of outpouring for the convenience of the so-called critic.

Apart from the variety and volume of his works, the artist in Tagore was compounded of a great deal of knowledge of the fundamentals of philosophy and higher experience. One may get impatient of admirers of Tagore trying to interpret his poems and other writings as truly based on a search for Reality. Modesty impelled the poet to correct his listeners not to mistake him for a regular student of the systems of philosophy extant. Nevertheless, consistency of philosophical thought can be found in all his utterances. Art and religion, according to him, got betrothed to each other long before he ever became aware, of their existence in himself. True, there is no systematic approach in him to philosophical speculations of the kind we are familiar with. He never proved anything as his own precious contribution to philosophy. Still, what he gave out can strike any thoughtful mind as something very searching and fundamental, expressed in a way which is again of an unprecedented nature. Even before reason can be convinced, the heart is ready to receive his message, In the words of Masti Venkatesa Aiyengar: “It does not reach the door of Truth by the established path; it makes its own way to it over the green meadow.” For instance, if he wants to point out death as not so horrible as to be always avoided, he resorts to the arresting analogy of the child’s cry when the mother takes it away from the right breast only to place it the very next moment against her left one, If the poet wished to prove how much the physical body of man can help or hinder the progress of the soul’s journey here below, he easily draws the analogy of the road that can be looked at as connecting one with his destination as well as separating him from his goal, The same philosophy of the ultimate surviving of the soul alone, after the physical body gets annihilated, has been convincingly hinted at by the use of a simile.

It will not be out of place to refer to Tagore’s apt similes. They contain such beauties of observation and imagination that they are appreciated for themselves even as Kalidasa’s Upamas are. One should not fail to note that similes are employed by the first-rate poets for illuminating or illustrating a thought or idea and never to clog the reader’s mind or lead him astray. The happy simile will clear up any fog enshrouding an intricate suggestion or thought.

To proceed further, without indicating at least a few of Tagore’s imageries, would be like watching the dew-decked rose in the morning without inhaling its sweetness in the air. Taken at random too, some of his pictures are exquisite. A lamp fulfils its purpose when the wick burns and consumes the oil. Supposing it were to happen that in order to conserve the oil the wick should not burn, it will be like a man of affluence hoarding his wealth and not using it for beneficial acts of service. If the poet makes Duryodhana, in his dialogue with his mother, say regarding the duty of a Kshatriya not to be soft and yielding towards his rivals (Pandavas) there is pressed into service a beautiful analogy for bringing out the justice of his argument: “The stars shine in clusters, but not the sun and moon; the grass grows in amity, but not the giant trees.” No doubt one may contradict a simile as not functioning completely in its best service too of clarifying an idea. Then it is for us to realise that its main function is not to conclude an argument or clinch a point of view, but only to elucidate it or render it more obvious to the erstwhile unconvinced mind, Valmiki or Kalidasa alone can stand a comparison with Tagore in this.

Some may opine that for the, phenomenal literary achievement of Rabindranath, his resort to mysticism confines the appeal sometimes, if it does not detract from his pre-eminent claim to success. There have been instances of persons trying to spell out significances from titles like The Post Office or The King of The Dark Chamber. Such a tendency may mislead the ordinary run of the readers and even estrange them from a proper estimate of the poet. Very often the transition from a shrouded meaning to obscurity becomes quick. Mysticism is mistaken for a kind of mist overhanging a poet’s images. Looked at carefully, mysticism of the East is an age-old habit of many a god-intoxicated soul to express itself in terms of familiar relationship with the Supreme as Love to Lover or Servant to Master. The great Alwars and Nayanmars in Tamil literature are household words for such poetry in excelsis. Tyagayya of the musical Trinity, in Kirtana after Kirtana of his, pleads before the Monarch of his heart, Sri Ramachandra, for his own liberation, expressing his yearning in ever so many patterns of imagery likened, unto a novice waiting for the Master-musician, or as the meanest attendant remaining riveted to his post as a watchman at the gate of the royal personage. If he so unaffectedly says, “Nannu Palimpa Nadachivachchitivo, Na Prana Natha”, Tagore would almost echo the same sentiment but in his own way thus:

You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.

I was singing all alone in a corner and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door.

Masters are many in your hall and songs are sung at all hours. But the simple carol of this novice struck at your love…..

The plaintive outpouring mingled with the purity and excellence of a personal life is sufficient to stir any listening heart to its core. The best of world’s mystics have been simple-hearted beings. If parts of the Gitanjali could have, in the English translation, moved the hearts of foreigners, what effect could they have in the original on his own countrymen of Bengal, one can easily imagine. If imagination can picture to our minds much in them as capable of reaching most of us of ordinary understanding, the more cultivated and the better-lived among us cannot be insensible of the beauties lying hidden in them.

Tagore imbibed the best in Indian as well as English literatures. Shakespeare, Valmiki, Kalidasa, Wordsworth and Shelley influenced his already prepared mind to receive to its fullest capacity the intimations they are capable of. In his vast output he combined idealism and realism in such proportions that ultra-moderns too in the grip of present-day tendencies do not eschew his novels and stories for their suggestion of higher moral values and an everlasting life. It will be fruitless to deal individually with even the best of them here. To be brief, all of them reveal the awakening of his mind in the stories, and more definitely in his novels. He perceived the motives of human beings in their pursuits and conflicts and viewed with insight the complications in the resulting situations of life; and nothing struck him as trivial or insignificant. Stones and streams converse with him. Skeletons and ghosts carry messages to his heart. The variegated fare that he, as a result of his observations, provides us is, for a single writer, simply breath-taking. The lyrical elements that he often introduces in his stories are by themselves precious treasures. Each one of us may have his or her own preferences among his stories, but all of us are agreed that they all, without any exception, portray life in its dismal crevices as well as enlivening situations often missed by us. Eyesore, newly christened as Binodini, was his first long story. But even after many of his later novels like The Home and the World, Gora, etc., became well known, its psychological presentation has its unique appeal to us. For being an early attempt, it is not lacking in execution or conceit. Maybe some of the characters in anyone of his novels return to visit us in another of his creations, such as Annapurna tracing her prototype in Sucharita’s aunt in Goraor Mahendra in his impetuousness finding an echo in Goraor Binodini with certain qualifications appearing as Damini in Broken Ties; still they do not lose their individuality or freshness.

Another criticism against Tagore is that he has not portrayed the lowest rung of society. Really good criticism will only take into consideration, in assessing the work of a literary artist, whether there is skill in narrative, suspense and gripping elements in situation, truthfulness in portraiture of men and women, and power and beauty in description. These and more will always be evident in any of Tagore’s works. One thing must be said for him, and that is, despite his reformist tendencies, he never shut his mind altogether to conservatism and orthodoxy. His Goraeffectively proves how he can view old-world notions of right and wrong in society with sympathy and understanding. Another feature of his writings is that, in spite of his patriotism and love of his race and people, he cannot for one moment forget to emphasise universal love and a brotherhood as essential to our growth.

Of course it cannot be ignored that, however much Tagore is in his true element both in his short stories and novels, his short stories maintain a more even quality of excellence than his longer stories. One occasionally perceives structural weakness and looseness of situation in some of his novels. The powerful influence of Nature finds adequate treatment in his stories, and the supernatural element also finds a place in the dispensations of his. Nevertheless, the psychological results emanating from them do not appear at all as far-fetched or improbable in any great degree.

Tagore in his Religion of the Artist has indicated his disapproval of the devices employed by modern writers to create sensation by presenting abnormalities. The surprise-tricks and suspense-tricks that we perceive in serial novels of the journals were to him anathema. The present-day preoccupation with sex-problems and totally physical treatment of love cannot he said to be quite unfamilar to him, though in his own way he shows self-restraint and grit from ever sliding down to indecency. His capacity for arresting descriptions, his highly cultivated sensitiveness to beauty and penetrating analysis of the relationship between human beings, have, all brought us a wealth of felicity derivable from literature.

One aspect of life which has engrossed him, as perhaps none else, is his treatment of child psychology. The innocence and harmless curiosity of the young touch him, and his fertile imagination supplies in its turn a pile of images of the child as it plays, imagines, creates, destroys, builds and tries to perpetuate itself. Not one but many instances will have to be given here, if I were to expatiate upon them. So I will desist from the task. In song, story and satire the child has been captured in all its artificiality defying moods and habits.

The play of feeling as distinguished from action is characteristic of his dramas. Here too, essentially, the musical quality predominates and distinguishes his achievements. But symbolical representation of ideas is not without significance to Tagore lovers. His dance-dramas are some of his peak-achievements in stage production.

Dwelling upon his dramas, one has to reckon with his mordant humour and wit. Detachment, which is the seat of rich humour, can be proved in his case more effectively, perhaps, than in any other known writer. Writing of his early attempt at poetry in his Reminiscences, he refers to the fate of his poetry receiving sound knocks and beatings from all and sundry just as a thief, caught red-handed in his childhood days in his house, had to receive severe belabouring from every passer-by. Speaking of an incident that took place in his house when a planchette was used to converse with the spirit-world, he relevantly reports that an old dead servant of theirs was interviewed and when queried as to what he was at that moment after death, replied thus: “I will not tell you. Why should you learn so easily what I had to die to learn?” We are in paroxysms of laughter at that.

Satire, which is employed primarily to cause mirth and secondarily to persuade the reader to the author’s point of view, has one of its great exponents in Tagore. The other day Mr. Aldous Huxley deplored, at the Tagore Seminar, that satires, which are of immense values and the tests of the skill in a writer, are on the wane now-a-days. There is much truth in what he said, if only we realise its purpose after such a feast as the Parrot’s Training provides us.

Indianness of outlook and indigenous culture were predominant in him, though he never eschewed good influences from any other source. He assimilated whatever was beneficial from the West and showed no trace of irreconcilables in his mental make-up. Maybe some of his writings have given room for some to think he was more western in his attitudes. Westerners too have made the same mistake in imagining that he was actuated in many of his songs by the influence of Christianity. In one of his delightful sayings in Stray Birds he perhaps suggests the unnecessary attempt of people to arrogate to themselves credit for the merit in others, thus: “The night opens the buds and leaves to the morning to receive the thanks.” Yes, people forget that the personality that he developed in the course of his eighty years was not the outcome of any particular influence alone. Born in affluence and in a cultured home, he naturally added to it layers of refinement of his own seeking. Simplicity and ingenuousness proved of more help to him in his sympathies with all creation. Intimacy with life and nature sustained him in his appreciation of his surroundings wherever he might be. It is only when one is lacking in the riches of experience that he resorts to artificiality and devices of prickly surprises in writing. Sorrows of a domestic nature did not bend him; exaltations of spirit never dislocated him. He retained to the last the cream of a wide understanding, which is the key to all his literary productions. If life could give of its abundance to anyone, it was to Tagore, whose identification with every bit of humanity and nature augmented his potentiality for doing good.

Tagore was everything a literary artist would aim at. Both trodden and un-trodden paths, both tradition and modernism, both conservatism and progressive thought, claimed his attention and understanding, and the result was a balanced and harmonious blend of mind. He touched nothing which he did not adorn; he revealed nothing which he did not experience; he expressed nothing which he did not realise as Truth.