Rabindranath Tagore - biography, quotes and poems. The Forgotten Genius Rabindranath Tagore Tagore Rabindranath Nobel Prize

music: Alexey Rybnikov
Lyrics: Rabindranath Tagore
performer: Irina Otieva

Rabindranath Tagore - an outstanding Indian writer, poet, public figure, artist, composer, the first Asian Nobel Prize winner in literature - was born in Calcutta on May 7, 1861. He was the 14th child of a very famous and prosperous family. Being hereditary landowners, the Tagores made their home open to many famous public figures and people of culture. Rabindranath's mother died when he was 14 years old, and this event left a huge imprint in the heart of a teenager.

He started writing poetry when he was 8 years old. Having received a good education at home, he was a student of private schools, in particular, the Calcutta Eastern Seminary, the Bengal Academy. During several months of 1873, while traveling in the north of the country, young Tagore was extremely impressed by the beauties of these lands, and, having become acquainted with the cultural heritage, was amazed by its wealth.

1878 became his debut in the literary field: 17-year-old Tagore publishes the epic poem "The History of the Poet". In the same year, he went to the capital of England to study law at University College London, however, after studying for exactly a year, he returned to India, to Calcutta, and, following the example of the brothers, began to engage in writing. In 1883, he marries and publishes the first poetry collections: in 1882 - "Evening Song", in 1883 - "Morning Songs".

Following the request of his father, Rabindranath Tagore in 1899 takes on the role of manager of one of the family estates in eastern Bengal. Rural landscapes, the customs of rural residents are the main object of poetic descriptions of 1893-1900. This time is considered the heyday of his poetic work. The collections Golden Boat (1894) and Instant (1900) were a great success.

In 1901, Tagore moved to Shantiniketan near Calcutta. There, he and five other teachers opened a school, for the creation of which the poet sold the copyright to his writings, and his wife sold some jewelry. At this time, poems and works of other genres, including articles on the topic of pedagogy and textbooks, and works on the history of the country, came out from under his pen.

The next few years in Tagore's biography were marked by a number of sad events. In 1902, his wife dies, the following year, tuberculosis takes the life of one of his daughters, and in 1907, the poet's youngest son dies of cholera. Together with the eldest son, who went to study at the University of Illinois (USA), Tagore also leaves. Stopping on the way in London, he introduces his poems, translated by him into English, to the writer William Rotenstein, with whom they were familiar. In the same year, an English writer helped him publish Sacrificial Songs, which makes Tagore a well-known figure in England and the United States, as well as in other countries. In 1913, Tagore received the Nobel Prize for them, spending it on the needs of his school, which after the end of the First World War turned into a free university.

In 1915, Tagore was awarded a knighthood, but after British troops shot down a demonstration in Amritsar four years later, he refused the regalia. Beginning in 1912, Tagore made many trips to the USA, Europe, the Middle East, and South America. For Western countries, Tagore was more of a famous poet, but he has a large number of works and other genres, which in total amounted to 15 volumes: plays, essays, etc.

During the last four years of his life, the writer suffered from a number of diseases. In 1937, Tagore, having lost consciousness, was in a coma for some time. Towards the end of 1940, the disease worsened and ultimately took his life on August 7, 1941. Rabindranath Tagore enjoyed great popularity in his homeland. Four universities in the country awarded him an honorary degree, he was an honorary doctor of Oxford University. The modern hymns of India and Bangladesh are based on Tagore's poetry.

Rabindranath Tagore does not have a poem called "The Last Poem", the song uses fragments of a poem from the novel "The Last Poem".
The novel is about two lovers - the young man Omito and the girl Labonno, who at the end of the story understand that earthly love between them is impossible, but at the same time they are sure that the invisible connection between their hearts will never disappear. Omito decides to marry a girl named Ketoki, he loves her differently from Labonno: “What binds me to Ketoki is love. But this love is like water in a vessel that I drink every day. Love for Labonneau is a lake that cannot be placed in a vessel, but in which my soul is washed.
Omito expresses the idea of ​​heavenly love in a poem that he sends to Labonneau:

When you left, you stayed with me forever
Only at the end did it completely open to me,
In the invisible world of the heart you took refuge,
And I touched eternity when,
Filling the void in me, you disappeared.
The temple of my soul was dark, but suddenly
In it a bright lamp lit up, -
Parting gift of your favorite hands, -
And heavenly love opened up to me
In the sacred flame of suffering and separation.

Omito soon receives a response to his letter. Labonneau writes that she is marrying someone else in six months, there is also a poem in the letter where Labonneau expresses in her own way the idea of ​​the impossibility of earthly love between her and Omito, but at the same time her poem, like Omito's poem, breathes faith in heavenly love.
Fragments of Lobanno's farewell poem served as the basis for the text of the song "The Last Poem".

Full text of the poem:

… Do you hear the rustle of flying time?
Forever his chariot is on the way...
Heartbeats we hear in the sky,
The stars in the darkness are crushed by the chariot, -
How not to weep for them in the darkness on their chest? ..

My friend!
Time has cast lots for me,
In the network its captured me,
Riding in a chariot on a dangerous road,
Too far away from the places you roam
Where you won't see me anymore
Where you don't know what lies ahead...
It seems to me: the chariot is captured,
Death has already been defeated a thousand times,
So today I climbed to the top,
In the brilliance of the dawn, crimson-transparent ... -
How not to forget your name on the way?

Has the wind dispelled the old name?
I have no way to my abandoned land ...
If you try to see from afar, -
Don't look at me...

My friend,
Goodbye!
I know - someday in complete peace,
In late rest someday maybe
From the far shore of a long past
The spring night wind will bring you a breath from me!
The color of bacula fallen and crying
The sky will sadden you inadvertently, -
See if there's anything left
After me?…
At midnight oblivion
On the late outskirts
your life
Look without despair
Will it flare up?
Will it take the form of an unknown sleepy image,
as if by accident?

…It's not a dream!
This is my whole truth, this is the truth,
Death conquering the eternal law.
This is my love!
This treasure is
A gift unchanged to you, that for a long time
Was brought...
Abandoned in the ancient stream of change,
I'm sailing away - and time carries me
From end to end
From shore to shore, from shore to shore...
My friend, goodbye!

You haven't lost anything I think...
The right to play with ashes and ashes -
Created an image of an immortal beloved, -
The brilliance and radiance of the immortal beloved
you can call out of the twilight again!

Friend!
This will be the game tonight
Don't stop me from remembering...
Greedy movement will not be offended
Trembling of the Levkoy on a sacrificial platter.
You don't worry about me in vain -
I have a worthy cause
I have a world of space and time...
Is my chosen one poor? Oh no!
I will fill all the emptiness dangerous, -
Believe that I always intend to fulfill
This vow.
If someone who is concerned
Will wait for me with secret anxiety, -
I'll be happy - that's my answer!

From half of the bright month to the dark
taking out half
A fragrant sheaf of tuberose, -
Who - carrying them on a long road,
On the night of the shadow half of the month
Could the sacrificial person decorate the tray?

Who would see me in joy
Boundless forgiveness?
Evil and good unite,
I will give myself to their service!

I got the eternal right
My friend, for what I gave you myself...
You accept my gift piecemeal.

InfoGlaz.rf Link to the article from which this copy was made -

Biography of Rabindranath Tagore

The famous Indian writer, poet, composer, artist and public figure Rabindranath Tagore was born on May 7, 1861 in Calcutta, British India. Rabindranath Tagore was descended from an ancient family. His father was a famous religious figure, the founder of the Brahmo Samaj religious society, Debendranath Tagore. Rabindranath's mother passed away when he was 14 years old. Tagore's family was rich and famous.

In 1866, Rabindranath was sent to the Eastern Seminary, then he entered an ordinary school. At the age of 11, Rabindranath underwent the Upanayama rite, which marks the transition from childhood to adolescence. After that, the young man entered one of the highest varnas. Then he left his hometown with his father and traveled for several months. By those standards, Rabindranath Tagore received a decent education at home.

At the age of 16, Rabindranath Tagore tries to publish his first works. His literary debut was a Maithili poem published in Bharoti magazine.

In 1877, the aspiring poet published the poem "Bikharini" ("Beggar Woman") - the first literary work in the Bengali language. In addition, around the same time, he published the collections "Evening Songs" and "Morning Songs".

In 1878, Tagore began attending a public school in Brighton, England. Then he entered the University of London College, where he studied law, but soon left it in order to study literature.

In 1880, Rabindranath returned to Bengal.

In 1883, Rabindranath Tagore marries Mrinalini Devi. She was from a Pirali Brahmin family. The couple had five children. Since 1890, Tagore has been living in his estate in Shilaidakh.

1890 was the year of publication of the most famous book of the poet - a collection of poems "The Image of the Beloved".

The years 1891-1895 are considered the peak of Tagore's literary activity. During this period of time, most of the works that were later included in the three-volume Galpaguchcha were written.

In 1901, Rabindranath Tagore moved to Shantiniketan, in this place he decided to found an ashram - the abode of sages and hermits. His ashram consisted of an experimental school, prayer room, library and gardens. The following years became difficult for the writer: in 1902 his wife died, then in 1903 his daughter died of tuberculosis, in 1905 his father died, and in 1907 his youngest son died of cholera.

Despite his personal losses, Tagore continues to write and be active in public life. He spoke in defense of the Indian revolutionary Tilak. Tagore was one of the founders of the Swadeshi movement, which opposed the Curzon Act to partition Bengal. These events inspired the poet to write a number of patriotic works "Golden Bengal" and "Land of Bengal". Later, when the Swadeshi movement began to take on a revolutionary character, Tagore moved away from it, as he believed that society should change through education, not revolution.

Beginning in 1912, Tagore traveled extensively. He managed to visit Europe, USA, Japan, Russia. The writer made independent translations of several of his works into English. While in England, he showed them to the art critic William Rothenstein. Thanks to his assistance, these translations were published in England, and after a while, translations into Russian were made, these works were also published.

In 1913, Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature. His work was highly appreciated by the Swedish Academy. In 1921, Tagore, together with Leonard Elmhurst, decided to found the Institute for Agricultural Reconstruction at Surul.

In the 1930s, Tagore paid special attention to the problem of "untouchables" in India, as a result of his social activities, he managed to obtain permission for these people to visit the Krishna Temple in Guruvayur.

In his later years, Tagore began to take an interest in science. He studied biology, physics and astronomy. This interest was reflected in Tagore's poetry.

At the end of his life, Rabindranath was very ill. In 1937 and 1940, the poet suddenly lost consciousness and fell into a coma. After the last incident, he never recovered. The poet died on August 7, 1941 at the Jorasanko estate.

Creativity Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore was a rather versatile personality. He showed himself creatively both in literature and in the visual and musical arts. He is best known as the author of novels, essays, short stories, dramas and songs. Tagore is considered the father of the Bengali novel genre. The distinctive features of Tagore's poetry are considered:

• rhythm
• optimism
• lyricism

The plot of Tagore's works is based on the description of the life of ordinary people.

A special place in the literary work of Tagore belongs to poetry. Tagore's poetry was stylistically rich. His work can be attributed to the classical, dreamy, and comic style. Tagore's poetry was especially influenced by the Vaishnava poets of the 15th and 16th centuries. Tagore also bowed to the work of the rishi poets - the sages to whom the gods opened the Vedic hymns.

In his poetic works, Tagore refers to divinity through nature.

In the 1930s, the poet was engaged in the introduction of modernism and realism into the literature of Bengal. An example of such experiments is the verses "Africa" ​​or "Kamalia".

The most famous poetic books of Rabindranath Tagore are:

• "Image of the Beloved"
• "Golden Boat"
• "Cranes"
• "Evening Melodies"
• "Golden Boat"
• "Gitanjali"

Remark 1

For the collection Gitanjali, the poet was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1913.

Many of Tagore's poems were subsequently set to music.

A large place in the literary work of Tagore is given to prose. He is the author of a large number of novels and short stories. Tagore's most famous prose works are:

• "Chaturanga"
• "Farewell Song"
• "Four parts"
• "Nookadooby"

Basically, the writer's short stories tell about the everyday life of the peasants of Bengal. Tagore's first works in English were published in 1913 in the collection Worrying Stones and Other Stories.

Most of Tagore's novels and short stories raise important social questions. One of the writer's most famous novels, Home and Peace, tells about nationalism, terrorism and religious prejudices that reign in Indian society.

Another famous Tagore novel, The Fair Face, raises the issue of Indian identity and religious freedom.

Quite complex issues are consecrated in the novel "Relationships". The novel focuses on the plight of Bengali women, who are most often forced to choose between duty, family honor and children.

In addition to serious works, more cheerful works came out from Tagore's pen, for example, The Last Poem, one of the writer's most lyrical novels.

Remark 2

Some of Tagore's works have been filmed, such as "Chokher Bali" and "Home and Peace".

Among other things, Rabindranath Tagore is the author of documentary works. They are mainly devoted to history, linguistics, religion. There are also autobiographical works in Tagore's documentary work.

• "Sacrifice"
• "Mail"
• "Red Oleanders"
• "Mountain"

Remark 3

Rabindranath Tagore enjoyed great popularity and respect in his homeland, in Bengal, he was equated with a national hero. In the West, his works were less popular, mainly because of the lack of quality translations.

Rabindranath Tagore was a poet, musician and painter of the late 19th and early 20th century Bengali Renaissance who had a great influence on Indian art and literature. The author of Gitanjali was the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in 1913. His legacy is preserved at the University of Visva-Bharati, and his poetic compositions have become the anthems of India and Bangladesh.

Childhood and youth

Rabindranath Tagore, nicknamed Rabi, was born on May 7, 1861 in the Jorasanko mansion in Calcutta into a large family of a landowner, a Brahmin Debendranath Tagore, and his wife Sarada Devi.

The father traveled a lot, and the mother died when the future poet was very young, so Rabindranath and other children were brought up by servants and invited teachers. Being at the forefront of cultural and social life, the Tagore family regularly arranged theater and creative evenings, was fond of Bengali and Western classical music. As a result, children brought up in the advanced traditions of the time became famous educated people.

In addition to Rabindranath, the Tagore family was glorified by older brothers who were philosophers, playwrights and public figures, as well as a sister who became a well-known novelist in India.

Rabindranath avoided schooling and preferred to wander around the estate and the surrounding area and do gymnastics, wrestling and swimming under the supervision of his brother. In parallel, he mastered fine arts, anatomy, history, geography, literature, arithmetic, Sanskrit and English.

Having reached adulthood, Rabindranath and his father left for the foothills of the Himalayas, where the young man listened to melodic singing in the sacred Golden Temple of Amritsar, studied history, astronomy, modern science, Sanskrit and the classical poetry of Kalidasa.

Poems and prose

Returning from a trip, Tagore wrote 6 poems and a poetic novel, which he presented as a lost creation of a fictional author of the 17th century. At the same time, the young writer made his debut in the genre of the story, publishing in Bengali a miniature "The Beggar Woman" ("Bhiharini").

Since Debendranath wanted the youngest child to become a lawyer, in 1878 Rabindranath entered University College London and studied law for several months. The hatred of formal education made the young man give up science and devote himself to reading. In England, Tagore got acquainted with creativity and imbued with the folklore traditions of Foggy Albion.

At a young age, Rabindranath composed plays in collaboration with his brothers, some of them were shown at creative evenings in the family mansion. Later, independent dramatic works were born from the plots of short stories. They were reflections on eternal philosophical themes, sometimes containing elements of allegory and grotesque.

In 1880, the young man returned to Bengal and began to publish regularly his own poems, novels and short stories, inspired by European traditions, which was a completely new phenomenon in Brahmin classical literature. Collections of "Evening" and "Morning" songs, as well as the book "Chabi-O-Gan" belong to this period of writing.

Tagore's stories were published in a magazine, and then were published as a separate three-volume set containing 84 works, in which the writer talked about the modern world with characteristic newfangled tendencies, mind games, and the unhappy life of ordinary people. A vivid example of the latter theme was the miniatures "Hungry Stones" and "Runaway", written in 1895.

Poems by Rabindranath Tagore

In 1891, the poet began work on transcribing folk works about the life of the common people of Bengal. The Golden Boat, Chitara, Harvest were published from 1893 to 1901, followed by the novel The Grain of Sand, published in 1903.

Since 1908, Rabindranath worked on the works included in the collection "Gitanjali", which in translation meant "Sacrificial chants". 157 verses were devoted to the relationship between man and God, revealed through simple and understandable images. Structural minimalism made the lines catchy, as a result of which they began to be used as quotations.

The collection was translated into English and published in Europe and America. In 1913, the author of "Gitanjali" was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for his elegant storytelling, imaginative thinking and exceptional craftsmanship. In the 1930s, Rabindranath experimented with various literary movements. He tried to add modernist notes to classical Bengali poetry. This was most clearly manifested in the mature poetic works of the author.

During his life, Tagore created hundreds of poems, dozens of stories and 8 novels, the topics of which were village life, problems of Bengali society, generational conflict, religion and others. A special place in the writer's work was occupied by the lyrical work "The Last Poem". The poetic lines included in the short story formed the basis of the composer's song, which sounded in the movie "You never dreamed of."

Song on poems by Rabindranath Tagore "The Last Poem"

In the late 1930s, Rabindranath turned his writing activity into a scientific direction. He published several research essays in the fields of biology, astronomy and physics, and also composed a number of poems and short stories, where lyrics were intertwined with academic knowledge. Poetry and prose, created at the end of Tagore's life, are distinguished by gloomy colors and a premonition of imminent death. According to literary critics, the work of this period was the best legacy of the Bengali creator.

Music and paintings

Tagore was not only a writer and poet, he became the author of more than 2 thousand songs, from prayer hymns to folk and lyrical melodies. The composing side of Rabindranath's work is inseparable from the literary one, since the smooth sound of the poetic lines of the Bengali creator was musical in itself.

Anthem of India written by Rabindranath Tagore

Some of Tagore's lyrics became songs after the author's death. So, in 1950, his poem became the words of the Indian national anthem, and in 1970, the lines of the work "Amar Shonar Bangla" were chosen for the official music of the state of Bangladesh.

Rabindranath also succeeded as a painter. His brushes belong to about 2.5 thousand works, repeatedly exhibited at home and in other countries.

Tagore was interested in the trends of modern art, adopted advanced techniques and used them in his own paintings. He tried himself as a realist, primitivist, impressionist artist. His creations are distinguished by an unconventional selection of colors, which researchers associate with color blindness, and regular geometric silhouettes, a consequence of a passion for the exact sciences.

Social activity

In the early 1900s, Tagore settled in a family mansion in Santiniketan, not far from Calcutta, where he combined creativity with social and political activity. The poet founded the asylum of the sages, which included a school, a chapel, vast areas with green spaces and a library.

At the same time, Rabindranath became the protector of the revolutionary figure Tilak and organized the Swadeshi movement, which protested against the partition of Bengal. He was not a supporter of radical extremist measures, but advocated change through education and peaceful enlightenment. In 1921, with funds raised from around the world, Tagore built the Welfare Abode, designed to help the villagers.

And in the 1930s, the writer turned to the social problem of caste division. Thanks to statements about the clan of the untouchables in lectures and in his own works, Rabindranath achieved for them the right to be present in the famous Krishna Temple located in Guruvayur. In 1940, the poet personally met the leader of the Indian independence movement, whose violent methods he did not approve of. A memorable photo from this meeting has been preserved in the archives.

Tagore traveled a lot around the world, studied various religions, got acquainted with great foreign contemporaries. The writer had a negative attitude towards the problem of nationalism, talked about it during lectures in the USA and Japan, and later devoted a journalistic work to this topic. Rabindranath was sharply criticized by the German attack on the Soviet Union, he condemned politics and believed in retribution for bloody deeds and the triumph of justice.

Personal life

Little is known about the personal life of the great Bengali. In 1883, Tagore married 10-year-old Mrinalini Devi, born Bhabatarini. Early marriages of Indian girls were a common practice at the time. The couple had five children, two of whom died in early childhood.

In 1890, Rabindranath took over the reins of government over the vast family estates in the Shelaidakhi region and moved his family there 8 years later. Tagore spent his time cruising the Padme River on the family barge, collecting rent and blessing the peasants.

The beginning of the 1900s became a time of tragic losses in the biography of the Bengali creator. Mrinalini died in 1902 in Santiniketan, a year later Rabindranath lost his daughter, then the head of the Tagore family died, leaving his youngest son a small inheritance. In 1907, Tagore's youngest child fell victim to a cholera epidemic.

Death

In 1937, Tagore began to suffer from chronic pain, which developed into a long illness. One day he fainted and was in a coma for some time. Periods of creativity were replaced by times when the physical condition of the creator did not allow him to work.

After a second loss of consciousness in 1940, Rabindranath could not recover. He dictated his last works to his friends and secretary.

On August 7, 1941, Tagore died at his home in Jorasanko. The exact cause of death is unknown, researchers believe that the writer was killed by old age and a debilitating illness.

The death of the great Bengali bard was a tragedy for many people around the world who honored his memory by organizing festivals of creativity and holidays in his honor.

Quotes

The fountain of death sets in motion the stagnant water of life.

Pessimism is a form of spiritual alcoholism.

The Almighty respected me as long as I could rebel,
When I fell at his feet, he neglected me.

Having wallowed in pleasures, we cease to feel any pleasure.

Bibliography

• 1881 - Evening Songs
• 1883 - "Bibha's Shore"
• 1891 - "The story of the road"
• 1893 - "Rook"
• 1910 - Gitanjali
• 1916 - "Four Lives"
• 1925 - Evening Melodies
• 1929 - "The Last Poem"
• 1932 - "Completion"
• 1933 - "Two Sisters"
• 1934 - "Malancha" ("Flower Garden")
• 1934 - "Four Chapters"

Clouds enter the courtyard of Srabon, the sky is rapidly darkening,

Accept, soul, their volatile path, rush into the unknown,

Fly, fly into the boundless space, become an accomplice of mystery,

Do not be afraid to part with the earthly warmth, your native corner,

Let your pain burn with cold lightning in your heart,

Pray, soul, all-destruction, giving birth to thunder with spells.

Be involved in the hiding place of secrets and, with thunderstorms, making the way,

In the sobs of the doomsday night - end, end.

Translation by M. Petrovs

Annihilation

Everywhere reigns the last trouble.

She filled the whole world with sobs,

Everything was flooded, like water, with suffering.

And the lightning among the clouds is like a furrow.

On the distant shore, the thunder does not want to stop,

The wild madman laughs again and again,

Unrestrained, without shame.

Everywhere reigns the last trouble.

Rampant death life is drunk now,

The moment has come - and you check yourself.

Give her everything, give her everything

And don't look back in despair

And don't hide anything anymore

Bowing your head to the ground.

There was no trace left of peace.

Everywhere reigns the last trouble.

We must choose the path now:

At your bed the fire went out,

The house is lost in pitch darkness,

A storm broke in, rages in it,

The building is amazing to the core.

Can't you hear the loud call

Your country, floating to nowhere?

Everywhere reigns the last trouble.

Be ashamed! And stop the unnecessary crying!

Do not hide your face from horror!

Do not pull the edge of the sari over your eyes.

Why is there a storm in your soul?

Are your gates still locked?

Break the lock! Get away! Will be gone soon

And joys and sorrows forever.

Everywhere reigns the last trouble.

Really in a dance, in a formidable swaying

Bracelets on the legs do not sound?

The game with which you wear the seal -

Fate itself. Forget what happened before!

Come dressed in blood red

How did you come as a bride then.

Everywhere, everywhere - the last trouble.

Translation by A. Akhmatova1

Hero of Bengal

Behind the wall of Bhulubabu, losing weight from exhaustion,

Read the multiplication table aloud.

Here, in this house, is the abode of the friends of enlightenment.

The young mind is glad to know.

We B.A. and M.A., me and my older brother,

Read three chapters in a row.

The thirst for knowledge in the Bengalis revived.

We reading. Burning kerosene.

There are many pictures in the mind.

Here is Cromwell, warrior, hero, giant,

Beheaded the lord of Britain.

The king's head rolled like a mango

When a boy knocks him down from a tree with a stick.

Curiosity grows... We read for hours on end

All the more insistent, all the more relentless.

People sacrifice themselves for their homeland,

They fight for religion

They are ready to part with their heads

In the name of a lofty ideal.

Leaning back in my chair, I read voraciously.

It's cozy under the roof and cool.

The books are well written and well written.

Yes, you can learn a lot by reading.

I remember the names of those who are in search of knowledge

In the power of daring

Started wandering...

Birth ... Death ... Date behind the date ...

Don't waste your minutes!

I wrote it all down in my notebook.

I know that many have suffered

For the holy truth once.

We leafed through scholarly books,

We shone with our eloquence,

Looks like we've grown up...

Down with humiliation! Down with submission!

Bison day and night, we fight for our rights.

Big hopes, big words...

Involuntarily, here the head will go round,

Involuntarily you will go into a frenzy!

We are not stupider than the British. Forget about them!

We are slightly different from them,

Well, that's not the point!

We are the children of glorious Bengal,

We hardly give way to the British.

We have read all English books.

We write comments to them in Bengali.

Feathers serve us well.

"Aryans" - Max Muller spoke.

And here we are, not knowing worries,

Decided that every Bengali is a hero and a prophet

And it's not a sin for us to sleep off now.

We will not allow cheating!

We'll let the fog in!

Shame on those who do not recognize the greatness of Manu!

Sacred we touch the cord and curse the blasphemer.

What? Are we not great? Come on

Let science refute the slander.

Our ancestors shot from a bow.

Or is it not mentioned in the Vedas?

We scream loudly. Isn't that the case?

Aryan valor did not fail.

We will shout at the meetings boldly

About our past and future victories.

In contemplation the saint remained tireless,

Rice on palm leaves mixed with banana,

We respect the saints, but we are more drawn to gourmets,

We have adapted to the age hastily.

We eat at the table, we go to hotels,

We are not in classes for whole weeks.

We have kept purity, marching towards lofty goals,

For Manu was read (in translation, of course).

The heart is filled with delight when reading the Samhita.

However, we do know that chickens are edible.

We, the three famous brothers,

Nimai, Nepah and Bhuto,

Compatriots wanted to enlighten.

We twirled the magic wand of knowledge at each ear.

Newspapers... Meetings a thousand times a week.

We seem to have learned everything.

We should hear about Thermopylae,

And the blood, like a lamp wick, lights up in the veins.

We can't stay calm

Marathon remembering the glory of immortal Rome.

Would an illiterate person understand this?

He will open his mouth in amazement,

And my heart is about to break

Thirst for glory tormented.

They should at least read about Garibaldi!

They could also sit in a chair,

Could fight for national honor

And for progress.

We would talk on various topics,

We would compose poems together,

We would all write in the newspapers

And the press would flourish.

But it is not appropriate to dream about it yet.

They are not interested in literature.

Washington's date of birth is unknown to them,

They had not heard of the great Mazzini.

But Mazzini is a hero!

For the edge he fought native.

Motherland! Cover your face in shame!

You are still ignorant.

I was surrounded by piles of books

And greedily clung to the source of knowledge.

I never part with books.

Pen and paper are inseparable with me.

It would piss me off! The blood is on fire. inspiration

I am possessed by the powerful.

I want to enjoy beauty.

I want to be a top notch stylist.

In the name of the common good.

Battle of Nezby... Read about it!

Cromwell immortal titans stronger.

I will never forget him until my death!

Books, books ... Behind a pile of piles ...

Hey, maid, quickly bring the barley!

Ah, Noni Babu! Hello! third day

I lost at cards! It would not be bad to win back now.

Translation by V. Mikushevich

The time has come to assemble the tunes - the path is long before you.

The last thunder rumbled, moored the ferry to the shore, -

Bhadro appeared without violating the deadlines.

In the kadambo forest, a light layer of flower pollen turns yellow.

Ketoki inflorescences are forgotten by the restless bee.

Embraced by the silence of the forest, dew lurks in the air,

And in the light from all the rains - only glare, reflections, hints.

Translation by M. Petrovs

Female

You are not only a creation of God, you are not a product of the earth, -

A man creates you from his spiritual beauty.

For you, the poets, O woman, weaved an expensive outfit,

Golden threads of metaphors on your clothes are burning.

Painters have immortalized your female appearance on canvas

In an unprecedented grandeur, in amazing purity.

How many all kinds of incense, colors were brought to you as a gift,

How many pearls from the abyss, how much gold from the earth.

How many delicate flowers have been plucked for you in spring days,

How many bugs have been exterminated to paint your feet.

In these saris and bedspreads, hiding his shy look,

Immediately you became more inaccessible and more mysterious a hundred times.

In a different way, your features shone in the fire of desires.

You are half being, you are half imagination.

Translation by V. Tushnova

A life

In this sunny world I don't want to die

I would like to live forever in this flowering forest,

Where people leave to return again

Where hearts beat and flowers gather dew.

Life goes on the earth in strings of days and nights,

A change of meetings and partings, a series of hopes and losses, -

If you hear joy and pain in my song,

It means that the dawns of immortality will illuminate my garden at night.

If the song dies, then, like everyone else, I will go through life -

Nameless drop in the flow of the great river;

I will be like flowers, I will grow songs in the garden -

Let tired people come into my flower beds,

Let them bow down to them, let them pick flowers on the go,

To throw them away when the petals fall to dust.

Translation by N. Voronel.

life is precious

I know that this vision will one day end.

On my heavy eyelids the last sleep will fall.

And the night, as always, will come, and shine in bright rays

Morning will come again to the awakened universe.

Life's game will continue, noisy as always,

Under each roof, joy or misfortune will appear.

Today with such thoughts I look at the earthly world,

Greedy curiosity today owns me.

My eyes do not see anything insignificant anywhere,

It seems to me that every inch of land is priceless.

The heart needs any little things,

Soul - useless itself - there is no price anyway!

I want everything I had and everything I didn't have

And that I once rejected, that I could not see.

Translation by V. Tushnova

From the clouds - the roar of the drum, the mighty rumble

incessant...

A wave of dull hum shook my heart,

His beating was drowned out by the thunder.

Pain lurked in the soul, as in the abyss - the more sad,

the more wordless

But the damp wind flew by, and the forest roared lingeringly,

And my grief suddenly sounded like a song.

Translation by M. Petrovs

From the darkness I came, where the rains are noisy. You are now alone, locked up.

Under the arches of the temple of your traveler shelter!

From distant paths, from the depths of the forest, I brought you jasmine,

Dreaming boldly: do you want to weave it into your hair?

I'll slowly walk back into the dusk, full of the sound of cicadas,

I won’t utter a word, I’ll only bring the flute to my lips,

My song - my parting gift - sending you out of the way.

Translation by Y. Neumann.

Indian, you won't sell your pride,

Let the merchant look at you insolently!

He came from the West to this region, -

But don't take off your light scarf.

Walk firmly on your path

Not listening to false, empty speeches.

Treasures hidden in your heart

Worthy decorate a humble house,

The forehead will be dressed with an invisible crown,

The dominion of gold sows evil,

Unbridled luxury has no boundaries,

But don't be embarrassed, don't fall down!

You will be rich in your poverty,

Peace and freedom will inspire the spirit.

Translation by N. Stefanovich

india lakshmi

O you who bewitch people,

O earth shining in the brilliance of the sun's rays,

great mother of mothers,

The valleys washed by the Indus with a noisy wind - forest,

trembling bowls,

With the Himalayan snow crown flying into the sky

In your sky the sun rose for the first time, for the first time the forest

heard the Vedas of the saints,

Legends sounded for the first time, live songs, in your houses

and in the forests, in the open spaces of the fields;

You are our ever-growing wealth, giving to the peoples

a full bowl

You are Jumna and Ganga, there is no more beautiful, more free, you are -

life nectar, mothers milk!

Translation by N.Tikhonov

To civilization

Give us back the forest. Take your city, full of noise and smoky haze.

Take your stone, iron, fallen trunks.

Modern civilization! Soul Eater!

Give us back shade and coolness in the sacred forest silence.

These evening baths, sunset light over the river,

Herd of cows grazing, quiet songs of the Vedas,

Handfuls of grains, herbs, return from the bark of clothes,

Talk about the great truths that we always carried on in our souls,

These days that we spent are immersed in thought.

I don't even need royal pleasures in your prison.

I want freedom. I want to feel like I'm flying again

I want the strength to return to my heart again.

I want to know that the fetters are broken, I want to break the chains.

I want to feel the eternal trembling of the heart of the universe again.

Translation by V. Tushnova

Karma

I called the servant in the morning and did not call.

I looked - the door was unlocked. Water is not poured.

The tramp did not return to spend the night.

Unfortunately, I can't find clean clothes without him.

Whether my food is ready, I don't know.

And time went on and on... Ah, so! OK then.

Let him come - I will teach the lazy man a lesson.

When he came in the middle of the day to greet me,

Respectfully folded palms,

I said angrily: "Get out of sight immediately,

I don't want idlers in the house."

Staring blankly at me, he silently listened to the reproach,

Then, slowing down with an answer,

With difficulty uttering the words, he told me: “My girl

She died before dawn today.

He said and hurried to start his work as soon as possible.

Armed with a white towel,

He, as always until then, diligently cleaned, scraped and rubbed,

Until the last one was done.

* Karma - zd. retribution.

Translation by V. Tushnova.

Cry

Can't turn us back

Nobody ever.

And those who block our way,

Misfortune awaits, trouble.

We are tearing the fetters. Go-go -

Through the heat, through the cold weather!

And those who weave networks for us,

Get there yourself.

Trouble awaits them, trouble.

That is Shiva's call. Away sings

His calling horn.

Calling midday sky

And a thousand roads.

Space merges with the soul,

The rays are intoxicating, and the gaze is angry.

And those who love the twilight of holes,

Rays are always scary.

Trouble awaits them, trouble.

We will conquer everything - and the height of peaks,

And any ocean.

Oh don't be shy! You are not alone,

Friends are always with you.

And for those who are afraid

Who languishes in loneliness

Stay within four walls

For many years.

Trouble awaits them, trouble.

Shiva awakens. Will blow.

Our banner will fly into space.

Barriers will collapse. The path is open.

An old dispute is over.

Let the whipped ocean boil

And give us immortality.

And those who honor death as a god,

Don't miss the court!

Trouble awaits them, trouble.

Translation by A. Revich

When suffering brings

Me to your doorstep

You call him yourself

Open the door for him.

It will give up everything, so that in return

To taste the hands of a happy captivity;

The path will hurry steep

To the light in your house...

You call him yourself

Open the door for him.

I come out of pain with a song;

After listening to her

Step out into the night for a minute

Leave your home.

Like a swift that is shot down by a storm in the darkness,

That song beats on the ground.

Towards my grief

You hurry into the darkness

Ah, call him yourself

Open the door for him.

Translation by T. Spendiarova

When I don't see you in my dream

It seems to me that whispers spells

Earth to disappear under your feet.

And cling to the empty sky

Raising my hands, I want in horror.

I wake up in a fright and see

Like wool you spin, bending low,

Sitting motionless next to me,

Himself showing all the peace of creation.

Translation by A. Akhmatova

Once upon a time, embarrassed by the wedding dress,

Here, in the world of vanity, you became next to me,

And the touch of hands was trembling.

By a whim of fate did everything happen all of a sudden?

It was not an arbitrariness, not a fleeting moment,

But a secret craft and a command from above.

And I lived my life with my favorite dream,

What will we, you and I, unity and couple.

How richly you drew from my soul!

How many fresh streams she once poured into her!

What we created in excitement, in shame,

In labors and vigils, in victories and trouble,

Between ups and downs - that, forever alive,

Who is able to complete? Just you and me, two.

Translation by S. Shervinsky

Who are you, distant? Sang in the distance

The flute ... Swayed, the snake is dancing,

Hearing the chant of an unfamiliar land.

Whose song is this? To what region

The flute is calling us... is your flute?

You are spinning. Scattered, soared

Hair, rings. Like the wind is light

Your cape is torn into the clouds,

Arcs of the rainbow thrown up.

Shine, awakening, confusion, takeoff!

There is excitement in the waters, the thicket sings,

Wings are noisy. From depths to heights

Everything opens - souls and doors -

Your flute is in a hidden cave,

The flute calls me imperiously to you!

Low notes, high notes

Mixing sounds, waves without counting!

Waves upon waves and again a wave!

Sounds burst into the edge of silence -

In the cracks of consciousness, in vague dreams -

The sun is getting drunk, the moon is sinking!

Dance enthusiastic closer and closer!

I see the hidden, I see the hidden

Whirlwind covered, in burning joy:

There in the dungeon, in the cave, in the gorge,

Flute in your hands! flute fun,

Drunk lightning pulled out of the clouds,

Breaks into the ground from the darkness

Juices - in champa, in leaves and flowers!

Like ramparts, through, through dams,

Inside through the walls, through the thickness, through the piles

Stone - in the depths! Everywhere! Everywhere

A call and a spell, a ringing miracle!

leaving darkness,

Age-old creeps

A snake hidden in the heart-cave.

Swallow haze

Quietly lay down -

She hears the flute, your flute!

Oh, enchant, enchant, and from the bottom

To the sun, she will come to your feet.

Call out, get out, tear out of those!

In a bright beam is visible from everywhere,

It will be like foam, like a whirlwind and a wave,

Merged in a dance with everything and everyone,

Curl to the sound

Opening the hood.

How will she approach the grove in bloom,

To the sky and shine

To the wind and splash!

Drunk in the light! All in the world!

Translation by Z. Mirkina

mother bengal

In virtues and vices, in the change of ups, downs, passions,

Oh my Bengal! Make your children adults.

Do not keep your mother's knees locked up in houses,

Let their paths scatter on all four sides.

Let them scatter all over the country, wander here and there,

Let them look for a place in life and let them find it.

They, like boys, do not entangle, weaving a network of prohibitions,

Let them learn courage in suffering, let them be worthy

meet death.

Let them fight for the good, raising the sword against evil.

If you love your sons, Bengal, if you want to save them,

Skinny, respectable, with eternal silence in the blood,

Tear away from your usual life, tear away from the rapids.

Children - seventy million! Mother blinded by love

You raised them to be Bengalis, but you didn't make them human.

Translation by V. Tushnova

Metaphor

When there is not enough strength to overcome obstacles near the river,

Draws a veil of stagnant water silt.

When old prejudices rise everywhere,

The country becomes frozen and indifferent.

The path that they walk on remains a thorny path,

It will not disappear, the weed will not overgrow with grass.

The codes of mantras were closed, they blocked the path of the country.

The flow has stopped. She has nowhere to go.

Translation by V. Tushnova

Sea waves

(Written on the occasion of the death

boats with pilgrims near the city of Puri)

In the darkness, like incoherent delirium, celebrate your destruction -

O wild hell!

That wind whistling frantic or millions of wings

Are they rattling around?

And the sky instantly merged with the sea, so that the gaze of the universe

Stop blinding.

That sudden lightning arrows or it's a terrible, white

Smiles of evil twists?

Without a heart, without hearing and vision, it rushes in intoxication

Some giants' army -

Destroy everything in madness.

No colors, no shapes, no lines. In the bottomless, black abyss -

Confusion, anger.

And the sea rushes about with a cry, and beats in wild laughter,

Osatanev.

And fumbles - where is the border to be crushed about it,

Where are the shores of the line?

Vasuki in a roar, screeching shafts breaks into spray

Tail kick.

The earth sank somewhere, and the whole planet storms

Shocked.

And the networks of sleep are torn.

Unconsciousness, Wind. Clouds. There is no rhythm, and there are no consonances -

Only the dance of the dead.

Death is looking for something again - it takes without counting

And without end.

Today, in the haze of lead, she needs new mining.

And what? At random,

Feeling no distance, some people in the fog

They fly to their death.

Their path is irrevocable. Contains several hundred

People in the boat.

Everyone clings to his life!

It's hard to fight back. And the storm throws the ship:

"Let's! Let's!"

And the foaming sea rumbles, echoing the hurricane:

"Let's! Let's!"

Surrounding on all sides, blue death whirls,

Turned pale with anger.

Now do not hold back the pressure - and the ship will collapse soon:

The sea is terrible anger.

For the storm and it's a prank! Everything is confused, mixed up -

And heaven and earth...

But the helmsman is at the helm.

And people through the darkness and anxiety, through the roar, cry out to God:

“O omnipotent!

Have mercy, O great one! Prayers and cries rush:

"Save! Cover!"

But it's too late to call and pray! Where is the sun? Where is the star dome?

Where is happiness grace?

And were there irretrievable years? And those who were so loved?

The stepmother is here, not the mother!

Abyss. Thunder strikes. Everything is wild and unfamiliar.

Madness, haze...

And the ghosts are endless.

The iron board could not stand it, the bottom was broken, and the abyss

Mouth open.

It is not God who reigns here! Here the dead nature is predatory

Blind power!

In the impenetrable darkness, the cry of a child resounds loudly.

Confusion, trembling...

And the sea is like a grave: what was not or was -

You won't understand.

As if an angry wind blew out someone's lamps...

And at the same time

The light of joy has gone out somewhere.

How could a free mind arise in chaos without an eye?

After all, dead matter

Senseless beginning - did not understand, did not realize

Himself.

Where does the unity of hearts, the fearlessness of motherhood come from?

The brothers hugged

Saying goodbye, yearning, crying... O hot sunbeam,

O past, come back!

Helplessly and timidly through their tears shone

Hope again:

The lamp was lit by love.

Why do we always obediently surrender to black death?

Executioner, dead man,

The blind monster waits to devour everything holy -

Then the end.

But even before death, pressing the child to the heart,

The mother does not back down.

Is it all in vain? No, evil death has no power

Take her child away from her!

Here is an abyss and an avalanche of waves, there is a mother, protecting her son,

Worth one.

Who is given to take away his power?

Her power is infinite: she blocked the child,

Covering yourself.

But in the kingdom of death - where does love come from such a miracle

And is this light?

In it is the life of an immortal grain, a miraculous source

Innumerable bounties.

Who will touch this wave of heat and light,

That mother will get.

Oh, that she has risen all hell, trampling death with love,

And a terrible storm!

But who gave her such love?

Love and the cruelty of revenge always exist together, -

Entangled, fighting.

Hopes, fears, anxieties live in one hall:

Communication everywhere.

And everyone, having fun and crying, solve one problem:

Where is the truth, where is the lie?

Nature strikes on a grand scale, but there will be no fear in the heart,

When you come to love

And if the alternation of flourishing and withering,

Victory, shackles -

Just an endless dispute between two gods?

Translation by N. Stefanovich

Courageous

Or women can't fight

Forge your own destiny?

Or there, in the sky,

Has our lot been decided?

Should I be at the edge of the road

Stand humble and anxious

Wait for happiness on the way

Like a gift from heaven ... Or can't I find happiness myself?

I want to strive

Chasing him like a chariot

Riding an indomitable horse.

I believe waiting for me

A treasure that, like a miracle,

Without sparing myself, I will get it.

Not girlish shyness, ringing with bracelets,

And let the courage of love lead me

And boldly I will take my wedding wreath,

Twilight cannot be a gloomy shadow

To eclipse a happy moment.

I want my chosen one to comprehend

I do not have the timidity of humiliation,

And the pride of self-respect,

And before him then

I will throw back the veil of unnecessary shame.

We'll meet on the seashore

And the roar of the waves will fall like thunder -

To make the sky sound.

I will say, throwing back the veil from my face:

"Forever you are mine!"

From the wings of birds there will be a deaf noise.

To the west, overtaking the wind,

In the distance the birds will fly by the starlight.

Creator, oh, don't leave me speechless

Let the music of the soul ring in me at the meeting.

Let it be at the highest moment and our word

Everything higher in us is ready to express,

Let the speech flow

Transparent and deep

And let the beloved understand

Everything that is inexpressible for me,

Let a stream of words gush from the soul

And, having sounded, it will freeze in silence.

Translation by M. Zenkevich

We live in the same village

I live in the same village as her.

Only in this we were lucky - me and her.

Only the thrush will be filled with a whistle at their dwelling -

My heart will immediately dance in my chest.

A pair of cutely raised lambs

Under the willow we graze in the morning;

If, having broken the fence, they enter the garden,

I, caressing, take them on my knees.

We live almost nearby: I'm over there,

Here she is - only a meadow separates us.

Leaving their forest, maybe in the grove to us

A swarm of bees fly in with a buzz suddenly.

Roses are those that at the hour of regular prayers

They are thrown into the water from the ghat as a gift to God,

Nails to our ghat in a wave;

And it happens, from their quarter in the spring

To sell carry flowers to our bazaar.

Our village is called Khonjon,

Our rivulet is called Onjona,

What is my name - it's known to everyone here,

And she is called simply - our Ronjona.

That village was approached from all sides

Mango groves and green fields.

In the spring, flax sprouts on their field,

Rises on our hemp.

If the stars rose above their dwelling,

Then a south breeze blows over ours,

If the downpours bend their palms to the ground,

Then in our forest a flower-code blooms.

Our village is called Khonjon,

Our rivulet is called Onjona,

What is my name - it's known to everyone here,

And she is called simply - our Ronjona.

Translation by T. Spendiarova

Impossible

Loneliness? What does it mean? Years go by

You go into the wilderness, not knowing why and where.

The month of Srabon drives over the forest foliage of the cloud,

The heart of the night was cut by lightning with a wave of the blade,

I hear: Varuni splashes, her stream rushes into the night.

My soul tells me: the impossible cannot be overcome.

How many times a bad night in my arms

The beloved fell asleep, listening to the downpour and the verse.

The forest was noisy, disturbed by the sob of the heavenly stream,

The body merged with the spirit, my desires were born,

Precious feelings gave me a rainy night

I'm leaving in the dark, wandering along the wet road,

And in my blood there is a long song of rain.

The sweet smell of jasmine was brought by a gusty wind.

The smell of a tree of smallness, the smell of girlish braids;

In the braids of the pretty flowers, these smelled just like that, exactly the same.

But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome.

Immersed in thought, wandering somewhere at random.

There is someone's house on my road. I see the windows are on fire.

I hear the sounds of the sitar, the melody of the song is simple,

This is my song, irrigated with warm tears,

This is my glory, this is sadness, gone away.

But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome.

Translation by A. Revich.

Twilight descends and the blue edge of the sari

Envelops the world in its dirt and burning, -

House collapsed, clothes torn shame.

Oh, let, like calm evenings,

Sorrow for you will descend into my poor spirit and darkness

Whole life will envelop with her melancholy bygone,

When I dragged along, I was worn out, frail and lame.

Oh, let her in the soul, merging evil with good,

He draws a circle for me for golden sadness.

There are no desires in the heart, the excitement was silent ...

May I not indulge again in a deaf rebellion, -

All the former is gone ... I go there,

Where the flame is even in the lamp of goodbye,

Where the lord of the universe is eternally joyful.

Translation by S. Shervinsky

Night

O night, lonely night!

Under the boundless sky

You sit and whisper something.

Looking into the face of the universe

untangled hair,

Affectionate and swarthy...

What are you eating, O night?

I hear your call again.

But your songs until now

I cannot comprehend.

My spirit is uplifted by you,

The eyes are clouded by sleep.

And someone in the wilderness of my soul

Singing with you

Like your own brother

Lost in the soul, alone

And anxiously looking for roads.

He sings the hymns of your fatherland

And waiting for an answer.

And, having waited, he goes towards ...

As if these fugitive sounds

Wake up the memory of someone past

As if he was laughing here, and crying,

And he called someone to his starry home.

Again he wants to come here -

And can't find a way...

How many affectionate half-words and bashful

half smiles

Old songs and sighs of the soul,

How many tender hopes and conversations of love,

How many stars, how many tears in silence,

Oh night, he gave you

And buried in your darkness! ..

And these sounds and stars float,

Like worlds turned to dust

In your endless seas

And when I sit alone on your shore

Songs and stars surround me

Life hugs me

And, beckoning with a smile,

Floats forward

And blooms, and melts away, and calls ...

Night, today I have come again,

To look into your eyes

I want to be silent for you

And I want to sing for you.

Where my old songs are, and my

lost laugh,

And swarms of forgotten dreams

Save my songs night

And build a tomb for them.

Night, I sing for you again

I know the night, I am your love.

Hide the song from close malice,

Bury in the treasured land ...

The dew will slowly fall

Forests will sigh measuredly.

Silence, lean on your hand,

Be careful going there...

Only sometimes, slipping a tear,

A star will fall on the tomb.

Translation by D. Golubkov

O flaming boyshakh, listen!

Let your bitter ascetic sigh herald decay

heyday,

Motley rubbish will sweep away, circling in the dust.

The haze of tears will dissipate in the distance.

Overcome earthly fatigue, destroy

Ablution in the burning heat, immersion in dry land.

Exterminate the weariness of everyday life in an angry blaze,

With a terrible rumble of a shell, redemption descended,

Heal from blissful peace!

Translation by M. Petrovs

Oh, the unity of mind, spirit and mortal flesh!

The secret of life, which is in the eternal cycle.

Uninterrupted from time immemorial, full of fire,

In the sky play magical starry nights and days.

The universe embodies its anxieties in the oceans,

In steep rocks - severity, tenderness - in dawns

crimson.

A web of existences moving everywhere

Everyone in himself feels like magic and a miracle.

Unknown waves sometimes rush through the soul

hesitation,

Each contains the eternal universe in itself.

A bed of union with the lord and creator,

I carry the throne of the immortal god in my heart.

Oh, boundless beauty! O king of earth and heaven!

I am created by you, as the most wonderful of miracles.

Translation by N. Stefanovich

Oh I know they will

My days will pass

And in some year in the evening sometimes

The dimmed sun, saying goodbye to me,

Smile sadly at me

One of the last minutes.

The flute will linger along the road,

A strong-horned ox will graze peacefully near the creek,

A child will run around the house,

The birds will sing their songs.

And the days will pass, my days will pass.

I ask for one thing

I beg for one thing:

Let me know before leaving

Why was I created

Why did you call me

Green land?

Why did the silence make me nights

Listen to the sound of stellar speeches,

Why, why bother

Soul the radiance of the day?

That's what I'm begging for.

When my days are through

The earthly term will end,

I want my song to sound to the end,

For a clear, sonorous note to crown it.

For life to bear fruit

Like a flower

I want that in the radiance of this life

I saw your bright face,

So that your wreath

I could put on you

When the term ends.

Translation by V. Tushnova1

Ordinary girl

I am a girl from Ontokhpur. It's clear,

That you don't know me. I have read

Your last story "Garland

Withered flowers", Shorot-Babu

Your shorn heroine

She died at the age of thirty-five.

From the age of fifteen, misfortunes happened to her.

I realized that you really are a wizard:

You let the girl triumph.

I'll tell about myself. I'm a little old

But the heart I already attracted

And she knew a reciprocal thrill to him.

But what am I! I'm a girl like everyone else

And in youth, many enchant.

Kindly, I beg you, write a story

About a very ordinary girl.

She is unhappy. What's in the depths

She has something extraordinary

Please find and show

So that everyone notices it.

She is so simple. She needs

Not truth, but happiness. So easy

Captivate her! Now I will tell

How did this happen to me.

Let's say his name is Noresh.

He said that for him in the world

There is no one, there is only me.

I did not dare to believe these praises,

But she couldn't believe it either.

And so he went to England. Soon

From there, letters began to arrive,

Not very common, however. Still would!

I thought he was not up to me.

There are a lot of girls there, and everyone is beautiful,

And everyone is smart and will be crazy

From my Noresh Sen, in chorus

Regretting that he was hidden for so long

At home from enlightened eyes.

And in one letter he wrote,

That went with Lizzy to the sea to swim,

And brought Bengali verses

About a heavenly maiden emerging from the waves.

Then they sat on the sand

And the waves rolled up at their feet,

And the sun from the sky smiled at them.

And Lizzie said quietly to him:

“You are still here, but soon you will go away,

Here is the open shell. proleus

At least one tear in it, and it will be

She is more valuable to me than pearls.”

What bizarre expressions!

Noresh wrote, however: “Nothing,

What is clearly so high-flown words,

But they sound so good.

Flowers of gold in solid diamonds

After all, it is also not in nature, but meanwhile

Artificiality does not interfere with their price.

These comparisons are from his letter

Thorns secretly pierced my heart.

I am a simple girl and not so

Spoiled by wealth, so as not to know

The real price of things. Alas!

Whatever you say, it happened

And I couldn't pay him back.

I beg you write a story

About a simple girl with whom you can

Say goodbye forever and ever

Stay in a select circle of friends

Near the owner of seven cars.

I realized that my life is broken

That I'm out of luck. However, the one

Which you bring out in the story,

Let me shame my enemies in revenge.

I wish your pen happiness.

Malati name (that's my name)

Give it to the girl. They don't recognize me in it.

There are too many malati, they cannot be counted

In Bengal, and they are all simple.

They are in foreign languages

They do not speak, but only know how to cry.

Give Malati the joy of celebration.

After all, you are smart, your pen is powerful.

Like Shakuntala temper her

In suffering. But have pity on me.

The only one that I

I asked the Almighty, lying at night,

I am deprived. save it

For the heroine of your story.

May he stay in London for seven years,

All the time in the exams cutting off,

Always busy with fans.

In the meantime, let your Malati

Get a PhD

at Calcutta University. Do It

With a single stroke of a pen

Great mathematician. But this

Don't limit yourself. Be more generous than God

And send your girl to Europe.

May the best minds there

Rulers, artists, poets,

Captivated like a new star

As a woman to her and as a scientist.

Let her thunder not in the country of the ignorant,

And in a society with a good upbringing,

Where along with English

French and German are spoken. Necessary,

So that there are names around Malati

And receptions were prepared in honor of her,

So that the conversation flows like rain,

And so that on the streams of eloquence

She swam more confidently,

Than a boat with excellent rowers.

Depict how buzzing around her:

"The heat of India and thunderstorms in this gaze."

I note, by the way, that in my

Eyes, unlike your Malati,

Passes through love to the creator alone

And that with your poor eyes

I didn't see one here

well-bred European.

Let her witness her victories

Noresh is standing, pushed aside by the crowd.

And what then? I won't continue!

This is where my dreams come to an end.

You still grumble at the Almighty,

A simple girl, had the courage?

Translation by B. Pasternak

Ordinary person

At sunset, with a stick under my arm, with a burden on my head,

A peasant walks home along the shore, on the grass.

If centuries later, by a miracle, whatever it is,

Returning from the realm of death, he will appear here again,

In the same guise, with the same bag,

Confused, looking around in amazement,—

What crowds of people will run to him immediately,

How everyone surrounds the stranger, keeping an eye on him,

How greedily every word they will catch

About his life, about happiness, sorrows and love,

About the house and about the neighbors, about the field and about the oxen,

About the thoughts of his peasant, his everyday affairs.

And the story of him, who is not famous for anything,

Then it will seem to people like a poem from poems.

Translation by V. Tushnova

Renunciation

At a late hour, who wished to renounce the world

“Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me.

Who kept me by sorcery at the threshold of mine?

God told him, "I am." The man did not hear him.

In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in a dream,

The young wife held the baby to her breast.

"Who are they - the offspring of Maya?" the man asked.

God told him, "I am." The man heard nothing.

The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted: “Where are you,

deity?"

God told him, "Here." The man did not hear him.

The child was brought in, cried in a dream, sighed.

God said, "Come back." But no one heard him.

God sighed and exclaimed, “Alas! As you wish,

Only where will you find me if I stay here.

Translation by V. Tushnova

Ferry

Who are you? You are transporting us

Oh man from the ferry.

Every night I see you

Standing on the threshold of the house

Oh man from the ferry.

When the market ends

Wandering ashore young and old,

There, to the river, a human wave

My soul is attracted

Oh man from the ferry.

To the sunset, to the other shore you

Directed the run of the ferry,

And the song is born in me

Unclear as a dream

Oh man from the ferry.

I stare at the surface of the water,

And the eyes will be covered with moisture of tears.

Sunset light falls on me

Weightless to the soul

Oh man from the ferry.

Your mouth has become dumb,

Oh man from the ferry.

What is written in your eyes

Clear and familiar

Oh man from the ferry.

As soon as I look into your eyes,

I am getting deep.

There, to the river, a human wave

My soul is attracted

Oh man from the ferry.

Translation by T. Spendiarova

Star herds roam at night to the sound of a flute.

You always graze your cows, invisible, in heaven.

Luminous cows illuminate the orchard,

Between flowers and fruits, wandering in all directions.

At dawn they run away, only the dust swirls after them.

You bring them back to your pen with evening music.

Disperse I gave desires, and dreams, and hopes.

O shepherd, my evening will come - will you gather them then?

Translation by V.Potapova

holiday morning

Opened in the morning the heart inadvertently,

And the world flowed into him like a living stream.

Confused, I watched with my eyes

Behind the golden arrows-rays.

A chariot appeared to Aruna,

And the morning bird woke up

Greeting the dawn, she chirped,

And everything around became even more beautiful.

Like a brother, the sky called out to me: “Come!>>

And I crouched, clung to his chest,

I went up to the sky along the beam, up,

The bounties of the sun poured into the soul.

Take me, O solar stream!

Guide Aruna's boat to the east

And into the ocean, boundless, blue

Take me, take me with you!

Translation by N. Podgorichani

Come, O storm, do not spare my dry branches,

It's time for new clouds, it's time for other rains,

Let a whirlwind of dance, a shower of tears, a brilliant night

The faded color of past years will soon be thrown away.

Let everything that is destined to leave, leave soon, soon!

I will spread the mat at night in my empty house.

Change clothes - I'm cold in the weeping rain.

The valley was flooded with water - itching in the banks of the river.

And as if beyond the line of death, life awoke in my soul.

Translation by M. Petrovs

Drunk

O drunk, in drunken unconsciousness

Go, throw open the doors with a jerk,

You all go down one night,

You go home with an empty wallet.

Despising prophecies, go on your way

Contrary to calendars, signs,

Wander around the world without roads,

At the same time, carrying a load of empty deeds;

You set the sail under a squall,

Rope cutting helmsman.

I am ready, brothers, to accept your vow:

Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!

I saved up the wisdom of many years,

Stubbornly comprehended good and evil,

I have accumulated so much junk in my heart,

That became too heavy for the heart.

Oh how many nights and days I have killed

In the most sober of all human companies!

I saw a lot - my eyes became weak,

I became blind and decrepit from knowledge.

My cargo is empty - all my luggage is poor

Let the storm wind dispel.

I understand, brothers, only happiness

Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!

Oh, straighten up, doubt curvature!

Oh wild hops, lead me astray!

You demons must get me

And carry away from the protection of Lakshmi!

There are family men, darkness workers,

Their peaceful age will be lived with dignity,

There are big rich people in the world

They meet smaller. Who can!

Let them, as they lived, continue to live.

Carry me, drive me, oh crazy flurry!

I comprehended everything - occupation is the best:

Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!

From now on, I swear, I will abandon everything, -

Leisure, sober mind including -

Theories, wisdom of sciences

And all understanding of good and evil.

I will empty the vessel of memory,

Forever I will forget both sadness and grief,

I aspire to the sea of ​​foamy wine,

I will wash my laughter in this unsteady sea.

Let me rip off my dignity,

I'm being carried away by a drunken hurricane!

I swear to go the wrong way:

Get drunk and - in the heat of the head!

Translation by A. Revich

Raja and his wife

One raja lived in the world ...

On that day, I was punished by Rajoy

For the fact that, without asking, into the forest

He left and climbed a tree there,

And from above, all alone,

I watched the blue peacock dance.

But suddenly cracked under me

A knot, and we fell - me and a bitch.

Then I sat locked up

I didn’t eat my favorite pies,

In the garden of the rajah did not pick fruit,

Alas, I didn't attend...

Who punished me, tell me?

Who is hidden under the name of that Raja?

And the raja had a wife -

Good, beautiful, honor and praise to her ...

I listened to her in every way...

Knowing about my punishment,

She looked at me

Then, sadly bowing his head,

She hastily left for her rest.

And the door closed tightly behind her.

Haven't eaten or drunk all day

I didn't even go to the party...

But my punishment is over -

And in whose arms did I find myself?

Who kissed me in tears

Rocked like a little one in his arms?

Who was that? Tell! Tell!

Well, what is the name of that Raja's wife?

Translation by A. Efron

For the sake of the coming morning, which will light the fires of happiness,

My fatherland, take courage and keep purity.

Be free in chains, your temple, aspiring

Hurry up to decorate with festive flowers.

And let the fragrance fill your air,

And let the aroma of your plants ascend to the sky,

In the silence of expectation, bowing before eternity,

Feel the connection with the light that is not moving.

What else will comfort, rejoice, strengthen

Among heavy misfortunes, losses, trials, insults?

The woman that was dear to me

I used to live in this village.

The path to the lake pier led,

To rotten footbridges on rickety steps.

The name of this distant village,

Perhaps only the inhabitants knew.

The cold wind brought from the edge

Earthy smell on cloudy days.

Such sometimes his impulses grew,

The trees in the grove leaned down.

In the dirt of the fields liquefied by rains

Green rice was choking.

Without the close participation of a friend,

who lived there at the time,

Probably, I would not know in the district

No lake, no grove, no village.

She took me to the Shiva temple,

Drowning in the dense forest shade.

Thanks to getting to know her, I'm alive

I remembered village wattle fences.

I would not know the lake, but this backwater

She swam across.

She loved to swim in this place,

The footprints of her nimble feet are in the sand.

Supporting jugs on the shoulders,

Peasant women trudged from the lake with water.

Men greeted her at the door,

When they walked past from the field of freedom.

She lived in the suburbs,

How little things have changed!

Sailing boats under the fresh breeze

As of old, they slide along the lake to the south.

Peasants are waiting on the shore of the ferry

And discuss rural affairs.

The crossing would not be familiar to me,

If only she didn't live here.

Translation by B. Pasternak

Pipe

Your pipe is covered in dust

And don't lift my eyes.

The wind died down, the light went out in the distance.

The hour of misfortune has come!

Calls wrestlers to fight,

He orders the singers - sing!

Choose your own path!

Fate awaits everywhere.

Wallows in the empty dust

Fearless Trumpet.

In the evening I went to the chapel,

Pressing the flowers to my chest.

Wanted from the storm of being

Find safe shelter.

From wounds on the heart - exhausted.

And I thought the time would come

And the stream will wash away the dirt from me,

And I'll be clean...

But across my paths

Your pipe is down.

The light flashed, illuminating the altar,

Altar and darkness

A garland of tuberose, as of old,

Now gossip to the gods.

From now on the old war

I'll finish, meet the silence.

Perhaps I will return the debt to the sky ...

But again he calls (to the slave

In a minute turning one)

Silent pipe.

Magic stone of youth

Touch me quickly!

Let, rejoicing, pour your light

The delight of my soul!

Piercing the chest of black darkness,

Calling to heaven

A bottomless horror awakening

In the land that is dressed in darkness,

Let the soldier sing the motive

Trumpet of your victories!

And I know, I know that a dream

It will leave my eyes.

In the chest - as in the month of Srabon -

The streams of water roar.

Someone will come running to my call,

Someone will cry out loud

The night bed will tremble -

Terrible fate!

Sounds happy today

Great pipe.

I wanted to ask for peace

Found one shame.

Put it on to cover everything,

Armor from now on.

Let the new day threaten trouble

I will remain myself.

May the grief given by you

There will be a celebration.

And I'll be forever with a pipe

Your fearlessness!

Translation by A. Akhmatova

The heaviness of the viscous resin in the aroma dreams of pouring out,

The fragrance is ready to shut up forever in resin.

And the melody asks for movement and strives for rhythm,

And the rhythm hurries to the roll call of melodious frets.

Looking for a vague feeling and form, and clear edges.

The form fades in the mist and melts in a formless dream.

The boundless asks for boundaries and tight outlines,

In a hundred years

Who will you be,

Reader of poems left of me?

In the future, a hundred years from the present day,

will they be able to convey a particle of my dawns,

Boiling my blood

And the song of birds, and the joy of spring,

And the freshness of the flowers given to me

And strange dreams

And rivers of love?

Will the songs keep me

In the future, a hundred years from now?

I do not know, and yet, friend, that door that faces south,

open up; sit by the window, and then,

Dali veiled with a haze of dreams,

Remember that

What's in the past, exactly one hundred years before you,

Restless exultant thrill, leaving the abyss of heaven,

He clung to the heart of the earth, warmed her with greetings.

And then, freed by the arrival of spring from the fetters,

Drunk, crazy, the most impatient in the world

The wind that carries pollen and the smell of flowers on its wings,

South wind

He swooped in and made the earth bloom.

The day was sunny and wonderful. With a soul full of songs

Then a poet appeared in the world,

He wanted the words to bloom like flowers,

And love warmed like sunlight,

In the past, exactly one hundred years before you.

In the future, a hundred years from now,

Poet singing new songs

Will bring greetings from me to your house

And today's young spring

So that the songs of my spring stream merge, ringing,

With the beating of your blood, with the buzzing of your bumblebees

And with the rustle of leaves that beckons me

To the future, a hundred years from now.

Translation by A.Sendyk

Something from light touches, something from vague words, -

So there are tunes - a response to a distant call.

Champak in the midst of the spring bowl,

polash in the blaze of bloom

Sounds and colors will tell me, -

this is the path to inspiration.

Something will appear in a flash,

Visions in the soul - without number, without counting,

And something is gone, ringing, - you can’t catch the melody.

So the minute replaces the minute - the chased ringing of bells.

Translation by M. Petrovs

Shakespeare

When your star lit up over the ocean

For England that day you became a desirable son;

She considered you her treasure,

Touching your hand to your forehead.

Not long among the branches she rocked you;

For a short time the covers lay on you

Fog in the thick of herbs sparkling with dew,

In the gardens, where, having fun, danced a swarm of girls.

Your anthem has already sounded, but the groves were sleeping peacefully.

Then the distance barely moved:

Your firmament held you in its arms,

And you already shone from the midday heights

And he lit up the whole world with himself, like a miracle.

Centuries have passed since then. Today - as everywhere -

From Indian shores, where rows of palms grow,

Between the quivering branches they sing your praise.

Translation by A. Akhmatova

Young tribe

Oh young, oh daring tribe,

Always in dreams, in crazy dreams;

Struggling with the obsolete, you overtake time.

In the bloody hour of dawn in the native land

Let everyone talk about his own,

Despising all arguments, in the heat of intoxication,

Fly into space, throwing off the burden of doubt!

Grow, o violent earthly tribe!

The irrepressible wind shakes the cage.

But our house is empty, silent in it.

Everything is motionless in the secluded room.

A decrepit bird sits on a pole,

The tail is lowered, and the beak is tightly closed,

Motionless, like a statue, sleeps;

Time has stopped in her prison.

Grow, stubborn earthly tribe!

The blind do not see that spring is in nature:

The river roars, the dam breaks,

And the waves rolled free.

But the children of inert lands doze

And they don't want to walk in the dust,

They sit on rugs, they have gone into themselves;

They are silent, covering the top of the head from the sun.

Grow, disturbing earthly tribe!

Resentment will flare up among the stragglers.

The rays of spring will disperse dreams.

"What an attack!" they will cry out in dismay.

Your mighty blow will strike them.

Jump out of bed, blind in a rage,

Armed, they rush into battle.

Truth will fight with lies, the sun with darkness.

Grow, mighty earthly tribe!

The altar of the goddess of slavery is in front of us.

But the hour will strike - and he will fall!

Madness, invade, sweeping away everything in the temple!

A banner will rise, a whirlwind will rush around,

Your laughter will split the sky like thunder.

Break the vessel of errors - all that is in it,

Take it for yourself - O joyful burden!

Grow, earthly insolent tribe!

I will renounce the world, I will become free!

Open space in front of me

I will go forward relentlessly.

Many obstacles await me, sorrows,

And my heart thrashes in my chest.

Give me firmness, dispel doubts -

Let the scribe go with everyone

Grow, O free earthly tribe!

O eternal youth, always be with us!

Throw away the ashes of centuries and rust of shackles!

Sow the world with seeds of immortality!

Swarm in thunderclouds of fierce lightning,

The earthly world is full of green hops,

And you lay on me in the spring

A garland of a glass1 - the time is near.

Grow, immortal earthly tribe!

Translation by E. Birukova

I love my sandy beach

Where lonely autumn

storks nest,

Where flowers bloom white

And flocks of geese from cold countries

They find shelter in winter.

Here in the gentle sun they bask

Turtles lazy herd.

Evening fishing boats

Sailing here...

I love my sandy shore

Where lonely autumn

Storks nest.

Do you love woodland

On your shore

Where the branches are plexus,

Where shaky shadows sway,

Where is the nimble snake of the path

Goes around the trunks on the run,

And above it bamboo

Waving a hundred green hands

And around the semi-darkness coolness,

And the silence around...

There at dawn and in the evening,

Passing through the shady groves,

Women gather near the pier,

And children until dark

Rafts float on the water...

Do you love woodland

On your shore

Where the branches are plexus,

Where shaky shadows sway.

And between us the river flows -

Between you and me

And I shore an endless song

He sings with his wave.

I'm lying on the sand

On its deserted shore.

You are on your side

Grove cool passed to the river

With a jug.

We listen to the river song for a long time

Together with you.

You hear a different song on your shore,

Than me on my...

The river flows between us

Between you and me

And I shore an endless song

He sings with his wave.

I'm circling the forests like crazy.

Like a musk deer, I can't find it

Peace, persecuted by its smell.

Oh, false night! - everything rushes past:

And the south wind, and spring dope.

What purpose beckoned me in the darkness?..

And desire burst out of my chest.

That rushes far ahead

That grows into a persistent guardian,

It circles around me like a night mirage.

Now the whole world is drunk with my desire,

I don't remember what got me drunk...

What I strive for is madness and deceit,

And what is given itself is not nice to me.

Alas, my flute has gone mad:

She cries herself, she rages herself,

The frantic sounds went crazy.

I catch them, stretch out my hands...

But the dimensional system is not given to the insane.

I rush through the sea of ​​​​sounds without feeding ...

What I strive for is madness and deceit,

And what is given itself is not nice to me.

Translation by V. Markova

A crowd of dark blue clouds appeared, asharkh knew.

Don't leave the house today!

Downpours washed away the earth, flooded the rice fields.

Beyond the river is darkness and thunder.

The wind rustles on the empty shore, the waves rustle on the run,—

A wave is driven by a wave, cramped, attracted ...

It's getting late, there won't be a ferry today.

You hear: the cow mooing at the gate, it's time for her to go to the barn for a long time.

A little more and it will be dark.

See if those who have been in the fields since morning have returned—

it's time for them to come back.

The shepherd forgot about the herd - it strayed in disarray.

A little more and it will be dark.

Don't go out, don't leave the house!

Evening descended, moisture in the air, languor.

A dank haze on the way, it is slippery to walk along the shore.

Look how the evening slumber cradles the bowl of bamboo.

Translation by M. Petrovs

“Every child comes into the world with the message that God has not yet given up on people”
R. Tagore

Dear friends and guests of the Music of the Soul blog!

Today I want to dwell on the work of an amazing person. Few are given the difficult ability to live. A remarkable Indian writer, inspired lyric poet, novelist, short story writer, playwright, composer, founder of two universities, Rabindranath Tagore, possessed this skill to the full extent. For the Belgalis, Rabindranath Tagore is not only a great poet, not only an example of a wonderful way of life, but also an integral part of their own life. They grow up with Tagore's language on their lips, and their best feelings are often given vent by his own words, his own poetry. His life is extraordinarily rich, rich in events not only external, but also internal, spiritual.

Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861 in a family known throughout Bengal at that time. He was the youngest of 14 children. His grandfather Dvorkonath possessed truly fabulous wealth. He owned indigo factories, coal mines, sugar and tea plantations, huge estates.

Father Debendronath, nicknamed the Maharshi (Great Sage), played an important role in awakening the national identity of the Indians. Tagore's numerous brothers and sisters were endowed with various talents. This family was dominated by an atmosphere of artistry, humanity, mutual respect, an atmosphere in which all talents flourished.

Rabindranath Tagore in 1873

Rabindranath Tagore started writing poetry at the age of 8. The only merit of these first experiments, he later jokingly wrote, was that they were lost. Tagore's mother died when he was 14 years old. Having lost his mother, the boy began to lead a secluded life, the echoes of this loss went through his whole life.

Sarada Devip (Tagore's mom)

remembrance
I never remember my mother
And only sometimes when I run out
Out in the street to play with the boys
Some kind of melody all of a sudden
Takes possession of me, I do not know where being born,
And it seems to me like it's mom
She came to me, merged with my game.
She, shakingcradlemine
Maybe she sang this song
But everything is gone, and mom is no more,
And my mother's song was gone.

I never remember my mother.
But in the month of Ashshin, among the thickets of jasmine
As soon as it starts to dawn
And the wind, smelling of flowers, is moist,
And the wave gently laps
Memories rise in my soul
And she appears to me.
That's right, my mother often brought
Flowers to offer prayers to the gods;
Isn't that why mother's fragrance
I hear every time I enter the temple?

I never remember my mother.
But looking out the bedroom window
To a world that cannot be embraced with a glance,
To the blue of heaven, I feel it again
She looks into my eyes
Attentive and gentle look,
As in golden times
When, putting me on my knees,
She looked into my eyes.
And then her gaze was imprinted in me,
And he closed the sky from me.

Tagore with his wife Mrinalini Devi (1883)

At 22, R. Tagore marries. And he becomes the father of five children.
There is love that floats freely in the sky. This love warms the soul.
And there is love that dissolves in everyday affairs. This love brings warmth tofamily.

Rabindranath Tagore with his eldest son and daughter

The very first published collection of poems "Evening Songs" glorified the young poet. Since that time, collections of poems, stories, novels, dramas, articles have come out from under his pen in a continuous stream - one can only marvel at the inexhaustible power of his genius.

In 1901, the poet and his family moved to the family estate near Calcutta and opened a school with five associates, for which he sold the copyright to publish his books.
A year later, his beloved wife dies, he experienced this death very hard.

When I don't see you in my dream
It seems to me that whispers spells
Earth to disappear under your feet.
And cling to the empty sky
Raising my hands, in horror I want ...
(translated by A. Akhmatova)

But the misfortunes did not end there. The following year, one of the daughters died of tuberculosis, and in 1907, the youngest son died of tuberculosis.

You want to change everything, but efforts are in vain:
Everything remains exactly the same. as before.
If you destroy all sorrows, soon
Recent joys will turn into sorrows

In 1912, with his eldest son, Rabindranath Tagore left for the United States, making a stop in London. Here he showed his poems to his friend writer William Rotenstein. Tagore becomes famous in England, in America.
The awarding of the Nobel Prize to Tagore in 1913, recognition of his indisputable merits, was greeted with the greatest rejoicing throughout Asia.
R. Tagore never in his life, even in the most difficult moments, did not lose his inescapable optimism, faith in the inevitable final triumph of good over evil.

In the crevice of the wall, in the midst of the cool of the night,
A flower blossomed. He didn't please anyone's looks.
His rootless, squalor reproach
And the sun says, "How are you, brother?"

His favorite image is a flowing river: sometimes the small river Kopai, sometimes the full-flowing Padma, and sometimes the all-entraining flow of time and space. This is how we see his work: rich, varied, nourishing ...

Light comes from his work, helping to find oneself. In ancient India, the poet was viewed as a "rishi" - a prophet who leads among people. At almost 70 years old, Rabindranath Tagore discovered painting. And the following years he devoted himself to drawing.
“The morning of my life was full of songs, let the sunset of my days be full of colors,” said Tagore. After himself, he left not only thousands of beautiful lines, but also about 2 thousand paintings and drawings.

He did not study painting, but painted as his heart felt. His impulsive paintings are written quickly, with inspiration and confidence. This is a splash of emotions on paper. “I succumbed to the spell of lines ...” - he said later. With ornate designs, Tagore filled in the crossed-out spaces on the pages of his manuscripts. As a result, these patterns resulted in paintings that inspire many young artists to create, and a new trend in art has appeared in India.

His exhibitions were held in many countries of the world, they conquered people with their sincerity and originality and sold well. Tagore invested money from the sale of paintings in the creation of the university.
Now his paintings can most often be found in private collections. In 2010, a collection of 12 paintings by Rabindranath Tagore was sold for $2.2 million.
The poet is the author of the text of the hymns of Bangladesh and India.

In this sunny world I don't want to die
I would like to live forever in thisbloomingforest,
Where people leave to return again
Where hearts beat and flowers gather dew.

Throughout his life, he argued that the feet should touch the ground, and the head should go to the sky. Only in the interaction of worldly and spiritual life can a person count on the success of his inner search.

At a late hour, he who wished to renounce the world said:
“Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me.
Who kept me by sorcery at the threshold of mine?
God told him, "I am." The man did not hear him.
In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in a dream,
The young wife held the baby to her breast.
"Who are they - the offspring of Maya?" the man asked.
God told him, "I am." The man heard nothing.
The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted:Where are you, god?»
God told him, "Here." The man did not hear him.
The child was brought in, cried in a dream, sighed.
God said, "Come back." But no one heard him.
God sighed and exclaimed, “Alas! Be your way, let it be.
Only where will you find me if I stay here.
(translated by V. Tushnova)

Tagore considered personality to be the highest value and was himself the embodiment of a whole person. The word for him was not a unit of information or description, but a call and a message. Throughout his long life, with amazing harmony, Rabindranath Tagore combines in his work the contradictions between the spirit and the flesh, man and society, between the search for truth and the enjoyment of beauty. And he felt beauty with a subtlety peculiar only to a few. And with high, noble inspiration he knew how to recreate it in his lyrical poems, which may be the best of everything that he wrote.

Something from light touches, something from vague words, -
This is how tunes arise - a response to a distant call.
Champak in the midst of the spring bowl,
polash in the blaze of bloom
Sounds and colors will tell me, -
this is the path to inspiration.
Something will appear in a flash,
Visions in the soul - without number, without counting,
And something is gone, ringing - you can’t catch the melody.
So the minute changes to a minute - the chased ringing of bells.
(translationM. Petrovyh)

For modern Bengali literature, Tagore is still a beacon to navigate. Tagore's ageless poetry is becoming more and more popular. Just as Mahatma Gandhi is called the father of the Indian nation, Rabindranath Tagore can rightly be called the father of Indian literature. Tagore knew the old age of the body, but not the old age of the soul. And in this unfading youth is the secret of the longevity of his memory.

Poems and quotes by Rabindranath Tagore

Someone built a house for himself -
So mine is broken.
I made a truce
Someone went to war.
If I touched the strings -
Somewhere, their bells have stopped.
The circle closes right there
Where does it start.

***
Clap before mistakesa door.
The truth is in turmoil: "How will I enter now?"

"O fruit! O fruit! the flower screams.
Tell me, where do you live, my friend?
“Well,” the fruit laughs, “look:
I live inside you."

* * *
“Aren't you,” I once asked fate, “
Pushing me so mercilessly in the back?”
She croaked with an evil smile:
"Your own past drives you."

* * *
Respondsechoto everything that is heard around:
It does not want to be anyone's debtor.

* * *
Woke up babyflower. And suddenly appeared
The whole world is in front of him, like a huge beautiful flower garden.
And so he said to the universe, blinking in amazement:
"While I live, live, too, dear."

***
The flower withered and so decided: "Trouble,
Springleft the world forever

***
The cloud that the winter winds
Drove through the sky on an autumn day,
Looks with eyes full of tears,
Like it's about to exploderain.

***
You didn't even manage
What came naturally.
How do you deal with getting
Everything you want?

***
Pessimism is a form of spiritual alcoholism.

***
Man is worse than an animal when he becomes an animal.

***
I saved up the wisdom of many years,
stubbornly comprehended good and evil,
I have accumulated so much junk in my heart,
that became too heavy for the heart.

***
A leaf told a flower in a sleepy grove,
What passionately fell in love with the worldshadow.
The flower learned about the modest lover
And smiles all day.

The article uses photos from Wikipedia.

With wise quotes for all occasions - I recommend it to those who appreciate the elegant style and depth of thought