Tagore's Short Stories
A look ata comic piece . . .
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) needs no introduction to the reading public worldwide, especially to the Bangla-speaking reader. A gifted genius, his creative imagination ranged over practically all the genres of literary activity, from lyrics and poems, novels and plays, and belles-lettres, travel descriptions, and of course a large body of short stories. Tagore started writing short stories when he was barely in his twenties. His earliest one was published in 1884 when he was just twenty three. It must be recognised and applauded that he was venturing at a very young age into what was then practically uncharted territory, for the Bangla short story was a type of writing virtually unknown and a satisfactory diction for such a form had not yet developed. In an interview given to Satyavatibati Devi et al which was published in Forward on the 23 February, 1936, Tagore said, "Before I had written these short stories there was not anything of that type in Bengali literature. No doubt Bankimchandra had written some stories but they were of a romantic type; mine were full of the temperament of the village people." In another article printed in Probashi in May 1941, Tagore said (I translate), "You speak of my language, say that I remain a poet even in prose. If my language sometimes overcomes the substance of my stories and establishes itself in an independent character, I cannot really be blamed. The reason for this is that I have really had to develop the diction of Bangla prose myself. It did not exist as such earlier, and at every step I have had to work on finding an appropriate diction……Foreign writers, like Maupassant to whom you refer, found their language ready made. If they were compelled to develop their language as they wrote, I do not know what would have happened to them." (Source: Viswabharati edition of Golpoguchcha, reprint 1998). What he achieved is astonishing, for, in his long career as a writer of prose as well as poetry, he really pulled Bangla literature into the modern age. Galpoguchcho or a bunch of stories consists of eighty-seven pieces with an additional eleven pieces. Some of these last were published during his lifetime and some left in draft form. They vary in length from a short and sharp three pages to pieces with several parts to them. In terms of subject and character, of type and style, the range and variety of these stories astounds one. Even knowing how prolific Tagore was, I was really unprepared for the richness of the world he opens to us. He limits his vista to Bengal of the late nineteenth and early to mid-twentieth century but peoples it with characters who are drawn from every sector and level of society, from the unlettered young village girl to the fashionable blade in a newly risen urban society seeking recognition for his achievements, from the rigid unbending widow showing un unexpected streak of compassion to the wealthy city dweller desperate for a heir spending all his wealth in pursuit of one and yet unknowingly turning away his real son. His stories range from domestic tragedy to dramatic irony, from pathos and melancholy to the occasional tongue-in-cheek comedy. There are stories of the supernatural and of what can only be described as very sweet romance, there are stories which seem bizarre, stories which can be recognised as dealing with familiar experiences of everyday pleasures and the small griefs and hurts which arise from misunderstandings that we all know of. Many of these stories have been dramatised. I recognised many as I was reading them and enjoyed them all over again. Some have been turned into timeless films. We remember, for example, the unforgettable Kabuliwala. There is, however, one aspect I was disappointed and puzzled by. Tagore's characters do not seem to include anyone from the educated middle-class professional Muslim community which was definitely and visibly present and growing in the metropolis of Calcutta at the time. His references to Muslims are few and are mostly about rustic characters or in one or two of the stories to characters drawn from the nobility or their associates or even as late as 1941, to characters who are religious figures or faqirs, (Musalmanir Golpo). This lacuna is sad and could surely have been avoided. Further research and study could surely give us the answer to this puzzle. I will not elaborate my observations further, for there is a story I would like to talk about, which seems different from the general run. Most stories in the Golpoguchcho have a tragic or elegiac vein even when the outcome is sometimes positive. There are not many stories here which can be considered comic but I came across a story called Muktir Upay" in the first part, written around 1891, which I found very amusing, and of which I would like to present a brief synopsis. The story concerns two young men, the first of whom, Fakirchand, is a very serious and solemn individual who seeks to project himself as possessed of considerable spiritual excellence. His hirsute appearance at a young age adds to the air of gravity he seeks to project. His wife, Hoimobati, however, is of a light-hearted frivolous nature and is frequently berated by her husband for her lively ways. He is further burdened by the two children she produces and faced with the material necessity of obtaining a job and an income, he decides to leave home and becoming a wandering ascetic like a present-day Lord Buddha. The other young man, Makhanlal, from Nabagram, a village not too far off, is of a completely opposite temperament. Of a very shallow and irresponsible nature and given to pursuits of selfish pleasures, he had been married young to a wife who did not produce any children. Following the custom of the times, his father got him married again, whereupon his wives promptly produced eight children between them, seven daughters and a son. Laden with the burden of such a large number of dependents, whom he was expected to support, he very soon left home and was not heard from for quite some time. Fakirchand, the first young man, had been wandering about and now entered the village of Nabagram. As he sat for rest under a tree he suddenly saw his father from a distance, and thinking he was coming in pursuit, fled precipitously and entered the nearest house, which happened to be Makhanlal's. Makhanlal's father, who was short-sighted, immediately assumed he was his missing son, despite Fakirchand's protests that he was a wandering hermit called Chidanandashami or Paramanando. Because the old man was having nothing of this Fakirchand thought it would be useful to hide out here for a few days until his father was successfully eluded. But then the old man called in the whole village, who all came and greeted him as the prodigal son, suspiciously asking him endless questions. The questions range from his whereabouts and the reasons for his disappearance to his present appearance. He maintains as far as possible a grave silence in the face of this onslaught, answering only when his wits can provide him with a response. The result is often hilarious. One villager, rather pugnaciously, demands to know, how he had become so light-complexioned when he had previously been so dark and he very solemnly answers that it was achieved through yoga! Then to land him in the utmost catastrophe, the father decides to call in the two daughters-in-law to meet their supposed husband. Fakirchand does not know how to get out of this predicament should he try to run away, in which case the whole village would set off after him in furious pursuit, or should he sit and meet the women and seek to pacify them? He chooses the latter option and is at once set upon by two enraged spitfires. Totally helpless, he thinks the only option is to stay put for the time being. But it is not only his wives who make his life miserable. A horde of teasing sisters-in-law descend upon him, followed by all eight of his supposed offspring, all of whom fling themselves on him with caresses and embraces, as well as tugs at his profuse facial hair, greatly adding to his misery. At this time he thinks he can occasionally hear high-pitched laughter from a feminine voice which seems familiar, but he cannot identify the origin. Not getting any relief from any source he proclaims his resolve to leave as soon as possible. At his threat to run away again, the villagers bring in a severe lawyer who tells him he will be prosecuted if he once again abandons this large family of his. Seeing no way out, Fakirchand writes to his father, who arrives promptly to retrieve his son, but neither the father, nor the wives, nor his extensive family or the villagers will let him go. Fakirchand's world seems about to descend into total insanity when a figure enters , who was the source of the laughter he had heard, and who was none other than his wife, Hoimoboti. She was a niece of this family and had come on a visit, deriving enormous amusement at the sight of this unknown man caught in a trap he could not get out of. Recognising her husband, Hoimoboti bows her head in a pronaam to him and Fakirchand, seeing the wife he'd run away from, is beside himself with delight for she is now his only avenue of escape. Another man, who had been lurking in the neighbourhood, now comes forward, and reveals himself as Makhanlal, the actual son of this household. Seeing Hoimoboti he realises that Fakirchand is her husband and therefore his cousin-in-law. He asks that Fakirchand be let go and gallantly takes the responsibility of his wives, (his dari and kalshi) we can guess his immediate future, at least, is precarious at this point. The villagers, knowing his wives, are much impressed with his courage and magnanimity. A bare synopsis like this does not really impart the flavour of the story and I hope readers will enjoy it as much I did. For myself, I once more express the delight and stimulation which I received from these works of Tagore's imaginationthe Bangla phrase 'go-grashe', could, I believe, be used to describe the speed at which I read these pieces, but I have reservations about this phrase, for in my admittedly limited acquaintance of cows, I have seen none eating with the speed at which I have read these books. I am quite confident that new readers will follow my example.
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