How did he know? How did he know what I felt? How could he express those thoughts that I had in the recesses of my brain, but never had the words to utter them with?
Along he came, he with his mighty pen, his treasure trove of beguiling music and stole my tongue. he played mind games with me, as his works unfolded in my understanding.. A child began to understand a few matters about life, death, nature and faith.
My earliest recollections of Rabindra Nath Tagore's works were not too inspiring. As a frail and sickly child, I longed to run and jump outside, like my robust older sister. Instead, I stayed indoors, learning painstakingly the Bengali alphabet- Aw, AA, I, EE Ae, Oi and so on. The book was a slender paperback, with a beige colored cover, written by one Rabindra Nath Tagore. On each page was an illustration in black and white pen and ink. It served its purpose to explain the text- but I was not able at that time to appreciate how wonderful the sketches of Nandalal Bose were. To a child, they were, well, just drawings. Slowly my hand began to write those alphabets, as I began to memorize the little poems that went along with the text. This was a primer that Tagore had written for children learning the alphabet. Particularly endearing was the little poem- 'Ghono megh boley Rhi, Diin boro bisri' ( The dark clouds roar Rhi, the day is rather miserable) above which was the illustration of two children huddling below a tiny umbrella. Just the way my friend and I might have. Then there was one of the spotted leopard, looking very menacing even while lolling under a tree- rather like someone whose afternoon nap has been rudely interrupted by an artist trying to draw his portrait.
I struggled in school with the twin evils of a learning disability and Attention Deficit Disorder. These were not recognized formally as learning impediments. The general fix for these was corporal punishment; which I mercifully managed to evade, thanks to my mother's Montessori training. But the world outside my classroom? It was forever beckoning me with its ever changing kaleidoscope of seasons. When I saw a documentaryabout Tagore's famed outdoors university Santiniketan. He had abhorred the rote learning and rigidity of the conventional classroom.
In the story- 'The Parrot's Learning' he wrote with lancing sarcasm about a caged parrot that is force fed with pages torn from books of great knowledge until it dies. The metaphor is all too easy to understand now. But it provoked great ire from those opposed to change. Sadly the attitudes had not changed too much over the years. As I soldiered on in the classroom, I later learned what moved the poet to write
'Amaay bandhbey jodi kaajer dorey, keno pagol oro emon korey?'
Along he came, he with his mighty pen, his treasure trove of beguiling music and stole my tongue. he played mind games with me, as his works unfolded in my understanding.. A child began to understand a few matters about life, death, nature and faith.
My earliest recollections of Rabindra Nath Tagore's works were not too inspiring. As a frail and sickly child, I longed to run and jump outside, like my robust older sister. Instead, I stayed indoors, learning painstakingly the Bengali alphabet- Aw, AA, I, EE Ae, Oi and so on. The book was a slender paperback, with a beige colored cover, written by one Rabindra Nath Tagore. On each page was an illustration in black and white pen and ink. It served its purpose to explain the text- but I was not able at that time to appreciate how wonderful the sketches of Nandalal Bose were. To a child, they were, well, just drawings. Slowly my hand began to write those alphabets, as I began to memorize the little poems that went along with the text. This was a primer that Tagore had written for children learning the alphabet. Particularly endearing was the little poem- 'Ghono megh boley Rhi, Diin boro bisri' ( The dark clouds roar Rhi, the day is rather miserable) above which was the illustration of two children huddling below a tiny umbrella. Just the way my friend and I might have. Then there was one of the spotted leopard, looking very menacing even while lolling under a tree- rather like someone whose afternoon nap has been rudely interrupted by an artist trying to draw his portrait.
I struggled in school with the twin evils of a learning disability and Attention Deficit Disorder. These were not recognized formally as learning impediments. The general fix for these was corporal punishment; which I mercifully managed to evade, thanks to my mother's Montessori training. But the world outside my classroom? It was forever beckoning me with its ever changing kaleidoscope of seasons. When I saw a documentaryabout Tagore's famed outdoors university Santiniketan. He had abhorred the rote learning and rigidity of the conventional classroom.
In the story- 'The Parrot's Learning' he wrote with lancing sarcasm about a caged parrot that is force fed with pages torn from books of great knowledge until it dies. The metaphor is all too easy to understand now. But it provoked great ire from those opposed to change. Sadly the attitudes had not changed too much over the years. As I soldiered on in the classroom, I later learned what moved the poet to write
'Amaay bandhbey jodi kaajer dorey, keno pagol oro emon korey?'
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