Kabuliwala, by Rabindranath Tagore

Kabuliwala, by Rabindranath Tagore

Postby admin » Tue Jul 02, 2019 5:27 am

Kabuliwala
by Rabindranath Tagore
Translated by Mohammad A. Quayum

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My five-year old daughter Mini is a chatty girl and likes to talk all day long. It took her about a year after being born to acquire the talent for language, and since then she has not wasted a single wakeful moment of her life remaining silent. Often her mother chides her to keep quiet, but I can never do that. Seeing the girl mute even for an instant seems so odd and unusual to me that I find it unbearable. That’s why my conversation with Mini is often feisty.

One morning as I had just started writing the seventeenth chapter of my novel, Mini walked into the room and began, ‘Dad, our sentry Ramdayal doesn’t even know how to pronounce the word “crow.” He is so backward.’

Before I could begin to enlighten her on the differences between languages, she launched into another topic. ‘See, Dad, Bhola was saying that when elephants lift water with their trunks and spray it from the sky, it rains. Dear, oh dear! Bhola can speak such nonsense. He can rant day and night, without making any sense!’

Without waiting for my opinion on it, she asked me out of the blue, ‘Dad, who is Mum to you?’

Sister-in-law, I thought to myself, but to Mini I replied, avoiding the complicated question, ‘You go and play with Bhola. I have some work now.’ At this, she flopped beside the writing table, close to my feet, and began to play a game of knick-knack with her hands and knees, rapidly chanting a nursery rhyme. In the seventeenth chapter of my novel, Pratap Singh was jumping off the high balcony of the jailhouse at this time, with Kanchanmala, into the river below in the dark of night.

Stopping her game abruptly, Mini ran to the window which overlooked the main road, and began calling out at the top of her voice, ‘Kabuliwala, O Kabuliwala!’

A tall, shabbily clothed Afghan street vender, with a turban on his head, a bag over his shoulder and a few boxes of dry grapes in his hands was passing through the street slowly. I have no idea what flashed through my daughter’s mind at the sight of this man, but the moment she saw him she began yelling. I thought, this nuisance with a sack over his shoulder will show up in a moment and I won’t be able to finish writing the seventeenth chapter of my novel.

But the moment the Kabuliwala, at hearing Mini’s call, turned around with a smile and approached the house, she dashed inside and couldn’t be found anywhere. She had this childish fear that if someone looked through the bag of this Afghan man, several living children like herself would be found in there.

Meanwhile, the Kabuliwala stepped into the compound and stood at the door with a smile and an Islamic salute. I thought, although the characters in my novel, Pratap Singh and Kanchanmala were in dire straits, it would be unseemly to call the man all the way to the house and not buy anything.

I bought a few items and soon I was involved in a rambling conversation with him on various topics including Abdur Rahman, the Emir of Afghanistan, and the Frontier Policy of the Russians and the British.

Finally, as he was about to leave the house, he asked, ‘Sir, where is your little girl?’

To break Mini’s unfounded fear, I called her from inside the house. She came and stood nervously, pressing against my body, and looking suspiciously at the Kabuliwala and his bag. The Kabuliwala took out some raisins and apricots from inside the bag and gave it to Mini, but she refused to take them and remained pressed against my knees with a redoubled suspicion. That was how their first meeting ended.

A few days later, as I was leaving the house in the morning for some important work, I saw my tiny daughter sitting on the bench next to the door and speaking nonstop with the Kabuliwala, who was parked next to her feet and listening to her with a grin and interjecting now and then in broken Bengali to give his opinion. In her short five-year life, Mini had never found a more intent listener before other than her father. I also noticed that she had lots of nuts and raisins tied up at the loose end of her small sari. Upon discovering this, I asked the Kabuliwala, ‘Why did you give all these to her? Please don’t do it again.’ With that, I took out a half-a-rupee coin and gave it to him. The Kabuliwala took the money without any hesitation and put it in his bag.

On returning home, I found that a full-scale row had broken out over the coin.

Holding the white, round, shining piece of metal in her hand, Mini’s mother asked her in a rebuking tone, ‘Where did you get the coin?’

Mini replied, ‘The Kabuliwala gave it to me.’

Her mother chided, ‘Why did you take it from him?’

Mini answered sobbingly, ‘I didn’t ask for it. He gave it on his own.’

I stepped in to rescue Mini and took her out for a walk.

I learnt that this was not her second meeting with the Kabuliwala. He had been visiting Mini almost daily, and by offering her pistachio nuts he had already won a large part of the girl’s childish heart.

The two friends had a few stock phrases and jokes which were repeated in their conversations. For example, the moment she saw Rahamat, my daughter would ask with a hearty laugh, ‘Kabuliwala, O Kabuliwala, what is in your sack?’

Adding an unnecessary nasal tone to the word, Rahamat would roar, ‘Hanti.’

The essence of the joke was that the man had an elephant in his sack. Not that the joke was very witty, but it caused the two friends to double up in laughter, and the sight of that innocent joy between a little girl and a grown man on autumn mornings used to move me deeply.

Another routine exchange between the two was, whenever they met, Rahamat would tell the girl in his characteristic thick accent, ‘Missy, you should never go to the in-laws’.’

Bengali girls were commonly familiar with the term ‘in-laws’ practically since birth. But being more modern, we chose not to load our daughter’s mind with precocious thoughts at such a tender age. That was why Mini could never fully understand Rahamat’s advice. But to keep quiet and not respond to a statement was contrary to Mini’s nature. Therefore, turning the phrase into a question, she would ask, ‘Will you go to your in-laws?’

Making a huge fist with his hand, Rahamat would pretend to punch at his imaginary in-law and say, ‘I’ll wallop my in-law.’

Thinking of the plight of the unknown creature called father-in-law, Mini would explode into laughter.

It was still early autumn – that time of year when kings in ancient days used to go out on conquest. Personally, I have never been away from Kolkata which is why my mind always wanders around the world. I am like an exile in my own home as my mind constantly likes to travel to other places. The moment I hear the name of a foreign country, my mind longs to visit that unknown place. Likewise, the sight of an alien person brings to mind the image of a lonely hut beside a river in the midst of a forest, and I begin to imagine an autonomous, exultant way of life.

Yet I am so dull and inert that every time I think of travelling out of my little world, I panic. That’s why I used to mitigate my desire for travelling a little by talking to this man from Kabul in the morning, sitting in front of my writing table in my little room. The Kabuliwala blared out stories of his homeland in his broken Bengali and I fancied it all before my eyes: tall, rugged, impassable mountains on two sides, red-hot with torrid heat, and a caravan moving through the narrow, dusty passageway in between; turbaned traders and travellers passing by, some on camel back, others on foot; some carrying spears, and others outdated flint-stone guns.

Mini’s mother is naturally a timid person. Whenever she hears a slight noise from the street, she thinks all the tipplers of the world are rushing together towards our house. After living for so many years in this world (though not many), she has still not been able to temper her fear that the world is full of all kinds of horrors: thieves, robbers, drunkards, snakes, tigers, malaria, cockroaches and European soldiers.

She was not free of suspicion about the Kabuliwala, Rahamat, and nagged me to keep a watchful eye on him. Whenever I sought to make light of her suspicions, she asked me a few pointed questions: ‘Are there no such instances of child abduction? Isn’t slave-trade still in practice in Afghanistan? Is it altogether impossible for a giant Afghan to kidnap a little child?’

I had to agree that those were not impossible, but were improbable. However, not everyone has the same capacity for trust, so my wife remained suspicious of the man. But I couldn’t stop Rahamat from visiting the house either because he had done nothing wrong.

* * * * *

Every year, in January or February, Rahamat would go back to his home country to visit his family. A money-lender, he was unusually busy during this period collecting dues from his clients before the trip. He had to rush from house to house to raise the collectibles, and yet he found time to visit Mini. It appeared as if the two were involved in a mischievous plot. The day he couldn’t come in the morning, he came in the evening. To see that huge Afghan sitting in the corner of the house in the dark of evening in his baggy clothes and customary sack would create a sudden fear in my mind. But the moment I saw Mini rushing out of the house and greeting her friend, ‘Kabuliwala, O Kabuliwala,’ and the chums of incompatible years engaging in their familiar bantering and innocent laughter, my heart would fill with delight.

One morning I was sitting in my room and reading some proofs. It was the end of winter, but for the last few days, before the season came to a close, the temperature was freezing and almost unbearable. I was enjoying the warmth of a strip of morning sun that had alighted on my feet under the table, travelling through the glass window. It was about eight o’clock, and most of the early risers had finished their morning walk with their necks wrapped in scarves and returned home. Just then, I heard some commotion in the street.

Looking out, I saw our Rahamat in handcuffs, escorted by two policemen, with a whole host of street urchins trailing after them. There were marks of blood on Rahamat’s clothes and a policeman was carrying a blood-stained knife. I stepped out and accosted the policemen, demanding to know what was going on.

Putting together details from Rahamat as well as the policemen, I understood that one of our neighbours was indebted to Rahamat for a Rampuri shawl and when the man denied his debt, an argument broke out between them. In the heat of the argument Rahamat took out a knife and stabbed the man.

Rahamat was in the midst of hurling abuse in obscene language at the dishonest man when Mini came running out of the house, shouting, ‘Kabuliwala, O Kabuliwala.’

In a flash, Rahamat’s face was filled with expressions of happiness. Since he didn’t have the sling bag over his shoulder that day, their usual exchange on the subject could not take place. So Mini asked him straight off, ‘Will you be going to your in-laws’ house?’

‘That’s exactly where I am going,’ Rahamat replied with a laugh.

When he noticed that Mini did not find the answer quite amusing, he pointed to his hands and added in his heavily accented, patchy Bengali, ‘I would have beaten up the in-law. But what can I do, my hands are tied up.’

Charged with grievous injury, Rahamat was sent to jail for several years.

We almost forgot about him. Living our days through our daily routines in the security of our home, it never occurred to us once how this free-spirited man from the mountains was spending his years within the secluded walls of the jail.

And the way Mini’s inconstant little heart behaved was embarrassing even to her father. She easily forgot her old friend and found a new one in Nabi, the syce. Then, as she continued to grow up, she replaced all her elderly male friends, one after another, with girls of her own age. She was hardly to be seen in her father’s studio. In a way, I had almost ended all friendship with her.

* * * * *

Several years passed. It was Autumn again. Mini’s wedding match had been fixed. She was to get married during the puja holidays. This event will take the joy of our household to her in-laws’ house, leaving us in darkness.

It was a sunny, resplendent morning. The rain-washed sun of early autumn took the hue of pure gold. Its brilliance made even the dingy, rundown brick houses in the inner lanes of Kolkata look beautiful. The wedding music had started playing in the house since dawn. Each note of that music seemed to come right from my rib-cage in a sobbing tune and spread the sorrow of an impending farewell to the world, mixing itself with the radiant shafts of the autumnal sun. My Mini was to get married that day.

There was a lot of hubbub in the house since visitors were continually loitering in and out. A tent was being put up on bamboo poles in the courtyard of the house, and the chimes of chandeliers being rigged in the portico of every room filled the air. There was no end to the rumpus.

I was going through the wedding accounts in my study, when suddenly Rahamat walked into the room and stood before me with a salaam.

At first I couldn’t recognise him. He didn’t have that customary sack with him, or the long hair and his burly look. Finally, I recognised him through his smile.

I asked him, ‘Hello, Rahamat, how long have you been back?’

‘I was released from jail last evening,’ he replied.

The words gave me a sudden jolt. I had never seen a homicide before, so my heart flinched at the sight of the man. I wished he would leave the house immediately on this auspicious day.

I said, ‘We have a wedding in the house today, and I am quite busy. It is better for you to go now.’

At that, he began to leave the house, but as he reached the door, he turned back in hesitation and asked in a faltering tone, ‘Can’t I see the girl for a moment?’

Perhaps he was convinced that Mini was still the same little girl and would come out of the house running to greet him, ‘Kabuliwala, O Kabuliwala,’ as in the past. Their happy, playful relationship of old had remained unchanged. Remembering their past friendship, he had even brought a box of grapes and a few raisins wrapped in a packet, which he must have borrowed from some Afghan friend because his own customary sack was not there with him.


I said once again, ‘There is a festivity in the house today. It won’t be possible to see anyone at this time.’

He looked a little hurt by the statement and stood stupefied for a time, gazing at me with a fixed look. Then he walked out of the room abruptly with a simple ‘bye.’

I felt remorseful and thought I should call him back, but right then I saw him turning around.

Standing close to me, he said, ‘I brought these grapes and raisins for the little girl, hope you don’t mind giving it to her.’

I took the fruits from him and was about to pay some money when he grabbed me by the hand and said, ‘You’re a generous man, Sir, and I’ll never forget your kindness, but please don’t pay me for these fruits. Just as you have a daughter, I too have one back home. It is remembering her face that I bring these gifts for your child. I don’t come here for business.’

With that, he shoved his hand inside his huge baggy shirt and brought out a grimy piece of paper from somewhere close to his chest. Unfolding it very carefully, he laid the paper open on the table.

I could see the impression of a very small hand on it; not a photograph, not a painting, but the trace of a tiny hand created with burnt charcoal daubed on the palm. Every year Rahamat came to peddle merchandise on the streets of Kolkata carrying that memorabilia of his daughter in his pocket, as if the soft touch of that little hand kept his huge, lonely heart fed with love and happiness.


My eyes filled with tears at the sight of that piece of paper. It no longer mattered to me that he was an ordinary fruit-peddler from Kabul and I belonged to an aristocratic Bengali family. In a moment I realised that we were both just the same – he was a father and so was I. The print of his mountain-dwelling daughter’s hand reminded me of my own Mini. I sent word for her to come out to the study immediately. Many of the women objected, but I paid no heed. In her bridal dress and ceremonial makeup, Mini came out from the inner quarters and stood beside me coyly.

The Kabuliwala saw Mini and became confused; their good-natured humour of old also didn’t work out. In the end, with a smile, he asked, ‘Girl, are you going to the in-law’s house?’

Mini now understood what ‘in-law’ meant. So she couldn’t answer the way she did in the past. Rather, hearing the question from Rahamat, her face became purple in shame and she abruptly turned around and left. This brought back memories of their first meeting and I felt an ache in my heart.

Soon after Mini left, Rahamat slouched on the floor with a long, deep sigh. It became obvious to him that his own daughter had grown up as well and he would have to get to know her all over again. She would not be the same girl he had left behind. He was not even sure what might have happened to her in the past eight years. The wedding music continued to play softly in the courtyard on that autumnal sunny morning, and sitting there on the floor of my house in an alley in Kolkata, Rahamat continued to envision the images of the arid, hilly terrains of Afghanistan.

I took out some money and gave it to him. ‘You go back to your daughter in Afghanistan, Rahamat, and may the happiness of your union bring blessings for my Mini too,’ I said.

I had to cut out one or two items from the éclat of the festivities for gifting that money. For example, the lighting decoration was not as gorgeous as I had wanted it to be, and the band party had to be cancelled. This upset the women, but buoyed by a benevolent spirit, my auspicious ceremony became more luminous.
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Re: Kabuliwala, by Rabindranath Tagore

Postby admin » Tue Jul 02, 2019 6:02 am

Meaning of Dui Bigha Jomi, by Rabindranath Tagore
by PoetandPoem.com
Accessed: 7/1/19

Shudhu bighe-dui Dui Bigha Jomi
, chhilo mor bhui, ar shobi gechhe rine
Babu bolilen, ‘bujhechho upen? e jomi loibo kine.’
Kohilam ami, ‘tumi bhu-shhami, bhumir onto nai –
Cheye dekho mor achhe borojor moribar moto thai’
Shuni raja kohe, ‘bapu, jano to he, korechhi bagankhana,
Pele dui bighe prosthe o dighe shoman hoibe tana –
Ota dite hobe.’ Kohilam tobe bokkhe juria pani,
Shojol chokkhe, ‘korun rokkhe goriber bhitekhani.
Shopto-purush jethay manush she mati shonar bara,
Doinner daye bechibo she ma-ye emni lokkhi chhara!’
Akhi kori lal raja khonokal rohilo mounobhabe,
Kohilen sheshe kruro hashi heshe, ‘achchha, she dekha jabe.’

Pore mash-dere bhite mati chhere bahir hoinu pothe-
Korilo dikri shokoli bikri mittha denar khote.
E jogote hay shei beshi chay ache jar bhuri bhuri,
Rajar hosto kore shomosto kangaler dhon churi.
Mone bhabilam, more bhogoban rakhibe na moho-gorte,
Tai likhi dilo bishsho-nikhil du-bighar poriborte.
Shonnashi beshe firi deshe deshe hoia shadhur shishsho –
Koto herilam monohor dham, koto monorom drishsho.
Bhudhore shagore bijone nogore jokhon jekhane bhromi
Tobu nishidine bhulite pari ne shei dui bigha jomi.
Hate mathe bate eimoto kate bochhor ponero-sholo,
Ekdin sheshe firibare deshe boroi bashona holo.

Nomonomo nomo, shundori momo jononi bongobhumi,
Gongar tir snigdho shomir jibon jurale tumi.
Obarito math, gogon-lolat chume tobo pododhuli –
Chhaya shunibir shantir nir chhoto chhoto gramguli.
Pollob-ghono amro-kanon, rakhaler khela geho –
Stobdho otol dighi kalojol nishith-shitol-sneho.
Buk-bhora modhu bonger bodhu jol loye jay ghore –
Ma bolite pran kore anchan, chokhe ashe jol bhore.
Dui din pore ditio prohore probeshinu nij grame –
Kumorer bari dokkhine chhari, broth-tola kori bame,
Rakhi hat-khola nondir gola, mondir kori pachhe
trishatur sheshe pouchhenu eshe amar barir kachhe.

dhik dhik ore, shoto dhik tore, nilaj kulota bhumi,
jokhoni jahar tokhoni tahar – ei ki jononi tumi!
She ki mone hobe ekdin jobe chhile doridromata
Achol bhoria rakhite dhoria folful shak pata!
Aj kon rite kare bhulaite dhorechho bilash besh –
Pach-ronga pata onchole gatha, pushpe khochito kesh!
Ami tor lagi firechhi bibagi grihohara shukh-hin,
Tui hetha boshi ore rakkhoshi, hashia katash din!
Dhonir adore gorob na dhore! Etoi hoyechho bhinno –
Konokhane lesh nahi oboshesh she diner kono chinho!
Kollanmoyi chhile tumi oyi, khudha-hara shudha-rashi,
Joto hasho aj, joto koro shaj, chhile debi – hole dashi.

Bidirno-hiya firia firia chari dike cheye dekhi –
Prachirer kachhe ekhono je ache shei am-gachh eki.
Boshi tar tole noyoner jole shanto hoilo betha,
Eke eke mone udilo shorone balok-kaler kotha.
Shei mone pore, joishther jhore ratre nahiko ghum,
Oti bhore uthi taratari chhuti am kurabar dhuum.
Shei shumodhur stobdho dupur, pathshala polayon –
Bhabilam hay, ar ki kothay fire pabo she jibon.

Shohosha batash kheli gelo shash shakha dulaia pachhe,
Duti paka fol lobhilo bhutol amar koler kachhe.
Bhabilam mone, bujhi etokhone amare chinilo mata,
Sneher she dane bohu shommane barek thekanu matha.

Henokal hay jomdut-pray kotha hote elo mali,
Jhutibadha ure shoptom shure parite lagilo gali.
Kohilam tobe, ‘ami tou nirobe diyechhi amar shob –
duti fol tar kori odhikar, eto tari kolorob?’
Chinilo na more, nie gelo dhore, kadhe tuli lathigachh,
Babu chhip hate parishod-shathe dhorite chhilen machh –
Shuni biboron krodhe tini kon, ‘maria koribo khun’
Babu joto bole parishod dole bole tar shotogun.
Ami kohilam, ‘shudhu duti am, bhikh magi mohashoy!’
Babu kohe heshe, ‘beta shadhu-beshe paka chor otishoy!’
Ami shune hashi, akhi-jole bhashi, ei chhilo mor ghote –
Tumi moharaj shadhu hole aj, ami aj chor bote ||


Poem

The poem "Dui bigha jomi’’ is a masterpiece of Rabindranath Tagore’s creation. This poem has been taken from the novel ‘Chitra’ and has been first published in ‘Kotha o Kahini’. The poem gives a vivid description of a poor farmer of Bengal – Upen. The poet here describes the ‘zamindari pratha’ of Bengal and how the innocent and poor peasants were brutally tortured and abused by the cruel and rich zamidars (land lords). The poet himself being a landlord was quite acquainted with the brutal behavior of the other zamindars which he never accepted. It inspired him to write this very poem.

Background

Rabindranath generally had spent most of his time writing ,composing poems and stories etc. But in his early adulthood he was sent to Shilaidaho presently in Bangladesh to look after his family business as a zamindar there. The poet was very deeply hurt by seeing the ruthless attitude towards the mere poor peasants. During these days an incident moved him very much which provoked him to write this poem. As a zamindar he deeply saw and felt the poverty and the misery of the poor peasants working under him , on the other hand he saw the lavishness and the ruthless attitude of the zamindars towards the peasants. This created a deep wound in the poets heart which compelled him to compose a real incident in the form of a poem.

Structure of the poem

This is basically a story written in the form of a poem. The poet has constructed the poem so beautifully that a series of picturesque images comes alive before the reader’s eyes. The poet provides a beautiful scenery of a village in Bengal, creating a rural atmosphere in the poem which the reader can clearly visualize throughout the whole poem. The poet has also used many figure of speeches like simile, metaphore etc. that creates a mesmerizing imagery to the readers. This poem is a great example of a lyrical ballad as well which has a song like motive and a great tale to tell behind it.

Analysis

"Shudhu bighe-dui
chhilo mor bhui, ar shobi gechhe rine
Babu bolilen, ‘bujhechho upen? e jomi loibo kine.’
Kohilam ami, ‘tumi bhu-shhami, bhumir onto nai’’

The poet here speaks about the pitiful condition of the poor farmer who has lost everything due to huge amount of loan as well as poverty and possess no wealth except a little piece of land which he thinks is the only wealth he has. The landlord came to the poor farmer (Upen) and proposed him to sell that little land to the landlord, in behalf of money. Then the farmer (Upen) told that the landlord is the owner of huge property. He has endless lands.

"Cheye dekho mor achhe borojor moribar moto thai’
Shuni raja kohe, ‘bapu, jano to he, korechhi bagankhana,
Pele dui bighe prosthe o dighe shoman hoibe tana –
Ota dite hobe.’ Kohilam tobe bokkhe juria pani,"

The poor farmer (Upen) told the landlord that he possess nothing but only the land, which is the only wealth he has. The place of his rest of life and death is this. This is a protesting language according to the owner. So he told the farmer that he wants to built a beautiful garden there and ordered the farmer to give him his land so that the area of his garden becomes equal in length and breadth. After listening to the orders given by the landlord the farmer became completely disheartened. The emotions came in this poem in very sensual manner. The farmer protest but that doesn’t reach in cruel level. The logic and truth are present in these lines.

"Shojol chokkhe, ‘korun rokkhe goriber bhitekhani.
Shopto-purush jethay manush she mati shonar bara,
Doinner daye bechibo she ma-ye emni lokkhi chhara!’
Akhi kori lal raja khonokal rohilo mounobhabe,
Kohilen sheshe kruro hashi heshe, ‘achchha, she dekha jabe."

The poor farmer cannot ignore the orders given by the landlord and cried in front of the owner and told him that in this land he has lots of memories. Moreover his seven ancestors are born and brought up in this very land. This land is more valuable that the gold for him. In response to his pitiful condition the landlord totally ignored the whole thing and told him that he will think this later. The land is the mother of society. The poet uses the imagery of respected females through these lines.

"Pore mash-dere bhite mati chhere bahir hoinu pothe-
Korilo dikri shokoli bikri mittha denar khote.
E jogote hay shei beshi chay ache jar bhuri bhuri,
Rajar hosto kore shomosto kangaler dhon churi.
Mone bhabilam, more bhogoban rakhibe na moho-gorte,
Tai likhi dilo bishsho-nikhil du-bighar poriborte.
Shonnashi beshe firi deshe deshe hoia shadhur shishsho –
Koto herilam monohor dham, koto monorom drishsho.
Bhudhore shagore bijone nogore jokhon jekhane bhromi
Tobu nishidine bhulite pari ne shei dui bigha jomi.
Hate mathe bate eimoto kate bochhor ponero-sholo,
Ekdin sheshe firibare deshe boroi bashona holo."

The landlord completely ignored the pitiful condition of the farmer which compelled him to leave his own home. The landlord filed a false case in behalf of the farmer and did not give him a single penny and forced him to leave his own home. As the owner of that little land is less powerful so he bound to give his piece of heart. Then the poet gave prove of his philosophical thoughts. He says that the farmer thinks that, he gets the whole land of earth on behalf of his little land. The farmer travelled in many beautiful places for several years and became a hermit but he could not forget his own land. At last after a long period he thought to return back to his native. In this line the poet takes the poor man back to own land. Readers can connect this with the call of the poet for their people to return in their land.

"Nomonomo nomo, shundori momo jononi bongobhumi,
Gongar tir snigdho shomir jibon jurale tumi.
Obarito math, gogon-lolat chume tobo pododhuli –
Chhaya shunibir shantir nir chhoto chhoto gramguli.
Pollob-ghono amro-kanon, rakhaler khela geho –
Stobdho otol dighi kalojol nishith-shitol-sneho.
Buk-bhora modhu bonger bodhu jol loye jay ghore –
Ma bolite pran kore anchan, chokhe ashe jol bhore.
Dui din pore ditio prohore probeshinu nij grame –
Kumorer bari dokkhine chhari, broth-tola kori bame,
Rakhi hat-khola nondir gola, mondir kori pachhe
trishatur sheshe pouchhenu eshe amar barir kachhe."

These lines describe the beautiful natures of Bengal. Through the imageries of river, trees and fields the poet penned the attraction of Bengal. The little houses of villages, little jungles, mango-tress and others are attracting that poor man. The poor man wants to come back in his village but after a few days his dreams got shattered when he could not find out the same place he had left fifteen years back. And after the painful roam he reached at his own land. In this roaming the poor man remembers the past incidents and emotionally touched through those.

"dhik dhik ore, shoto dhik tore, nilaj kulota bhumi,
jokhoni jahar tokhoni tahar – ei ki jononi tumi!
She ki mone hobe ekdin jobe chhile doridromata
Achol bhoria rakhite dhoria folful shak pata!
Aj kon rite kare bhulaite dhorechho bilash besh –
Pach-ronga pata onchole gatha, pushpe khochito kesh!
Ami tor lagi firechhi bibagi grihohara shukh-hin,
Tui hetha boshi ore rakkhoshi, hashia katash din!
Dhonir adore gorob na dhore! Etoi hoyechho bhinno –
Konokhane lesh nahi oboshesh she diner kono chinho!
Kollanmoyi chhile tumi oyi, khudha-hara shudha-rashi,
Joto hasho aj, joto koro shaj, chhile debi – hole dashi."

The farmer became very shocked to see the complete change of the atmosphere of his poor mother land. His mind was filled with hatred when he thought that his poor condition and the present condition of his land. The poet showed the control ability of him. He wrote that the farmer make the land responsible for this betrayal. So the poor man expresses his anger on the land. The character became rich with such lines because generally people blamed the person but here this character blames his own property. This is a remarkable thinking of the poet.

"Bidirno-hiya firia firia chari dike cheye dekhi –
Prachirer kachhe ekhono je ache shei am-gachh eki.
Boshi tar tole noyoner jole shanto hoilo betha,
Eke eke mone udilo shorone balok-kaler kotha.
Shei mone pore, joishther jhore ratre nahiko ghum,
Oti bhore uthi taratari chhuti am kurabar dhuum.
Shei shumodhur stobdho dupur, pathshala polayon –
Bhabilam hay, ar ki kothay fire pabo she jibon.

Shohosha batash kheli gelo shash shakha dulaia pachhe,
Duti paka fol lobhilo bhutol amar koler kachhe.
Bhabilam mone, bujhi etokhone amare chinilo mata,
Sneher she dane bohu shommane barek thekanu matha."

The whole change of the place shocked the poor man and he started to find out any piece which he knows. After a long search he saw the old mango tree and became nostalgic and recollected all the golden memories of his childhood as well as youth days. He became tired and sat under that mango tree. Here he began to think about the past happenings regarding this tree and some convulsed into emotional mood. During this thinking a fruit fell in his lap, his mind was filled with joy and he thought that his tree has recognized him and gave him the blessing. The poet relates this incident with the adorable hands of mother. This poor man believes that the fruit is the part of his mother’s love.

"Henokal hay jomdut-pray kotha hote elo mali,
Jhutibadha ure shoptom shure parite lagilo gali.
Kohilam tobe, ‘ami tou nirobe diyechhi amar shob –
duti fol tar kori odhikar, eto tari kolorob?’
Chinilo na more, nie gelo dhore, kadhe tuli lathigachh,
Babu chhip hate parishod-shathe dhorite chhilen machh –
Shuni biboron krodhe tini kon, ‘maria koribo khun’
Babu joto bole parishod dole bole tar shotogun.
Ami kohilam, ‘shudhu duti am, bhikh magi mohashoy!’
Babu kohe heshe, ‘beta shadhu-beshe paka chor otishoy!’
Ami shune hashi, akhi-jole bhashi, ei chhilo mor ghote –
Tumi moharaj shadhu hole aj, ami aj chor bote ||"

In these lines the poet brought the villain of the story. The introduction started with the imagery of devil. The poet described this man with ponytail in hair and loud in voice. This is the gardener who came and took the farmer to the landlord for stealing the mango from the tree. The landlord accused him as a thief. The farmer heart was filled with sorrow. The poet proved the level of this poem in these lines. The farmer didn’t blame anybody. He just smiles on the fallacies of society. This is a remarkable thinking for a character.

Summary

Kabiguru Rabindranath Tagore has depicted the poor and miserable condition of the poor farmer and his love for his land in contrast to the brutal and inhuman behavior of the capitalists who used to treat the peasants as mere animals. The imagery of lady in many guises came at different part of the poem and enriched the dimensions. This poem is a tale and has lot to tell behind it.

Importance of the poem

The poet here gives a message to the readers that want is never satisfied. The more we get, the more we want and in the urge of want people. They do inhuman work. So the poet gives us the message that we should end up our greed and be satisfied with what we have. This must be the character of a true human. As the lady is the most respected representative of many culture as well as Bengali and Indian culture. Indians believe that the country has a mother. So the lady is very important in this culture. Apart from it, there are many examples where cultures destroyed due to decrease of respect of land and lady. So the poet took this two essential part of culture and two classes to express the reality of a time. The time has changed but the reality is still appears repeatedly in different guises.
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