My Reminiscences | Page 2

and Flats 267

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Rabindranath Tagore from the Portrait by S. K. Hesh Frontispiece
Facing Page
Tagore in 1877 6
The Inner Garden Was My Paradise 14
The Ganges 54
Satya 64
Singing to My Father 82
The Himalayas 94
The Servant-Maids in the Verandah 106
My Eldest Brother 120

Moonlight 180
The Ganges Again 208
Karwar Beach 236
My Brother Jyotirindra 256


PART I

MY REMINISCENCES
(1)
I know not who paints the pictures on memory's canvas; but whoever
he may be, what he is painting are pictures; by which I mean that he is
not there with his brush simply to make a faithful copy of all that is
happening. He takes in and leaves out according to his taste. He makes
many a big thing small and small thing big. He has no compunction in
putting into the background that which was to the fore, or bringing to
the front that which was behind. In short he is painting pictures, and not
writing history.
Thus, over Life's outward aspect passes the series of events, and within
is being painted a set of pictures. The two correspond but are not one.
We do not get the leisure to view thoroughly this studio within us.
Portions of it now and then catch our eye, but the greater part remains
out of sight in the darkness. Why the ever-busy painter is painting;
when he will have done; for what gallery his pictures are destined--who
can tell?
Some years ago, on being questioned as to the events of my past life, I

had occasion to pry into this picture-chamber. I had thought to be
content with selecting some few materials for my Life's story. I then
discovered, as I opened the door, that Life's memories are not Life's
history, but the original work of an unseen Artist. The variegated
colours scattered about are not reflections of outside lights, but belong
to the painter himself, and come passion-tinged from his heart; thereby
unfitting the record on the canvas for use as evidence in a court of law.
But though the attempt to gather precise history from memory's
storehouse may be fruitless, there is a fascination in looking over the
pictures, a fascination which cast its spell on me.
The road over which we journey, the wayside shelter in which we
pause, are not pictures while yet we travel--they are too necessary, too
obvious. When, however, before turning into the evening resthouse, we
look back upon the cities, fields, rivers and hills which we have been
through in Life's morning, then, in the light of the passing day, are they
pictures indeed. Thus, when my opportunity came, did I look back, and
was engrossed.
Was this interest aroused within me solely by a natural affection for my
own past? Some personal feeling, of course, there must have been, but
the pictures had also an independent artistic value of their own. There is
no event in my reminiscences worthy of being preserved for all time.
But the quality of the subject is not the only justification for a record.
What one has truly felt, if only it can be made sensible to others, is
always of importance to one's fellow men. If pictures which have taken
shape in memory can be brought out in words, they are worth a place in
literature.
It is as literary material that I offer my memory pictures. To take them
as an attempt at autobiography would be a mistake. In such a view
these reminiscences would appear useless as well as incomplete.

(2) Teaching Begins

We three boys were being brought up together. Both my companions
were two years older than I. When they were placed under their tutor,
my teaching also began, but of what I learnt nothing remains in my
memory.
What constantly recurs to me is "The rain patters, the leaf quivers."[1] I
am just come to anchor after crossing the stormy region of the kara,
khala[2] series; and I am reading "The rain patters, the leaf quivers,"
for me the first poem of the Arch Poet. Whenever the joy of that day
comes back to me, even now, I realise why rhyme is so needful in
poetry. Because of it the words come to an end, and yet end not; the
utterance is over, but not its ring; and the ear and the mind can go on
and on with their game of tossing the rhyme to each other. Thus did the
rain patter and the leaves quiver again and again, the live-long day in
my consciousness.
Another episode of this period of my early boyhood is held fast in my
mind.
We had an old cashier, Kailash by name, who was like one of the
family. He was a