4 Trumpets

Just after Easter, I visited Rabindranath Tagore’s home in Kolkata.  It was a much anticipated visit to this poet saint’s residence, now turned museum.  I had poured over his Gitanjali, a 1912 book of metaphysical devotional poems that earned Tagore the Nobel Prize in Literature.

What does it feel like to be standing under a cool waterfall on a hot summer day? What does it feel like to be standing in his home, and particularly in the room where he passed away?  I cannot describe.  I felt it on a previous visit.  This time, to verify the experience I asked my travel colleague Arun, “do you feel it?”  He answered in awe, “yessss, this is wonderful!”  While Arun stood absorbed, I sank to the floor. A few minutes later, I took note of the poem and letter hung on the wall of this room:

“Your creation’s path you have covered
With a varied net of wiles,
Thou Guileful One,
False belief’s snare you have
Laid with skillful hands
In simple lives.
With this deceit have you left a mark on Greatness;
For him kept no secret night.
The path that is shown to him
By your star
Is the path of his own heart
Ever lucid,
Which his simple faith
Makes eternally shine.
Crooked outside yet it is straight within.
In this is his pride.
Futile he is called by men.
Truth he wins
In his inner heart washed
With his own light.
Nothing can deceive him,
The last reward he carries
To his treasure house.
He who has easefully borne your wile
Gets from your hands
The unwasting right to peace.”

“When I leave from here let this be my parting word that what I have seen is insurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus yonder that expands on the ocean of light and thus am I blessed. Let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that eludes all forms. All my living body and limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch – and if the end comes here let it come – let this be my parting word.”

- R. Tagore