Stories from Tagore
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Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunder-bolt.
Rabindranath Tagore, such a simple language... i had to agree, it's fun to be a dreamer andin a moment's time transport to any part of the world..it just few seconds to transport to those ages when the streets of London filled with Horse carriages, when Rajput queen Meera ditched Rana and dreamt about Krishna and sang his praise, it takes just a moment to dream and stay aloft on spaceship of star trek...
But the child's faith never admits defeat, and it would snatch at the mantle of death itself to turn him back. It would be outrageous for him to think that such a story of one teacherless evening could so suddenly come to a stop. Therefore the grandmother had to call back her story from the ever-shut chamber of the great End, but she does it so simply: it is merely by floating the dead body on a banana stem on the river, and having some incantations read by a magician. But in that rainy night and in the dim light of a lamp death loses all its horror in the mind of the boy, and seems nothing
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story telling, Tagore's book reminds of my younger days when my dad starts with "once upon a time there lived a king" ...
black eyes need no translating; the mind itself throws a shadow upon them. In them thought opens or shuts, shines forth or goes out in darkness, hangs steadfast like the setting moon or like the swift and restless lightning illumines all quarters of the sky. They who from birth have had no other speech than the trembling of their lips learn a language of the eyes, endless in expression, deep as the sea, clear as the heavens, wherein play dawn and sunset, light and shadow. The
