Shifting Images
Boundless Tagore
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Milia AliRabindranath Tagore’s message of humanity guided me through
the various phases of my life. It sharpened my power of introspection
and helped me develop a compassionate outlook toward the world at
large. In the process I learned to confront life’s challenges with a
degree of equanimity.
“My Golden Bengal, I love you.”
Turbulent tides of change swept through our country in the late
sixties — a change that altered the map of the Indian sub-continent.
It impacted the lives of Bengalis in a major way, leading to the
creation of Bangladesh — a homeland for the people of former East
Pakistan. Even before Bangladesh came into being, the region was
overpowered by a surge of patriotism that sowed the seeds of Bengali
nationalism. Tagore’s literary works were an integral part of this
movement.
Like many of my generation, my pride in Bengali culture and heritage
was rooted in Tagore’s writings. I developed a natural love for
Bengali music early in life when I started to take lessons in Rabindra
Sangeet at home and in the music school, Chhayanaut, under the
tutelage of Wahidul Haq. The latter introduced me to the fascinating
world of Tagore’s songs in a manner that helped me appreciate their
nuances and intricacies. Consequently, Rabindra Sangeet generated an
ownership of Bengali language and ethos in me, to the extent that,
when the movement for a separate Bengali entity took root, I embraced
it as a struggle for my own identity.
If I were to single out the defining moment of my life, it was when I
crossed the border from Bangladesh to India in June 1971, to
participate in the Liberation War. Unwittingly, I had stepped into a
very important crossroad of history and was destined to be a part of a
momentous era. I joined a group of Bangladeshi musicians and roamed
the camps for the displaced Bengalis who had taken refuge in India. We
sang Tagore’s patriotic songs to keep the spirit of a “free
Bangladesh” alive for the unfortunate thousands who were dislocated
and demoralised. Through this rare experience I realised that, along
with the struggle for Bangladesh’s independence, my inner struggle for
a greater identity had begun and continues until today.
The forced exile in India was yet another step toward getting to know
the real “Robi Thakur.” It took me to his ashram “Santiniketan” where
I met my music gurus — legends Kanika Banerjee and Nilima Sen — and
other notable Tagore personalities like Debabrata Biswas and Shubha
Guhathakurta. I was but a novice trying to make a modest entry into
the Rabindra Sangeet world.
What I discovered was that, in the monastic environ of Tagore’s
ashram, egos had been shed. Hence, an insignificant young girl from a
country with only a name but no territory was readily accepted into
the affectionate fold of his disciples! In addition to Rabindra
Sangeet, my gurus taught me the virtues of humility and dedication
through the precept of their own lifestyles. I was offered a small
niche in the extended family of Tagore singers, which I accepted with
immense gratitude.
“Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not, thou hast given
me seats in homes not my own.”
Life’s voyage took me to other lands and other cultures. I walked
unknown paths and journeyed through new territory. However, every time
I felt lonely and desolate, I was reconnected to my roots through
Tagore. Every significant interaction and experience was related to
him: whether it was teaching “Ami chini go chini” ( I know you, know
you, Oh, maiden of a distant land) to street children in Yerevan,
Armenia, or organising his birthday celebrations in Bucharest,
Romania, with fellow Bangladeshi and Indian artists Saadi Mohammad,
Nilanajana Sen, Shibli Mohammad and Shamim Ara Nipa.
Tagore provided me with the opportunity to show case the cultural
treasures of my native land and helped me bond with people in most
unusual ways. In Armenia, I developed a unique friendship with a
70-year-old Armenian painter, Armine Kalentz, who, in our first
meeting, recited the Russian translation of Tagore’s “A Tamed Bird Was
in a Cage.” I remember her doleful expression as she repeated the last
lines of the poem:
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, “Come closer, my love!”
The free bird cries, “It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage.”
The cage bird whispers, “Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.”
Armine explained that, in the former Soviet Union, she was barred from
expressing her artistic views in the passionate and free style that
she longed for. Therefore, she often recited this poem in solitude to
vent her frustrations. Whenever we met, Armine would invariably ask me
to sing Rabindra Sangeet. I found a friend and confidante in a country
where I knew almost no one. Truly, Tagore “brought the distant near
and made a brother of the stranger.”
“Thou hast made me endless such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel
thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.”
Last month, I was sitting in my home in Virginia, USA, on a rainy
afternoon, and humming strands of Rabindr Sangeet. Lost in a daydream,
I felt nostalgic about my childhood friends, the monsoons of Bengal,
the afternoon tea sessions and idle chit-chats with family, and, even
the clamour of loud conversations and honking cars in Dhaka. But above
all, I missed my music which is no longer in the centre stage of my
life, primarily because I am in a setting where Tagore is not part of
the mainstream.
Reluctantly, I have accepted the fact that the singer Milia Ali, like
T.S. Eliot’s Alfred Prufrock, is not destined to play Hamlet on the
Tagore stage, but can at best be described as “an attendant lord
to…start a scene or two.” However, my desire to express myself through
my songs has never waned, although some days I feel Rabindra Sangeet
has deserted me. The thought fills me with a sense of dejection,
because “the song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day ….”
The phone rang, interrupting my reverie. On the other end was my
friend, singer Zafar Billah from New Jersey. After the initial
exchange of niceties, he said: “Mahmud Dulu and a few of us are
staging a show for the Rabindrajayanti celebrations organised by the
Cultural Association of Bengal. We would like you to sing with us. Can
you?” The very thought of singing for Tagore’s birthday with friends
who share my love for his music filled me with joy. “Yes. Of course,”
was my definitive response.
Two weeks later, I was at the Rutgers University campus in New Jersey
with Sharmila Roy Pommot, Zafar, Dulu, Jhumur Chakrabarty, Malabika
Guha and other Tagore enthusiasts, singing “Praner manush ache
prane…”
“The man of my heart, my in-dwelling man
dwells in my heart of hearts
which is why I see him everywhere.”.
I realised how aptly the words expressed my deep relationship with the
poet. Of course, Tagore is and always will be in my heart. Some days I
am deluded into thinking that he has abandoned me since I search for
him in the material world, forgetting that he dwells deep within me.
Each time I feel that I have lost him, he makes his presence felt by
filling up the empty receptacle of my heart with new elixir of life.
Thank you, Gurudev, for making the finite journey of my life an
infinite experience!
The writer is a renowned Rabindra Sangeet exponent and a former
employee of the World Bank
Note: Most of the translations are by Rabindranath Tagore. A few have
been collected from other sources.
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