Home and the World

Home and the World

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Rabindranath Tagore #12 in our series by Rabindranath Tagore
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Title: The Home and the World
Author: Rabindranath Tagore
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Bharat Literature

The Home and the World
Rabindranath Tagore
[1861-1941]
Translated [from Bengali to English] by Surendranath Tagore
London: Macmillan, 1919 [published in India, 1915, 1916]
[Frontispiece: --see woman.jpg]



Chapter One
Bimala's Story
I
MOTHER, today there comes back to mind the vermilion mark [1] at
the parting of your hair, the __sari__ [2] which you used to wear, with
its wide red border, and those wonderful eyes of yours, full of depth

and peace. They came at the start of my life's journey, like the first
streak of dawn, giving me golden provision to carry me on my way.
The sky which gives light is blue, and my mother's face was dark, but
she had the radiance of holiness, and her beauty would put to shame all
the vanity of the beautiful.
Everyone says that I resemble my mother. In my childhood I used to
resent this. It made me angry with my mirror. I thought that it was
God's unfairness which was wrapped round my limbs--that my dark
features were not my due, but had come to me by some
misunderstanding. All that remained for me to ask of my God in
reparation was, that I might grow up to be a model of what woman
should be, as one reads it in some epic poem.
When the proposal came for my marriage, an astrologer was sent, who
consulted my palm and said, "This girl has good signs. She will become
an ideal wife."
And all the women who heard it said: "No wonder, for she resembles
her mother."
I was married into a Rajah's house. When I was a child, I was quite
familiar with the description of the Prince of the fairy story. But my
husband's face was not of a kind that one's imagination would place in
fairyland. It was dark, even as mine was. The feeling of shrinking,
which I had about my own lack of physical beauty, was lifted a little; at
the same time a touch of regret was left lingering in my heart.
But when the physical appearance evades the scrutiny of our senses and
enters the sanctuary of our hearts, then it can forget itself. I know, from
my childhood's experience, how devotion is beauty itself, in its inner
aspect. When my mother arranged the different fruits, carefully peeled
by her own loving hands, on the white stone plate, and gently waved
her fan to drive away the flies while my father sat down to his meals,
her service would lose itself in a beauty which passed beyond outward
forms. Even in my infancy I could feel its power. It transcended all
debates, or doubts, or calculations: it was pure music.

I distinctly remember after my marriage, when, early in the morning, I
would cautiously and silently get up and take the dust [3] of my
husband's feet without waking him, how at such moments I could feel
the vermilion mark upon my forehead shining out like the morning star.
One day, he happened to awake, and smiled as he asked me: "What is
that, Bimala? What __are__ you doing?"
I can never forget the shame of being detected by him. He might
possibly have thought that I was trying to earn merit secretly. But no,
no! That had nothing to do with