Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) needs no introduction to the reading
public worldwide, especially to the Bangla-speaking reader. A gifted
genius, his creative imagination ranged over practically all the genres
of literary activity, from lyrics and poems, novels and plays, and
belles-lettres, travel descriptions, and of course a large body of short
stories.

Tagore started writing short stories when he was barely
in his twenties. His earliest one was published in 1884 when he was just
twenty three. It must be recognised and applauded that he was venturing
at a very young age into what was then practically uncharted territory,
for the Bangla short story was a type of writing virtually unknown and a
satisfactory diction for such a form had not yet developed. In an
interview given to Satyavatibati Devi et al which was published in Forward
on the 23 February, 1936, Tagore said, “Before I had written these
short stories there was not anything of that type in Bengali literature.
No doubt Bankimchandra had written some stories but they were of a
romantic type; mine were full of the temperament of the village people.”
In another article printed in Probashi in May 1941, Tagore said
(I translate), “You speak of my language, say that I remain a poet even
in prose. If my language sometimes overcomes the substance of my
stories and establishes itself in an independent character, I cannot
really be blamed. The reason for this is that I have really had to
develop the diction of Bangla prose myself. It did not exist as such
earlier, and at every step I have had to work on finding an appropriate
diction……Foreign writers, like Maupassant to whom you refer, found their
language ready made. If they were compelled to develop their language
as they wrote, I do not know what would have happened to them.” (Source:
Viswabharati edition of Golpoguchcha, reprint 1998). What he
achieved is astonishing, for, in his long career as a writer of prose as
well as poetry, he really pulled Bangla literature into the modern age.

Galpoguchcho or a bunch of stories consists of
eighty-seven pieces with an additional eleven pieces. Some of these last
were published during his lifetime and some left in draft form. They
vary in length from a short and sharp three pages to pieces with several
parts to them. In terms of subject and character, of type and style,
the range and variety of these stories astounds one. Even knowing how
prolific Tagore was, I was really unprepared for the richness of the
world he opens to us. He limits his vista to Bengal of the late
nineteenth and early to mid-twentieth century but peoples it with
characters who are drawn from every sector and level of society, from
the unlettered young village girl to the fashionable blade in a newly
risen urban society seeking recognition for his achievements, from the
rigid unbending widow showing un unexpected streak of compassion to the
wealthy city dweller desperate for a heir spending all his wealth in
pursuit of one and yet unknowingly turning away his real son. His
stories range from domestic tragedy to dramatic irony, from pathos and
melancholy to the occasional tongue-in-cheek comedy. There are stories
of the supernatural and of what can only be described as very sweet
romance, there are stories which seem bizarre, stories which can be
recognised as dealing with familiar experiences of everyday pleasures
and the small griefs and hurts which arise from misunderstandings that
we all know of.

Many of these stories have been dramatised. I
recognised many as I was reading them and enjoyed them all over again.
Some have been turned into timeless films. We remember, for example, the
unforgettable Kabuliwala.

There is, however, one aspect I
was disappointed and puzzled by. Tagore's characters do not seem to
include anyone from the educated middle-class professional Muslim
community which was definitely and visibly present and growing in the
metropolis of Calcutta at the time. His references to Muslims are few
and are mostly about rustic characters or in one or two of the stories
to characters drawn from the nobility or their associates or even as
late as 1941, to characters who are religious figures or faqirs, (Musalmanir Golpo).
This lacuna is sad and could surely have been avoided. Further research
and study could surely give us the answer to this puzzle.

I
will not elaborate my observations further, for there is a story I would
like to talk about, which seems different from the general run. Most
stories in the Golpoguchcho have a tragic or elegiac vein even
when the outcome is sometimes positive. There are not many stories
here which can be considered comic but I came across a story called Muktir Upay”
in the first part, written around 1891, which I found very amusing, and
of which I would like to present a brief synopsis. The story concerns
two young men, the first of whom, Fakirchand, is a very serious and
solemn individual who seeks to project himself as possessed of
considerable spiritual excellence. His hirsute appearance at a young age
adds to the air of gravity he seeks to project. His wife, Hoimobati,
however, is of a light-hearted frivolous nature and is frequently
berated by her husband for her lively ways. He is further burdened by
the two children she produces and faced with the material necessity of
obtaining a job and an income, he decides to leave home and becoming a
wandering ascetic like a present-day Lord Buddha.

The other young
man, Makhanlal, from Nabagram, a village not too far off, is of a
completely opposite temperament. Of a very shallow and irresponsible
nature and given to pursuits of selfish pleasures, he had been married
young to a wife who did not produce any children. Following the custom
of the times, his father got him married again, whereupon his wives
promptly produced eight children between them, seven daughters and a
son. Laden with the burden of such a large number of dependents, whom he
was expected to support, he very soon left home and was not heard from
for quite some time.

Fakirchand, the first young man, had been
wandering about and now entered the village of Nabagram. As he sat for
rest under a tree he suddenly saw his father from a distance, and
thinking he was coming in pursuit, fled precipitously and entered the
nearest house, which happened to be Makhanlal's. Makhanlal's father,
who was short-sighted, immediately assumed he was his missing son,
despite Fakirchand's protests that he was a wandering hermit called
Chidanandashami or Paramanando. Because the old man was having nothing
of this Fakirchand thought it would be useful to hide out here for a few
days until his father was successfully eluded. But then the old man
called in the whole village, who all came and greeted him as the
prodigal son, suspiciously asking him endless questions. The questions
range from his whereabouts and the reasons for his disappearance to his
present appearance. He maintains as far as possible a grave silence in
the face of this onslaught, answering only when his wits can provide him
with a response. The result is often hilarious. One villager, rather
pugnaciously, demands to know, how he had become so light-complexioned
when he had previously been so dark and he very solemnly answers that it
was achieved through yoga! Then to land him in the utmost catastrophe,
the father decides to call in the two daughters-in-law to meet their
supposed husband. Fakirchand does not know how to get out of this
predicament should he try to run away, in which case the whole village
would set off after him in furious pursuit, or should he sit and meet
the women and seek to pacify them? He chooses the latter option and is
at once set upon by two enraged spitfires. Totally helpless, he thinks
the only option is to stay put for the time being. But it is not only
his wives who make his life miserable. A horde of teasing sisters-in-law
descend upon him, followed by all eight of his supposed offspring, all
of whom fling themselves on him with caresses and embraces, as well as
tugs at his profuse facial hair, greatly adding to his misery. At this
time he thinks he can occasionally hear high-pitched laughter from a
feminine voice which seems familiar, but he cannot identify the origin.
Not getting any relief from any source he proclaims his resolve to leave
as soon as possible.

At his threat to run away again, the
villagers bring in a severe lawyer who tells him he will be prosecuted
if he once again abandons this large family of his. Seeing no way out,
Fakirchand writes to his father, who arrives promptly to retrieve his
son, but neither the father, nor the wives, nor his extensive family or
the villagers will let him go. Fakirchand's world seems about to
descend into total insanity when a figure enters , who was the source of
the laughter he had heard, and who was none other than his wife,
Hoimoboti. She was a niece of this family and had come on a visit,
deriving enormous amusement at the sight of this unknown man caught in a
trap he could not get out of. Recognising her husband, Hoimoboti bows
her head in a pronaam to him and Fakirchand, seeing the wife he'd
run away from, is beside himself with delight for she is now his only
avenue of escape. Another man, who had been lurking in the
neighbourhood, now comes forward, and reveals himself as Makhanlal, the
actual son of this household. Seeing Hoimoboti he realises that
Fakirchand is her husband and therefore his cousin-in-law. He asks that
Fakirchand be let go and gallantly takes the responsibility of his
wives, (his dari and kalshi) we can guess his immediate
future, at least, is precarious at this point. The villagers, knowing
his wives, are much impressed with his courage and magnanimity.

A
bare synopsis like this does not really impart the flavour of the story
and I hope readers will enjoy it as much I did. For myself, I once more
express the delight and stimulation which I received from these works of
Tagore's imaginationthe Bangla phrase ‘go-grashe', could, I
believe, be used to describe the speed at which I read these pieces, but
I have reservations about this phrase, for in my admittedly limited
acquaintance of cows, I have seen none eating with the speed at which I
have read these books. I am quite confident that new readers will follow
my example.

Shirin Hasanat Islam is member, The Reading Circle. An amended version of this

paper was presented at
a TRC meeting held at IGCC, Gulshan, on 19 May, 2012.